Goodbye to Budapest

by Margarita Morris

  Someone shouts that there’s a truck waiting for them round the side of the building. They surge in that direction and, after a moment’s hesitation, Tamás follows. But as soon as they are outside, a mob of angry protesters rushes forward, shooting. The AVO officers at the front, those who were most eager to escape, fall to the ground. Those immediately behind them, trip over the fallen bodies. From his position at the back, Tamás sees it all unfolding in front of him as if in slow motion. Then he turns and runs in the opposite direction. He doesn’t know where he’s going. All he knows is that he has to get away from here as quickly as possible.

  *

  The hospital is chaotic, the wounded being carried in on stretchers or helped by their friends. Katalin sits on the floor next to her father who is propped up against a wall where the ambulance men left him. She can tell he’s in pain from the way his mouth is drawn in a tight line. He needs to get the wound seen to before it goes septic. He’s already lost so much blood and his face is taut and grey. She holds his hand and waits for someone to help him.

  Angry rumours are flying around that between one hundred and two hundred people were killed at Parliament Square. Katalin can’t get her head around such a large number of deaths. All she can think about is the young man who died at her feet asking for help. She regrets that she couldn’t do more for him.

  Doctors, nurses and porters are rushing around, tending to the casualties and a harassed-looking woman with a clipboard is trying vainly to impose order. Around her Katalin sees a catalogue of human misery – gunshot wounds, shrapnel wounds, burns, missing eyes, torn off limbs. Ordinary Hungarians who until a couple of days ago were simply getting on with their lives as best they could are now sprawled on the floor, suffering injuries which will scar them for the rest of their lives. And they’re only the ones who are still breathing.

  Her greatest fear is that she’ll see Zoltán here amongst the wounded and dying. He didn’t come home last night. Wherever he is, she just prays he’s safe.

  ‘Katalin!’ She jumps at the sound of a familiar voice calling her name. Róza is making her way towards them, stepping over the legs of a young woman lying on the floor. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Katalin throws her arms around her, overcome with happiness at seeing her best friend alive and well, although she can’t help noticing the dark rings under her eyes. Róza’s usually bouncy red hair is tied back in a limp ponytail.

  ‘It’s Papa. He was shot at Parliament Square.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Róza crouches down beside Márton and checks his pulse. His eyes are closed and he barely seems to know where he is anymore. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood. We have to get that wound checked out. Can you help me lift him?’

  ‘Just tell me what to do,’ says Katalin, relieved that help has arrived at last. If she can just get her father home in one piece then she’ll insist that he stays there until the trouble is over.

  *

  Tamás runs for his life. Chaos and destruction are all around him. In his haste he almost trips over a dead Russian who has been left lying in the road, his bullet-ridden body sprinkled in white lime. Why don’t they clear the damn corpses away? He’s barely recovered from the shock of the dead Russian when he sees something even worse. An AVO informer is swinging from a tree by his ankles, his bloody torso stripped bare and beaten while his lifeless fingertips trail on the ground. His mouth has been stuffed with banknotes. Otherwise respectable-looking women with shopping bags on their arms spit at the dangling corpse as they walk past. Tamás spins away in a daze, sickened by what he has just seen. What has happened to people? He should have kept hold of his weapon, he sees that now. It’s too dangerous to be out on the streets, unarmed.

  He collapses into an alleyway, gasping for breath, sweat pouring off him. He bends over with his hands on his knees and tries to suck air into his burning lungs. He wipes a drool of saliva from his mouth and stands up, trying to work out his location. Nothing looks the same anymore, there’s so much destruction everywhere. But there’s a street sign still visible on the blasted stonework, even if the windows have been blown out and the building gutted by fire. He’s not far from his apartment now. If he can just avoid being shot at or lynched for another ten minutes, then he’ll be back home.

  He has no idea how his mother is coping with all of this. He hasn’t been home since Tuesday when all the trouble erupted.

