the militia’s torch-lit marches around Roma communities, creating terror in the persecuted group and even causing some to be evacuated for fear of explosive violence. It wouldn’t take much to encourage this lot to attack the synagogue in revenge for the outrage of the Holy Right.
Morgan entered the gates and moved with the crowd into the park. It was a strange throwback to the Communist era, with huge statues of famous figures like Lenin, Marx and Engels as well as the boots of Stalin, all that remained of the dictator’s statue, torn down in the 1956 revolution. Nearby, the Liberation Army Soldier stood six meters tall, striding with fists raised towards the enemy, shouting for revolution. The park was meant to be a reminder of the fall of Communism, but Morgan felt it somehow glorified those dark days, its propaganda now serving a modern purpose.
The open plan park was designed in six circles surrounding a central seventh, with the Communist star in the very middle. A dais had been set up there, but the focus of the crowd was on a large stage near the back of the park where a band was playing folk rock. As Morgan slid through the throng, she could see that some of those massed in front of the band had their right arms raised in a Fascist salute. No one seemed to care, and again, Morgan felt that she was witnessing a flashback, or an alternate universe where the last seventy years had been but a dream.
Behind the band, large screens projected visions of Hungary’s greatness, images of propaganda that the Communist regime would have been proud to call their own. The handsome face of László Vay smiled while he greeted housewives and kissed babies, as strong men shook his hand and pledged allegiance. The video switched to footage of the militia marching underneath the banner of the Turul, the mythical bird, representing power, strength and nobility. Morgan noticed that many in the crowd watched the images even if they ignored the music, and the press were gathered around the edges, interviewing people. She had to get the footage of the labyrinth up onto that screen.
Weaving through the crowd, Morgan smiled up at the leering men so they would let her pass. Women eyed her suspiciously and Morgan suspected that any violence here would be equal opportunity. The smell of sweat and beer intensified as she made it to the front of the crowd, who were now swaying and singing along to what must be a popular song.
Peering into the shadows at the side of the stage, Morgan tried to see where the video was controlled. There was a guy hunched over a several laptops and a mixing desk, earphones on his head. Next to the technician, she spotted Hollo Berényi, compulsively looking at his watch, clearly expecting László to arrive for his big speech any moment. He pulled out his smartphone and dialed, appearing to be swearing silently as it failed to be answered. He must assume that László was still underground, but he would be more concerned soon enough.
Morgan noticed the lead singer glance to the side of the stage and Berényi made a gesture to carry on, keep playing. So László was already late, and that meant she didn’t have much time. If Berényi couldn’t fire up this crowd, he might take his militia and attack the synagogue anyway. Morgan thought of little Ilona, and of the old woman, screaming as she relived past horrors.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“We’re out of the labyrinth,” Georg’s voice was halting as he tried to catch his breath. “We’ve dealt with the … package … and I’ve got Zoltan out and we’re at a local doctor’s. Where are you?”
“On location,” Morgan said briefly. “I should have something for you in the next ten minutes. Will you be able to monitor when the feed goes active even if I can’t call you?”
“Yes, if you can plug the USB in, I’ll get a ping on my phone and I can send the video. I’ll be waiting.”
Morgan considered her
Morgan entered the gates and moved with the crowd into the park. It was a strange throwback to the Communist era, with huge statues of famous figures like Lenin, Marx and Engels as well as the boots of Stalin, all that remained of the dictator’s statue, torn down in the 1956 revolution. Nearby, the Liberation Army Soldier stood six meters tall, striding with fists raised towards the enemy, shouting for revolution. The park was meant to be a reminder of the fall of Communism, but Morgan felt it somehow glorified those dark days, its propaganda now serving a modern purpose.
The open plan park was designed in six circles surrounding a central seventh, with the Communist star in the very middle. A dais had been set up there, but the focus of the crowd was on a large stage near the back of the park where a band was playing folk rock. As Morgan slid through the throng, she could see that some of those massed in front of the band had their right arms raised in a Fascist salute. No one seemed to care, and again, Morgan felt that she was witnessing a flashback, or an alternate universe where the last seventy years had been but a dream.
Behind the band, large screens projected visions of Hungary’s greatness, images of propaganda that the Communist regime would have been proud to call their own. The handsome face of László Vay smiled while he greeted housewives and kissed babies, as strong men shook his hand and pledged allegiance. The video switched to footage of the militia marching underneath the banner of the Turul, the mythical bird, representing power, strength and nobility. Morgan noticed that many in the crowd watched the images even if they ignored the music, and the press were gathered around the edges, interviewing people. She had to get the footage of the labyrinth up onto that screen.
Weaving through the crowd, Morgan smiled up at the leering men so they would let her pass. Women eyed her suspiciously and Morgan suspected that any violence here would be equal opportunity. The smell of sweat and beer intensified as she made it to the front of the crowd, who were now swaying and singing along to what must be a popular song.
Peering into the shadows at the side of the stage, Morgan tried to see where the video was controlled. There was a guy hunched over a several laptops and a mixing desk, earphones on his head. Next to the technician, she spotted Hollo Berényi, compulsively looking at his watch, clearly expecting László to arrive for his big speech any moment. He pulled out his smartphone and dialed, appearing to be swearing silently as it failed to be answered. He must assume that László was still underground, but he would be more concerned soon enough.
Morgan noticed the lead singer glance to the side of the stage and Berényi made a gesture to carry on, keep playing. So László was already late, and that meant she didn’t have much time. If Berényi couldn’t fire up this crowd, he might take his militia and attack the synagogue anyway. Morgan thought of little Ilona, and of the old woman, screaming as she relived past horrors.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“We’re out of the labyrinth,” Georg’s voice was halting as he tried to catch his breath. “We’ve dealt with the … package … and I’ve got Zoltan out and we’re at a local doctor’s. Where are you?”
“On location,” Morgan said briefly. “I should have something for you in the next ten minutes. Will you be able to monitor when the feed goes active even if I can’t call you?”
“Yes, if you can plug the USB in, I’ll get a ping on my phone and I can send the video. I’ll be waiting.”
Morgan considered her
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