The Brothers From Budapest

By Franceska Molnar

Reminiscent of Annie Proulx's Accordion Crimes, this impressive literary debut is historic crime fiction at its absolute finest. An intriguing and evocative read, told with a third-person sweeping narrative that is both edgy and wise, The Brothers From Budapest by composer and award-winning writer Franceska Molnar delivers a powerful portrait of the Depression Era and the complicated landscapes of a life of crime and brotherhood. In equal measures heartbreaking, tender and sincere, this compelling narrative reveals the challenges of immigrants in the first half of the twentieth century and exposes how thin blood ties can be. While the old adage that crime never pays might not ring completely true, it is certain that all crime has its cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Franceska Molnar
• Release date: Jun 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466093881

Franceska Molnar

Franceska Molnar is a composer and award-winning writer. Two of her songs, "I'm American" and "Endeavour's Noble Crew" are selling at Amazon's MP3 Music Store. The wife of a geologist, she has lived in various parts of the country and has traveled throughout Europe. The mother of two, she and her husband currently reside in central California.

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The Brothers From Budapest

by Franceska Molnar

Copyright © 2007, 2011 Franceska Molnar

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Table of Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

VIX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

CHAPTER I

Chicago, Illinois. August, 1929. Few, if any, whether in Chicago, Washington, D.C., or on Wall Street, anticipated Black Tuesday, the beginning of The Great Depression, but it was only weeks away. By the time it was over, if nothing else, living through its hardships turned one into a practical-minded, frugal survivor. Neither food nor money would ever be wasted again by those who had to do without. And after nearly ten years of subjection, Volstead’s National Prohibition Act proved to be overwhelmingly unpopular and much too expensive to enforce in this now notorious time of gangsterism.

One would have thought if observing that young man elegantly dressed in tuxedo and carrying a violin case as he earnestly hurried along the sidewalk passing exclusive shops on Lake Shore Drive that he was a musician. Perhaps he was on his way to an engagement. Yes. Anyone would assume he was. Clean-cut, he appeared refined and scholarly. Well versed in marvelous classical music, no doubt. Wherever he was going, he’d more than likely arrive on time, arrange his sheet music, fine tune his instrument, then he and the others in the orchestra would play, the show would go on, and the crowd would dance into the wee hours of that Saturday night.

He paused just long enough to glance at his watch in front of a brightly-lit café, its red neon sign flashing the words, LATE SNACKS FOR INSOMNIACS, then he rounded the corner disappearing into the shadows of the night as noise from the speeding cars of the EL, the circuit of elevated trains defining The Loop or boundary of the downtown area some blocks away, pierced the night.

Meanwhile, Eddie did exactly as he agreed. At the precise moment, he slipped away from his job waiting tables at THE GOLDEN EAGLE, and he walked, unseen, to the back of the building, unlocked the heavily-secured metal door leading to the alley, then he went back to work.

Inside the popular, well-known nightclub, amidst avant-garde interior design and plush furnishings, wealthy clientele partied the night away in their fancy clothes. As the band played and people danced, as food was served and the booze flowed freely, he opened that heavy metal door and quietly let himself in.

Hiding inside a nearby broom closet, which was exactly where Eddie said it was located, he waited for the knock on the door indicating it was almost closing time and the boss was in his office counting the bulk of the money.

Eddie had carefully briefed him many times before about the setup, the floor plan, the entire layout of the building. He told him where to go, where not to go, and what to avoid on this inside job. Although Eddie had absolutely nothing to do with the nightclub’s management, he inadvertently became familiar with the businesses’ operation. He knew that especially on Friday and Saturday nights, the place raked in a considerable amount of money. On Monday morning, both days’ deposits were taken to the bank. More importantly, Eddie memorized the boss’s daily routine. His boss was a creature of habit, unvarying in his daily tasks. But Eddie strictly warned, Whatever you do, do not speak more than a few words. The fewer, the better. Otherwise, they might connect you with me.

For days, John practiced those words, over and over again, until he felt reasonably sure he could say them without sounding like a foreigner or bringing suspicion upon or being connected with Eddie, his distinctly broken-English-speaking brother.

Get down on the floor! Keep quiet or I will kill you! The words the and will proved to be the most difficult for him to say without a noticeable accent.

As he anxiously awaited Eddie’s cue in the dark of that musty, stuffy closet, he worried he would be discovered. And rightfully so!

God damn dust, he thought to himself as he pressed on his nose with his hand, trying his best to avoid sneezing. Allergenic mold and mildew, which accumulated over time in that small, dirty storage room, was tickling his nose just when the sound of people could be heard approaching, lingering a while, then walking away in the distance. Finally! The signal! Eddie’s part in this was over.

