Heart of Lies

He had not spoken to Julia since the day he ended their affair. Now he watched as her dark eyes scanned the hotel lobby, and he had the odd feeling that she was looking for him. Why would she want to see him, now, after nearly three years?

The war had been kinder to her than to most; she was smartly dressed, wrapped in sable, and didn’t have the gaunt look of someone who’d been waiting in line for food. That didn’t surprise him. Countess Julia Katiana Podmaniczky was the type of woman who got what she wanted: one of her many desires had been the surrender of his virginity when he was barely sixteen. Of course the Countess would find a way to thrive during the war.

She caught his eye and approached his desk. He stood and came around it to greet her. Only then did he notice the lines around her eyes and the shadows under her neck, all conspiring to betray her loveliness.

“Good evening, Leo,” she said, with that familiar, mocking smile.

“Are you surprised to see me?”

He took her hand and bowed over it, pressing his lips to her slim fingers. “No, Countess, not surprised. Enchanted.”

Her smile was replaced by one of genuine pleasure, and then, just as swiftly, by a look of apprehension. “Leo, we must find a place to talk. Immediately.”

“Certainly.” He could not be rude. She and his foster mother, Erzsebet, were close friends, although he was sure that his endearingly naïve guardian was unaware of Julia’s penchant for illicit sexual adventure. He could not explain to Erzsebet that he did not find it necessary to be polite to his seductress. Escorting the Countess by the arm, Leo led her across the lobby to an office he knew would be vacant at this time of the evening.

Julia waited until they were both seated before she spoke again, and Leo could tell by the look on her face that something truly horrendous was behind her unexpected visit.

“Leo, you must not go back to the villa tonight. Something terrible has happened, and it’s too late to do anything except save yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Erzsebet and József have been shot.”

“What?” He was standing now, towering over her, his blazing blue eyes demanding a retraction.

“Leo, I wish I could say that it were not true—” Julia’s voice rose in astonishment as he lifted her by her shoulders, out of the chair and off the ground.

“When? Are they alive?”

“Put me down,” Julia demanded, keeping her voice low. If someone heard them and came in, if he created a scene, they could both be lost.

He looked at her as if he did not realize that he held her dangling in the air. Then he lowered her back down and took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure.

“Are they alive?” he repeated, his voice a toneless staccato.

Julia shook her head.

“Who did it?”

“Counterrevolutionary forces,” Julia spat out, her voice drenched in sarcasm. “Our ‘secret’ police. The men who are allegedly protecting us from the Rumanians.” Then her tone softened.

“Leo, I’m sorry. I came as soon as I found out. My husband has connections. Sometimes we find out about these things more quickly than others would. I had to be the one to tell you because…” She faltered, and reached up to touch his tormented face. “I want to protect you, if I can, from the same fate.”

He shoved her hand away. “Protect me? Why didn’t you protect Erzsebet? If you have these
connections
, why didn’t you use them to protect your friend?”

“Because I couldn’t. Your brilliant József was a communist. Erzsebet was a collaborator, whether she realized it or not. She was too delighted playing hostess to members of parliament to care about what politics it involved. She didn’t know that her dinner parties were her death warrant. I tried to warn her. I’m sure you did, too. But Erzsebet was always too willing to believe what she wanted to believe. And she believed in József.”

Leo looked away. Julia was right. Hungary had been mired in political and economic mayhem since the Emperor abdicated his throne at the end of the war. Erzsebet Derkovits and her brother, József, had used their influence and what was left of their family fortune to help form a communist government out of the chaos, but Leo did not get involved;
in fact, he’d deliberately absented himself from the house whenever meetings took place there. He was not a political person, he said; he felt lucky to have survived two years on the Italian front, and to have found a job as a concierge in a posh hotel when most of the population was starving.

He and Erzsebet should have fled months ago, when the Rumanians invaded and the communist government collapsed. He should have made her leave.

But József would not hear of it. “Only cowards flee,” he’d said. So they stayed, and now József and Erzsebet had paid the price.

Leo pictured Erzsebet as she had looked this morning, sitting happily at her desk as she made her list of errands for the day. His rage ebbed away. She’d loved him the way his own mother never had. His heart felt like an anvil in his chest.

Julia sensed that his anger was dissipating. “Leo, the villa is being watched. In a few days it will be confiscated as government property, the forfeited property of traitors. If you go back you’ll be implicated. There’s nothing you can do now. Nothing except save yourself.”

He looked at her dully, not wanting to think about self-preservation, not wanting to accept his loss. She went on.

“If you need money—”

“No, thank you. I’m entitled to rooms at the hotel. Where are…what have they done with the bodies?”

“I don’t know,” Julia lied coolly. She would not let him risk his life for the sake of visiting a corpse. There was one more thing she had to say.

