Katalin can no longer see what she is doing as tears well up in eyes, clouding her vision. She rises to her feet and staggers away from the stove. She doesn’t want Lajos to see her upset.
A hand on her shoulder makes her turn around. It’s József, offering her the bottle of Pálinka. This time she takes the bottle and has a sip. ‘Courage, girl,’ says József. ‘Have courage. Like your mother.’
Katalin nods her thanks.
When she returns to the stove, Petra says she thinks the stew is ready to be served. They ladle the mixture into bowls and pass them around.
For a few minutes the only sounds are those of chewing and swallowing. Not a drop of the stew goes to waste.
‘That was delicious,’ says Márton when they’ve finished. ‘Best lentil and bean stew I’ve ever eaten.’
‘It was yummy,’ says Tibor, and everyone agrees.
Katalin smiles at them all, pleased to have brought a brief moment of comfort to this terrible day.
Then little Eva lets out a wail and Katalin picks her up, wrinkling her nose. The baby needs a new nappy and she’s forgotten to bring any with her.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll go,’ says her father, getting to his feet. ‘You stay here. I won’t be long.’
*
For an hour or more Tamás has been circling the block, too scared to go inside and present himself to Márton Bakos. Márton would be justified in sending him away. But he keeps coming back to the building’s double doors. He’s got nowhere else to go. What has he got to lose?
He pushes open the door, expecting to be shooed away by that grizzled old caretaker, but József is nowhere to be seen. In fact there’s a deathly silence about the place, as if all the residents have disappeared.
He climbs the stairs to the Bakos apartment, his boots echoing in the empty stairwell. He presses the bell. Just a quick short ring, not like the way Vajda held the button down for ages until Márton opened the door.
There’s no answer.
In some ways he’s relieved. If they had answered they might have turned him away. And justifiably so. Probably out of the habits he’s picked up over the last few days, he tries the door handle anyway and finds the door unlocked.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
He steps inside, closing the door behind him.
The apartment is just how he remembered it. He stands on the threshold of the living room and sees that the books have been replaced on the bookshelves, although there are gaps where the foreign language titles are still missing. The pictures have been rehung on the wall and the piano music has been tidied away.
He goes to Katalin’s room but from the shirt and tie hanging on the back of a wooden chair, he supposes this must be Márton’s room now. He crosses the hallway and opens the door to what was Márton’s room. Besides the double bed, there’s a child’s bed under the window and a baby’s cot. This must be where she sleeps now with her husband and children.
On top of the chest of drawers is the violin case which he failed to open when they searched the apartment. He walks over to it and runs his fingers over the lock. He could open it now, but he’s sure that all he would find inside is a violin, quite harmless.
He shouldn’t be here. He’ll go to the kitchen and see if they’ve left any food, then he’ll go somewhere else. Just then he hears the front door opening and closing. There are footsteps in the hallway. He looks around, but there’s nowhere to hide.
*
Márton closes the door behind him. He’s surprised to find it unlocked, but then they left in such a hurry this morning. He’ll lock it before he goes back to the cellar. You can’t be too careful. A group of hungry Russians could easily break in and help themselves to whatever they fancy. In the war they went around demanding that people hand over their wristwatches, as if they didn’t have any timepieces in the Soviet Union. He shakes his head at the memory. Now, where does Katalin keep Eva’s things? Ah, yes, he remembers. In the chest of drawers in the bedroom. Best be quick and get back down to the basement. He pushes open the door and walks in.
The shock of seeing a figure lurking by the wardrobe is so great that for a moment he isn’t able to utter a sound. Is the man armed? Márton doesn’t have anything with which to defend himself. He assumes the intruder must be because almost everyone is these days.
‘Who are you?’ he asks brusquely, trying to inject a note of aggression into his voice to mask his fear. ‘There’s nothing of value here.’
The intruder steps forwards, showing his face properly for the first time. ‘Please don’t hurt me. I’m not armed.’
Márton blinks in surprise and realises it’s the boy from Andrássy Avenue. What was his name? Tamás, that was it. He was the junior AVO officer who was involved in his arrest and who patrolled the cellars, opening and closing the spy holes with such needless force. Even at the time he knew it was just a ploy to intimidate the prisoners and he tried not to let the noise of clanking spy holes bother him. But now Tamás is the one who is frightened. This is what communism has done to them. They’ve all been living in a state of perpetual fear and it’s hard to shake it off.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks more gently. Now that he’s got over his initial shock, he can see that Tamás is no longer wearing his AVO uniform but a jumbled set of clothes – a check shirt, a brown jumper, an old trench coat – that look as if they have been chosen at random from different people’s wardrobes.
‘The door was unlocked. I’ve been living rough for days and I…I just wanted to…’ His voice starts to break up.
‘It’s all right,’ says Márton. ‘Take your time.’ The boy has obviously suffered some kind of trauma.
Suddenly Tamás crumples. He drops onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. His shoulders shake and he lets out a great heaving sob. Taken aback, Márton sits next to him and pats him on the back.
‘I’m…I’m so sorry,’ splutters Tamás between sobs. ‘For everything.’
