Goodbye to Budapest

by Margarita Morris

  ‘Your absence from work will be noted in your file and reported to the authorities.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ says Zoltán, his moment of sympathy rapidly running out, ‘why don’t you take my file and stick it up your arse?’ He gives the stunned secretary a playful slap on the cheek, then turns and walks out of the factory followed by Sándor.

  ‘That was brave,’ says Sándor when they’re outside.

  ‘He’s had it coming a long time,’ says Zoltán.

  They catch a tram back to the centre of Budapest where they find the city in uproar. People are out on the streets in their thousands, Soviet stars are being pulled off the top of public buildings, shops are daubed with the slogan Russians go home! It’s better than Zoltán could have imagined.

  ‘Where to?’ asks Sándor.

  A group of students walk past shouting that they’re going to the radio station to get their demands broadcast to the nation.

  ‘Shall we?’ asks Zoltán.

  ‘Why not?’ says Sándor.

  *

  Márton and his companions walk with the crowds heading back across the river to Pest. It’s dusk by the time the thousands of demonstrators are gathered in Parliament Square gazing up at the ornate, Gothic building that houses their government. Márton can only guess at the political turmoil that must be going on inside that building right now. Gerő could never have anticipated something like this when he let the march go ahead. If the man’s got any sense he’ll resign before the mob comes for him.

  The crowd wants Imre Nagy as the country’s leader. They chant his name, calling for him to be reinstated. He’s still a communist, of course, but at least he’s a moderate. Someone who will listen to reason.

  The crowd is swelling all the time as more and more people pack into the square, the mass of bodies offering some protection against the chill night air. They chant, they sing, and they wait. They’ll wait all night if they have to. No one shows any inclination to go home.

  But it seems that the Party has other ideas.

  Suddenly all the lights are turned off and the square is plunged into darkness. The singing and the chanting turns into boos and jeers.

  ‘They’re trying to make us leave,’ shouts a voice.

  ‘We won’t leave,’ shouts another.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  ‘Everyone keep calm.’

  And then a beautiful thing happens. A man standing in front of Márton rolls up the newspaper he has been carrying, takes a cigarette lighter from his pocket and lights the edge of the paper, holding the makeshift torch high above his head. One by one more people follow suit, setting light to newspapers and leaflets, whatever they have to hand. Márton and Feri both light their copies of the students’ sixteen demands. Within a minute the square is filled with a sea of flickering lights and Márton looks around in wonder. It’s a sight to bring a tear to his eye. The singing and the chanting resumes, as fervent as ever.

  After a few minutes, the street lights in the square are turned back on. The politicians have obviously got the message that this crowd isn’t going anywhere. A shout of triumph goes up. It’s a small victory against the bullying tactics of the Party, but it’s a victory all the same. The shouts for Imre Nagy intensify.

  Eventually, the man himself appears on the balcony, his chubby features and round, wire-rimmed spectacles making him look like an overgrown schoolboy. He blinks at the crowd as if he can’t quite believe what he is seeing and hearing. He holds up a hand and the crowd falls silent. This is the moment they have been waiting for.

  ‘Comrades,’ begins their would-be leader.

  Márton’s heart sinks. Nagy has made a tactical error. The crowd groans and jeers. The language of Soviet socialism has no place in the new Hungary. Words like comrade and collectivisation have become poisoned by association.

  ‘We are not comrades!’ the crowd yells back, asserting its right to individual choice.

  Nagy holds up a hand, acknowledging his mistake, and tries again. ‘Young Hungarians, with your enthusiasm you will pave the way for democratic socialism…’

  That’s more like it, thinks Márton. Nagy is clearly someone who is able to adapt to a changing situation, and that is what this country needs right now.

  Nagy keeps his speech short but it seems to satisfy the crowd which breaks out into a spontaneous rendition of the Hungarian National Anthem.

  ‘Glad you came?’ asks Feri when the singing dies down.

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,’ says Márton.