“Leo, does anyone here at the hotel know that you’re Jewish? Hoffman is not necessarily a Jewish name.”

He seemed surprised by the question. “Jewish? I don’t really know. I don’t suppose so. I’ve never had any reason to mention it. Why? What does that matter now?”

“I hope you’ll understand why I’m telling you this. You must not, under any circumstances, tell anyone that you’re Jewish.”

The anger returned to his eyes. “Why? What are you saying?”

“You don’t understand the extent to which these men are motivated by jealousy, by bigotry, by hatred. József and Erzsebet were not killed just because they were communists. They were killed because they were Jews. In all this madness, there’s a chance no one important will make a connection between you and the Derkovits family.”

“So I’m to hide my heritage to stay alive, is that it?”

“Is it so wrong to try and stay alive when you’re being persecuted without a reason?”

“What about honor?”

“Honor? Honor won’t warm your gravestone, Leo. I know how much Erzsebet loved you, how much you’ve meant to her ever since the day that József brought you home from that pit of a village where you were born. You owe it to her to stay alive.”

“I owed it to her to keep her from dying.”

There was nothing more that Julia could say. He would heed her advice, or not. After a silent moment she made a move to leave, pausing only to murmur, “Leo, darling, if you need anything, please—”

She watched as a range of emotions flickered across his handsome face: grief, outrage, and, perhaps, a touch of gratitude. Then he was once again all business, holding his hand out to her as if she were a departing hotel guest. “Thank you for having the courage to tell me this. Thank you for the warning.”

Ignoring his proffered handshake, Julia moved a step closer and closed her hand around his wrist. “You won’t go back to the villa?”

He shook his head. She breathed a sigh of relief and let go of him. That, at least, was something. Pulling her wrap tightly around her shoulders, she left the office without another word.

Weeks later Leo walked by the magnificent villa on Andrassy Avenue that had been his home for seven years. A brass plate on the door declared it the future offices of the Ministry of the Treasury. So this was another joke that life had played on him; he’d escaped the dismal world of his childhood, only to have a life full of promise depleted of every source of hope. He’d survived the war, only to lose the two people who meant the most to him. He was not yet twenty years old.

ONE

BUDAPEST, 1925

It was said that in Vienna one could spend hours in a coffee house and no one would notice, but that in Budapest, you could live there, and no one would notice. By the time he was twenty-five, Leo Hoffman’s regular table at his favorite coffee house was the closest thing he had to a home.

He first came to the New York Café with Erzsebet, when he was twelve years old and still new to the city: awed by electricity, terrified of riding the subway, and overwhelmed by the ornate majesty of the many magnificent buildings constantly under construction as the newly minted, wealthy Hungarian
bourgeoisie
worked to turn Budapest into an architectural marvel that would rival the other capitals of Europe. But none of these modern wonders had impressed Leo more than the gilded columns, crystal chandeliers, flashing mirrors, and flawlessly poised waiters of the New York.

Erzsebet had adored the New York, and Leo was delighted whenever she invited him to accompany her there, mostly because the café was
such a wonderful place to watch, and to listen. It was the perfect place for conversation, inspiration, and infatuation. Old lovers went there for the express purpose of publically ignoring each other, while at any given moment a dozen new love affairs began to bloom. Arguments in innumerable accents would roll through the expansive room, thicker than the heavy cigarette smoke, as art, politics, and popular fashion were all rigorously critiqued. Discussions begun before lunch merged and mutated throughout the early evening, until the affluent exited and those for whom the coffee house was the night’s entertainment reclaimed their usual tables; then everyone who could afford it returned for a late night supper and a hearty serving of gossip. It was true that there were many, many coffee houses in Budapest (Erzsebet frequently and needlessly explained) but there was only one New York.

When Leo finally returned, a year after Erzsebet’s death, the Grande Dame of Budapest had become an aged, impoverished widow. The linens were worn, the china chipped, the floor in need of repairs. Gone was the vivacity that once filled the air with a charismatic sense of hope; the city’s optimism lay buried in the trenches with the bones of a million men.

He’d been surprised that the head waiter showed him to one of the best tables, close to the front windows with a full view of the formerly elegant room. Perhaps he remembered Leo from the days when he’d show up with Erzsebet for a pre-theater dinner, or perhaps the old man was just pleased to have someone reasonably well-dressed and youthful to show off to anyone passing by, hoping that the sight would remind potential customers of what the New York had once been and entice them to come in, if for no other reason than to share a drink and a memory.

Since then Leo found time to stop by almost every evening. On this night, as he walked in, a familiar figure waved him over.