‘I know,’ says Márton. He passes Tamás a clean handkerchief and waits whilst he wipes his eyes and blows his nose.
‘Can you ever forgive me?’
This is a question which Márton has wrestled with over the years since his release from the labour camp. What would he do if he were to come face to face with Vajda? Who is ultimately to blame for what he suffered? It’s an impossible question to answer, so in the end he says, ‘You were doing your job in a corrupt system. Of all the guards at Andrássy Avenue, you were my favourite.’
Tamás gives him a weak smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Now,’ says Márton, standing up, ‘I came in here to fetch a clean nappy for my granddaughter. Katalin will send out a search party if I’m not back soon.’ He opens the top drawer and takes out half a dozen clean towelling nappies, just in case.
‘Where is everyone?’ asks Tamás.
‘We’re sheltering in the basement. It’s not really safe to be upstairs with all this fighting going on.’ As if to prove his point, a blast from outside shakes the building and they both duck down. ‘Will you come with me?’
Tamás nods his head and a tear trickles down his face.
*
Feri is ready for them. Lining the counter top is a row of Molotov cocktails, as carefully prepared as one of his famous coffees. He loads the bottles into an empty crate and carries it to an upstairs window overlooking the street. Down below are the carcases of burnt out cars and an overturned tram. There is also a bunch of flowers marking the spot where a freedom fighter died, and an open suitcase overflowing with money people have donated to help those widowed or orphaned by the fighting.
He opens the window to its full height and waits. When all this is over he’ll go to Paris. He’ll climb the Eiffel Tower before he’s too old for such a thing. He’ll visit Notre Dame and Sacré Coeur. He’ll stroll around the Louvre and the many art galleries and afterwards he’ll drink coffee in Montmartre. In the spring he’ll enjoy long walks along the banks of the Seine. Maybe he’ll even
fall in love.
He is jerked out of his daydream by a rumbling that sounds like an earthquake. He leans out of the window and sees a convoy of three tanks lumbering down the street, firing indiscriminately at buildings and people. The bottles in the crate clink together as the floorboards pick up the vibrations of the caterpillar tracks on the cobbles. It feels as if every bone in his body is rattling in sympathy.
With a deep breath he picks up one of the bottles. In his other hand he holds a cigarette lighter. As the gun of the first tank draws level with his café, he lights the rag in the bottle and hurls it with all his strength at the vehicle, aiming for the engine grille at the back. He’s heard you have to douse the engine in burning petrol to bring the tank to a standstill. The bottle explodes in a ball of flame – not a bad shot for a first attempt. But the tank is still moving forwards, like a creature from prehistoric times.
He picks up a second bottle. As he prepares to light the rag, the tank turns its gun on him. He throws the bottle at the same instant the tank fires.
As the building explodes around him and Feri falls to earth in an avalanche of stone and rubble, he fancies he hears a choir of angels singing the Marseillaise.
*
The attic roof is so steeply pitched that there’s only room for András and the two boys to stand up in the very centre. The smoke and dust outside prevent much light getting through the tiny windows.
‘This must be the last attic,’ says András. They’ve had to knock down two fire walls to reach the attic at the very end of the block. By his reckoning they should be directly above the tank now. Close enough to hit it.
He prises open the sky light in the roof. The hinges, which probably haven’t been used in years, howl in protest. He sticks his head out of the window, but all he can see at this angle is the grey slate roof sloping away before him. If he’s going to hit the tank, he’ll have to lean out further than that. Otherwise there’s the risk that a Molotov cocktail will simply land in the gutter and blow the top off the building, sending them all skywards. He contemplates the two boys. Between the pair of them, they’re probably strong enough to take his weight.
Another blast from the tank rocks the building and he comes to a decision.
‘All right, boys, this is what we’re going to do.’ They look at him expectantly. Oh God, he thinks, please let this work. ‘I’m going to lean out of the window with a bottle in my hands and you’re going to hold me by the ankles. As soon as I’ve thrown the bottle, you’re going to haul me back inside. Have you got that?’
They nod their heads vigorously. ‘Sure, we can do that.’
He removes his jacket and prepares to lower himself out of the window. ‘Remember, hold on tight and don’t let go.’
‘We won’t, Mister. Promise.’
Bottle in one hand, lighter in the other, he eases himself out of the window onto the slate roof. The wind whips his hair and he is reminded of the mountainside at Recsk and of the day a landslide threatened to kill him. He shouts at the boys to grab his ankles. He feels their strong grips holding him tight, then he lowers himself further down the roof until he can see over the gutter into the street below. The tank is swivelling its gun, preparing to fire another round. He lights the bottle and throws it at the tank, directly above the engine grille.
‘Now!’ he shouts and suddenly he’s being hauled backwards by his ankles. He lands on the attic floor with a bump.
An explosion in the street below rips the tiles off the roof above them and András sees the clouds scudding across the sky.
*
Zoltán sits on the floor with his back against the schoolroom wall, Sándor’s head resting in his lap. He can’t take his friend to the hospital but he isn’t going to leave him alone. He’s done with fighting. Look where it’s got them.
