Action Adventure / THIS FACE BEHIND I HIDE

ARPAD J. GERGELY
e-mail: ajgergely@juno.com

Winter Home: October – April       Summer Home: May – September
275 Winter Haven Lane                 1226 Schoharie Turnpike
Brownsville, Texas 78526             Catskill, New York 12414
Phone: 956.831.4569                     Phone: 518.945.1535

Dear Ms Einstein:

My historical novel, THIS FACE BEHIND I HIDE is already printed and circulated/sold 465 copies to date, all from the trunk of my car. I am fortunate enough to spend all the time it requires to market my creation. I have book signing events; I talk to senior groups and collage kids. My copies are out there from New York to Texas; from Hungary to Hawaii, but I am not in bookstores. I have left many copies in libraries in my travels, I am on two Hungarian web sites; I barter if it’s necessary, but I am NOT VISIBLE. I need to be published professionally.
The novel is available in its 222 page (65,000 words) paperback addition that is copyrighted and has its ISBN numbers. The entire work can also be transferred to you electronically. I am including here a Press Release that I have been sending to the media, and Chapter One as you requested.
Thank you for your time and support.
Sincerely,

Arpad J. Gergely
Brownsville, TX

The year is 1956. The people of a small nation in Central Europe are rebelling against their government to demand human rights; and for a short twelve days, the glimmer of hope for freedom in democracy blooms in Hungary. But, as the whole world watches in disbelief, Soviet tanks crush those who reject communism. Thousands die, the destruction is tremendous. In the aftermath, more then 200,000 Hungarians flee their country to escape retaliation.
Erika Molnar, a not yet sixteen Jewish schoolgirl is the main character in this novel. Orphaned during the 1944 Holocaust, she is raised as Christian by one of her father’s employees, now her ‘grandfather’. When he is killed in the revolution, she retaliates with a Molotov cocktail. Now she must escape from the turmoil and run for her life, but in the refugee camps of Austria she comes into another world that is just as dangerous for a young and naive teenager.
It is the story of Erika and Ken Williams, an American Red Cross worker; a romantic match of a misled communist with a moderate Catholic; the dreams of the deprived, combined with the materialist’s ideals. But it is also the story of a select group of suddenly ‘free’ men and women, who find a rare opportunity in their lives to change their names, ages, religions if they had any, and even marital status; to alter their past to suit their present, and could modify their future; to change everything but their faces.
The title of the book indicates all that:

I’m too young to be this old,
My name is different, I was told,
But until I find myself, Oh God..
THIS FACE BEHIND I HIDE

The author’s ambitions to become an entomologist were broken by the Hungarian Revolution in 1956. In his new world in America, the former college student managed to become a successful businessman and a journalist. Publishing several hundred business articles and news items in different medias, now he tries his skills in fiction. Married to the former Ilona Kazinczy Nagy, a descendant of a Hungarian linguistic fame, the couple has two children, Zsuzsanna Putnam, an accomplished artist and the creator of this book’s cover, and Tenzi Moscato, also an aspiring writer.
As one of book’s refugees, Gergely lived through the novel’s historical events. His fictional characters are guided through their lives with the help of his firsthand experiences.
Today, the Gergelys are Winter Texans in sunny Brownsville, but during the summers, they hide from the tropical heat in the Catskills of New York.
“In 1956 the entire free world reached out to be part of this unbelievable historic event,” Gergely comments. “With this book, perhaps I can reach the ones who are still with us and remember, and the ones who only learned about it from history books. I felt obligated to create this typed memorial,” he says. Presently, Gergely is talking about his story at book signing events at RV parks, schools, civic organization’s meetings and libraries. He offers to be a guest speaker at meetings of any interested organization in the area. “We are talking about present day issues with a historical background,” he says. His topic covers immigration, as he experienced it and how it relates to today; political oppression, where a whole nation’s life is forcefully altered by an outside power; about communism despised and hated, and yet, surging up lately closer and closer to our home.