“Leo, wonderful to see you again. Please join me,” said Janos Bacso, president of the Magyar Commercial Bank. Leo had met Bacso while courting the man’s daughter two years earlier. He’d expected Maya’s father to object, given that the wealthy banker knew nothing about Leo’s background, about which Leo shared only vague details, not all of them accurate. But the war had changed everything, so much so that a self-made man like Bacso now put more stock in potential than in pedigree when evaluating a prospective son-in-law. He’d seemed comfortable with the match.

But Leo ultimately stopped short of proposing, even though it would have meant a change of career from hotel concierge to bank officer. A door had closed inside him that Maya could not open. Although he was tempted, he vowed that he would not dishonor her by entering into a marriage based primarily on ambition.

When he heard that Maya was engaged to a young bank officer, Leo reintroduced himself to her father at a regular, late-night card game at the New York. Aloof at first, Bacso’s affability returned after Leo discreetly let him win a significant amount of money. Leo considered it a good investment.

“I don’t usually see you here this early,” he said as he took the chair Bacso offered him. “Are you meeting someone?”

“After a while. Back at my house.”

Leo had to smile; for Bacso to describe his home as a “house” was quite an understatement. The man had purchased the city home of an aristocrat bankrupted by the war, for a fraction of what it was worth. Leo wondered how Bacso had managed to hang on to his money.
Probably diverted it overseas before the real fighting started.

“Well I’m lucky to have caught you, then,” Leo commented as he signaled for the waiter.

“Actually, this might be a lucky break for me, running into you like this. Our fourth cancelled.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to be playing bridge with a couple of visitors this evening. Any chance you could join us? Nothing formal. We’ll be wagering, but the stakes won’t be higher than our usual game. Do you think you could get free?”

“Are you sure you want to inflict me on people who actually know how to play?”

“No false modesty, Leo. You’ll hold your own quite well.”

“I’m flattered you think so. What time should I be there?”

“Around ten.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“Excellent. You remember the address?”

“Of course.”

Bacso reached for his wallet, but Leo motioned for him to stop.

“Allow me,” he said. “After such a generous invitation, the least I can do is treat you to a coffee.”

“Thank you.” Bacso stood up. “So, we’ll be expecting you.”

Leo arrived at precisely ten o’clock. As the butler showed him into the foyer, he was struck again by how very different Bacso’s mansion was from the flamboyant and colorful Beaux-Arts villas of Andrassy Avenue, where he’d lived with Erzsebet and József. These dark stone walls spoke of wealth: old, immense wealth, wealth far removed from its origin and
the merit of its masters. The place was luxurious but mirthless. Even the paintings in the entry hall were somber; Leo faced a grave Madonna and child, a gloomy Dutch landscape, and a bloody battle scene featuring the heroic St. Stephen, founder of the kingdom of Hungary, ruthlessly beating back some invading horde nine hundred years ago.

The butler returned to show him into the library. Bacso and two other men whom Leo did not recognize all stood as he entered the room.

“So glad you could make it, Leo. Please come in and meet my other guests. James Mitchell, Leo Hoffman.”

Bacso was speaking English; Leo assumed that Mitchell was British. When Leo first started at the Hotel Bristol, English had not been his best language. Now he was head concierge, and five years of contact with a constant influx of well-to-do British visitors, none of whom seemed willing to venture out of their native tongue, had greatly improved his fluency.

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you,” he said as he shook hands with the white-haired gentleman. The man laughed, not a pleasant sound.

“If your card game is as good as your English, the pleasure will be mine. You sound exactly like a Brit.”

Leo realized at once that Mitchell was an American. The other man, whom Bacso introduced as Lajos Graetz, was clearly not. Leo was struck by the firmness of his grip, and his crisp, military bearing. His hair was the only part of him that seemed to be wearing out as he aged. A soldier, no doubt: most likely a former officer in the Emperor’s army.

Mitchell and Graetz could not have been more different, thought Leo. The former was overfed and a bit coarse, the latter a study in the manners of a bygone era. A very odd pairing.

Neither Graetz nor Bacso spoke English well, but it seemed that they all spoke passable German, so they settled on that as the language of the evening. As Mitchell had implied, Leo was to be the American’s partner, to help smooth over any translation problems.
So that explains the sudden invitation.
Few people in Budapest spoke passable English.

“So, Mr. Mitchell, where are you from?” asked Leo as they took their seats at the card table.

“Shanghai.”

“I beg your pardon. Shanghai is in China, is it not? Your accent sounds very American for someone born in China.”

“I wasn’t born there. I’m most recently from there. From the American Concession, now known as part of the International Settlement.”

“And what brought you there?”

Mitchell sat back in his chair, obviously embarking on a favorite topic of conversation. “If you knew anything about Shanghai, you wouldn’t have asked that question. No one goes to Shanghai if he has anywhere else to go. You’d ask, instead, how I managed to leave.”

“Would you care to explain?” Leo inquired, as Bacso began to deal the cards.

