few stand-by lies in reserve.
Mentally, he adjusted the tones of denial and set the level of horrified
innocence he wanted to draw on at key junctures.
They were interrogated separately. Pataki was allowed to
sit, and this he did as respectfully and helpfully as humanely possible. His
interrogator was wearing the new blue-insignia uniform of the AVO and he
started off the session with: ‘Of course, we know all about you, Pataki.’
Pataki paid no heed to the contemptuous tone and smiled steadily, working on
the theory that smiling might reduce the chances of getting hit. The
interrogator looked at his life story with conspicuous disgust. He put it down
with what Pataki as a consummate dissimulator instantly spotted as an
artificial hiatus; he had the feeling that his interrogator wanted to go home.
It was nine o’ clock after all. ‘Fuchs has confessed everything about the
weapons. He told us you wanted to be his assistant in organising an armed
struggle… ‘No,’ said Pataki as uncontradictorily as possible, ‘there aren’t any
weapons, it’s…’ ‘What’s this then?’ asked the interrogator, slapping a German
sub-machine gun on the table. He counted the beats and said: ‘An oversized and
extremely impractical toothpick? Part of a lawnmower perhaps?’
Pataki found himself, for the first time in his life, out of
stock of any suitable fabrications. Were they going to frame him? Whatever was
going on he realised he wasn’t going to get any of the good lines. ‘But as I
said,’ continued the interrogator, ‘Fuchs has turned on his mouth. He explained
that you didn’t know anything, that he was just bringing you in to help
distribute. We’ve nipped this one in the bud, which is as well for you.’ Here
it is, thought Pataki seeing it coming, he wants to go home. ‘We know all about
you. That’s our job. But you’re young. We’re going to overlook this mistake
though it’s a weighty offence. We’re going to give you another chance.’
Whatever you say, thought Pataki. ‘You’re in the scouts, aren’t you?’ It wasn’t
a question.
They didn’t give him a lift back home. Andrássy út, bleak
and black as it was, looked tremendously beautiful to Pataki. He inhaled a
generous amount of night air. A poem about freedom was coming on, given his new
qualifications in valuing it. The prop with the gun had been a little crude, he
judged, but he had been really afraid they were going to stitch him up. But if
they deemed waving a gun necessary to get his co-operation, that was their
business.
Ladányi was then in charge of the scout troop. The other
Jesuits took part, but it was Ladányi’s principal duty, fitting enough, as he
had worked his way up through the ranks. He looked the part of the Jesuit, tall
with sober eyes that could gatecrash your thoughts. Pataki had to remind
himself that although Ladányi was dressed in black, he was still on probation;
there was some ridiculously long apprenticeship for the Society of Jesus,
advanced altar-kissing and so on.
‘I know you may find this hard to believe …’ Pataki began.
‘Let me guess: the AVO want you to spy on the troop,’
Ladányi volunteered.
‘Er … yes, frankly. How did you know?’
‘Someone would have to do it. Your fondness for getting into
trouble makes you the obvious choice. May I suggest copying out the troop’s
newsletter? It’ll save you a lot of time. Just give a little more space to any
particularly noteworthy knots, any really intriguing bonfires. Those people are
very keen on paperwork. Anything else?’
Pataki met Fuchs on the way to school a week later, the
first time he had seen him since their joint incarceration. Fuchs seemed
terribly frightened and upset to see him. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were joking
about those guns: that’s why I took them to the caverns; but I think I managed
to convince them it was me who found them. I’m sorry.’
Pataki and Fuchs never talked about it again. They never really
Mentally, he adjusted the tones of denial and set the level of horrified
innocence he wanted to draw on at key junctures.
They were interrogated separately. Pataki was allowed to
sit, and this he did as respectfully and helpfully as humanely possible. His
interrogator was wearing the new blue-insignia uniform of the AVO and he
started off the session with: ‘Of course, we know all about you, Pataki.’
Pataki paid no heed to the contemptuous tone and smiled steadily, working on
the theory that smiling might reduce the chances of getting hit. The
interrogator looked at his life story with conspicuous disgust. He put it down
with what Pataki as a consummate dissimulator instantly spotted as an
artificial hiatus; he had the feeling that his interrogator wanted to go home.
It was nine o’ clock after all. ‘Fuchs has confessed everything about the
weapons. He told us you wanted to be his assistant in organising an armed
struggle… ‘No,’ said Pataki as uncontradictorily as possible, ‘there aren’t any
weapons, it’s…’ ‘What’s this then?’ asked the interrogator, slapping a German
sub-machine gun on the table. He counted the beats and said: ‘An oversized and
extremely impractical toothpick? Part of a lawnmower perhaps?’
Pataki found himself, for the first time in his life, out of
stock of any suitable fabrications. Were they going to frame him? Whatever was
going on he realised he wasn’t going to get any of the good lines. ‘But as I
said,’ continued the interrogator, ‘Fuchs has turned on his mouth. He explained
that you didn’t know anything, that he was just bringing you in to help
distribute. We’ve nipped this one in the bud, which is as well for you.’ Here
it is, thought Pataki seeing it coming, he wants to go home. ‘We know all about
you. That’s our job. But you’re young. We’re going to overlook this mistake
though it’s a weighty offence. We’re going to give you another chance.’
Whatever you say, thought Pataki. ‘You’re in the scouts, aren’t you?’ It wasn’t
a question.
They didn’t give him a lift back home. Andrássy út, bleak
and black as it was, looked tremendously beautiful to Pataki. He inhaled a
generous amount of night air. A poem about freedom was coming on, given his new
qualifications in valuing it. The prop with the gun had been a little crude, he
judged, but he had been really afraid they were going to stitch him up. But if
they deemed waving a gun necessary to get his co-operation, that was their
business.
Ladányi was then in charge of the scout troop. The other
Jesuits took part, but it was Ladányi’s principal duty, fitting enough, as he
had worked his way up through the ranks. He looked the part of the Jesuit, tall
with sober eyes that could gatecrash your thoughts. Pataki had to remind
himself that although Ladányi was dressed in black, he was still on probation;
there was some ridiculously long apprenticeship for the Society of Jesus,
advanced altar-kissing and so on.
‘I know you may find this hard to believe …’ Pataki began.
‘Let me guess: the AVO want you to spy on the troop,’
Ladányi volunteered.
‘Er … yes, frankly. How did you know?’
‘Someone would have to do it. Your fondness for getting into
trouble makes you the obvious choice. May I suggest copying out the troop’s
newsletter? It’ll save you a lot of time. Just give a little more space to any
particularly noteworthy knots, any really intriguing bonfires. Those people are
very keen on paperwork. Anything else?’
Pataki met Fuchs on the way to school a week later, the
first time he had seen him since their joint incarceration. Fuchs seemed
terribly frightened and upset to see him. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were joking
about those guns: that’s why I took them to the caverns; but I think I managed
to convince them it was me who found them. I’m sorry.’
Pataki and Fuchs never talked about it again. They never really
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