PROLOGUE

Budapest, November 1944

Only the lucky were buried.

Miklos Farkas stepped over the woman’s frozen corpse and opened her suitcase, still held tight in her hand. It was empty. He walked quickly along Karoly Boulevard, his thin coat pulled around him. The survival instinct had long replaced any vestigial shame at foraging among the dead. The pavement was coated with ice and the snow fell hard, the wind slashing at his face. He smelt smoke and cordite, tasted the brick dust of pulverised apartment blocks. A dead horse lay splayed across the road. The ghetto gate at Dohany Street was a hundred yards behind him. He was seven minutes walk from his destination, the SS headquarters at the Hotel Savoy.

The gunmen stepped out of the darkness, smiling greedily when they saw Miklos. There were two: one was tall and thin, with a pointed nose and droopy moustache. A silvermezuzah, the door ornament on a Jewish house, was pinned to his jacket. The other was short and red-faced, hopping nervously from foot to foot. They wore army caps and greatcoats, their armbands emblazoned with a four pointed cross. Their boots were wrapped in layers of yellow parchment, the ink of the Hebrew letters running into the snow.

The tall gunman slammed his rifle into Miklos’ stomach. He gasped and staggered forward, stumbling on the icy pavement. He righted himself and raised his right hand, his heart pounding. “Courage, brother,” he said, using the Arrow Cross greeting. “I didn’t see you there.” He handed him his documents, willing his hands not to shake.

The short man walked around Miklos. He looked him up and down, prodding him with his pistol. “Brother? I don’t think so. Looks like a Jew to me,” he exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, like an excited schoolboy.

“Me? A Jew? You’re joking. If anyone looks like a Jew, I think it’s you. Shoot me if you want,” said Miklos scornfully. He spat on the ground. “But you’ll have the SS to answer to.”

“The SS?” sneered the tall gunman. “We’ll see about that. This is Hungary, not Germany.” He jammed the rifle barrel under Miklos’ chin, pushing upwards into the soft flesh around his throat. Miklos grunted in pain as his head was forced back.

“Head back, up, up, that’s good. Papers here say you are Miklos Kovacs. One point eighty-five metres tall, light brown hair, blue eyes,” he continued, peering at Miklos. He glanced down at the documents. “Special dispensation from German staff headquarters to be out after curfew because of yourvaluable war-work at the Hotel Savoy. Nice. But not nice enough, Miklos Kuhn,” he said, pushing the rifle barrel harder.

“My name is Miklos Kovacs. You can see there, it’s clearly written,” Miklos said, trying to swallow as the barrel pressed into his throat.

“Kuhn, Cohen, whatever. Let’s see who you really are. Say your prayers, Kuhn-Cohen,” he said, taking away the rifle barrel. For the Germans, killing Jews was business. For the Arrow Cross, their Hungarian Nazi allies, it was a pleasure, one ever more frenzied as the Russians steadily advanced.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven,” Miklos coughed, a loose, hacking