“Shanghai is a great port city. It’s also the only place in the world one can enter without a passport or a visa, no questions asked, and set up shop, whether you’re a con artist, gun runner, opium dealer, or disgraced industrialist.”

“Surely there are some legitimate business enterprises?”

“Well, yes. A lot of factories. Buckets of money to be made in the China trade. Entrepreneurs import goods to the teeming yellow millions and export Chinese goods to the rest of the world. But the law-
abiding types have lost out on the most lucrative import, that being the opium that comes from India. It’s been declared illegal to bring it into China. Which makes it all the more profitable, of course.”

“I see. And in which category do you place yourself? Robber baron? Opium dealer? Entrepreneur?”

Mitchell tilted his head back and poured a glass of champagne down his throat. “Capitalist, Mr. Hoffman, venture capitalist. I venture where there is money to be made. I made plenty in Shanghai. I hope to have a few years left to make a little more in Hungary.”

“And I hope to help you make a little for us tonight,” Leo remarked, raising his glass to his partner. The cold December wind howled against the windows. The play began.

They were at least an hour into the game, with Leo and Mitchell well ahead, when Graetz commented, “So, Mr. Hoffman, Janos tells me that you have a gift for languages.”

“He’s too kind.”

“There’s no need for humility. Five languages fluently, is that correct?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“At the moment, you say. How long does it take you to learn a new language?”

“Not long.”

“Extraordinary. And do you translate?”

“Do you mean written, or simultaneous verbal translation?”

“Either.”

“I’m afraid my verbal skills exceed my ability to reproduce languages on paper.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m proficient at verbal translation, much slower at written transcription.”

“So it’s the ear you were born with.”

“Yes, as you put it, ’the ear’ is what I was born with.” Leo had the awkward sensation that he was being put through his paces. He looked at Bacso, whose face revealed nothing. He was concentrating on his cards.

Graetz did not stop. “To be able to learn a new language so quickly, now that is a valuable talent. There are many opportunities for a man of your ability.”

“There weren’t after the war.”

“But it’s been five years. Things are improving. We’re back in the League of Nations. The currency has stabilized. You’re wasting your time working in a hotel.”

“I have no complaints. It’s a good enough job, and I’ll have the opportunity to move into upper-level management eventually.”

“Come come, Mr. Hoffman. Is that all the ambition you have? To be the manager of a hotel?”

No one had played a card in several minutes. Leo was beginning to feel like a mouse caught in a trap when Bacso finally joined the conversation.

“Leo, you’re here on my recommendation. I know you to be an intelligent young man and a loyal Hungarian, who served our country honorably in the Great War.”

“Honorably maybe, but not voluntarily.”

Bacso made a dismissive gesture. “No Hungarian fought voluntarily. But the Hapsburgs have drawn us into war for the last time. The last conflict finally freed us from our Austrian yoke, and it’s time for us
to take advantage of our freedom. At the moment our country is weak, but we can make it strong again. We’d like to offer you an opportunity, a business opportunity, to help us do so.”

“Are we discussing patriotism or capitalism?”

“Both,” said Mitchell, chortling. Bacso shot him a curt look before continuing.

“You are familiar, I’m sure, with the terms of the Treaty of Trianon?”

“No more so than the average person.”

“You must know the cursed pact cost Hungary seventy percent of her territory, and limited our country’s armed forces to thirty-five thousand men,” Graetz interjected, his thin face quivering with agitation.

“That much I did know.”

“Which leaves us unable to defend ourselves in the event we face another threat from Rumania or Yugoslavia,” Bacso explained.

“But do we face such a threat?” Leo’s question, innocently posed, set off a chain reaction around the table.

“Always.”

“The French will not rest until they see us under Serbian rule.”

“The Rumanians are salivating over the agricultural capacity of our heartland.”

“Do you really think you can rely on that asinine League of Nations to protect you?”

“The point is this,” Bacso said at last, “readiness is the best deterrent. The resources we need are the new, automatic weapons being developed in the United States and Soviet Russia. There are, of course, strict controls on the shipments of such armaments. But there is the
possibility—I can tell you no more—the possibility that our soldiers could obtain a supply of these advanced weapons through, shall we say, unofficial channels.”

Leo looked back at him, puzzled. “What does this have to do with me? Shouldn’t this be done through the government?”

Graetz leapt in again. “That’s just the problem. The government is powerless to act. We must rely on private individuals to accomplish what our hamstrung politicians cannot.”

“I have no interest in becoming an arms dealer.” Leo rose from the table. Bacso reached out and grasped his arm.

“What have you done lately of which you’ve been proud, Leo?” the older man asked. “Arranged a picnic? Hired a driver? Do you not think that the gift God gave you should be used for a nobler purpose? Does the future of your country mean nothing to you?”

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