I, the undersigned, freely confess to my crimes of betrayal and treason against the Party and the State.
But as he reads and re-reads the document, he is filled with incredulity and then anger. He has to resist the overwhelming urge to screw the confession into a ball and aim it squarely at Vajda’s fat head. If this is Vajda’s work, then he has concocted a fiction of accusations and lies worthy of the most far-fetched spy novel. How is he supposed to have smuggled nuclear secrets out of the country to his friends in England? The confession isn’t clear on that point. Reading on, he learns to his amazement that he intends to sabotage the Party’s efforts to build a fair and just society based on Marxist-Leninist principles, he has no respect for Comrades Stalin or Rákosi (well that much is true at least) and he is also guilty of hating the working class, having come from a family of feudal landowners. This apparently makes him a fascist swine.
‘I will not sign this concoction of lies.’ Márton returns the piece of paper to the desk with a self-control that makes him proud.
Vajda looks affronted and a muscle starts to twitch in his flabby jowls. ‘Lies?! You have the audacity to accuse the Party of lying?’ Spittle sprays the surface of the desk.
‘All I’m saying is that this confession is not true. Therefore I will not sign it.’
‘You are making a grave mistake.’
Márton wonders for a moment if he is indeed making a mistake. Will Vajda accuse him of worse crimes if he refuses to sign this confession? But still, he can’t bring himself to admit to spying and hating the working class. ‘This confession is not true,’ he repeats. The words are starting to sound hollow.
‘But this’ – Vajda waves the document in the air – ‘is the truth as we see it.’
So that’s it, thinks Márton. The Party is always right. The Party must always be proved to be infallible. It is the duty of every worker to bow down before the superiority of the Party. What can one individual do against the might of the Party? It would take the whole society to rise up against the power of the State, but such a thing is unthinkable. The whole society merely consists of individuals who are frightened for their own survival. But still, someone has to make a stand.
‘I will not sign.’
‘Too bad for you.’ Vajda sounds almost satisfied that he has refused. What new tortures does he have in store for him now? He rings a bell on his desk and Gábor reappears. Vajda whispers something to him and the corners of Gábor’s mouth turn upwards in a sly grin.
‘On your feet.’ Gábor takes him by the arm and pulls him roughly to his feet.
He walks Márton to a whitewashed room and orders him to stand facing the wall. ‘Closer.’
Márton shuffles forwards a couple of inches.
‘Move closer,’ barks Gábor.
Márton moves closer still, until his nose is no more than an inch from the white wall.
‘Stand still. If you move, I will kick you.’
Márton takes the threat seriously.
*
Mid-morning Piroska Benke appears at the classroom door to summon Katalin to György Boda’s office. With a martyred expression she says that she, Piroska Benke – school secretary and Party official with far more important things to do – will watch the children for half an hour.
‘Be good for Miss Benke,’ Katalin tells her class. They’re doing their morning sums. Some of them struggle without extra help, which is unlikely to be forthcoming from the school administrator. Their faces fall and she pities them, but there’s nothing to be done.
She suspects she’s being called to give account of her spying activities on Petra and Tibor. As she walks down the corridor, she mentally rehearses what she’s going to say. She will not betray her friends.
She knocks on the headmaster’s door and he calls her into his office.
‘Take a seat, Miss Bakos.’
He’s friendlier today, perhaps hoping to get more information out of her if he makes the interview sound more like an informal chat.
‘Coffee?’
‘No thank you,’ says Katalin. ‘I don’t want to be away from my class for too long.’
He sits back in his chair. ‘In that case, tell me what you’ve discovered about Tibor Nadas.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘There’s really nothing to report. He lives alone with his mother. They don’t own a radio so he’s not listening to foreign stations. There are no books in the apartment.’ Katalin has decided that comics don’t count as proper books.
‘Then how do you account for his behaviour? He is not like the other children. He initiates games of daring. He doesn’t respect authority.’
‘I think there’s a perfectly harmless explanation,’ says Katalin. ‘His father died in the war, a true Hungarian patriot. I think Tibor feels a responsibility as the man of the house, so to speak, to look after his mother. He’s an imaginative child, and in his case he sees himself as a hero, someone that his soldier father would have been proud of. I’m sure there’s nothing more to it than that.’
‘Hmm,’ says György Boda, stroking his moustache. He doesn’t look convinced.
You must have been a child once, thinks Katalin, although it’s hard to imagine this man running around in short trousers. Don’t all children want to have fun and games? Instead they have to learn Party songs and march around the playground like good socialists.
‘I will be keeping a close eye on that boy,’ says the headmaster, ‘and if I find that you have been covering for him in any way, it will not look good for you.’
Katalin is dismissed. When she arrives back at her classroom the children are all sitting with their fingers on lips. No one looks happy.
*
Who would have thought that a white wall could be a thing of such horror? The AVO certainly know all the worst psychological tricks to play.
Márton can’t focus on the wall. He’s standing way too close to it. If he sways on his feet, which he does almost constantly, his nose grazes the rough surface. When sleep overpowers him, he bangs his forehead against it. Dents, smudges and imperfections in the wall blur in front of him, assuming the shapes of faces glimpsed in clouds. His mind plays tricks on him, conjuring up crowds of spectators that mock him, animals that threaten to kill him and swirling waters that threaten to drown him.
