Dohany Street, page 12
The guide had also stopped outside number 46/b Dob Street, explaining how this was the former home of Rezso Seress, a Jewish Hungarian musician and lyricist. His best-known song, ‘Gloomy Sunday’, had been immortalised for an international audience by Billie Holiday. It inspired so many suicides – jumping off the Chain Bridge over the Danube was a favourite – that it was eventually banned by the Hungarian authorities. During the war Seress, like many Jewish men, was drafted into a forced labour battalion. He survived the Holocaust but his mother did not. Perhaps inevitably, Seress himself eventually jumped out of his apartment window. He lived but finally managed to kill himself in hospital.
The guide had wanted to take Zsuzsa’s group inside the building, but there wasn’t enough time. Zsuzsa remembered Elad telling her that there was a memorial to a ‘famous singer’ on the wall of the foyer in the apartment house where he lived. He also said that he had a nice view of Klauzal Square from his window. That wasn’t exactly right – the memorial on the wall in the foyer also commemorated Rezso Seress – but this had to be the place.
The question was, where would Zsuzsa take her story about Elad, once she had it? 555.hu, obviously, was out of the question. Her escape plan yesterday had worked nicely. The alarm had gone off as she forced the fire door open. That had caused enough confusion in the newsroom to buy her a few seconds – and had also distracted the security guards as the central building hub had immediately started issuing instructions to the guards over their radios. By the time they had reached the fire exit by the newsroom, Zsuzsa was downstairs on the ground floor. There were two more fire doors in the back, by the commercial entrance. She had pushed one open and swiftly fled into the flow of afternoon commuters heading home. Roland and Kriszta had called her multiple times, but she did not answer.
Now the priority was to find out more about Elad Harrari. And her immediate task was to get into the building and find a neighbour to talk to.
That meant crossing the road, looking confident, and quickly finding a buzzer to try. The bored-looking policemen would notice her immediately.
A few seconds later Zsuzsa was standing in front of the entrance. She looked at the rows of names on the entry buzzers, glancing sideways out of the corner of her eye. One said KOVACS, BALTHAZAR. Was that the cop? Eniko’s ex-boyfriend? Eniko had told Zsuzsa that he lived on Dob Street, near Klauzal Square. It must be him. Balthazar was not a common name. That was the last thing she needed, for him to appear now.
Meanwhile, the lanky cop nearby, she saw, was indeed watching her. He muttered something to his colleague and pointed at Zsuzsa.
She quickly scanned the names on the fourth and fifth floor. Choose, she told herself. She wasn’t doing anything illegal, but the police were now on high alert.
She did not want to spend time explaining herself, producing her identity documents, waiting while they checked her out, nor leave a trail with the authorities about her presence here.
She pressed the button for BALOGH, FERENC. A grumpy voice said, ‘Yes, what is it?’
Zsuzsa thought quickly. A man, elderly, cantankerous, probably lived here for decades, now on his own. She introduced herself then used the most formal of Hungarian’s three registers as she continued speaking. ‘Tiszteletem Balogh ur, I am a journalist writing an article about how District VII is being spoiled by all the tourists and bars and noise and filth. It’s not a buli-negyed, for local people, is it? The whole area is being ruined, don’t you think, Balogh ur? I would really like to hear your views.’
She glanced sideways again. The policeman was walking towards her. The building intercom hissed with static. ‘Balogh ur?’ she said.
He really needed to press that button quickly. ‘Balogh ur, I would really like to hear your opinion about all these awful changes,’ she said, trying to keep the tension from her voice.
The policeman was just a few yards away. His radio crackled and he stopped for a moment to reply. The door to the building buzzed.
Zsuzsa exhaled in relief, pushed it open and stepped inside.
SEVENTEEN
Jewish Museum, Dohany Street, 9.30 a.m.
Balthazar stepped out of the lift and into a corridor so dazzlingly white he blinked.
