Goodbye to Budapest

by Margarita Morris

  ‘There’s been some mistake. Let me out. I’m innocent.’ His words echoed uselessly.

  A small rectangular spy hole in the door banged open.

  ‘Shut up!’ yelled one of the guards. The hole was banged shut again.

  After that the spy hole was opened and shut every five minutes. The whole cellar reverberated to the sound of spy holes banging open and closed, like a hellish percussive symphony designed to rattle the nerves.

  If their intention is, indeed, to rattle his nerves then they are succeeding. He tried sleeping last night but couldn’t get comfortable on the wooden plank and the glare from the light bulb kept him awake. He turned to face the wall but the spy hole banged open and the guard shouted at him to lie on his back. He did as he was told. He tried putting his hands under his head as a makeshift pillow. The spy hole banged again.

  ‘Arms flat on the plank. Palms upwards!’

  Reluctantly he obeyed.

  But sleep eluded him. Now he’s given up lying on the hard plank. He prefers to stand or sit. All he can think of is his daughter, Katalin. She’s a strong, resourceful girl. But he fears she will try to do something about his arrest, and that could land her in trouble too. Whatever tortures the AVO have in store for him, he will bear them better if he knows that she is safe and getting on with her life.

  Down the corridor a door opens and orders are shouted.

  ‘Move!’

  Then other doors open and slam shut. He listens, trying to make sense of what is happening.

  It seems the prisoners are being taken out of their cells one at a time. He waits his turn, trepidation mounting in his breast. His cell is at at the end of the corridor so he’ll be the last one let out.

  Eventually the door to his cell is opened and two armed guards order him out. It’s a relief to step out of the tiny cell, but he doesn’t know where they are taking him.

  They march him down the corridor to a trough filled with scummy water.

  ‘Wash!’

  He recoils from the filthy water. How is he supposed to wash himself in that? One of the guards jabs him in the back with his rifle butt. Márton starts to unbutton his shirt.

  Reluctantly he splashes water over his face and torso. The only available towel is threadbare and already wet from previous use. It smells of other bodies. He dries himself as best he can and puts his shirt back on. Then they take him to a toilet. One of the guards stands in the door whilst Márton does his business. Afterwards they return him to his cell and lock the door.

  So this is the morning routine, he thinks. It is degrading and dehumanising. But it’s all part of the act. Don’t let them intimidate you.

  When all the prisoners have washed and used the bathroom, the corridor falls silent. Now what? After what feels like an age, he is startled by a loud, metallic clatter. The prisoners are again let out one at a time to fetch their breakfast. Tepid soup in a metal bowl and a piece of damp bread. He takes the food back to his cell and eats it. The bread tastes like cardboard. He forces it down, telling himself he must keep his strength up for whatever lies ahead. His only wish is to be allowed home to his daughter.

  *

  After registration, the whole school gathers outside for the weekly march around the playground singing songs in praise of Comrades Rákosi, Stalin, Lenin and Marx – gods whom the children have been taught to worship. The large red flag on top of the building flutters in the breeze, adding a sense of ceremony to the occasion.

  Katalin leads her own class of six-year-olds – the youngest children – to join the others, having first checked that all her charges are wearing the compulsory red neckerchiefs. She keeps a few spare in her desk just in case. She doesn’t want the children to get into trouble over something so trivial. Their mothers have more pressing things to think about. But Piroska Benke, the school secretary, would notice if a child wasn’t wearing a neckerchief and would make a formal complaint to the parents. The family might be accused of being anti-communist.

  The children are excited because they get to play drums or shake tambourines and the younger ones at least enjoy marching, lifting their legs with exaggerated movements, their backs ramrod straight and their tiny chests puffed out. For now they stand and wait, the little ones fidgety but expectant, the older ones showing signs of boredom.