He still has enough sense left to know that he’s hallucinating, but there is nothing he can do to stop it. He blinks to try and make the images go away. How close is he to madness? If this carries on, he could lose his mind and become like one of those poor souls who sit in their cells whimpering all day.
His feet have gone numb and lost all sense of contact with the stone floor. As his mind spins out of control, his body has the sensation of floating. He imagines floating out through the walls and floors, rising above the streets of Budapest. He’s high above the Danube now, following the river as it flows eastwards towards Romania and the Black Sea.
He must have fallen asleep again because he loses his balance and topples forwards, banging his forehead against the wall. A sharp kick from a steel-capped boot to the back of his leg makes him cry out in pain.
‘Stand still. What did I tell you? If you move, I will kick you.’
Márton resumes his position facing the wall. The movement, however brief, has restored some feeling to his feet. Good job, he thinks, that they took his shoe laces off him when he arrived. His feet have now swollen so much that his shoes pinch him.
The swirling shapes on the wall assume monstrous proportions. Sinister, contorted faces leap out from spy holes. Malevolent grins, evil stares. He closes his eyes, trying to shut out the vile visions. He loses his balance again and this time a rifle butt is jabbed into his kidneys.
He feels sick and dizzy. Fainting would be a relief. He’s been here for hours already. He suspects there are still many hours left to go.
*
This is the right street. The closely packed apartment houses, the narrow street which rarely gets the sun. Katalin rem
embers coming here once with Róza to deliver some school books when Tamás was off sick with a severe case of tonsillitis. The teacher chose her and Róza for the task because he said he could trust them. Tamás was a sickly child, always off with something or other. But that must have been, what, ten, twelve years ago now and she hasn’t been back here since. She still can’t believe that Tamás Kún is an AVO officer.
Róza advised her against this plan, telling her it was foolish at best, dangerous at worst. But Zoltán said that Tamás has more to lose than she does. He failed to search her room thoroughly and dereliction of duty is a serious offence in the Secret Police. He could be accused of treason. Zoltán thinks Katalin’s plan is worth a shot.
He offered to come with her, but she thought it would be better if she came on her own. She doesn’t want to get Zoltán into trouble. They’ve grown close in the past week. He’s taught her how to feel again.
She finds the building, still smoke-blackened and pockmarked from bullet wounds inflicted during the war. The entrance door stands open, the paint peeling. Leaves have blown inside.
An old woman, the caretaker Katalin assumes, is sitting on a chair in the hallway, knitting. Her knitting needles don’t pause in their clicking as she looks Katalin up and down.
‘Good morning,’ says Katalin. ‘I’m looking for Tamás Kún. Does he live here?’
The old woman makes a phlegmy sound in her throat. ‘Third floor.’ She nods towards the stairs. ‘The lift’s not working.’
Katalin climbs the dimly lit stairs. A smell of boiled cabbage lingers in the stairwell. Somewhere in the building a baby is crying.
The light on the third floor is broken and the landing is cast in shadow. She takes a deep breath and knocks on the only door. There’s no bell.
The woman who opens the door is a good few inches shorter than her. And she’s greyer than Katalin remembers. The apron she’s wearing over her brown dress is stained with grease spots. She looks at Katalin with suspicion as if she doesn’t get many visitors and those she does are not welcome.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Kún, but is Tamás in?’
‘He’s working.’ She starts to close the door.
‘Will he be home soon?’
‘What do you want him for?’
‘I think he might be able to help me. Please, Mrs Kún. It’s important.’
Mrs Kún glances down the stairwell as if she’s afraid of eavesdroppers. Katalin expects the neighbours don’t take too kindly to having an AVO officer living in their block. ‘Keep your voice down. You’d better come in.’
‘Thank you.’
The apartment is dingy. Everything is old and worn, from the threadbare carpet to the patched armchairs and mis-matched cushions. There are no books. In the centre of the mantelpiece is a framed photograph of a man in uniform who looks like an older version of Tamás. His father presumably.
‘He should be home soon,’ says Mrs Kún.
‘I don’t mind waiting.’
‘Well, have a seat then.’ Mrs Kún grudgingly indicates one of the armchairs as if aware that it won’t be comfortable.
Katalin perches on the edge of the chair. She’d dearly love to ask Mrs Kún what made Tamás join the AVO, but the older woman has made it very clear that she doesn’t want to talk. Instead she says, ‘Don’t let me disturb you. Please carry on with whatever you were doing.’
Mrs Kún nods and goes into the kitchen. Through the thin partition walls Katalin can hear her busily clattering about with pots and pans. She hopes this visit will prove more fruitful than her visit to Professor Novák and his wife.
The minutes tick by and she wonders if Tamás is ever going to appear. Then suddenly she hears the front door opening and closing.
‘I’m home, Mother.’
Mrs Kún goes into the hallway. Katalin can just make out the sound of frantic whispering. Then Tamás appears in the doorway to the living room. He’s clearly surprised and embarrassed to see her there. Katalin jumps to her feet.
