The Fourth Estate (10 page)

Then the first
stones were thrown at Mr. Cerani’s shop window, and some of the regular
customers began to cross the road to transfer their custom to Mr. Farkas. But
Mr. Cerani continued to insist that Hitler had categorically stated he would
never infringe the territorial integrity of Hungary.

Lubji reminded
his boss that those were the exact words the Fuhrer had used before he invaded
Poland. He went on to tell him about a British gentleman called Chamberlain, who
had handed in his resignation as prime minister only a few months before.

Lubji knew that
he hadn’t yet saved enough money to cross another border, so the following
Monday, long before the Ceranis came down for breakfast, he walked boldly
across the road and into his rival’s shop. Mr.- Farkas couldn’t hide his
surprise when he saw Lubji come through the door ...

“is your offer
of assistant manager still open?” Lubji asked immediately, not wanting to be
caught on the wrong side of the road.

“Not for a Jew
boy it isn’t,” replied Mr. Farkas, looking straight at him.

“However good
you think you are. In any case, as soon as Hitler invades I’ll be taking over
your shop.”

Lubji left
without another word. When Mr. Cerani came into the shop an hour later, he told
him that Mr. Farkas had made him yet another offer, “But I told him I couldn’t
be bought.” Mr. Ceram nodded but said nothing. Lubji was not surprised to find,
when he opened his pay packet on Friday, that it contained another small rise.

Lubji continued
to save almost all his earnings. When Jews started being arrested for minor
offenses, he began to consider an escape route. Each night after the Ceranis
had retired to bed, Lubji would creep downstairs and study the old atlas in Mr.
Ceram’s little study. He went over the alternatives several times. He would
have to avoid crossing into Yugoslavia: surely it would be only a matter of
time before it suffered the same fate as Poland and Czechoslovakia. Italy was
out of the question, as was Russia. He finally settled on Turkey.

Although he had
no official papers, he decided that he would go to the railway station at the
end of the week and see if he could somehow get on a train making the journey
through Romania and Bulgaria to Istanbul. Just after midnight, Lubji closed the
old maps of Europe for the last time and returned to his tiny room at the top
of the house.

He knew the time
was fast approaching when he would have to tell Mr. Cerani of his plans, but
decided to put it off until he had received his pay packet on the following
Friday. He climbed into bed and fell asleep, trying to imagine what life would
be like in Istanbul. Did they have a market, and were the Turks a race who
enjoyed bargaining?

He was woken
from a deep sleep by a loud banging. He leapt out of bed and ran to the little
window that overlooked the street. The road was full of soldiers carrying
rifles. Some were banging on doors with the butts of their rifles. It would be
only moments before they reached the Ceranis’ house. Lubji quickly threw on
yesterday’s clothes, removed the wad of money from under his mattress and
tucked it into his waist, tightening the wide leather belt that held up his
trousers.

He ran
downstairs to the first landing, and disappeared into the bathroom that he
shared with the Ceranis. He grabbed the old man’s razor, and quickly cut off
the long black ringlets that hung down to his shoulders.

He dropped the
severed locks into the lavatory and flushed them away. Then he opened the small
medicine cabinet and removed Mr. Cerani’s hair cream, plastering a handful on
his head in the hope that it would disguise the fact that his hair had been so
recently cropped.

Lubji stared at
himself in the mirror and prayed that in his light gray double-breasted suit
with its wide lapels, white shirt and spotted blue tie, the invaders just might
believe he was nothing more than a Hungarian businessman visiting the capital.
At least he could now speak the language without any trace of an accent. He
paused before stepping back out onto the landing. As he moved noiselessly down
the stairs, he could hear someone already banging on the door of the next
house. He quickly checked in the front room, but there was no sign of the
Ceranis. He moved on to the kitchen, where he found the old couple hiding under
the table, clinging on to each other. While the seven candies of David stood in
the corner of the room, there wasn’t going to be an easy way of concealing the
fact that they were Jewish.

Without saying a
word, Lubji tiptoed over to the kitchen window, which looked out onto the
backyard. He eased it up cautiously and Stuck his head out. There was no sign
of any soldiers. He turned his gaze to the right and saw a cat scampering up a
tree. He looked to the left and stared into the eyes of a soldier. Standing
next to him was Mr. Farkas, who nodded and said, “That’s him.”

Lubji smiled
hopefully, but the soldier brutally slammed the butt of his rifle into his
chin. He fell head first out of the window and crashed down onto the path.

He looked up to
find a bayonet hovering between his eyes.

“I’m not
Jewish!” he screamed. “I’m not Jewish!”

The soldier
might have been more convinced if Lubji hadn’t blurted out the words in
Yiddish.

DAILY MAIL

8 FEBRUARY 1945

Y
alta: Big Three
Confer WHEN KEITH RETURNED for his final year at St. Andrew’s Grammar, no one
was surprised that the headmaster didn’t invite him to become a school prefect.

There was,
however, one position of authority that Keith did want to hold before he left,
even if none of his contemporaries gave him the slightest chance of achieving
it.

Keith hoped to.
become the editor of the St. Andy, the school magazine, like his father before
him. His only rival for the post was a boy from his own form called “Swotty”
Tomkins, who had been the deputy editor during the previous year and was looked
on by the headmaster as “a safe pair of hands.” Tomkins, who had already been
offered a place at Cambridge to read English, was considered to be odds-on
favorite by the sixty-three sixth formers who had – 83 a vote. But that was
before anyone realized how far Keith was willing to go to secure the position.

Shortly before
the election was due to take place, Keith discussed the problem with his father
as they took a walk around the family’s country property.

