was filled with photographs accompanied by a couple of lines of text here, entire paragraphs there. On finding what he was looking for, he took a sheet of paper, used it to cover the text, and showed Gordon the picture. “Is that him?”
“Yes,” said Gordon.
“In 1919, after the collapse of the Communist revolution here in Hungary,” Kosik began, “he was sought nationwide. Not only had he joined the Red Army, but he also edited the Commune newspaper. He managed to flee to Vienna and from there to Bratislava. He returned illegally in 1922 and was arrested in 1923, along with seventy of his comrades, and sentenced to fifteen years in jail. But then, in 1924, through a diplomatic agreement, he and forty-one others were extradited to the Soviet Union. Starting there, the whole affair is murky. All that’s certain is that he kept himself busy organizing Communist Party activities throughout Europe, and at some point became a member of the NKVD. You know what that is, right?”
“The Soviets’ internal security apparatus. Its secret police.”
“That’s about right,” said Kosik. “And he’s fought in the Spanish Civil War, too. On the nationalist side, it probably goes without saying. It’s not certain, but I’ve heard from various sources that he’s been seen in Catalonia. And now here, in Budapest. Why, we’ve got evidence, too.” Kosik tapped Gordon’s photograph with his pen.
“Will you tell me his name, at last?”
“Why do you want to know?” asked Kosik, leaning back in his chair.
Gordon sat on the corner of the desk and pondered his reply. “I’ve got a proposal,” he finally said.
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll give you the picture along with the address where it was taken.”
“What do I get out of that?”
“Let’s just say I don’t keep the picture for myself,” said Gordon, “and let’s say I figured out some other way to get that name.”
“Understood. And agreed.”
“I have one more condition.”
“Condition?”
“Yes.”
“What would that be?”
“Wait till Monday morning. Don’t go looking for Schweinitzer until then.”
“Why do you think I’d go to the state security police?”
“Come now, Kornél. Come now.”
Kosik took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “Monday will do. Besides, I figure he’s already on his way to Moscow, so it’s not as if they could catch him. His name is Gerő. Ernő Gerő.”
“That’s it. Gerő. What’s he doing here?” asked Gordon, looking Kosik in the eye.
“Don’t ask me. But I suspect he didn’t travel home for Gömbös’s funeral.”
“Then you’ll wait till Monday.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You don’t want to catch him,” said Gordon, rising from the desk, “you just want a gold star from Schweinitzer.” Kosik put the book and the photograph in his desk drawer. He then locked the drawer and put the key in his vest pocket.
Kosik looked at Gordon. “You have a problem with that?”
“Me? None whatsoever. You can do whatever you want with that picture.”
G ordon left the newsroom for the Tick Bite. Samu was not there. Gordon asked the bartender about the signalman, but he only shook his head. “He left last night, and I haven’t seen him since, though he always starts his day in here.”
Gordon stepped out of the Tick Bite and lit a cigarette before heading toward the Grand Boulevard. All at once a scruffy, beer-scented man stepped out from a doorway. “Your name Gordon?”
“Who wants to know?” Gordon took a step back.
“Scratchy Samu.”
“I’m Gordon.”
“Samu says he’s waiting for you on the Buda side of the river, on Ponty Street. Hurry up—he said that, too. That you should hurry up.”
Gordon telephoned the taxi company from the New York Café and asked for Czövek. The young lady at the other end of the line was as polite as could be. “He’ll be there in ten minutes, sir.”
Gordon went outside to wait for Czövek. Not even five minutes had passed when the
“Yes,” said Gordon.
“In 1919, after the collapse of the Communist revolution here in Hungary,” Kosik began, “he was sought nationwide. Not only had he joined the Red Army, but he also edited the Commune newspaper. He managed to flee to Vienna and from there to Bratislava. He returned illegally in 1922 and was arrested in 1923, along with seventy of his comrades, and sentenced to fifteen years in jail. But then, in 1924, through a diplomatic agreement, he and forty-one others were extradited to the Soviet Union. Starting there, the whole affair is murky. All that’s certain is that he kept himself busy organizing Communist Party activities throughout Europe, and at some point became a member of the NKVD. You know what that is, right?”
“The Soviets’ internal security apparatus. Its secret police.”
“That’s about right,” said Kosik. “And he’s fought in the Spanish Civil War, too. On the nationalist side, it probably goes without saying. It’s not certain, but I’ve heard from various sources that he’s been seen in Catalonia. And now here, in Budapest. Why, we’ve got evidence, too.” Kosik tapped Gordon’s photograph with his pen.
“Will you tell me his name, at last?”
“Why do you want to know?” asked Kosik, leaning back in his chair.
Gordon sat on the corner of the desk and pondered his reply. “I’ve got a proposal,” he finally said.
“I’m listening.”
“I’ll give you the picture along with the address where it was taken.”
“What do I get out of that?”
“Let’s just say I don’t keep the picture for myself,” said Gordon, “and let’s say I figured out some other way to get that name.”
“Understood. And agreed.”
“I have one more condition.”
“Condition?”
“Yes.”
“What would that be?”
“Wait till Monday morning. Don’t go looking for Schweinitzer until then.”
“Why do you think I’d go to the state security police?”
“Come now, Kornél. Come now.”
Kosik took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “Monday will do. Besides, I figure he’s already on his way to Moscow, so it’s not as if they could catch him. His name is Gerő. Ernő Gerő.”
“That’s it. Gerő. What’s he doing here?” asked Gordon, looking Kosik in the eye.
“Don’t ask me. But I suspect he didn’t travel home for Gömbös’s funeral.”
“Then you’ll wait till Monday.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You don’t want to catch him,” said Gordon, rising from the desk, “you just want a gold star from Schweinitzer.” Kosik put the book and the photograph in his desk drawer. He then locked the drawer and put the key in his vest pocket.
Kosik looked at Gordon. “You have a problem with that?”
“Me? None whatsoever. You can do whatever you want with that picture.”
G ordon left the newsroom for the Tick Bite. Samu was not there. Gordon asked the bartender about the signalman, but he only shook his head. “He left last night, and I haven’t seen him since, though he always starts his day in here.”
Gordon stepped out of the Tick Bite and lit a cigarette before heading toward the Grand Boulevard. All at once a scruffy, beer-scented man stepped out from a doorway. “Your name Gordon?”
“Who wants to know?” Gordon took a step back.
“Scratchy Samu.”
“I’m Gordon.”
“Samu says he’s waiting for you on the Buda side of the river, on Ponty Street. Hurry up—he said that, too. That you should hurry up.”
Gordon telephoned the taxi company from the New York Café and asked for Czövek. The young lady at the other end of the line was as polite as could be. “He’ll be there in ten minutes, sir.”
Gordon went outside to wait for Czövek. Not even five minutes had passed when the
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