One Day In Budapest. A Thriller.

Chapter 5

Blending into the crowd of pedestrians, Morgan and Zoltan walked quickly along the boulevard of grand mansions and luxury boutiques in the center of Budapest. They passed the State Opera House, with its tiers of ornate sculpture, but Morgan was too tense to enjoy its beauty.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To see an archivist,” Zoltan replied, “but his location is less than pleasant. I’m sorry that you have to witness the darker side of Budapest on this trip.”

A few minutes later, they arrived at the House of Terror, 60 Andrássy Way, the address feared by Hungarians as the headquarters first of the Fascist Arrow Cross Party and then the ÁVH, the Communist Secret Police. A metal awning over the side of the top story had the word TERROR cut into it with the communist star, so that the sky could only be seen through the lettering. It was now a museum and Morgan thought it brave to acknowledge history with such a statement of fact. For even after the Fascist regime had ended, those of the Communist era had imprisoned, purged and murdered their own people. It seemed incredible that the terrors of the past had not ended with that generation and that now the rise of the right-wing witnessed it beginning again. It seemed impossible that the atrocities of the past could be repeated, yet here they were, seeking to stop violence from escalating as it had done all these years ago.

Pictures of men and women who had disappeared into the building, never to emerge, were displayed on the outside, haunting images of long-gone loved ones, with candles still burning and fresh flowers left in remembrance. Morgan glanced at the faces as she walked past, the stiff portraits in sepia representing brave individuals who had only wished for democracy. Many of them were taken in the wake of the 1956 revolution, when Hungarians had risen up against the Soviets, pulling down the statue of Stalin. The protestors had been quickly and brutally quashed by the Red Army, who killed 20,000 people in the process, arresting and imprisoning many more.

“Georg is a friend from the Army,” Zoltan said. “He works within the museum now, cataloging horrors from the past, but he’s also a skilled hacker and he knows the Budapest underground scene.”

Zoltan spoke to the museum security official, who waved them through the queue of people waiting to enter the macabre memorial. The main entrance hall led into a wide light well, reminiscent of a prison, with walkways around the levels and doors leading off into various departments. A Soviet tank was parked at the bottom of a wall that stretched three floors to the ceiling, covered in black and white photos of victims who had died here.

Morgan was struck by the grey atmosphere that seemed to suck the light out of the air, giving the space a negative energy. Pictures of myriad faces on the walls communicated hopelessness and a complete lack of power, mugshots with obscured features, the shapes in lines of dark black. These people didn’t look like the archetypes of revolution. A dumpy woman in a floral print dress. A boy with fine bone structure. A proud businessman in a suit.

As she examined them, Morgan found the features running together, until the lines of human faces became a repeating pattern on a wall of the past, de-individuation even in death. What must it have been like to be brought here, she thought, knowing that you would never leave?

“Come,” Zoltan said, walking through the main gallery towards the shop and administration area. He put his hand gently on Morgan’s arm, guiding her away from the vast display of the dead. “We must focus on the present, not the past.”

They entered an office suite behind the gift shop, its ceilings low and oppressive. The employees worked on the paperwork of a functioning museum these days, but these rooms had once processed the bureaucracy of intimidation and death. A tall, pale man stood to greet Zoltan, his pallid skin emphasized by his completely black clothing. His features were fine, his eyes a pale brown and Morgan noticed that he wore kohl around them, highlighting the lines in a subtle manner. She could imagine him in more bold makeup, a Goth by night, perhaps, and an academic by day. Morgan found herself intrigued by this man already.