  He’s never been particularly close to his mother. After his father died in the war, she turned in on herself, as if her quotient of feeling had been used up. He’s spent a lifetime trying to get her to notice him, to pay him some attention. He joined the Secret Police hoping it would make her proud and it did for a while, maybe because he reminded her of her war-hero husband. Would she be proud if she could see him now, running for his life?

  He peers out from the alleyway to check that the coast is clear, then he makes a run for it. Just two blocks to go, and then a left turn.

  He stops short. This isn’t his street, he must have got confused. He looks around for a familiar landmark and sees the café on the corner, its shutters pulled down, the door barred. This is his street, but what in God’s name has happened to it? He walks down the middle of the road, staring at the shelled buildings and piles of rubble. He stops in front of an apartment block that has had its front blown off, exposing the insides of the rooms like a doll’s house. Looking up, he recognises his own sitting room and bedroom. There is no sign of any life.

  He backs away from the only place he’s ever called home. It’s nothing more than a skeleton now, its flesh ripped clean away. Where can he go? He ran from Parliament Square, wanting to leave the AVO and have nothing more to do with any of them. Now he realises the AVO is the only family he’s got left.

  *

  Katalin and her father hitch a lift back to their apartment with a truckload of students distributing weapons and ammunition to freedom fighters situated around the city. She helps him up the stairs and into his favourite reading chair in the living room.

  Márton lets out a sigh. ‘I suppose this means my fighting days are over.’ He taps his bandaged shoulder with his good hand. It’s just like him to make light of his injuries.

  ‘Sit still. I’ll fetch you a glass of Pálinka.’ Róza recommended it as a painkiller. The hospital is running low on essential medicines.

  She pours him a generous measure and watches as he takes a sip. ‘That’s better,’ he says, closing his eyes.

  The bullet caused a nasty flesh wound to Márton’s shoulder, but hadn’t lodged there, thankfully. Róza cleaned the area with alcohol, stitched him up, applied a dressing and put his arm in a sling.

  ‘I won’t be able to sleep on my side,’ he says. ‘You know, when I was locked in the cells in Andrássy Avenue, I had to sleep on my back with my palms facing upwards all the time. It wasn’t very comfortable at first, but it’s surprising what you get used to.’

  Katalin takes his good hand and gives it a squeeze. He has hardly ever talked about his time in custody or at the labour camp, saying it’s in the past and he would prefer to get on with his life. But she’s sure the memory of it is still all too real for him.

  The apartment door opens and she runs into the hallway. Zoltán is standing there. His face is scratched and he’s covered in dirt, but he’s alive and he’s here now and that’s all that matters. She runs into his arms and he holds her tight against his chest. He smells of petrol.

  ‘I heard about the shooting at Parliament Square,’ he says. ‘I thought you might have been there, so I wanted to make sure you’re all right. Where are the children?’ He looks anxiously round the apartment which is unnaturally quiet.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’re safe with Petra,’ says Katalin. ‘But Papa and I were both at the square. Papa was shot in the shoulder. It was awful. I thought…’ She lets her voice trail away, unable to say she thought he might die. Instead she says, ‘But he was more fortunate than some.’ She thinks of the young man who died in her
arms. Has Zoltán witnessed similar things? She feels sure he must have.

  ‘Where is he now?’ asks Zoltán.

  ‘Through here.’ She takes his hand and leads him into the living room. As they enter the room Márton starts to rise from his chair in greeting.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ says Zoltán, clasping his father-in-law’s good hand.

  ‘How is the fight?’ asks Márton. ‘Are we winning?’

  Whilst Katalin pours him a glass of Pálinka, Zoltán pulls up a chair next to his father-in-law and talks enthusiastically about the progress they’re making at the Corvin Circle.

  ‘We’ve secured a strong defensive location, and we’re organised into fighting groups. We must have destroyed at least a dozen tanks by now. And we have a good supply of ammunition from the barracks. So far it’s going well.’

  Márton listens attentively, nodding his head. Katalin is pleased to see that Zoltán’s optimism is distracting him from his own discomfort. Hope is better than any medicine.

