One Day In Budapest Read Free

tourists to leave since the synagogue was closing for the day.  
    “Has something happened?” Morgan asked. “The lady in the cafe across the road said something about a murder.”  
    Anna turned and indicated that Morgan should follow her into the shelter of the museum staircase. There was an undercurrent of tension as Anna glanced behind her, out towards the main street. Ilona ran in front of them up the stairs, her little footsteps echoing in the marble hallway.  
    As they followed her, Anna explained.  
    “The news has been on the radio in the last hour. The custodian priest of St Stephen’s Basilica was brutally murdered there this morning, and not only that, but the Holy Hand of St Istvan, the symbol of the Hungarian nation, has been stolen. The shrine has been smashed and the relic taken.”  
    “But why close the synagogue? What has that to do with the Jewish community?” Morgan asked.  
    “There was a star of David painted in the priest’s blood on the wall of the chapel.” Anna’s eyes were hollow as she spoke, as if she saw back into the ashes of the Ghetto. “The Hebrew word nekama , meaning revenge, was scrawled next to it.”
    Morgan frowned. “But surely that’s not enough for people to blame the Jewish population before a proper investigation can be carried out?”
    “It could be enough to spark the anti-Semitic violence that constantly simmers beneath this city,” Anna said. “But there’s nothing we can do, and right now I’d rather focus on the joy of the return. The items you bring are finally back where they belong, even though there is no one left of the family they were taken from. Come.”  
    She walked on through the gallery and Morgan followed, their footsteps echoing in the deserted space. The museum was a small collection of religious relics, mainly ritual items for the Shabbat. Morgan glanced into one case at an ornate silver Torah crown, placed on top of the scroll to symbolize its royalty and prestige. She paused to look in at the matching rimmonim , or decorative finials, that were etched with tiny pomegranates, reminiscent of the ruby fruit carved into the pillars of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem. There were also a number of Kiddush cups, embossed with petals and tiny images of the tablets of the Law, used to drink the cup of wine on Shabbat.  
    “They’re beautiful,” Morgan said to Anna, feeling a thrill of recognition at the objects, for they were similar to the items that her father had taught her about, reciting scripture as the nights drew in. He would throw his prayer shawl around his shoulders and draw her under it, so that she could settle into the crook of his arm as the Hebrew words thrummed inside her, resonating in his deep voice. She had watched him read from the Torah in the synagogue, using a similar yad to this one, the tiny hand with pointed finger tracing the words on the page so that the sacred text was never touched. She couldn’t help but smile at the memory.  
    “That set was saved and kept hidden in the basement of one of the houses designated as Swedish territory in 1944,” Anna commented. Seeing the question in Morgan’s gaze, she explained further. “The Swedish diplomat and architect Raoul Wallenberg rescued tens of thousands of Hungarian Jews when he was Sweden’s special envoy in Budapest. He issued protective passports and sheltered Jews in buildings he claimed as Swedish.”  
    “Did he survive the war?” Morgan asked.  
    Anna shook her head. “He was detained by the Soviets during the Siege of Budapest in 1945 and is thought to have died at the Moscow Lubyanka at the hands of the Secret Police. He is honored as one of the Righteous Among the Nations, a non-Jew who gave everything for the persecuted Jewish people. We honor him here within the synagogue grounds with the Wallenberg Holocaust Memorial. I’ll show you once we’ve secured these items.”  
    Morgan looked into another display case nearby, containing a