Opening the closet door, John quickly walked several yards to the stairwell. Climbing the stairs, he was completely confident, from his trusted source of information, that the door to the office would be unlocked. According to Eddie, the door was always left unlocked in case employees needed to speak to or summon the manager.

Calmly unbuttoning the buttons of his double-breasted jacket, he reached for the revolver nestled snugly at his waist between his shirt and trousers. The revolver couldn’t easily be detected there, ideally concealed at his mid-section, strategically stowed as close to both hands as possible, for spur-of-the-moment retrieval.

Boldly intruding, he opened the door, stepped into the dimly-lit, cigarette smoke-filled room, and kicked the door shut behind him. Aiming his gun with both hands, he pointed the barrel directly at the forehead of the portly figure before him while eyeing the stacks of hard cash. Ones, fives, tens and twenties were piled high on the desk between them.

This is a stickup! Hand over the money!

Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! the manager cried loudly, impulsively rising, knocking his chair on its side as he backed away from his desk, voluntarily throwing his hands high into the air. Staring into the barrel of a loaded revolver, six cartridges in its chamber, made him crazy with fear. He’d gladly cooperate rather than risk getting shot in the head and blown away with parts of his head splattering walls and flooring of that cluttered, secluded room.

Worried someone below would hear the manager shouting hysterically, the gunman knew he had to shut the man up fast—one way or the other.

Shut up, God damn you! Get down on the floor right now! Don’t say another word or move, or I will kill you!

His demeanor was terrifying. His words: ultra radical. No doubt about it. This man, whoever he was, meant serious business.

Cold and calculating with nerves of steel, the gunman definitely had his wits about him. Physically and mentally, he had prepared himself to encounter anything and everything. Earlier that day, he purposely avoided consuming anything with alcohol in it knowing alcohol gives a false sense of nerve, dulling one’s senses. After all, the man on the floor before him could unexpectedly do anything. He might suddenly pull out a gun from his desk or pant pocket, for example, or he could try to fight, or even attempt to bolt down the stairwell.

But it would have been foolish, indeed, for the manager to stall, to defy, to read this dangerous gunman wrong and resist, or to hesitate doing whatever this potentially lethal ruffian demanded, for there was a certain something about him—an unmistakable hardened demeanor—that did not belie this type of individual. It would not be wise for the manager to risk his life messing with this man.

In his extreme anxiety lying face down on the floor, the manager became incontinent. Shaking violently from fear, his bowels and bladder evacuated involuntarily. The ordeal was too much for him. Sweating profusely, he stayed put there on the floor.

In a matter of seconds, the gunman scooped up all the money, threw it into the violin case, and beat it unseen down the stairwell, out the back door, into the alley, onto the street, and into the night knowing no one would be the slightest bit suspicious of a musician toting his instrument. But what about all the coins left behind there on the desk? Why didn’t he take them, too?

He intentionally left them behind. Loose change sliding and jingling around in a violin case would attract attention. Why chance having strangers zeroing in on a man carrying a violin case so heavily laden it obviously had more in it than a violin?

The brothers pulled off the perfect crime. What was the take? Over six-hundred dollars which was a fair amount of cash in 1929 when the average income was about twenty dollars a week, and a loaf of bread, or a bottle of milk cost a dime. With five dollars, you could buy quite a few groceries back then. Nevertheless, this was proof, as far as the brothers were concerned, that what they did was worthwhile. Crime pays.

Perhaps it was their consummate planning. Everything was figured out way beforehand. Certainly a bit of psychology was involved such as the kind poker-faced cardsharps use in card games where bluff actually works.

The manager had to be bluffed into believing he better not resist, that he had to do exactly as told and stay down on the floor keeping quiet, or he would die there. But one thing was sure. Other than discussing the heist with each other, neither brother ever made the mistake of bragging to others about what they were about to do or what they had done. Bragging practically ensures you will be caught. It’s just a matter of time. Sooner or later, someone somewhere always talks. You can bet your life on it. A jilted girlfriend wanting to get even, a disgruntled friend or a jealous relative will ultimately turn you in. No. The brothers were absolutely meticulous about that. Sure. There’s always the strong urge to confide in someone boasting, Hey! Look what I pulled off, and I didn’t get caught! telling them, in effect, you beat the system. But admitting something like that is invariably the beginning of the end. You’re, in effect, outsmarting yourself. That very thing—talking about what you did, admitting something like that to anyone—Damn it. That’s dumb. Once you’ve done that, you’ve fixed yourself good. No matter how much you would like to tell someone or brag, you can’t. You have to keep secrets like that to yourself for as long as you live, and take them with you to your grave.