  ‘And what about Sándor and András?’ asks Márton. ‘How are they?’

  ‘Sándor is fighting alongside me, and András and Anna are working in the first aid station in the nearby school. They’ve set up a makeshift canteen in the basement of the school. The fighters sleep in the cinema.’

  ‘That’s very good,’ says Márton, suppressing a yawn. ‘Very good indeed. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I think I could do with a lie down. I can only take so much excitement in one day.’

  Katalin helps him to his feet and walks him to his bedroom. She gives her father a gentle hug, careful not to put any pressure on his injured shoulder and kisses him on his cheek.

  When she returns to the living room Zoltán has taken off his coat and is waiting for her. She runs into his arms and he holds her tight.

  ‘If it wasn’t for the children, I’d come with you,’ she says. ‘But I can’t leave them with Petra all the time.’

  ‘I know.’ He strokes her hair. ‘But they need you here, and your father needs you. And I need to know that you’re safe.’

  ‘I should probably go and fetch them,’ she says. ‘Petra will be wondering what’s happened to us and if she’s heard about the shooting at Parliament Square she’ll be worried sick.’

  ‘Another half an hour won’t hurt, will it?’ asks Zoltán, cupping her face in his hands.

  ‘I suppose not. I…’

  ‘Shh, no more talking.’ He puts a finger to her lips and leads her to their bedroom. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  As they fall onto the bed, Katalin lets the feel of their entwined bodies blot out the horrors of the morning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Friday, 26 October 1956

  The attack begins at dawn. Zoltán is up already, unable to sleep properly on the floor of the cinema, his mind filled with thoughts of Katalin and the children. It took every last ounce of willpower to tear himself out of his wife’s arms yesterday and return to the Corvin cinema. In the war Sándor and he toiled side by side, digging trenches to hold off the advancing Red Army. And they will fight side by side again for their country’s freedom. He shakes Sándor who is lying on his back, snoring like a pig.

  ‘Four Russian tanks are on their way from Boráros Square,’ he shouts. ‘Wake up. We have to man the anti-tank gun.’

  The 76 calibre gun was captured yesterday from a Soviet truck. It took six of them to drag the heavy weapon across the street and set it up on the steps of the Corvin Cinema. It was Zoltán’s idea to attach a cable to the trigger, passing the ends of the cable into the cinema’s ticket booth so that the gun could be operated from inside the building.

  Sándor comes to with a grunt and a snort. For a moment he looks as if he doesn’t know where he is, then he jumps to his feet, ready for action. ‘Lead the way.’

  Armed with an array of weapons purloined from the nearby army barracks and from captured Russian vehicles, the members of the Corvin Circle run to their assigned positions – doorways along Üllői Avenue, upper storey windows on József Boulevard. In the space of forty-eight hours, this rag-tag bunch of civilians and volunteers – many of them still in their teens – have organised themselves into a formidable fighting force, with the agility and ingenuity to launch surprise attacks on unsuspecting Russian tanks. Bandi has put Zoltán and Sándor in charge of the anti-tank gun on account of their strong working relationship.

  Sándor takes up his position on the cinema steps, partially shielded by a statue. Zoltán is in the ticket booth, ready to fire the anti-tank gun, the most powerful weapon that the freedom fighters have at their disposal.

  Messengers out on the streets relay the news that the tanks are approaching very slowly, making frequent stops. Zoltán takes a deep breath and wipes the palms of his hands on his trousers. This is the hardest part, the waiting. In the heat of battle there isn’t time to think. There isn’t time to be scared. But waiting for a tank to arrive, knowing that these may be your last moments on Earth, that is when fear has the power to strike deep into your soul.

  ‘They’re nearing the intersection,’ shouts a voice.

  Zoltán feels his heart starting to race. He has to rely on Sándor to tell him when the tank is in the firing line.

  ‘Get ready!’ shouts Sándor. ‘Fire!’