‘What you are doing here?’ he asks. Mrs Kún is hovering behind him, wringing her hands.
‘I’m sorry to intrude, but I wanted to ask you about my father.’
‘I can’t tell you anything. You must go.’ He’s less threatening without his jacket and his boots. She remembers the boy who was sick with tonsillitis.
‘Please, Tamás, I’m begging you. You were there the night they arrested him. You must know where he is and what is happening to him.’
He stares past her, saying nothing. How to get through to him?
She turns and picks up the photograph on the mantelpiece. ‘Is this your father?’
Tamás leaps across the room and snatches the photograph from her hands. ‘Don’t touch that!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, startled by the ferocity of his response. Now you know what it feels like to have your privacy invaded, she thinks.
He puts the photograph back into place, adjusting it until he’s satisfied.
The man in the photograph looks like a bully, but he’s still Tamás’s father and Katalin understands that Tamás must crave the man’s approval, even though he’s dead.
‘I suppose your father would be proud to see you in the uniform of the Secret Police,’ she ventures. Tamás still has his back to her but she notices his shoulders tensing. ‘He’d want to know that you were doing the job to the best of your ability. Doing a thorough job. Not cutting corners.’
Tamás spins around, his face blazing red. Katalin takes a step back, expecting him to shout at her to get out. She shouldn’t have reminded him of his failure to search her room.
‘All right! I’ll tell you. He’s at the AVO headquarters on Andrássy Avenue. He’s being questioned.’ The fight seems to go out of him.
She wants to ask what her father is being interrogated about, but she senses she’s only going to be granted a certain number of questions. Instead she asks, ‘And how is he?’
Tamás frowns then says, ‘Quiet.’
What does that mean? That he’s alive but refusing to talk? Or that they’ve battered the life out of him until he can’t speak?
‘And what will happen to him?’
‘If he does the sensible thing and signs the confession, he’ll be tried and sentenced. But if he refuses to sign –’ Tamás lets the sentence hang.
‘What do you mean signs the confession? He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s got nothing to confess!’ She can only assume this so-called confession is a pack of lies which is why her father has refused to sign it.
Tamás shrugs, confirming her suspicions. How can he bear to work for these people? Katalin has one last request before she goes. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. This is a lot to ask. If he’s found out, it would land him in serious trouble. And the consequences for her could be disastrous. She almost doesn’t do it, but then she says, ‘Will you give him this?’
Tamás looks horrified.
‘Please?’
He snatches the piece of paper from her hand and stuffs it into his trouser pocket. ‘You have to leave now.’
‘Thank you,’ whispers Katalin. Even though she loathes everything that Tamás stands for, she appreciates the enormous risk he’s taking on her behalf. She has no idea if he’ll pass on the message to her father, but at least she knows Márton is still alive. Tamás could report her for what she’s done, but somehow she doesn’t think he will. He would only compromise himself.
On her way out she smiles at Mrs Kún. The smile is not returned.
*
When Márton eventually collapses in front of the white wall, the guards drag him back to his cell, semi-conscious and muttering gibberish. He falls onto his plank bed but the images which have played out on the wall are impregnated in his mind’s eye, running on an eternal loop. He groans out loud, trying to make them go away. He is only barely conscious of the fact that now he is one of those whimpering madmen.
But he isn’t allowed to
lie there for long. It soon turns out that the AVO have something else planned for him. Still feverish from his hallucinations, they drag him to a cell with two inches of cold water covering the concrete floor and throw him inside so that he falls on his knees, soaking his trousers.
Drip, drip, drip. Márton crouches in the cell, shivering uncontrollably. The dank walls are running with water, and drops fall at irregular intervals from the ceiling onto his head. The cold is so bone-chilling that it numbs his mind as well as his body. Only the jerks of cramping leg muscles and the castanet-like chattering of his teeth remind him he is still alive.
He’s never been so cold in his life, not even during the harshest winters of the war. He hugs himself tight and rubs his arms in a vain attempt to warm up. He could lie face down and drown himself. Maybe it would be for the best.
*
Tamás is back on cellar duty, patrolling the underground corridors at AVO headquarters. From the grand façade of the building you’d never guess there was such a loathsome place hidden underneath. He takes his frustration out on the prisoners, banging the spy holes open and shut with as much noise as he can make. Today he’s in a particularly bad mood.
Katalin Bakos’s visit, two days ago, has unnerved him more than he cares to admit. He can’t understand the boldness of the girl, calmly sitting in his living room, waiting for him to come home. His mother was clearly terrified of her. He didn’t even know that she knew where he lived. Children from school never came home to play. But then he remembers two girls bringing him some work when he was off sick. Was that Katalin and her friend Róza? He thinks it might have been.
What makes him angry is that Katalin Bakos has again exposed his weaknesses. He should have opened the violin case when he searched her room. He should have thrown her out of his apartment and refused to speak to her. And he should certainly have not taken the note which is currently burning a hole in his trouser pocket. He should have destroyed it, but he didn’t. Another sign of weakness.
He’s not weak!
Goodbye to Budapest Page 9