He had last been inside Hungary’s Jewish Museum on a school trip almost twenty years before. He thought it was a sad place, dimly lit and full of ghosts, with its Torah scrolls, Sabbath candlesticks and prayer shawls perched in old-fashioned wood-and-glass display cases with handwritten index cards.
Sad and not much of a memorial to what had once been one of Europe’s largest and most flourishing Jewish communities. Still, he remembered thinking at the time, at least Hungary’s Jews had a museum. There was no museum to commemorate or celebrate the country’s Gypsies who had been killed by the Nazis in the Poraymus.
The director had made up for the gloomy atmosphere: a Holocaust survivor with a gravelly voice, bright blue eyes and a shock of silver hair. Erno Hartmann had brought the exhibition to life by telling the story of his family, who had moved to the capital during the war from Debrecen, a city in the east. After spring 1944 they had been incarcerated in the main ghetto, on Klauzal Square, right by Balthazar’s flat. Erno, his parents and sister had lived in one room, sick and half starved. They had survived. So had six of his thirty-seven relatives who stayed behind in Debrecen and the surrounding villages.
Balthazar watched an elderly figure stride towards him. He looked familiar, if a little more stooped. The silver hair was now white, and thinner, the eyes a little rheumier, but the voice was still resonant. He wore a crisp white shirt and smartly pressed grey trousers.
‘Detective Kovacs, welcome back,’ said Erno Hartmann as he extended his palm. ‘It’s been a long time.’
Balthazar smiled as he took the old man’s hand. His grip was firm, his skin dry. ‘Thank you. You remember me?’ he asked.
Erno nodded. ‘Of course. You asked a lot of questions. You were curious. Unusually so. Balthazar is an unusual name. And you are a Gypsy. I wish more of your people would come to visit us. We have a lot in common.’
Balthazar said, ‘We do. And one day, when we have a museum, I will welcome you.’
Erno smiled. ‘I very much look forward to that, Detective. Let me know if I can ever help.’
‘I will. Thank you,’ said Balthazar. Erno Hartmann was as sincere, and as engaging as he remembered.
Erno said, ‘I was reading about the shooting yesterday. A shooting with a sub-machine gun.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s unbelievable. This is usually a safe city. I read that you were there. You were not hurt?’
Balthazar shook his head. ‘No. I was on the other side of Klauzal Square when it started.’
Erno fixed Balthazar with his gaze. ‘Is it connected? Elad’s disappearance? Gunfire outside his apartment building?’
‘And mine. I live on the same floor as the flat he stayed in.’
‘Ah, then you know his landlady, Eva neni, the palacsinta queen.’
Balthazar smiled. ‘Yes, very well.’
‘A wonderful lady. We went to school together. She must be worried sick.’
‘She is.’
Erno, Balthazar could see, was watching him, not with hostility but a kind of curiosity. It was a common reaction when everyday Hungarians encountered a black-haired, brown-eyed detective who was obviously a Gypsy. But Balthazar sensed something more in Hartmann’s appraising glance. The elderly man was assessing him, Balthazar knew. His instinct told him that Hartmann could be a valuable ally.
Balthazar decided to trust him. ‘To answer your question, yes, I think all these things are connected.’
Erno gestured to Balthazar. ‘Which is why you are here. And I am glad you are. Come, walk with me. You are not in a hurry, Detective?’ It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.
Balthazar glanced at his watch. Almost 9.45 a.m. There was a busy day ahead. He was due to meet Ilona Mizrachi, the Israeli cultural attaché, at a café on Klauzal Street, at eleven o’clock. After that he would meet Anastasia at her office on Falk Miksa Street, then join up with Sandor Takacs and head to the Kerepesi Way cemetery, for the memorial service for the Librarian in the afternoon. He was not going to mourn, but to observe. Karoly Bardossy, the CEO of Nationwide, would be there, and Karoly Bardossy, Balthazar sensed, was somehow key to all this. But for now Balthazar had some time. And Erno Hartmann, he sensed, would not be rushed.
