Jeremy Bending

Chapter 1

August 2014

‘If you don’t know, I don’t know. . .’ ‘Things not discussed can never be recorded and therefore have never taken place.’ Those were the last words his father said to him on the night before he hanged himself.

They never knew he was depressed. In truth, he had never seemed to be depressed. He left no suicide note or any other piece of evidence, written or otherwise, to explain what it was that had led him to take his own life. His mother found the body hanging from a rope in the garage at 6.30 a.m. that Sunday morning, already stone cold dead. The ambulance crew arrived in minutes, but all they were able to do was to certify the fact of his death. The police team came and went, concluding that there were no suspicious circumstances, but, as was clear, having no more idea about what had led to his father’s death, and why it had occurred, than they had themselves. The Coroner recorded a largely narrative verdict. In other words, he summed up the inquest into his father’s death by describing what had happened and what they knew already, without being able to throw any further light whatsoever on the ‘who’, the ‘how’ and the ‘why’. In spite of these outstanding questions, with no real evidence as to the affirmative or the negative, the Coroner’s conclusion was that his father had taken his own life by hanging himself.

The pain was indescribable. And this referred not only to the pain of the first few days and weeks and months, but to the pain that they were all left to endure for the rest of their lives. The tears and hand-wringing, the self-recriminations and “what ifs?” not only overwhelmed his mother, but also his brother, his sister, the cleaning lady, his father’s friends and colleagues, and himself. Not so long before, suicide had been a criminal offence. It had been against the law for a man or woman to take his or her own life. He would never forget the sheer weight of pain he’d felt in those early days, but he had also had to live with the belief which was to remain with him for a long time after. That suicide was indeed a criminal action for any person to undertake. What Jeff Butler had felt most of all, however, was a deep-down and immovable conviction that the act of suicide leaves such unbearable pain for those left behind that for anyone to even contemplate their own self destruction is unforgivable. An act of love betrayed. Added to this was the lingering question – which hung over them all following the inquest and for many months and years thereafter: was their father really responsible for taking his own life?

Paolo’s Story

Chapter 2

September 2011

Paolo stood on the steps of the open doorway of one of the fleet of coaches the Red Cross had sent to evacuate the Roma families. He was in charge of the evacuation. He looked up the road to where he could see a river of Roma families – men with fear on their faces, women and children in tears – streaming down from the streets of Göspata towards the buses. For weeks this town of 2,800 residents located northeast of Budapest had been the focal point of conflict between right-wing activists and the Roma who lived there. Last month a uniformed radical group had marched through the town several times, striking terror into the hearts of the Roma community. The previous day, fascist thugs had started to throw stones at a number of Roma houses there in Göspata. Three people had been injured in fights between the extremists and Roma men who were defending their properties. Then, earlier that day, dozens of men had flooded into Göspata in an organised demonstration against the Roma families living in the town.

Several other Hungarian towns with large numbers of Roma residents had likewise seen right-wing marches, protesting, the marchers said, against “gypsy criminals”. Five protestors had been arrested during one of these marches for disturbing the peace, but were released two days later. The mayor of one of the towns had accused the group of creating an environment of fear in which Roma women and children were afraid to go out into the street. In defiance, a member of parliament from the far-right wing Tovabb party had said that the group would continue their marches “in the name of public order and security”.

A short distance up the road Paolo could see a young Roma woman with a baby in one arm and two small children cowering behind her skirts. ‘Help us, please help us,’ he could hear her screaming, pleading to the man he knew as Michael Butler, gripping his shirt with her free hand as she did so. He saw Michael gently take the baby from her and hold out his hand to the little girl, leading them up the road through the crowds of milling scared people towards the safety of the coaches. He reached the first coach and helped the mother up the steps to where Paolo was standing, passing the baby up into her arms and lifting the little girl and her brother up after them. Paolo saw that Michael was wearing an armband on his right arm with “OSSE” printed on it. Michael had already told Paolo that he had been sent by his organisation as an observer of these events and was there to record what he saw. Paolo was touched by this one small humanitarian act the man had made.

By the end of the day, Paolo had helped Michael record the fact that 270 Roma residents of Göspata had been evacuated, nearly two-thirds of the 450 Roma who lived in the town. When questioned by the media about the event the next day, the Hungarian government responded by saying the coaches had been hired as part of a “holiday trip” which had been arranged for the Roma families.

