Page 44 of The Little Liar
During these raids, Lazarre caught a virus, likely from the hours spent beneath his fellow prisoners. He grew weaker by the day and struggled to get through his labors. Every step seemed a challenge. He was hunched over, bent like a pipe cleaner, the vertebrae of his spine visible through his skin.
As his coughing grew more violent, Lev and Sebastian feared Lazarre would not pass the next “selection,” a weeding-out process the Nazis used to discard the weak and make room for new bodies. The camp had been flooded with Hungarian Jews lately, and the block quarters were jammed. Some prisoners would have to go.
“Give him your portion,” Lev told Sebastian when the nightly soup was ladled out. Sebastian did. Lev did the same. They hoped to nourish the old man to better health. But when the day of the selection arrived he was little improved.
That afternoon the prisoners were stripped naked and squeezed into a large room. One by one, they were told to runacross the yard and hand a card with their number on it to the inspecting officer. That officer, based on a cursory look that lasted two seconds, would determine who would be executed and who would not.
“Move your grandfather to the back,” Lev whispered. He and Sebastian maneuvered Lazarre behind a cluster of other prisoners. Once the quota was met, they hoped, the inspector might not care so much.
“Remember, Nano,” Sebastian said, “keep your head up, chest out, move as fast as you can, look strong.”
Lazarre nodded, but could barely stand. Only a few naked men remained ahead of him. Suddenly, he began coughing hard, loud, violent expulsions. He bent over in pain.
Lev bit his lip. Tears filled his eyes. He glanced at Sebastian, who saw something in his father’s face that he had never seen before. Then, with one furtive move, Lev grabbed his father’s card from his hand, shoved his own number into Lazarre’s palm, and pushed out into the yard, running naked past the inspector, his chest forward, his eyes on heaven, saving his father, condemning himself.
Budapest
Fannie spread jam on a roll and bit into it quickly. Even here, in the basement of an apartment building in Budapest, she ate in a hurry, as if the food might be taken at any moment.
There were twenty-two other children around her, some as young as five, others as old as sixteen. They ate in silence, careful not to clang spoons or forks. They had all been rescued from the banks of the Danube River and had been hiding in this basement for nearly three weeks now.
From what Fannie could gather, she’d been saved by a rather fantastical series of events. A famous Hungarian actress had arrived at the riverbank just as the Arrow Cross had begun their executions. This actress brought with her gold and furs, and she moved among the guards, offering bribes to let the prisoners go free. Fannie never saw the woman—she’d passed out before that—but the older boys said she was very attractive, sultry even, with heavy eye makeup and bright red lipstick. At times, they said, she seemed to be flirting with the soldiers.
Her efforts, however, were only partly successful. The Arrow Cross let her take the children, but not the adults. Theyoungsters were loaded into automobiles that were driven, in the middle of the night, to this empty apartment building, which apparently was not where the actress lived but on the other side of the city. They were hurried downstairs and given blankets for sleeping.
In the basement, they were fed twice a day by a cook, who Fannie assumed worked for the actress. They had books to read and even a board game to share. Each day, when the cook came to deliver meals, Fannie asked the same thing.Have you seen a boy named Nico? Was he there that night on the riverbank?
The answer was always the same. Nobody knew that name. By the time December came, and the cook brought down sugar cookies with green sprinkles as a treat, Fannie wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing.
I can tell you she did not.
So what was Nico doing on the Danube River?
It all began with forgery, a talent he perfected during his time with the Romani refugees. Hiding in the high woods near the border of Greece and Yugoslavia, Papo taught Nico about inks and dyes, how to create stamps from woodblocks, how to perforate paper, and how to remove markings with lactic acid taken from dry cleaning shops. Nico’s talent for drawing served him well, he was a natural, and by the winter of 1943, he had already produced dozens of identity cards and packs of food ration certificates, all of which helped keep Romani refugees alive. He also now possessed three passports for himself,Hungarian, Polish, and, most importantly, the German one bearing the name Hans Degler.
At night, Nico would sit with the Romani families by their campfires, kept small to avoid Nazi detection. He would share from a pot of rabbit stew with onions and listen to songs played on wooden guitars. He heard the elders’ plaintive singing and was reminded of Sabbath evenings in Salonika, how his grandfather would loudly chant the Hebrew blessings, and how Nico and Sebastian would stifle a laugh when his voice warbled on the high notes. Nico ached for such memories. He was desperate to see them again.
One morning, Mantis awoke to see Nico fully dressed and zipping up his leather bag.
“What are you doing, boy?”
“I have to go.”
“To find your family?”
“My family is in Germany, safe and sound.”
Mantis raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes. It is. Anyhow, I have to go.”
“Wait a minute.”
Mantis retreated to his tent. Moments later, he returned with Papo, who was carrying two loaves of bread, a can of jam, and a satchel filled with pens, ink, stamps, and three stolen Hungarian passports. He smiled warmly and handed the satchel to Nico.
“I knew this day was coming.”
“I’m sorry, Papo.”