‘No, I am not in a hurry,’ said Balthazar.
‘Good, then we can take a few minutes,’ said Hartmann. ‘We are very proud of our museum. And no, in case you are wondering, I am no longer the director, I retired when the renovation started. The new director is thirty-five and a graduate from several universities. She has a master’s degree in library and archival studies.’ He shook his head in mild wonder. ‘Who knew that such diplomas existed? But she is kind enough to keep me on as a consultant.’
Kind enough and smart enough, Balthazar thought as he looked around, increasingly impressed. He had been inside plenty of renovated properties in Budapest – the city was enjoying a building boom, but had never seen a transformation like this from shabby post-communist to London or New York gallery chic. The floor was lined by white-and-grey marble tiles, the walls were a pristine shade of white and massive skylights had been placed in the ceiling where the sunlight poured in. The exhibits were no longer jumbled together, but each was mounted on a cream board, and displayed in a pristine, floor-to-ceiling glass cabinet.
‘It’s beautiful. So light and modern,’ said Balthazar.
‘Thank you. We had some generous benefactors. The government, some private companies. One firm in particular has been very generous. But the most important thing is that our new prime minister has been very supportive. She has substantially increased our budget, enough to pay for all the renovations, these lovely galleries. And we are branching out, into – what’s the word? – micro-history. We will soon have our first open-air exhibition outside the museum, in Klauzal Square, featuring local characters, past and present. Miss Bardossy was the guest of honour at our recent reception – you may have seen the media coverage.’
‘I did. Not everyone was pleased.’
‘What can we do, Detective? We have a very troubled history and some of our compatriots are still struggling with that,’ said Erno, shrugging. ‘It will take time. But some good things are happening as well. I’ll take you through to Elad’s office in a few minutes, but first, please indulge an elderly man.’
He led Balthazar to the first display case, pointing out a Torah scroll from the sixteenth century from Miskolc in eastern Hungary, a giant brass candelabra from the nineteenth century, and cloths to cover the bread on Friday night for Shabbat from Budapest. The adjacent display case held a medieval gravestone from a now-vanished Jewish cemetery in the Castle District, the Hebrew letters now just faded shadows.
They walked over to a long, curved ram’s horn to be blown on the New Year, both ends wrapped in ornate silver plate embossed with Hebrew script. There was no one else around – the museum did not open till 10 a.m. so they had the place to themselves.
‘A shofar,’ said Balthazar.
Hartmann looked surprised. ‘I’m impressed. Did you remember that from your visit?’
‘Yes, but also because my ex-wife was Jewish. We came to Dohany Street synagogue for New Year and for the Day of Atonement.’
‘Then you know something about our traditions. The shofar was supposed to be the grandest in the whole Habsburg empire. Grander than what they had in Vienna, that was the main thing. They blew it here, every year in the Great Synagogue, until the end of the First World War.’
For a moment he looked into the distance. ‘My grandfather fought for the empire in that war. He was awarded a medal for charging a British machine gun nest. His brother was killed in action. When things got bad here, their military records helped, for a while. And then they didn’t any more.’ Hartmann blinked. ‘Now come with me, Detective. You have not travelled all this way to listen to an old man’s reminiscences.’
The two men stepped toward a door marked Private: Staff Only, and into the main administrative offices. These had also been renovated in the same bright, modern style as the museum’s public space. Six pale-wood desks were spread around the room, each with a new monitor and keyboard and an Italian leather office chair in front.
Most of the desks were piled high with papers, files and books. Erno and Balthazar were the only ones present. One desk, in the far corner, was almost bare, with no computer or keyboard, although a modern-looking laser printer stood on a small table nearby. Three books were neatly arranged on one corner, next to a plain white mug. Balthazar walked over and looked more closely. He turned to Hartmann. ‘Is this Elad’s desk?’
Erno nodded. ‘That’s his, yes.’
‘His computer?’
‘He worked on a laptop. He did not leave it here overnight.’ Erno gestured at the printer. ‘That’s his as well. A very fancy machine. Better than ours. It even scans and prints out photographs.’
