Anastasia (The Love and War Series) | eBook

You'll receive a download link via BookFunnel. Send to preferred e-reader or app and enjoy!

PART ONE: MAY 1949

Chapter 1: Zoltan


Zoltan Beke sat at his desk, his fingers arched in a steeple, eyeing the nervous youngster opposite him. The boy, nursing a bandaged hand, was only eighteen but, after a week in the cells, looked older; his skin had already taken on the sallow complexion of being too long away from sunlight. Above his right eyebrow, still fresh, a crescent-shaped wound.
‘Well,’ said Zoltan, ‘I hope you found your time here of some value.’
‘Yes, sir.’ His nose was long and thin, a Jew perhaps, his eyebrows too thick for a boy of his age.
‘Comrade, not sir. There are no sirs in the people’s democracy.’
‘No, I’m – I’m sorry, comrade.’
Zoltan, in a rare moment of charity, had decided to release him. He’d initially come to his attention when the boy’s ex-girlfriend had informed on him – “Dear Comrades, Jasper Szabo spends every night listening to the Voice of America.” Their break-up must’ve been spectacular to go to such lengths to wreak revenge. “He listens to their bourgeois claptrap and says how, one day, the people will rise against Comrade Rakosi and his Russian-loving cronies.”
‘So,’ said Zoltan, fixing his stare on the unfortunate Jasper Szabo. ‘What is our opinion now of our esteemed leader?’
‘Comrade Rakosi is our leading light, sir – I mean, comrade.’ He looked furtively at the bull-necked guard standing to his side. ‘He is the embodiment of Comrade Stalin and Stalin’s greatest pupil; and through our beloved leader we will find the true way to a Socialist utopia.’
It was amazing, thought Zoltan, what a week’s worth of rehabilitation could achieve. This young lamb, who’d strayed so far from the flock, had been successfully brought back to the fold. The first part of the process had involved tying his hand down to a table with a belt and smashing his knuckles with a mallet. If that didn’t hammer the message home for the errant youth, nothing would. He smiled at his unintentional pun.
Jasper Szabo continued. ‘Only through his teachings and his policies will we match our brothers in the Soviet Union and show the imperialist West that the communist is a worker free of exploitation.’
‘And subjugation.’
‘And subjugation.’
The initial phase of rehabilitation may have been severe but it was brief. Jasper Szabo was still a boy; Zoltan had only wanted to show him the error of his ways, not to break him. Another year or two older, he wouldn’t have hesitated. The broken knuckles were but a trifle; the crescent-shaped wound nothing more than a scratch.
‘And should we expect another visit from you at any point?’
The boy almost fell off his chair in his eagerness to respond. ‘No, comrade. I have my future life to live among the happy people of our country.’
‘And will you be listening to any more of that shit on the capitalist radio?’
‘No, comrade. I shall be devoting my time to reading the works of Comrade Stalin.’
Zoltan laughed; he hadn’t meant to but the boy was surpassing himself. Following on from the mallet, Jasper had experienced the hospitality of the Hungarian secret police, the AVO – two nights in a dingy cell without a bed or chair, with a ceiling too low for the average man to stand straight. Then transferred to the relative luxury of a regular cell where he’d been allowed to sleep, read and receive half-decent rations of food and cigarettes.
‘Well, young man, you’re at liberty to go.’ Jasper Szabo stared back at him, his eyes agog. Zoltan continued, ‘You will sign the pledge that forbids you to breathe a word to anyone about your time here. Understood?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, comrade.’
Zoltan glanced up at the guard. ‘Show him out,’ he snapped.
Jasper rose unsteadily to his feet, clutching his bandaged hand. He seemed poised on the brink of saying something, perhaps even a thank you, but evidently decided against it.
As Jasper reached the door, Zoltan couldn’t resist asking him one more question. ‘Tell me,’ he said, barely able to hide the smirk, ‘will you be seeing your young lady friend?’
Jasper blinked, seemingly unsure how to respond. Zoltan obligingly filled the gap, ‘I think you should. After all, in writing to us, she had your best interests at heart. You should seek her out and personally thank her for what she did for you.’
The boy glanced subconsciously at his bandaged hand and looked back at his interrogator, the corner of his mouth twitching in an attempt at a smile.