“Voters often
change their minds at the last moment,” his father told him, “and most of them
are susceptible to bribery or fear. That has always been my experience, both in
politics and business. I can’t see why it should be any different for the sixth
form at St. Andrew’s.” Sir Graham paused when they reached the top of the hill
that overlooked the property. “And never forget,” he continued, 11 you have an
advantage over most candidates in other elections.”

“What’s that?” asked
the seventeen-year-old as they strolled down the hill on their way back to the
house.

“With such a
tiny electorate, you know all the voters personally.”

‘That might be
an advantage if I were more popular than Tomkins,” said Keith, “but I’m not.”

“Few politicians
rely solely on popularity to get elected,” his father assured him. “If they
did, half the world’s leaders would be out of office.

No better
example than Churchill.”

Keith listened
intently to his father’s words as they walked back to the house.

When Keith
returned to St. Andrew’s, he had only ten days in which to carry out his
father’s recommendations before the election took place. He tried every form of
persuasion he could think of: tickets at the MCG, bottles of beer, illegal
packets of cigarettes. He even promised one voter a date with his elder sister.
But whenever he tried to calculate how many votes he had secured, he still
didn’t feel confident that he would have a majority. There was simply no way of
telling how anyone would cast his vote in a secret ballot. And Keith wasn’t
helped by the fact that the headmaster didn’t hesitate to make it clear who his
preferred candidate was. ‘

With forty-eight
hours to go before the ballot, Keith began to consider his father’s second
option-that of fear. But however long he lay awake at night pondering the idea,
he still couldn’t come up with anything feasible.

The next
afternoon he received a visit from Duncan Alexander, the newly appointed head
boy.

“I need a couple
of tickets for Victoria against South Australia at the MCG.”

“And what can I
expect in return?” asked Keith, looking up from his desk.

“My vote,”
replied the head boy. “Not to mention the influence I could bring to bear on
other voters.”

“In a secret
ballot?” replied Keith. “You must be joking.”

“Are you
suggesting that my word is not good enough for you?”

“Something like
that,” replied Keith.

“And what would
your attitude be if I could supply you with some dirt on Cyril Tomkins?”

“it would depend
on whether the dirt would stick,” said Keith.

“it will stick
long enough for him to have to withdraw from the contest.”

“if that’s the
case, I’ll not only supply you with two seats in the members’ stand, but will
personally introduce you to any member of the teams you want to meet. But
before I even consider parting with the tickets, I’ll need to know what you
have on Tomkins.”

“Not until I’ve
seen the tickets,” said Alexander.

“Are you
suggesting my word is not good enough for you?” Keith inquired with a grin.

“Something like
that,” replied Alexander.

Keith pulled
open the top drawer of his desk and removed a small tin box.

He placed the
smallest key on his chain in the lock and turned it. He lifted up the lid and
rummaged around, finally extracting two long, thin tickets, He held them up so
that Alexander could study them closely.

After a smile
had appeared on the head boy’s face, Keith said, “So what have you got on
Tomkins that’s so certain to make him scratch...”

“He’s a
homosexual,” said Alexander.

“Everyone knows
that,” said Keith.

“But what they
don’t know,” continued Alexander, “is that he came close to being expelled last
term.”

“So did I,” said
Keith, “so that’s hardly newsworthy.” He placed the two tickets back in the
tin.

“But not for being
caught in the bogs with young Julian Wells from the lower school,” he paused.
“And both of them with their trousers down.”

“If it was that
blatant, why wasn’t he expelled?”

“Because there
wasn’t enough proof. I’m told the master who discovered them opened the door a
moment too late.”

“Or a moment too
early?” suggested Keith.

“And I’m also
reliably informed that the headmaster felt it wasn’t the sort of publicity the
school needed right now. Especially as Tomkins has won a scholarship to
Cambridge.”

Keith’s smile
broadened as he put his hand back into the tin and removed one of the tickets.

“You promised me
both of them,” said Alexander.

“You’ll get the
other one tomorrow-if I win. That way I can feel fairly confident that your
cross will be placed in the right box.”

Alexander
grabbed the ticket and said, “I’ll be back tomorrow for the other one.”

When Alexander
closed the door behind him, Keith remained at his desk and began typing
furiously. He knocked out a couple of hundred words on the little Remington his
father had given him for Christmas. After he had completed his copy he checked
the text, made a few emendations, and then headed for the school’s printing
press to prepare a limited edition.

Fifty minutes
later he re-emerged, clutching a dummy front page hot off the press. He checked
his watch. Cyril Tomkins was one of those boys who could always be relied on to
be in his study between the hours of five and six, going over his prep. Today
was to prove no exception. Keith strolled down the corridor and knocked quietly
on his door.

“Come in,”
responded Tomkins.

The studious
pupil looked up from his desk as Keith entered the room. He was unable to hide
his surprise: Townsend had never visited him in the past. Before he could ask
what he wanted, Keith volunteered, 1 thought you might like to see the first
edition of the school magazine under my editorship.”

Tomkins pursed
his podgy lips. “I think you’ll find,” he said, “to adopt one of your more
overused expressions, that when it comes to the vote tomorrow, I shall win in a
canter.”

“Not if you’ve
already scratched, you won’t,” said Keith.

“And why should
I do that”‘ asked Tomkins, taking off his spectacles and cleaning them with the
end of his tie. “You certainly can’t bribe me, the way you’ve been trying to do
with the rest of the sixth.”

“True,” said
Keith. “But I still have a feeling you’ll want to withdraw from the contest
once you’ve read this.” He passed over the front page.