  György Boda, the headmaster, climbs onto a raised platform and gives the signal. The whole school erupts into a rousing song about people working hard for themselves and building a better future free from bourgeois oppression. Katalin is sure most of the children have no idea what half the words mean.

  The front row of children leads the march and the others follow behind. Some of them are out of step at first and there’s almost a pile-up in Katalin’s class because some of the boys are trying to go too fast. But under the stern eyes of the headmaster and the school secretary, they quickly fall into a steady rhythm.

  The children will be in a good mood for the rest of the day. But as Katalin listens to their piping voices, the lyrics proclaiming the dream of socialism sound hollow to her ears. Many of these children are too skinny because there’s always a shortage of bread and meat in the shops; their clothes are hand-me-downs, patched and darned to last another winter; they will return home to fathers and mothers exhausted from long hours in the factories or queueing for food.

  And what will she return home to? An empty apartment. Tears well in her eyes. Standing a few feet away, Piroska Benke frowns at her and Katalin realises she has been failing to sing. She swallows the lump in her throat and does her best to join in with the chorus.

  When the children have sung and marched to three songs, the headmaster makes a short speech about how they must all be good communists. Then the children file back inside, their cheeks pink from the exercise and the cold air. As he walks past with his classmates, Katalin notices that Tibor’s shoe lace is undone again.

  The rest of the morning Katalin is too busy to worry about her own troubles. The children take up all her time and energy with their constant demands for attention. She collects up the borrowed neckerchiefs and puts them back in her drawer for next week. Then she tells the children to take out their number books. The marching has tired them and they labour over their sums, yawning with open mouths, faces screwed up in concentration, pencils scratching on the thin paper. Katalin walks up and down the rows of desks, helping with an addition here, a subtraction there, studiously ignoring the portrait of Our Wise Leader Rákosi who gazes down on her classroom from the wall behind her desk. She tells the children to put their number books away ten minutes earlier than usual and calls them to gather around for story time. They sit cross-legged at her feet, eager to be entertained. What child doesn’t enjoy a story? But the text is a Party-approved tale about the benefits of collective farming. One or two of the youngest ones lie down at the back of the group and fall asleep. Who can blame them? She wishes she could read them something more exciting. Her father used to tell her the story of St George and the Dragon at bedtime. The patron saint of England, the country that sounded like a paradise to her childish ears. Has her father been arrested because of his English contacts?

  ‘Miss, can I go to the toilet please?’

  Katalin is jolted back to the present moment by the voice of Katya, a little girl with her hair in two tightly plaited braids.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Katalin.

  Katya gets up and runs to the door.

  Then there’s the inevitable clamour of raised voices. ‘Miss, Miss, me too. I need the toilet too.’

  ‘All right, but you can’t all go at once. You must line up and take your turn. And remember to wash your hands.’

  By the time they have all trooped off in pairs – a maximum of two girls and two boys at any one time – it’s time to start getting them ready to go home. Their mothers will be coming to collect them at one o’clock, having spent most of their precious mornings queueing for bread and other essentials.

  Katalin takes her class outside and
waits with them as each child is collected. Then she goes back inside to tidy up and prepare for the next day. In the corridor she encounters Piroska Benke, the school secretary and Party afficionado bearing down on her, clipboard in hand. Katalin tries and fails to reach her classroom before Piroska Benke accosts her.

  ‘Miss Bakos, I must speak to you.’

  ‘Shall we go into my classroom?’

  ‘Here will do perfectly,’ says the secretary, standing her ground. ‘Miss Bakos, there have been complaints from the other teachers that you allow the children in your class to run around the corridors during lessons.’

  Katalin has no idea what Piroska Benke is talking about, but then she realises it’s because she allowed them to use the bathroom. ‘They are only little children,’ she says. ‘Once they’ve decided they need the toilet, it becomes a matter of urgency for them.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ says Piroska, ‘you must teach them self-control and discipline. It’s what the Party expects.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Katalin. She forces herself to smile at Piroska, but inside she’s seething. Party this, Party that. Piroska Benke is a walking encyclopedia on Party directives and policies. Piroska regards her with narrowed eyes, mistrustful of Katalin’s smile. Katalin is sure Piroska would like nothing better than to report her to the authorities for failing to teach proper socialist values.