CHAPTER ONE

A burst of gunfire woke her again as the bullets made scratchy sounds on the stucco of the outside wall behind her head. Erika had to learn to sleep during the past few days while the fighting went on at the Killian Barracks only a few blocks away. The massive, century old buildings in this part of Budapest soaked up most of the noise of the battle, but this last round of machinegun fire came from very close. She held her breath in death silence. It was still dark outside and the fluorescent face of the ancient alarm clock showed past six. In this late October morning the silence remained.
Only Erika and her grandfather occupied the small, two-room apartment above the butcher shop. She had the so-called combination room, the all around place used for dining, studying or just listening to the radio. Every night she opened up the old sofa bed near the only window in the room, while the old man slept in the kitchen on a wooden cot that also served as a sitting bench next to the table. Only breakfasts and lunches were eaten here, suppers were served in Erika’s room, so that no Radio Free Europe or Voice of America broadcasts would be missed.
The Molnar family owned the butcher shop downstairs for several generations, but when the communists took over in 1948, the new government ‘nationalized’ the store, and graciously offered old Molnar the opportunity to stay on as Manager, and the only employee.
Erika’s father broke ranks from the tradesmen in the family and went to military school. By the time Erika was two years old, he was fighting for the Axis powers on the Russian front of World War II. Last heard, his regiment retreated all the way back to Germany, and at the end of the war, he went to America. His wife never saw him again, nor did he learn about the loss of the family business. Erika’s mother died of tuberculosis in 1954.
Erika suddenly realized that the fighting had reached her neighborhood. Gunshots came from disturbing closeness. She kneeled up in her bed and peeked out the window. A pale streak of dawn illuminated the top of the buildings across the street, and at the far end, she could make out some commotion. Two large artillery guns blocked most of the roadway, and she could make out an armored truck behind the guns. The end of another truck, covered with dark, kaki canvas, was also visible in the shadow of a side street. Uniformed figures took cover behind their vehicles, their submachine guns in firing position.
‘Russkies,’ she whispered. Their long winter coats and black furry hats, the uniform of the Russian Tank Division, reminded her of the devil. She shivered, and imagined their horns protruding from their temples. She crutched down again and crawled to the kitchen. In the dim light of dawn, she has noticed that her grandfather made up his cot, and already went down to the shop.
Normally, Erika would get up at seven, make a pot of ‘poor men’s’ coffee, made out of dark roasted chicory and barley, before she would leave for school, and take some down to the store. The old man could not eat anything so early in the morning, but by the time she was ready with breakfast of buttered rolls and coffee, he was hungry too. She would stop next door at the small grocery store and pick up some fresh rolls. During the fighting she still made the coffee, but most of the stores were closed now and it had to be no milk in the coffee and only left over stale bread.
She put the pot on and checked the burner to see if there was still gas in the pipes, then washed and dressed quickly. Her hair did not need much attention; smartly she had it cut just before the revolt started. The boyish style added to her fifteen years, and she felt more mature with it.
Morning came in on full speed now, and when she dared to approach the window again, she could clearly see the Russian barricade. When the coffee was done, she wrapped all the leftover bread and a small piece of butter into a clean dishtowel. It was just enough for her grandfather, so she would say she already had hers. She held the hot mug in another towel and slowly headed to the back stairs.
The butcher shop had a back door opening from the hallway, but the large corrugated steel shield, that protected the front door and the store windows, opened only from the street side. The old man usually went around the building to raise the shield and unlock the glass door. Then, he would pull the metal curtain half way down again until he was ready to open up for business.
Erika turned into the narrow hallway and starred at the closed back door of the butcher shop. She could not understand why her grandfather did not leave it open since it was fairly warm in the hall and would also let some light into the shop. She placed the coffee mug and the bread on the floor near the wall and walked through the small courtyard. The main gate to the building was shot but already unlocked. She opened it slowly and turned towards the street corner. The area was deserted, and from this point, she could not see the Russians. They would be on the other side of the building, only meters away from the front of the store. She crept along the sidewalk, her fingers lightly touching the wall as she made the slow journey to the corner. Her heart was pounding in her throat, the black headed devils still dancing front of her eyes.
She could already hear some voices, the murmur of solders still arranging their barricade. She took a deep breath. In three more steps, she would be at the front of the store and in two more; there would be protection behind the door. She would be with her grandfather; she would never have to cross the front of the building again as long as the Russians are out there.
She turned the corner, and took a full view of the enemy. She was on this side of the truck that was flanked by the open top transport car with a machinegun mounted on the top of the cab. She estimated at least a dozen solders to be there, most standing around an open campfire in the middle of the pavement.