  *

  By the time Zoltán and Sándor arrive at the radio station, the narrow cobbled streets are already thronged with thousands of people. Zoltán has never seen anything like it. The energy, excitement and determination of the crowd is contagious. He’s dreamt of participating in something like this for years. And now it’s finally happening.

  ‘Come on,’ he says to Sándor. ‘We have to get closer.’

  They weave their way through the crowds until they are within sight of the main building: an ornate four-storey house with cherubs on the roof, a balcony above a wide portico and a huge oak front door. Nearby are various studios and storage depots. Armed AVO officers are standing guard outside the main building, looking wary, but not pointing their weapons at anyone. The demonstrators are simply calling for a microphone so they can broadcast their demands over the airwaves. Zoltán and Sándor join their voices to the rest.

  The figure of a woman appears behind a net curtain at a first-floor window.

  ‘That’s the director of Budapest Radio,’ someone shouts. ‘She’s the one who has the power to let us have a microphone or not.’

  ‘We’ll stay here until she gives us one.’

  Spurred on by the appearance of the radio director, the crowd keeps chanting. After another ten or fifteen minutes there are shouts of ‘Stand back!’ and ‘Make way!’

  The crowd parts to let through a radio van which has been dispatched from one of the depots.

  This is it, thinks Zoltán. The demands of the crowd are actually going to be met. If it was that easy, why didn’t they demand something like this sooner? But he knows why. Because they’ve been living in fear, and not without reason. But not anymore.

  A hush falls on the crowd. From an open window on the opposite side of the street, strains of gypsy violin music drift across the air.

  A female radio announcer climbs onto the roof of the van and informs the crowd through a loud hailer that the director of Budapest Radio has agreed to broadcast the students’ demands. She holds up one of the typed posters listing the sixteen points as if to prove the director’s good faith. A cheer goes up from the crowd and then there are calls for silence. The broadcast is about to begin. One of the technical crew passes her a microphone and gives her a signal. She clears her throat and begins to read aloud.

  ‘We demand the immediate evacuation of all Soviet troops…’

  The woman is reading out the third or fourth demand when a murmur of discontent arises in the crowd.

  ‘This is a hoax!’ shouts an angry voice, interrupting the announcer mid-sentence.

  Caught off guard, she pauses and scans the crowd, looking for the source of the interruption. Zoltán sees indignation, but also fear in her eyes.

  ‘They’re not broadcasting,’ shouts the same angry voice. ‘Listen.’ The violin music coming from the open window across the street has changed to that of an accordion. ‘They’re still broadcasting gypsy music. She’s not broadcasting our demands.’

  How quickly the mood of the crowd changes. Hope turns to anger. Joy turns to fury.

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘Cheat!’

  Zoltán feels a crushing sense of disappointment. Why couldn’t the radio director have done what she said she was going to to do? Did she really think she could fool this crowd with a hoax and everyone would be happy and go home to bed? Is she really that stupid?

  ‘Bastards!’ sho
uts Sándor, his fist in the air.

  The female announcer drops the microphone and jumps down from the van as angry protesters swarm forward. Zoltán is shoved out of the way as two students drag the driver from his seat. One of the students climbs into the van and starts the ignition. Everyone jumps back as he revs the engine and then reverses at high speed into the big oak doors of the radio building.

  The armed AVO officers are no longer simply observing the crowd, they are holding their Kalashnikovs at the ready. This is going to turn nasty very quickly.

  ‘Are you going to shoot your fellow Hungarians?’ shout the protesters nearest the AVO. ‘Shame on you!’

  The student who has commandeered the van drives forward a few feet, then once again reverses into the door but the old oak holds fast.

  Something whizzes past Zoltán’s ear and he realises that people are throwing stones at the windows of the radio building. Glass shatters.

  ‘What the…’ Sándor ducks down and brings his hand to the back of his head. His palm comes away bloody.

  Someone with a lousy aim has accidentally caught him on the back of the head.

  ‘We should go,’ says Zoltán. He doesn’t like the look of those AVO men who are getting jumpy, itching to fire into the crowd.

  ‘Not bloody likely!’