  Zoltán yanks hard on the cable, the muscles in his arm and shoulder tensing with the effort. He feels the shock wave from the blast.

  ‘Bull’s eye!’ shouts Sándor. ‘You hit it. Ripped the caterpillar chain right off. They’re stranded. The Molotov cocktails will finish them off now.’

  Zoltán breathes a sigh of relief. That’s one less tank on the streets, threatening his safety and that of his friends and family.

  But there’s no time for the two friends to enjoy their victory. More tanks are on the way and they need to reload the gun ready for the next attack. It’s going to be a long day.

  *

  The wounded keep arriving at the hospital and still there’s no end in sight to the fighting. Exhausted from days and nights on her feet, catching a few minutes of sleep whenever she can, Róza goes to meet the ambulance bearing the latest round of casualties.

  Over the last few days she’s seen some horrific sights. Limbs blown off by shellfire, grisly head wounds, missing eyes, gouged intestines. But it’s the fear in people’s eyes that affects her the most. She wishes she could administer hope in the way she administers medical aid. She wishes she could do more.

  She braces herself as the two ambulance men, István and Bálint, open the rear doors of their vehicle and gently lift out the latest casualty on a stretcher. With not enough ambulance drivers for the current situation, medical students like these two have volunteered to make up numbers. István is tall with dark springy hair that is coated in a layer of dust. His white coat is stained with blood. Bálint is six inches shorter but broader in the chest and shoulders. He too is coated in a layer of dust and blood.

  Róza sucks in her breath. It’s a bad case. The man has been hit in the abdomen, probably by shrapnel, and his shirt is stained a dark, crimson red. He’s unconscious, his breath making a rasping sound in his exposed chest. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.

  ‘This way,’ she says.

  The elevators are still not working. István and Bálint carry the stretcher up the stairs to the already heaving corridors. An hour ago Magda broke down in hysterics, tore up her lists and stormed out. Róza wasn’t sorry to see her go, but now the organisation of the hospital is down to her and the other doctors.

  ‘You’ll have to put him here,’ she tells the ambulance men. They lift the wounded man onto a trolley in a corridor which is already lined with casualties. They ran out of beds days ago. As they move him the man wakes up and lets out a cry of pain. He’s going to need urgent treatment if he isn’t going to die, but all the operating theatres are busy. She’ll speak to her superior and do what she can to prioritise him, but Róza fears it might not be possi
ble to save him.

  She used to believe that if she did her job to the best of her ability then she’d be able to help most people. But in the last twenty-four hours that belief has been sorely tested. It’s now almost at breaking point. She’s been rushing from one patient to the next, cleaning wounds, bandaging limbs, trying to do the best she can. But they are running out of supplies. Stocks of anaesthetics and painkillers are perilously low. There’s a growing risk of infection because of a lack of antiseptic and penicillin. There aren’t enough surgeons to deal with all the urgent cases. All Róza has to offer are words of sympathy and comfort but it’s not enough. The cries of the wounded are pitiful to hear. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get that wailing sound out of her head. And all around her people are dying.

  ‘We’ll bring the others up,’ says István grimly. She wonders what horrors he’s witnessed out in the streets. Do they leave people behind because they’re beyond help?

  Róza nods dumbly, looking at the man on the trolley. He’s not going to make it. All she can do is try to make his last moments on earth as comfortable as possible.

  *

  It’s not fair, being grounded when other kids his age – and younger! – are out on the streets fighting for their country. Tibor kicks his toes against the skirting board and gazes longingly out of the window at the street below. So much for his moment of glory in helping to bring down Stalin’s statue. He’s sure Géza must be out there, having loads of fun. He’s probably acquired a gun by now, the lucky devil.

  He can hear his mother moving around in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. They’ve been living off dry bread and an old salami sausage for days now because she’s too scared to leave the apartment. She’s so preoccupied with rationing out their meagre food supply, would she even notice if he slipped out? He might be able to bring back something to eat, and then she’d thank him and realise that he’s not a baby anymore.