Her feet froze in their tracks and a long, noiseless scream filled her ears as she starred glassy eyed at the bundle at the bottom of the store door. She recognized the old winter coat and the worn gray hat that rolled away only a few meters from where she stood. The old man was lying on his back, his arms spread out, his fist still clenching a bundle of keys. His white working coat glared exposed in the morning light. A few streaks of gray hair on his balding head was massed up and slightly moved in the breeze. His open mouth was twisted from horror, his yellow face rested in a puddle of blood.
Within seconds she heard the shouts. She turned to see the machinegun spinning around on the top of the armored car, and she felt the mortar peeling off the brick wall and splashing against her face. The noise of the gun was still ringing in her ears as she was now running full speed down the sidewalk. Her heart pounding she heard laud laughter echoing through the empty street behind her. Once behind the solid doors of her building, she pressed against it with her full weight, then slowly she collapsed from exhaustion.
Erika was alone in the dark entrance hall. The street behind the oak gate was quiet. She did not know how much time elapsed since she had found her grandfather’s body. For she knew that he passed away, even if she never seen anyone dead before.
She did not dare to make a sound. Her tears were flowing freely down on her pale cheeks, but she did not care to wipe them. She rested against the door, setting on the cold concrete, trying not to think. But the horrible scene was hounding her, the dark fact that now she is all alone in the world. She often thought of her father in America, but even if he was alive, he was just as dead to her, for she knew, she would never see him.
Finally she got up and slowly wondered back to the apartment. She let the mug of coffee and the bread stay were she had left them, and she set on the kitchen cot in a daze. It must have been for hours before she begun to think again. She thought of the hundreds of freedom fighters who were dying on the streets, not here, but somewhere in a remote world, from where only the sounds of gunfire reached her. All this fighting was only a big commotion in her life, something that made her miss school, that’s all.
It wasn’t really her war, for she always had everything she ever needed. She was a good student, and learning about communism was just part of a student’s life, something you had to do to become a better Hungarian. She thought herself being the part of the working class, and she was happy that whatever life was before she was born, happened so long time ago. She was taught not to want that type of life back, and she could not understand how would some people want it so badly that they would even die for it.
Her grandfather was ready to take a gun, if she would have let him. Only her long talk about how much she needed him kept him home. She has heard his story about the family’s past, but even if she could believe it, she could never feel the importance of owning property, owning one’s business.
Suddenly it all came to her. She too was on the loser’s side now; she too had something to fight back for. She still did not know why her grandfather had to die; only the image of his pale face on the bloody sidewalk remained. Then, she knew, she must do something about it.
She did not dare to remove the body since the Russians were shooting at her before. But even if she could get him back into the house, she could hardly bury him anywhere. Then, a strange, but natural thought occurred to her. She would cremate him! Burn him right on the spot where he had died and save his ashes. She knew of a large container of kerosene in the basement. She could sneak out at night, under the cover of darkness, and she could soak the body with enough fluid. She did not think the Russians would put out the fire. All she had to do now is to wait for darkness.
It must have been way after lunchtime when she felt the first pang of hunger. Now that she had at least one important purpose in life, she knew she must nourish herself to keep her strength. She found her grandfather’s last breakfast and brought back the cold coffee from the hallway.
During the fighting she ventured out of the house only once. Her grandfather was out somewhere to scrounge up some coal for the stove, and she thought that she too should try to find some. The streets were almost deserted. Where normally hundreds of pedestrians would crowd the sidewalks, only few people were now. Everyone was moving fast, with the fear of knowing that they can be shot at from any window or any rooftop. While they were not seen, the enemy was everywhere. The uniformed Russians with their armored cars and heavy artillery where blocking the streets or patrolling with their tanks, but the remaining protectors of the falling communist regime, the armed AVO in civilian clothes, the Hungarian equivalent of the Russian KGB, were engaged in guerrilla warfare with the freedom fighters. Bloody skirmishes erupted suddenly here and there, shooting at anyone in sight.
Erika has reached Joseph Boulevard. The street was empty, only some abandoned streetcars were standing on their tracks in the middle of the road. The stores were closed; the late October air was damp and unseasonably warm. Then, she heard a tank approaching. It came down on the right side of the avenue from the direction of the Danube River, its chains clattering sparks on the worn cobblestones. Its tower was closed, and the thundering contraption was blindly making its way on the wide road. She retreated into a doorway.
She noticed two young boys, about her age or younger, appearing from a nearby building. As the tank passed by, suddenly the boys took after it. One quickly jumped up on the rear end of it, and climbed up to the tower. He leaned his back against it for support, while the other boy, sill running alongside, produced a green wine bottle from under his coat and carefully tossed it to his partner on the tank. In a matter of seconds, he clicked a cigarette lighter and lit the white rag that corked the bottle. He smashed the Molotov cocktail over the grill of the engine, and jumped off to the side. The gasoline went up in a roar. Flames engulfed the tank as it was speeding away. As the road bent in the distance, Erika could hear the machine crashing to the side of a building. By the time of the explosion, the young freedom fighters had disappeared into a side street.