Chapter 3

A few days later Paolo received a message from Michael, asking if they could meet up. He walked to the small café on Vaci Street, arriving at 11 a.m., just as he had been invited to. Michael was sitting at a table at the back of café. He stood up as soon as he saw Paolo and shook him by the hand. ‘Hello Paolo, nice to see you again. How are things in Göspata now?’ ‘OK, I suppose,’ Paolo replied, as he pulled his long scarf slowly off his neck and sat down at Michael’s table. ‘We managed to find all of the families accommodation elsewhere by that evening, and now it seems they are being allowed back into their town again. Most of them are moving back slowly, but they are all still very anxious about what happened and frightened about the possibility that the intimidation and violence might start up again.’

After they had ordered coffee, Michael sat forward and looked straight at Paolo. ‘I have never seen anything like that before. I’ve worked for the UK Foreign Office in Central European countries for more than twenty years, but have never seen that degree of racial violence and intimidation close up. It was appalling. But all I could do was to stand and watch: I felt ashamed that I was impotent to intervene in any meaningful way because of my organisation’s remit which, as an observer, barred me from becoming involved. I’ll never forget the fear and panic I saw on the faces of the Roma families as they were driven out of their houses. I felt sick at what I was witnessing. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I would like to help you.’

‘What can you do to help?’ Paolo asked, unsure what it was the man was offering. Michael went on to explain that he worked for The Organisation for Security and Safety in Europe (hence the OSSE armband he had been wearing that day) which was a pan-European inter-governmental organisation, with offices in most European capital cities. He had influence not only within Hungary but also throughout Europe. He would like to put this influence to work to do whatever he could to help the plight of the Roma people there in Hungary.

Paolo relaxed as he realised that Michael was genuinely on their side. He really did seem sincere in his wish to support the Roma people living in Hungary. ‘This is nothing new, Michael,’ he explained. ‘My people, Roma gypsies, have suffered discrimination and subjugation across Europe for many centuries, not least alongside the Jews in their mass extermination by Hitler and the Nazis during the Second World War Holocaust. What you learnt the other day is that discrimination and subjugation is still being practised in present day Hungary – as it is to varying degrees in other parts of Europe – including against our Roma population here. At an estimate, our Hungarian Roma people constitute about ten per cent of the country’s population of about ten million people, yet they are still shackled by poverty and illiteracy and are the victims of neglect and discrimination, by the population in general and the State itself.’

Paolo and Michael sat discussing the political situation in the country further. Hungary had become worryingly right wing in recent years, as far as Michael was concerned, and Paolo agreed. The far-right Tovabb party and its members were so ultra-right in their beliefs and actions as to be frankly fascist. The party members may not have worn brown shirts but they had their easily recognised uniform: white shirts with black coats, black trousers and black leather boots. They seemed to operate quite independently and outside the written law, apparently completely unchecked, as though the party had the right-wing Fidek government’s blessing for their activities.

‘What you saw last week was just one more example of all this,’ Paolo said. ‘Tovabb have been associated with many disturbing events in recent months including the eviction of families of Roma from the city of Debrecen and in late-night brawls and the defacing of Roma properties in a number of other cities, for example. As far back as 2008 and 2009 six Roma were killed in sectarian attacks.’

Before they left, Paolo had accepted Michael’s offer of help in whatever way he could, and they agreed to meet up again from time to time to discuss in what form this help might be needed.

Chapter 4

April 2014

Paolo jumped off the Metro and emerged from the subway into the daylight at Deak Ferenc Square. He was making for his weekly appointment with his friend Michael Butler, the First Deputy Director of the Organisation for Security and Safety in Europe. He strode across the busy wide open square, navigating his way around three or four islands of buskers surrounded by their circles of appreciative audiences. He waited patiently for the pedestrian lights to turn green at the long diagonal pedestrian crossing, to cross over the wide boulevard to the beginning of Andrassy Avenue.

Andrassy Avenue was the main thoroughfare of Budapest, sweeping up from the elegant river Danube and through the centre of Pest, the downtown part of the city of Budapest. At the far end of the Avenue the road opened onto the wide expanse of Heroes’ Square, where the Museum of Fine Arts and the Palace of Arts were to be found facing each other imperiously on either side of the vast square. No more than three centuries before, Pest had been the infected disease-ridden swamp (from which its name derived) on the eastern banks of the Danube, sitting opposite the dominant Buda with its Castle, Palace and churches arising from the hills on the west bank of the river. Now in the present day, Pest was the thriving social, commercial and lively part of the city of Budapest. As Paolo walked up the lower part of the Avenue he stared into the windows of the art galleries, cake shops, cafés and expensive international stores selling goods such as furs, “haute couture” gowns, designer handbags and so on. It was like being on the moon, as far as he was concerned. He had absolutely no desire to acquire any of this merchandise, and in any case could never afford to shop in any of these places if he had. He therefore rarely had occasion to visit this part of the city.

