The Fourth Estate

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 Jewboy 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. Cerani 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. Ceranis 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 candles 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 smil

ed 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.

6.

Daily Mail

8 February 1945

YALTA: 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 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, “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.

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