Another common mistake is detailing plans to accomplices or others before the crime. Nine times out of ten, the authorities will be lying in wait for them there at the scene, because of someone’s slip of the tongue or someone else wanting to do them in. The only way to avoid this, if there is a question of absolute confidentiality, is by not divulging exact details to cohorts until the time the crime actually is carried out. One can’t spill what one doesn’t know. Of course, being prepared for any and every scenario or eventuality, should something go wrong, is extremely important, too.

Front-page Chicago Tribune newspaper headlines the following day read: Lone Gunman Robs Club. Reporters reported what details they could scrape together. Other than that, the case was still under investigation.

Police suspected it was an inside job. Many successful crimes are. But they had difficulty determining who might have cooperated with whoever committed the crime, for there was no evidence left behind and few leads. Then again, law enforcement at that point in time was somewhat lacking in technology and general expertise. It was impossible to make an arrest. Only one person had seen the gunman, and that was the manager. Was the manager trustworthy? Had he taken then hid the money himself, fabricating the entire story? He’d have to be thoroughly checked out, too.

To avoid suspicion, Eddie continued waiting tables at the nightclub for what the brothers considered to be a reasonable length of time. Then he quit for what would seem to those he worked with a normal pursuit, but to the reader, a rather incongruous goal. He decided to enroll in school.

To this very day, the crime committed at THE GOLDEN EAGLE has never been solved.

Just who are these men? Where did they come from? And what would the story of their complex lives reveal?

• • •

CHAPTER II

Delving into the past, he was born July 12, 1899 in the small, quiet Hungarian town of Fulek to the daughter of a substantial landowner and an officer in the army—a hussar who fought battles mounted atop a spirited charger, sharpened saber in hand.

They named their robust infant son, Janos, or translated into English, John. In the ensuing years, four other children were born in addition to their firstborn, Rose; a son that died at birth; another son named Edward; and a girl, Elizabeth. Julianna, their mother, was an excellent cook, and the children thrived on the rich, hearty Hungarian foods dating from the days Magyar tribes migrated across the Hungarian Plain.

As the years passed and the children grew, they began to display an interest in the arts. Perhaps they were influenced by Hungarian music and the violent tempo changes of a czardas, or the traveling repertory company melodramas in the town’s playhouse, or by the pageantry of marionettes at puppet shows held in the open in the town’s square where free health lectures for the social well-being of the townspeople were provided. Surely the children sat spellbound at one time or another during their youth listening to mythical lore such as the ancient fable about a fierce creature, The Basilisk, King of Serpents.

Bearing a white mark, like a star-shaped crown on its head, it carried its body erect, hissing flames, daring anything to come near. By and by, a bold knight of Atilla’s army went on a journey seeking adventure. During his travels, he came to the Province of Transylvania. While his horse was ambling across a field, the knight saw a dreaded basilisk in the distance. Digging his spurs into his steed and riding at full gallop, he pierced the serpent with his lance before the serpent could defend itself. But the poison from the basilisk was so potent that, according to the folktale, it flowed along the shaft of the lance, immediately killing both the knight and the stallion upon which he sat. Thereafter, for centuries, certain superstitious Europeans kept images of the basilisk in their possession which brought inexplicable good luck, supreme power, wealth and happiness to them.

After school, the children’s days were filled with hour after hour of studying voice, piano, and drama in which John excelled. And in that sports-minded nation, where abundant sports facilities provided opportunities for the boys to while away the hours making their bodies strong, they swam in competitions and sharpened skills of defense and attack by learning boxing and fencing—Hungary’s national sport.

Particularly fond of being photographed, John would sit poised, head held high, unsmiling yet proud in his stylish attire, invariably holding a small twig or similar prop to captivate interest, while feeling self-confident of who I am and what I am with an air of self-presence acquired from a combination of pampering, affluence, and solid family background.

It was about this time, when John was eleven years old and attending high school in Salgotarjan, that certain ideas and behavioral tendencies seated themselves deep within his soul which, when once noticed by his mother, may have made a lasting impression upon him forever. From this day forward, he could either walk the straight and narrow the rest of his life, or he could lean toward questionable activities which, one way or another, eventually would catch up with him. How someone turns out, for the most part, is directly influenced by one or both parents.

At school, the majority of John’s friends were Jewish boys who sharpened their wits and honed their wise-guy skills by practicing on each other. They were glib with ready, imaginative answers. They were mentally precocious, clever and mischievous. So when one of them came to John asking him if he would grant him a favor by going into a store to change a one-hundred forint bill into smaller denominations, John immediately suspected the money was stolen. He knew there was no way his friend could legitimately have had that amount of money.