After Andrassy Avenue crossed the Oktogon intersection, the buildings gave way to the upper part of the Avenue with its large, elegant buildings: these included the Embassies of many different countries; the headquarters of multinational companies operating in Hungary; and the palatial residences of the very rich. Halfway up on the right-hand side of this part of the Avenue, he entered the iron gates of the grand 19th century building occupied by the OSSE, nodding to the security guard as he did so. Paolo rang the bell of the impressive shiny black mahogany front door and waited for it to be opened.

Michael’s PA Angie opened the door to Paolo with a smile and preceded him through the hallway with its grand high ceilings and ornate mouldings, up the stairs to the first floor and Michael’s office. She knocked once on his door and walked straight in, in her usual efficient manner. ‘Paolo Crusesco is here to see you,’ she said, placing a file on the desk in front of him.

‘Good. Send the Big Bear in,’ Michael said, laughing.

Paolo, who had hesitated politely behind Angie, strolled in through the door smiling broadly, having heard what Michael had called him. It was true, he was a big bear of a man, tall and muscular but also thick set and hirsute, with dark brown skin, long black sideboards and long jet black hair falling over the back of his bull neck.

‘Hi, Michael!’ he said, extending his huge bear-like paw across the desk towards Michael.

‘Hello, Paolo. Good to see you,’ Michael said in return as he shook the out-stretched paw. ‘How are things?’

‘Not good,’ replied Paolo. ‘There was a serious house fire in Pecs last night. The parents and five children only just escaped with their lives. Two of the children including the baby are in hospital suffering from smoke inhalation, although I have just heard that it appears that they are going to be alright. The police have said that they suspect arson, but have found no proof. I bet nothing more will be heard of that theory. Meanwhile, we have re-housed the family in temporary accommodation in part of the old paper mill nearby.’

Paolo was by now the leader of the Roma council in Hungary. To call it a “council” was perhaps overstating the body. In practice, it consisted of Paolo and a group of his trusted friends who were working together to protect the rights of their Roma community in the country. Paolo knew that Michael was well aware that he was a self-elected leader of a group of poorly organised and mobile people, but Michael had indicated at their first meeting that he recognised that Paolo was deeply committed, and that he was respected and trusted by the other Roma people who Michael came across regularly. As far as he was concerned, he told Paolo, this fact alone gave Paolo the authority to represent his peoples’ interests, and that was all that he required to enable him to do business with Paolo. Michael had also told Paolo that he was perfectly aware that, at some time in the future, he may face a challenge by his own secretariat or, more likely, by the present Hungarian government, who would come to the OSSE demanding to know what he was doing colluding with “this man”, and on whose authority? But Michael told Paolo that he had never been interested in such sham challenges from those in opposition to his work, whether in authority or not. Paolo had come to learn that this approach was what made Michael a somewhat alternative civil servant and government officer, but that was also an important reason why he was invariably an effective one, as far as he was concerned.

Paolo and Michael got straight down to business. ‘Since I saw you last we have been able to set up five soup kitchens in different places around the country and I have so far been able to obtain forty-three residency permits from the applications you presented me with last month,’ Michael told him. ‘I have also been in private discussion with three opposition members of Parliament to talk about the discrimination on the ground which your people are suffering. They were keen to hear my views and I think they have understood the size and significance of the problem facing the Roma in Hungary. They told me openly that they are sympathetic with the plight of the country’s Roma population. I believe they will be good allies for the future and hope they will form a nucleus of support within the opposition from which we can expand. I am sure you will understand, however, that they are not able to express their opposition views openly at the present, for fear of being discriminated against themselves, whatever the government would have us believe to the contrary. We do need to be careful not to name them publically or call on them to talk out openly at the moment, for this reason.’

‘Thank you, Michael. I already know about the soup kitchens and the residency permits, for which we are very grateful. And trust me, I shall keep in strict confidence what you have told me about any political allies you may be able to establish,’ Paolo said. This man has a good heart and a brave face, Michael thought as he bowed his head in acceptance of the thanks. They continued their business together, spending a further fifteen minutes discussing other issues which had recently come to light. After they had agreed on the next priorities, Michael stood up, opened the door for Paolo and shook him by the hand. ‘Angie, please show Mr Crusesco out,’ he called to his PA who was in the outer office.