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Foreign Policy
Én, A Whiskys
(I, the Whiskey Robber)
By Attila Ambrus and Judit P. Gal
Reviewed by Gusztav Kosztolanyi
“When I started committing robberies, I made a vow to myself that I would never act roughly, I would not hit anyone, I would not use my weapon unless I was already being shot at. As long as no one was shooting at me, I needed my pistol as a status symbol. As far as I was concerned, the weapon was no more than a tool, its purpose was to help me attain my aims, but not at any price. I do not wish to make myself appear like a good lad, I was far from being good, but basically, I did not behave like an animal either.”
Thus speaks Hungary’s most notorious and celebrated criminal, Attila Ambrus, whose daring robberies, arrest, escape, and subsequent recapture have captivated his country’s imagination. Within five days of his autobiography’s release, 10,000 copies had been snapped up, breaking all of Hungary’s sales records. A first run of 27,500 copies was followed by 17,500 in a second edition—impressive numbers in a country with a population of 10 million. A master thief who fleeces the rich and charms the poor, Ambrus has gained the status of a popular hero, appealing to an audience disillusioned with the corruption and economic disparities of postcommunist Hungary.
The myths spun around Ambrus (which he has carefully manipulated) place him squarely in the tradition of gallant rogues. The moniker “Whiskey Robber,” for example, refers to Ambrus’ habit of indulging his predilection for the finest malts in order to summon courage prior to a heist. And consider this trademark: Ambrus often concealed his gun in a bouquet of flowers, which he would offer after his robberies to a star-struck (and inevitably female) cashier.
Co-authored by award-winning investigative journalist Judit Gal of the daily Mai Nap (“Today”), this confession-style chronicle contains its share of outlaw clichés. Readers will find Ambrus investing in the customary trappings of success (flashy cars, beautiful women, and expensive foreign holidays), with his equally predictable gambling addiction driving him to commit more crimes to fuel his lavish lifestyle. Influenced perhaps by her media colleagues, who willingly pander to Hungary’s voracious appetite for the sensational, Gal sprinkles the text with salacious details concerning Ambrus’ personal relationships. But to her credit, Gal also provides a more nuanced picture, juxtaposing the protagonist’s own narrative with insightful contributions from subsidiary characters, including members of Ambrus’ former ice hockey team, his lawyer, one of his main pursuers, and more controversially, some of Ambrus’ victims.
Meanwhile, Ambrus has gone from hold-up artist to cultural icon. T-shirts bearing the slogan “Go for it, Whiskey Robber!” can be purchased online, and a Hungarian energy drink manufacturer has acquired the marketing rights to his nickname. Several pro- and anti-Ambrus Web sites have cropped up, providing opportunities to praise or criticize the young thief (though foreign readers may find such sites most useful as a collective primer on the more colorful aspects of colloquial Hungarian). Of course, the big-screen allure of his story has not gone unnoticed: Plans for a film were only interrupted by Ambrus’ escape.
This commercial exploitation of the public’s fascination with a Romanian-born bank robber is emblematic of the wrenching transformation Hungary has undergone since the 1989 Pan-European Picnic at Sopron, where hundreds of East German refugees crossed the Austro-Hungarian border into liberty, marking the beginning of the end for communist rule throughout the Eastern bloc. Under authoritarianism, the Hungarian government propagated values of solidarity, prohibiting competition between individuals (except within strictly regulated work competitions that provided institutionalized recognition for even the humblest of citizens). Private initiative was stifled; materialism condemned. The party permeated the ranks of every “civic” organization, eliminating any distinction between the public and private spheres. In return for social tranquility, the government built houses, mitigated income inequality, and guaranteed health care and a decent pension.
Compare this with the harsh dictates of today’s brave new world, in which Hungarian society has become increasingly polarized. Although the middle class is now accorded greater status—instead of being branded the root of all evil in party rhetoric, it is now cast as the repository of morality and government-endorsed values—this reversal of fortune is not reflected in its meager bank balances. White-collar crime is rife behind a facade of respectability, and the wheels of bureaucracy are lubricated by kickbacks and embezzlement. Ordinary citizens cannot receive medical treatment without forking over hálapénz (“gratitude money”) to supplement the pitiful salary of doctors, and cheating on income tax returns has become a matter of honor. Wealth and success are idolized, with protection for the unemployed and the elderly subject to constant erosion. The government has learned its public relations lessons well: Increases in welfare benefits are announced with great fanfare so as to maximize political gain.
Against this dismal backdrop, the Whiskey Robber appears downright honest—at least he cannot be accused of hypocrisy. Ambrus embodies the get-rich-quick doctrine of the age and exacts revenge for the lowly against the faceless ranks of unscrupulous and greedy bankers. This contrast has been heightened by recent corruption scandals involving powerful individuals. The most embarrassing of these is the case of Gábor Princz, former managing director of the Postabank, whose monthly salary equaled the combined wages of the entire faculty at the University of Pécs over the same period. Under his management, Postabank incurred $446 milion in bad debt, prompting a $700 million government bailout. Princz was let off scot-free and now resides in Vienna. In a country where justice is so obviously partial, it is small wonder that so many are keeping their fingers crossed for a flamboyant and uneducated Transylvanian who crossed the border into a new land of opportunity.