  ‘From now on I will ensure that the children in my class behave with the appropriate level of self-control,’ she says. Anything to get Piroska Benke off her back.

  Piroska gives a curt nod and marches off.

  Katalin returns to her classroom and shuts the door with more force than is strictly necessary. She’s exhausted from the events of last night. With a sigh, she starts to walk around the classroom, picking up dropped pencils and pieces of paper, straightening the desks and chairs, and wiping the blackboard clean. Then she puts on her coat and heads for the door before anyone else can detain her. She already does extra hours as part of the group tasked with implementing special measures to keep the school hygienic and healthy so as to avoid unnecessary absences through illness – one of the many Party policies overseen by Piroska Benke. She doesn’t want to spend her spare time analysing statistics or discussing ways to rearrange the contents of the stationery cupboard for greater productivity benefits.

  But outside the school gates she hesitates. She has no desire to go straight home to the empty apartment. On an impulse, she takes a detour to her favourite café where the jovial proprietor, Feri, is busy behind the counter, serving his speciality strong black coffee to workers and students. A radio behind the counter is playing traditional Hungarian gypsy music, violins and an accordion.

  ‘And what can I get you today, mademoiselle?’ asks a beaming Feri. He told her once that he visited Paris in the twenties and fell in love with Parisian café culture. It amuses him to sprinkle French words into his speech. It’s a dangerous habit, but he does it nonetheless.

  ‘Just a coffee, and a slice of ginger cake, please.’ Feri makes the best ginger cake in Budapest.

  He cuts her a generous slice and sets the order down in front of her. ‘Voilà.’

  Katalin pays and finds a free table near the window. She’s so worn out, the coffee and cake will give her a boost before she goes home to face the chaos of the apartment. She bites into the cake. It’s perfectly moist and spicy, just how she likes it. The rich, pungent aroma of the coffee wafts up to her nostrils. How her father would enjoy being here with her now. A lump forms in her throat and she takes a sip of the too-hot coffee to mask her distress. She mustn’t break down in public. To distract herself she picks up a copy of Szabad Nép, A Free People, which someone has left behind on the next-door table. The front page of the Party newspaper informs her that industrial productivity in Hungary is growing at exponential rates, the country’s technological advances are the envy of the civilised world, and it’s all thanks to their great leader, Rákosi, and their Soviet masters in Russia. All propaganda and lies. But you can’t say that out loud or the Secret Police will come for you, like they came for her father. Did Márton Bakos speak out of turn about the authorities? She can’t believe he would have been so careless. She jumps at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Katalin, I was hoping I’d find you here. Sorry, did I startle you?’

  She breathes out a sigh of relief. It’s her best friend Róza. Not the AVO come to arrest her for subversive thoughts. She folds up the newspaper and puts it away. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. Come and sit down.’

  ‘Just let me get a coffee and a slice of cake. I’ve been on my feet all day and I’m done in.’ Róza was at school with Katalin. Now she is a medical student and puts in long days at the hospital. ‘Is that the ginger cake? I think I’ll have the same.’ She goes to the counter and comes back with a coffee and slice of cake. ‘Oh my God, this cake is so good. I’ll have to ask Feri for the recipe.’ She wipes the crumbs from the corner of her mouth and licks her fingertips. Then she looks more closely at Katalin and frowns. ‘What’s the matter? You look terrible, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Katalin shakes her head and chokes back a tear. Róza puts her cake down and takes hold of Katalin’s hand. She waits for Katalin to speak, her medical training evident in her calm demeanour.

  ‘They came for him last night.’ Katalin keeps her voice low. Fortunately the gypsy music is loud enough to mask her words so that only Róza can hear them. They lean their heads close together.