The event took place only a few days ago, and it lingered sharply in her memory. She thought of her grandfather again, and the Russians at the corner of her street. A gruesome plan slowly developed in her mind. In a daze, she found a bottle of vinegar on the kitchen shelf and she slowly poured its contents down the drain. She knew of a motorcycle parked under the back stairs in their courtyard. She did not know to whom it belonged, and she did not care. She had abandoned her plans for the cremation and the kerosene now, she wanted more than one man’s funeral.
In the darkness, somehow, she found the motorcycle. She grabbed the handlebars and gently shook the machine. The precious liquid she was after sloshed around the fuel tank. All she needed now is a way to get it out. She had never paid attention to motorcycles before, but she knew that the gas from the tank must flow somehow down to the engine below. She found the valve and turned it. Nothing! A thin plastic tube connected the tank to the engine. She yanked out the lower end of the tube and turned the valve again. The clear liquid splashed all over the concrete floor. She quickly lifted up the vinegar bottle.
Erika waited in the dark until about nine. She did not think of anything else. She was left handed, and she practiced in her mind how she must throw and clear at least ten meters with a flaming bottle in order to reach the Russian guns. Shiver ran down her back as she had realized that she couldn’t light a match in the dark without being seen by the soldiers, but she clinched her teeth hard and determined to go through with it.
The main gate of her building opened noiselessly. Outside, there was not a soul in sight, only the precious darkness. She took her shoes off and put them in her coat pockets. The thin socks she was wearing quickly transferred the wet coolness of the sidewalk, but she did not feel it. Perspiration shined on her forehead as she clutched the bottle in her arm. The few meters seemed to take hours to cover, but she finally reached the corner. She could hear the Russians talking; the campfire threw their shadows across the pavement. She knew that at least some of them had their backs to her.
She lay down on the sidewalk, close as possible to the wall and began to crawl. Her enemy was busy eating late supper, and if there was a sentry there, she did not see him. She lifted the bottle in front of her, moving it a few centimeters at a time. Little by little, she had reached her grandfather’s body. She held her tears back as she searched his pockets. She had no idea where would she find his cigarette lighter, if he had it on him at all. She held her breath and nearly forgot to take another, for this pocket was empty. She pulled hard on the cold, stiff mass that once was the only living support she had in her life. The cold body jerked, and as she finally retrieved the lighter, it slumped back to the ground.
She slowly pulled her hand free and came up on her knees. The bottle of mass destruction rested on the ground between her legs. She changed to a crutching position to be able to stand up faster. She took a final glance at the distance behind her to judge escape time, then forward to look for a target. The gaping darkness of the open rear end of the truck appeared to be the closest.
There were no practice throws or even a second chance to light the bomb. The lighter must work at the first time, or she was doomed. Her hands shook as she rearranged the rag corking the bottle. It was bone dry. Her careful handling of the gasoline did not make enough movement for the liquid to reach to the top. She tilted the bottle and waited impatiently. She felt the cold wetness in her palm; she knew she was ready. She clutched the lighter between her fingers and struck the gear. A small flicker came to life, and then a bigger one as the rag caught on. She dropped the lighter and grabbed on to the bottle. With both hands grasping, she swung back, then forward with all her might.
She did not wait for the flames to engulf the back of the truck. She knew from the commotion that the solders discovered her, but by then, she was safely behind the corner of the building. The balls of her feet struck hard on the concrete, sending painful shocks to her brain with every step. She had reached the gate to her building when she heard the first explosion. Then another, and another. The sky was bright behind her and the tremor of a collapsing building shook the ground. She had hit an ammunition truck.
She slammed the heavy gate shut with all her weight. Her back pressed hard against it as she slowly began to catch her breath. Then, from the other end of the dark corridor, she saw the figure of a large man approaching.
“What’s happening out there?” the voice trembled.
She recognized the face. The Superintendent was visibly shaken. He took the responsibility of keeping the revolution out of his building very seriously. Looking at Erika, he felt the fighting coming right through the door.
“What are you doing out there in the dark?” he demanded to know. There were no more explosions outside; only the crackling of fire could be heard over the screams of the solders. It seemed there were survivors of the attack, and if there were, there were also witnesses.
The man leaned over her now. “You reek of gasoline,” he shouted, “you are one of them!”
She could not say a word. Slowly she passed around the man and began to walk the stairs. “They will get you for this,” she herd his voice echoing in the corridor, “I’ll make sure they do.” She did know when she left her building that he was right. Now she was one of them, who ever they were. She also felt relieved; she did her part as expertly as she could. What started out as a nomadic, tribal funeral, turned out to be a revolutionary attack on the enemy. What will happen with the bodies, the body of her grandfather, is now behind her capabilities. Her job was done now, and with that, for Erika Molnar, the Hungarian revolution of 1956 ended. She set against the wall on the old cot in her kitchen waiting for the consequences of her deed. That is how Frank found her.