*
There were a number of arrested citizens awaiting Zoltan’s consideration. Men and women plucked from their homes whose devious activities had been brought to an end by an informer – spies, fascists, counter-revolutionaries, deviationists, and a whole catalogue of reprobates whose business warranted the attention of the secret police. Thank God for the informers – an army of ordinary citizens; eagle-eyed comrades who were not prepared to see their country restored to the evils of capitalism, nor for their communist system to be perverted by devious, shit-stirring lackeys of the imperialists.
Zoltan and his fellow AVO officers were busy men and little appreciated. Suppression is a thankless task. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a holiday. How little he saw of his daughter, Roza. He ran his finger down the glass of the framed photograph he kept of her on his desk – her eyes so wide, her hair so blonde, her cheeks so dimpled. In a week’s time she’d be three-years-old. Petra was planning a party and he’d promised to be there to perform a few simple magic tricks (an old speciality he had – entertaining children with disappearing ribbons and card tricks). The hard work now was an investment for the future. With time, the work would bring promotion. And with the promotion, the greater privileges, the perks, the respect, and the holidays. It was only a matter of time – time, work and a fanatical devotion to the cause.
With a sigh, he plucked the top file from the pile of Category Xs. Everyone in Hungary had a category and the Category Xs were the enemies of the people, the socially undesirables, whose arrest was only a matter of time. The telephone rang. It was Donath, his boss. Did he have a minute? As if there was a choice.

*
Donath’s office was naturally larger and more opulent than his own. The desk was of a darker wood; the leather chair a deeper red; three telephones, not two; a larger bust of Stalin; a thicker carpet. On the desk, an overflowing ashtray; on the wall a portrait of Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the Soviet secret police. Donath sat behind his desk, his tunic decorated, as always, by his proudest possession – an Order of Lenin medal. His rubbery face flushed red, his fingers clutching a file – a priority, thought Zoltan, otherwise why the summons?
‘Got one for you here,’ said Donath, flinging the file onto the desk. A cloud of ash billowed up from the ashtray.
‘What is it? What he’s done?’
‘Nothing yet. Your job is to ensure it remains that way.’
Zoltan peered at the photograph on the top page – a good-looking chap, dark eyes, strong cheekbones. He scanned the details: George Lorenc, aged eighteen, occupation – football player. ‘A footballer?’
‘A good one too, apparently, not that I would know.’ He looked bored by it all. ‘Who needs football when there’s still so much to do in the real world?’
‘The masses like it.’
‘The masses like bonking and drinking – doesn’t mean it’s good for them.’ He sneered slightly as he always did when he thought of the people en masse, the great working class on whose behalf they were fighting. ‘Anyway, Beke, there’s a game next week – one of the city teams against a visiting side from Moscow.’
‘Moscow Lokomotiv – yes, I know.’
‘Ah, well you know more than me. Message from Moscow is that the team need to win this game.’
‘Why, is it important?’
‘God no, it’s only a friendly but they’re having a tough time of it recently and a win here would set them up for an important cup tie next week or so. Apparently,’ he added quickly, for fear he should sound like a man who gave a damn. But of course, the real reason hung unspoken between them – their political masters would not entertain the idea of one of their football teams being shown up by a bunch of feeble Hungarians. The Soviet Union led the way in football as it did in all spheres of life.
‘So why this chap, this…’ Zoltan glanced back at the name, ‘this George Lorenc?’
‘We’ve already nobbled their manager, Bordas, I think his name is, and he reckons if it wasn’t for Lorenc, his team wouldn’t stand a chance anyway.’
‘Good then, is he?’
‘Meant to be, yes. He’s their centre-forward, a natural goal-scorer. So, a nice, easy job for you.’ One of his three telephones rang and Donath grabbed it immediately. ‘Yes? What is it?… Wait, let me get her file…’ Resting the receiver on the blotting-pad, he pulled open a drawer.
‘I’ll get to it, then,’ said Zoltan, not entirely sure whether his audience with the boss had come to an end.
‘Yeah, do so,’ said Donath, rummaging around in the drawer. ‘A quiet word should do the trick. It’s only a friendly after all, he won’t mind.’
For half a moment, he thought he caught Dzerzhinsky’s portrait winking down at him. ‘Dare say you’re right,’ he said, rising from the chair. ‘It’s only a friendly.’