  ‘But you’re hurt.’ Concussion most likely, thinks Zoltán. Róza would know.

  ‘I’m fine. This is the only way they’ll listen.’ Sándor picks up the stone that hit him and lobs it at the building, shattering a window on the second floor.

  What the hell, thinks Zoltán. He too picks up a stone and throws it. He’s angry at the way things have turned out. But what revolution in history was ever entirely peaceful?

  He bends down to look for another stone and sees a canister rolling towards him along the cobbles. Suddenly he can’t see a thing. A cloud of acrid smoke pours from the canister, making his eyes water and sting. He stumbles backwards, choking on the noxious fumes. He hears shouts of ‘Tear gas!’ and ‘AVO inside the building!’

  Panic starts to rise up inside him. He mustn’t lose Sándor who needs medical assistance, whatever he might say. But he can’t see a damn thing and he can barely breathe. He doubles over, coughing and trying, in vain, to spit out the foul taste that is filling his mouth and burning his throat. In their haste to run away, people crash into him. He loses his balance and falls to the ground. He struggles back to his feet but immediately yelps in shock as a jet of freezing cold water hits him full on, soaking him to the skin.

  The AVO are spraying jets of water from the upper storey windows of the radio building in an effort to disperse the crowds. But at least the water is clearing the poisoned air.

  The crack of gunfire echoes around the narrow street. Fuck, thinks Zoltán, first the tear gas, then the water jets and now they’re shooting us.

  A girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen, staggers towards him, her clothes sodden, her wet hair plastered to her head. Her eyes are wide with fear. Instinctively Zoltán reaches out a hand to her. She shouldn’t be here in this chaos. She should be at home with her family. He’ll offer to escort her home, make sure she gets there safely.

  He calls to her and their eyes meet. A burst of machine-gun fire. Her body goes rigid, her head flies backwards and she crumples to the ground. A crimson stain spreads across her chest.

  ‘No!’ shouts Zoltán. He drops to his knees beside her and presses his hands to the wound in a vain effort to stop the bleeding. Her blood washes over his hands, staining the sleeves and front of his coat. ‘Hold on,’ he shouts. ‘An ambulance will be here soon.’ He has no idea if it’s true. The battle is raging around him but he no longer sees or hears anything.

  The girl looks at him as if she wants to say something, and then her eyes close and her head flops to the side. The rise and fall of her chest ceases. Zoltán can’t believe that she’s just died and he doesn’t even know her name.

  A hand on his shoulder spins him round. It’s Sándor. ‘Hungarian soldiers from the barracks are on our side and they’re handing out weapons to anyone who wants one. We have to arm ourselves.’ He points in the direction of a Hungarian army truck surrounded by scores of outstretched hands, eagerly grabbing hold of rifles and submachine guns.

  ‘Arm ourselves?’ Zoltán is incredulous. ‘A weapon did this!’ He points at the body of the dead girl.

  ‘I know,’ says Sándor. ‘Which is why we have to fight back. Come on.’

  Sándor pulls him away and together they stumble over falling bodies, slipping on the wet cobblestones. Armed protesters surge past on their way to fight the AVO. Sándor grabs two rifles from a soldier who’s handing them out like lollipops and passes one to Zoltán.

  ‘I’m going home,’ says Zoltán. He can’t get the image of the dead girl out of his mind.

  *

  ‘I swear to God I will give that boy such a hiding when he comes home, he won’t know what’s hit him.’ Petra is standing at the window in Katalin’s apartment watching the street, worry etched on her face.

  Katalin hugs Eva to her. Lajos has his arms around her leg, sensing that something is not right with the world. At least her children are too young to get caught up in what’s going on today. But Tibor is fourteen – nearly fifteen she reminds herself – and Katalin can’t say she’s surprised that he didn’t come straight home after school today. What teenage boy hasn’t dreamt of being a hero?

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ she says, trying to reassure Petra. ‘He’s a smart boy. He won’t do anything silly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ says Petra, pulling a face. They both know Tibor has a mind of his own and is prone to wild ideas.

