Nazi military intelligence on the eastern front, setting up the West German intelligence service with the help of the CIA; the relentless growth of KZX Industries through the 1970s; a picture of the Berlin Wall coming down with a question-mark drawn over it. There was also more recent material on the Volkstern Corporation’s expansion into eastern European, and a cutting from the
New York Times
, about legislation compensating Holocaust survivors for lost properties. Alex gathered the clippings and put them in his bag.
He glanced around the floor for the last time. A thick red book lay by the sofa:
Seventy Years of Progress
:
The Achievements of the Soviet Union
. Miklos had showed him it on a previous visit. In fact he had made a point of explaining that it was a family heirloom, and should always be taken care of as it held ‘special, and precious memories’. He thought that his grandfather, a famous anti-communist, was being ironic. But what if he was telling him something else? Alex picked the book up. Colour photographs of tractors ploughing the fields of Kazakhstan, grinning Muscovites skating on the ice-rink at Gorky Park, rockets, missiles, astronauts. A vanished world. The covers felt odd, bumpy and too thick. There was a ridge running along the edge of the inside leaf that was stuck to the red hardboard, on both the front and the back. He pulled at the corners, tentatively at first, then quickly. They tore, and then both came away easily.
Underneath lay a clump of thin grey paper, held together by rusty paper clips, hand-written in the faded blue-grey ink of an ancient fountain pen. Alex’s heart thumped as he held the papers, and read the first line:
The Ghetto Diary of Miklos Farkas
. His mobile phone rang in his pocket.
“Hurry up, I can hear voices downstairs, I think it’s the police,” Natasha whispered urgently. “Get out of there.”
He grabbed the papers, stuffed them in his shoulder bag, together with the book. He turned at the front door, and dashed backed into the lounge. He snatched Miklos’ boxing gloves, stuffed them into his bag and left as fast as he could. Natasha was outside. He closed the door gently behind him. She pulled off the torn police seals, quickly replaced them with a new pair. Alex scrunched up the paper strips and stuffed them into his trouser pocket.
He showed her the book and the grey papers, gesturing at her to keep silent as they descended the stairs. A blue light spun around the walls and entrance on the ground floor.
“Shit,” exclaimed Alex, “Now what?”
“Shut up and come here,” Natasha said, grabbing Alex. She pushed him against the wall, her hands snaking around his neck. Alex looked at her in amazement.
“Just shut up and let me do the talking now,” she hissed as a torch was shined on them.
“Hey, you two lovebirds, what’s going on up there? No home to go to?” They broke apart as the policeman approached. He was burly and overweight, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Natasha smiled, holding Alex’s arm as she spoke. “I’m sorry Captain, we were out walking, and we just stepped in out of the wind, and then we, well, you know, started to get carried away. You must know how that can happen, so easily, sir.”
The policeman looked doubtful. “You both stay there. Have you seen anyone else here tonight? We had a report that someone was inside that flat where that Jew was murdered. Someone heard someone moving about, or so they said. Have you seen anything suspicious? Perhaps I should wake up the housemistress to see what she knows.”
“No sir, nobody at all. We’ve only been here a couple of minutes,” said Natasha, her eyes wide and innocent.
Alex prayed the policeman would not follow his instinct, for the prospect of dealing with Erzsebet Kovacs at this time of night, and explaining to her what he and Natasha were doing there was too awful to contemplate. Especially as she would almost certainly, even if inadvertently, give his
New York Times
, about legislation compensating Holocaust survivors for lost properties. Alex gathered the clippings and put them in his bag.
He glanced around the floor for the last time. A thick red book lay by the sofa:
Seventy Years of Progress
:
The Achievements of the Soviet Union
. Miklos had showed him it on a previous visit. In fact he had made a point of explaining that it was a family heirloom, and should always be taken care of as it held ‘special, and precious memories’. He thought that his grandfather, a famous anti-communist, was being ironic. But what if he was telling him something else? Alex picked the book up. Colour photographs of tractors ploughing the fields of Kazakhstan, grinning Muscovites skating on the ice-rink at Gorky Park, rockets, missiles, astronauts. A vanished world. The covers felt odd, bumpy and too thick. There was a ridge running along the edge of the inside leaf that was stuck to the red hardboard, on both the front and the back. He pulled at the corners, tentatively at first, then quickly. They tore, and then both came away easily.
Underneath lay a clump of thin grey paper, held together by rusty paper clips, hand-written in the faded blue-grey ink of an ancient fountain pen. Alex’s heart thumped as he held the papers, and read the first line:
The Ghetto Diary of Miklos Farkas
. His mobile phone rang in his pocket.
“Hurry up, I can hear voices downstairs, I think it’s the police,” Natasha whispered urgently. “Get out of there.”
He grabbed the papers, stuffed them in his shoulder bag, together with the book. He turned at the front door, and dashed backed into the lounge. He snatched Miklos’ boxing gloves, stuffed them into his bag and left as fast as he could. Natasha was outside. He closed the door gently behind him. She pulled off the torn police seals, quickly replaced them with a new pair. Alex scrunched up the paper strips and stuffed them into his trouser pocket.
He showed her the book and the grey papers, gesturing at her to keep silent as they descended the stairs. A blue light spun around the walls and entrance on the ground floor.
“Shit,” exclaimed Alex, “Now what?”
“Shut up and come here,” Natasha said, grabbing Alex. She pushed him against the wall, her hands snaking around his neck. Alex looked at her in amazement.
“Just shut up and let me do the talking now,” she hissed as a torch was shined on them.
“Hey, you two lovebirds, what’s going on up there? No home to go to?” They broke apart as the policeman approached. He was burly and overweight, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Natasha smiled, holding Alex’s arm as she spoke. “I’m sorry Captain, we were out walking, and we just stepped in out of the wind, and then we, well, you know, started to get carried away. You must know how that can happen, so easily, sir.”
The policeman looked doubtful. “You both stay there. Have you seen anyone else here tonight? We had a report that someone was inside that flat where that Jew was murdered. Someone heard someone moving about, or so they said. Have you seen anything suspicious? Perhaps I should wake up the housemistress to see what she knows.”
“No sir, nobody at all. We’ve only been here a couple of minutes,” said Natasha, her eyes wide and innocent.
Alex prayed the policeman would not follow his instinct, for the prospect of dealing with Erzsebet Kovacs at this time of night, and explaining to her what he and Natasha were doing there was too awful to contemplate. Especially as she would almost certainly, even if inadvertently, give his
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