Okay! John said with indifference, not letting on as to what he suspected while grabbing the money from his friend’s hand. Give it to me.

As the young man waited out of sight down the street, John dashed into the store. Within minutes, he returned.

The storekeeper took the money away from me! John complained, acting worried and looking scared. He said I must have stolen it, and he wouldn’t give it back! He told me to go get my father and bring him here. Let’s get out of here before we get into trouble!

Both boys ran as fast as they could, scattering in different directions. Within a short period of time, John arrived home. With long, confident strides, he strolled into the kitchen finding his mother standing at a hot stove, cooking. Reaching under his cap, while deep down hoping for a look of approval and a gesture of affection, he removed the money and handed it with outstretched arm to his beloved mother. Temptation had proved to be stronger than his conscience.

Here, Mother. This is for you.

Setting the bowl and wooden spoon down, then turning away from the hot stove, Julianna wiped her hands on her apron. There was a look of great surprise on her face and much happiness. She eagerly took the money and began hugging, kissing, and praising her precious son.

You Hungarian, you! she said, smiling, lovingly stroking his head. You are such a good boy, Johnnie, she said, affectionately, hugging and kissing him again and again. I love you sooo much!

It was very important to John that he please his mother and make her happy. Giving her something of material value was to become a habit which he would repeat over and over many times. So from that day forward, whenever the lad got hold of any money, he gave it to his mother. It gave him much more pleasure giving it to her than spending it on himself. That’s just the way he was with his mother—generous and giving. Her look of affection meant everything to him. And she loved him so. The mechanisms that tie mother to son were strong—much stronger than father to son.

But where did you get this from? she sweetly asked.

He explained. She giggled with delight at his newly-concocted ingenuity, yet this was the time she could have set him straight.

Oh, you naughty boy, she commented, still smiling and squeezing him tightly, giving him mixed signals.

When he explained what he had done, she found it difficult, as mothers sometimes do, to spank, to discipline, to scold, or jeopardize their compatibility. Being the loving, tolerant mother she was, she was only too glad to be forgiving of weaknesses, tenderly ignoring John’s faults, for he was little more than a child not knowing what he does. The problem of how to respond and immediately deal with this dilemma was a challenge for her. Rather than tell John’s father, she chose, instead, to ignore what he did this time. But when a mother does not disapprove, she most likely approves, a child will conclude. But the real reason was, because she was soft—perhaps too soft and indulgent to a fault when it came to her children. But when a parent is negligent in certain duties like taking charge of molding a child’s principles of right and wrong, bad conduct usually repeats itself with increased facility of performance and can manifest itself sometimes at the most inopportune times.

CHAPTER III

The assassination of Austria’s Crown Prince Ferdinand and his wife, the Duchess of Hohenberg, as they visited at Sarajevo June 28, 1914 brought devastating consequences. Their murders would spark The Great War or World War I.

Once Austria declared war, Russia mobilized. Germany then declared war on Russia. France, Russia’s ally, became involved. Germans invaded Belgium which brought Great Britain into the conflict. Soon, most of Europe was under arms.

He was a man’s man. A brave officer and brilliant swordsman his countrymen looked up to with respect and pride. Formidable, valiant, imposing at age forty-four, he was lean, mean, and strenuously fit. As this accomplished rider rode off to battle in his strikingly dashing cavalry uniform topped with shako, stern physiognomy emphasized by large handlebar mustache and conspicuous scar at his left eye where an opponent nicked him during fencing, he was prepared to face the enemy and fight savagely to his death, if necessary, honorably defending his motherland.

Julianna cried as she and the children waved good-bye not knowing if any of them would ever see him again—dead or alive. God knows it would not be easy being separated, rearing children alone, however Julianna was determined that the Laszlo Gabor family would carry on as best they could while he was gone.

Over time, John developed into a tall, talented, handsome blonde, curly-haired seventeen-year-old young man fascinated by the stage. With a craving for limelight and a natural tendency to enjoy appearing before footlights, he initially began performing in the difficult job of single-handedly providing music for silent motion pictures.

With the story unfolding on the theatre screen above, he sat in the orchestra pit below, deftly playing the piano, embellishing changing black and white scenes with colorful auditory moods, abruptly changing tempo when necessary, to accompany the action going on in the film.

Appearing on a theatre stage, dressed in military uniform during the war’s ongoing conflict, the stage-struck teenager entertained those left behind by singing a haunting ballad about a soldier who did not expect