  But Katalin has her own worries too. Márton and Zoltán have also not yet returned home. She went to look for them at Feri’s but found the café closed, its shutters drawn. It’s dark outside now, but still the streets are alive with protesters. The distant sound of gunfire makes them both jump. It sounds as if things are getting violent.

  Then Petra lets out a cry of relief. ‘It’s Tibor. I can see him!’

  ‘I told you he’d be fine,’ says Katalin, pleased for her friend. The happiness is written all over Petra’s face, but by the time she steps onto the landing to intercept her son on his way up the stairs she has resumed the role of stern matriarch. Katalin watches from the doorway. She’s curious to hear what Tibor has been up to.

  Tibor runs up the stairs two at a time but stops short when he sees Petra standing at the top, arms akimbo, glaring at him.

  ‘And where the hell do you think you’ve been, young man?’

  ‘Aw, Mum, it was amazing. We went to the statue and some men gave us a lift in their trucks and I climbed Stalin’s statue and then some men got their blowtorches out and we pulled the statue down and smashed it to pieces on the ground and…’

  ‘Enough! Upstairs now! I’ve been worried sick about you.’

  ‘You didn’t have to worry, Mum, I was fine. And you should have seen…’

  ‘I said upstairs!’

  Katalin catches Tibor’s eye as he follows his mother up to the top floor. He has the grace to look sheepish and she gives him an encouraging smile. Petra will soon calm down now that he’s back safe and sound. The question is whether she can keep him safe.

  Katalin is about to close the door when she hears voices and footsteps on the stairs. It’s her father and András. Thank God they’re home safe.

  ‘Papa. I’ve been so worried about you,’ she says as the two men reach the landing. She realises she sounds just like Petra scolding her son. She ushers them into the apartment and closes the door. ‘You didn’t go on the march, did you?’

  ‘We most certainly did,’ says her father, taking off his coat and hanging it up. ‘Tell her András, she won’t believe me.’

  András nods enthusiastically. ‘We walked with the protesters all the way to Bem Square in Buda and then back to Parliament Square where we heard Imre Nagy make a speech.’
>
  ‘Goodness,’ says Katalin. She would never have thought her father had the physical strength for such a trek, not since his return from the camp. But in fact, now she looks at him more closely, he looks better than she’s seen him in ages. More alive. As if he’s found a new purpose to live. He scoops little Eva into his arms and gives her a kiss.

  ‘There’s some bread and salami in the kitchen,’ she says. ‘Help yourselves whilst I put the children to bed, and then you can tell me all about it.’ Zoltán is still not back and she prays to God that he’ll be home soon. Its her duty to keep her family safe, just as Petra’s job is to keep Tibor safe. She puts the children to bed – they’ve stayed up much later than normal today – and joins her father and András in the kitchen where they are demolishing the food she left out.

  Between mouthfuls they tell her about the march and the demonstration in Parliament Square.

  ‘They’re calling it a revolution,’ says Márton.

  ‘Do you think this really is the start of change?’ Katalin hardly dares hope, after all these years.

  ‘I think it could be.’ He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze.

  The apartment door crashes open and she runs into the hallway. Zoltán and Sándor are standing there soaking wet and covered in grime. The side of Sándor’s face is streaked with blood and there are blood stains on Zoltán’s coat. They are both carrying rifles. Where the hell did they get those from?

  ‘Oh my God!’ If Tibor had come home in this state – and carrying a weapon! – then Petra would have had something to worry about. ‘Whatever happened to you two?’ She rushes into her husband’s arms and hugs him tight.

  ‘Things turned nasty at the radio station,’ says Zoltán. ‘Can you help Sándor? He’s been hurt.’

  ‘Get out of these wet clothes,’ says Katalin. ‘Then come into the kitchen.’

  Ten minutes later she is washing the congealed blood out of Sándor’s hair with a cloth and a bowl of warm water.

  ‘You should get a doctor to take a look at that,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ insists Sándor. ‘It’s just a cut from a stone. There were others with far worse injuries than this.’