  ‘Who? Not your father?’

  Katalin nods.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You should have called me.’

  ‘It was the middle of the night.’

  ‘That’s how those bastards work.’

  ‘They searched the apartment too. Made a terrible mess.’

  ‘What were they looking for?’

  ‘Who knows? Evidence, I suppose.’

  ‘But what’s he supposed to have done?’

  Katalin shrugs. Both of them know that Márton Bakos doesn’t need to have done anything. People denounce their neighbours and colleagues on the slightest pretext, often to avoid being arrested themselves. Cook a special meal for a loved one? Be careful when disposing of chicken bones or egg shells in case a neighbour with a grudge accuses you of capitalistic hoarding. Wear a new shirt to work? Watch out in case a colleague suspects you of being in the pay of American agents. How else could you afford new clothes?

  ‘Do you want to stay at my place?’ asks Róza. ‘You can sleep on the couch.’

  Katalin is touched by the kindness of the offer. As the daughter of someone who has been arrested, Katalin is tainted herself. But Róza wouldn’t think like that. Katalin is tempted to accept, but Róza shares a cramped apartment with other medical students. There simply wouldn’t be room and she doesn’t want to impose. Her father may be gone a while.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘but I should go home and tidy up the mess.’

  ‘Of course, but if you ever change your mind…’

  Katalin smiles, grateful to have at least one friend in this cruel world. She looks at her watch. She’s already stayed longer than she intended and she’s so tired. ‘I should be going.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you as far as the corner.’

  The two friends walk along the darkening streets. Weary-looking people are making their way home. A tram stops just ahead of them and disgorges dozens of grey-faced workers returning from factories and offices.

  ‘You won’t believe who was part of the AVO team last night,’ says Katalin, suddenly remembering.

  ‘No, who?’

  ‘Tamás Kún.’

  ‘What, Tamás from school?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Gosh, I’d forgotten all about him. I haven’t seen him for years, not since we left school. I never thought he’d join the Secret Police, although to be honest I didn’t know what he would end up doing. He was a bit of a nobody at school.’

  ‘Well, he
’s found a career for himself now.’

  ‘Did he recognise you?’

  ‘Yes. I think I annoyed him by telling him not to open my violin case during the search.’

  Róza draws in her breath sharply. ‘Take care, won’t you? You don’t want to fall out with people like that.’ They’ve reached the corner of Király Street where they will go their separate ways.

  Róza squeezes Katalin’s hand then draws her into an embrace. Take care. Those were her father’s last words to her before they took him away. She’s always careful. It’s the only way to be in this country.

  ‘Let me know what happens,’ says Róza. ‘And remember, you’re always welcome to come and stay.’ Then she disappears down the street and Katalin heads home alone.

  She pushes open the heavy outer door to the apartment building as quietly as she can. She doesn’t want to alert József to her return. But he appears immediately, carrying some rubbish for the bins in the courtyard. He nods his head at her as he shuffles past. Katalin could have sworn he was waiting for her. Maybe he writes a report for the AVO on what time she leaves and returns each day. She must be careful who she brings to the apartment. She runs up the stairs and lets herself in.

  She knows at once from the stillness of the air that no one has been here since she left to go to work that morning. Papa has not returned. Of course, he hasn’t. She closes the door behind her and leans against it. She did try not to get her hopes up, but still she couldn’t help wondering if she’d walk in and find him reading in his favourite armchair. All a big misunderstanding, Katalin dear. Once I’d had a chance to explain myself, they apologised for dragging me in during the middle of the night. They’re not such bad chaps after all, you know. Just doing their jobs.

  It’s a minute before she has the will to move away from the front door. She’s going to have to get used to this, coming home to an empty apartment. But she can’t leave it looking like this. If her father should, by a miracle, come home and find his beloved books scattered over the floor it would break his heart.