One Day In Budapest. A Thriller.

Chapter 5

Zoltan spoke a few words in Hungarian, while Georg’s eyes rested on her with a questioning gaze. Morgan met his eyes. After a moment, Georg nodded and Zoltan beckoned her forward.

Georg extended his hand and Morgan shook it. His hand was cold and firm, testing her grip as if somehow he could discern through her skin whether she was trustworthy.

“I’m sorry that you couldn’t have come at a better time,” Georg said, his voice deeper than Morgan had expected, his English slightly accented. “We are fiercely proud of our Hungary, but sometimes she bares her teeth.”

“I want to help however I can,” Morgan said. Georg nodded and let her hand drop. He looked around at the other workers in the office and nodded to Zoltan.

“Perhaps I can give you a small tour so that you can fully appreciate this part of our history,” he said. “Follow me.”

They walked out of the office and down a short corridor, stepping past a line of tourists to claim the next lift. As the doors closed behind them, Georg explained.

“There’s another room downstairs that will be more private for our discussions. It’s not a nice place to work, the shadows of history are dense down here, but we need privacy for what we seek.”

The lift moved slowly down into the depths of the complex. A short video played, featuring an old man who had once cleaned the torture and execution chambers. He described death by garroting, trapping lift occupants into a forceful confrontation with the past. Despite the things she had seen, his matter of fact tone made Morgan feel slightly queasy and claustrophobic as they descended.

“All of this is portrayed as history,” Zoltan said. “But many survivors are still alive, and plenty of perpetrators have been left unpunished. The scars of this terror are still raw and the wounds easily reopened.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I think that our country is so steeped in blood that the ground has become viscous with it, and one wrong step will suck us all into the maw of the earth.”

Georg chuckled. “So poetic, my friend.”

Morgan expected Zoltan to be offended at the sarcastic tone, but he merely smiled and shook his head.

“Georg here is a gamer and hacker, and he associates with those who stand for anarchy and revolution.”

“What he means is that I know the truth,” Georg replied, his kohl-rimmed eyes suddenly serious. “I hack to remain anti-establishment, to keep an eye on those in power and to hold them to account. I don’t believe in the innate goodness of mankind, so I seek to ensure that there are balances in place to prevent the rise of such sickness again.”

“Why do you work here, then?” Morgan asked. “Surely this place represents everything that you hate?”

Georg nodded. “True, but I would have been one of the first to be thrown to these butchers, just for being different. Every day I confront the bullies of the past and I claim my right to be who I am. As you see, there are still people who want to return to the past, slam people like me and Zoltan into cells and leave us to rot.” The lift jerked to a halt. “Come, I will show you why working down here keeps me motivated.”

The lift opened into the dungeon of the museum and Morgan followed Georg into the stone corridors as Zoltan trailed behind.

“These are where the prisoners were kept,” Georg pointed left and right as they walked indicating where thick doors opened onto cramped cells. Each contained only a dirty wooden pallet and pictures of faces on the walls. Morgan peered into one and saw scratches in the plaster, the marks of desperation an attempt to cling to life for just a little longer. She closed her eyes, the echoes of torture reverberating in her mind. For a moment she felt utterly bereft, with a realization that humanity had always tortured and murdered and always would. Was there was no stopping that darkness, despite how many fought against it?