Balthazar stood by the desk and put on a pair of blue latex gloves. The books were all works of Jewish history, about the war and the Holocaust. He picked them up, one by one, held them by their spines and flicked through the pages. Nothing fell out. He placed them back where they had been, then reached for the mug. He held it to his nose. It smelled of coffee. The desk had two drawers.
He pulled them open – both were empty. He ran his hands around the inside of the drawers, slid them back and forth, shook them from side to side, felt around the underside of the desk then checked the cushion and legs of Elad’s chair. There was nothing there. Which made sense – Elad had hidden the important stuff on the memory stick, which Vivi was now going through.
Balthazar turned to Hartmann. ‘Nobody should touch this desk. I will send over someone from the local station to put crime scene tape around it.’
Erno looked alarmed. ‘You think something happened here?’
‘It’s possible, but on balance no, I don’t think so. You have very high security here, CCTV everywhere, a direct link to the local police station and police headquarters. All the buildings’ entrances and exits are covered. It would be very hard to get someone out of here without being noticed.’
Balthazar walked over to the window and looked out. The museum was part of the Great Synagogue complex on Dohany Street and was high on the government’s list of protected buildings. Two uniformed police officers were standing by the synagogue entrance, and two more were patrolling nearby, all huddled in their padded winter jackets. Across the street, a police car was parked near the bus stop.
Leaning against the wall, by the entrance to an apartment building, a tall middle-aged man Balthazar recognised as part of the city’s undercover squad stood smoking. Bela Siklosi, Balthazar knew, was much more alert than he appeared. The two men had worked together several times and sometimes met for a beer.
Another member of the undercover squad sat on a bench near the synagogue entrance, not reading the newspaper he was holding in front of him. Security, Balthazar was sure, had been boosted since Elad’s disappearance.
But who was the young woman in her twenties wearing a black padded jacket and a blue hat, standing by the nearby bus stop, with a view of the entrance to the museum, looking at a map? She looked almost familiar – then he realised she had been twenty yards ahead of him for much of his walk from Dob Street to Dohany Street.
That was at least thirty minutes ago. At that moment she walked over to one of the policemen, gave him a big smile, pointed at the map and asked a question. Balthazar could see that she was nodding at the answer, but was also looking from side to side.
Balthazar turned to Erno. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I need to make a call.’
‘Of course. Is it private? Should I leave?’
Balthazar thought for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, it’s fine. Come here. You might enjoy this. Watch the girl with the map, talking to the policeman.’
The two men stood by the window. Balthazar picked up his mobile and scrolled through the numbers until he found Bela’s then pressed dial. Balthazar spoke rapidly. Bela looked up at the window, nodded at Balthazar and Erno, then walked over to the young woman. He said something first to the uniformed policeman, showed his wallet. The uniformed cop stepped back.
There was a brief conversation between Bela and the young woman. She started to protest, then Bela said something that made her stop arguing and reach into her bag. She took out a wallet and showed Bela her identity documents. He took the card and looked down at it for several seconds then handed it back. The young woman jammed it into her pocket, folded up her map and immediately walked away, scowling.
Balthazar’s mobile rang and he listened for less than a minute before thanking Bela and hanging up. He turned to Erno, who was watching the whole event with delighted fascination. ‘Shoshanna Cohen, dentistry student at Semmelweis University,’ said Balthazar. ‘She’s been living here for three years, two blocks up the road on Dohany Street, so I am not sure why she needs a map.’
‘Someone is keeping an eye on you, Detective,’ said Erno.
‘It looks like it. When was Elad last here?’ asked Balthazar.
‘He came in Wednesday morning, stayed until lunchtime, packed up his at laptop and we have not seen him since.’
‘Did he say anything about going somewhere, meeting someone?’
Hartmann shook his head. ‘No. No meetings, no trips. It was not unusual. He wasn’t a museum employee. He came and went as he pleased.’