‘We had some good times, didn’t we?’ says Sándor. Anna has made him as comfortable as she can and given him something for the pain, but Zoltán suspects Sándor’s present nostalgic mood has more to do with the half bottle of Pálinka which Bandi gave them, telling them to finish it off.
‘We did,’ says Zoltán, taking a sip and holding the neck of the bottle to Sándor’s dry lips.
‘Remember when we used to pick apples in old Ferenc’s orchard and you fell from the tree?’ says Sándor.
Zoltán had forgotten, but he remembers now. It was a simpler, more innocent time, before the war, before the communists, when their families still owned vineyards north of Budapest.
‘Tell Csaba Elek from me that…’ Sándor’s voice falls so low that Zoltán can’t hear what he wants him to say to the Party Secretary at the factory.
‘What should I tell him?’
‘Tell him he’s a jerk.’
‘Right, will do.’
They both fall silent for a moment. Zoltán takes the bottle of Pálinka and tilts it to Sándor’s lips before taking a gulp himself. It’s nearly all gone. Outside there are more bangs and explosions. Zoltán is so used to them now, he almost doesn’t notice.
Suddenly Sándor says, ‘You’ve got a pretty wife. And two great kids.’
‘I know,’ says Zoltán, his throat tightening.
‘When you get out of here,’ says Sándor, ‘you should go to…go to…’merica.’ His voice is starting to slur.
‘America, you reckon?’ asks Zoltán. ‘What have they got there, then?’ He wants to keep Sándor talking for as long as possible. He’s still clinging to the ever-decreasing hope that the fighting will ease and they’ll be able to get him to the hospital before it’s too late.
‘They got…they got…’ His voice is no more than a croak.
‘Tell me,’ says Zoltán leaning his face close to Sándor’s.
Sándor smiles and his eyes roll into the back of his head. As he draws his last breath, a cry goes up from outside that the tank has been destroyed.
Chapter Eighteen
Zoltán doesn’t see the point anymore. All around him the battle rages on, but it’s clearly a lost cause. This time the Russians have come prepared and they’re not going to give up until every last Hungarian freedom fighter has surrendered or been killed.
Out of loyalty to Bandi, he soldiers on as part of the Corvin Circle for another day, but without his best friend by his side, he’s lost heart. Their dreams of a better life have been crushed under the caterpillar tracks of the T-54 tanks. Blown to smithereens by the mortar shells. It’s time to think about self preservation and the safety of his family. It’s time to think about escape.
He abandons his post on the corner of Üllői Avenue and goes in search of András and Anna in the first aid station at the Práter Street school. Outside the main entrance, piles of rubble have grown. He inhales a sickly sweet smell of rotting meat and recoils sharply at the sight of a dismembered leg sticking up out of the pile of debris, a boot still attached to the foot. He has no idea whose leg it is. Gagging, he pushes open the door and stumbles inside.
Sándor’s body was taken away by Red Cross workers the previous evening during a brief lull in the fighting. Now the former classroom is unusable as a first aid centre. Lumps of plaster and shards of glass litter the floor and every surface. Their medical supplies have run out. And with every passing minute their chances of being blown up rise higher and higher. They can’t keep rolling the dice and hoping to be spared. Anna and András are trying to salvage what they can but it’s pointless.
‘We should get out of here,’ says Zoltán. ‘More tanks are on their way from Buda. We don’t have the resources to deal with them.’
‘Why did it have to end like this?’ says Anna, close to tears. She brushes her hair off her face with grimy hands. Her forehead is streaked with soot. ‘I wanted to do more. I wish I could have saved Sándor.’
‘Hey, it’s not your fault,’ says András, pulling her into an embrace. ‘You did the very best you could. You were incredibly brave. If it wasn’t for you I would never have had the courage to get involved in the first place.’
She nods and gives him a wan smile.
‘You should go home and see your family,’ says András.
‘Come with me,’ she says. ‘I’d like you to meet them.’
A blast shakes the building.
‘Come on,’ says Zoltán. ‘Now!’
They run for the exit, ducking the flying debris.
It feels as if they’re heading into Armageddon as they run through the streets full of panicking and wounded people, dodging tanks, explosions and shrapnel. Fires are burning out of control, buildings are wrecked, and the number of bodies littering the streets has risen to a level unimaginable since the war. On the corner of Erzsébet Boulevard, Zoltán says good-bye to András and Anna and carries on alone. He’s sick with worry about what he’ll find when he gets home, if he gets there in one piece. The sky is black with the smoke from burning fuel.
He turns into Király Street, dreading what he might find. But the building is still standing, thank God. It’s nothing short of a miracle.
*
There are ten of them sheltering in the basement now. When Márton returned with a pile of clean nappies for the baby, he calmly introduced Tamás to the group and said that he would be joining them. Katalin was surprised to say the least. She had never expected to see Tamás again, had even wondered if he had been lynched as so many Secret Police had. She found she was glad to know he was all right. She could see Petra was wary of the new arrival, but he’s since made himself useful fixing the paraffin stove when it failed to light and bringing Márton’s radio downstairs so they can listen to the latest government pronouncements.
They are clustered around the radio when the cellar door clatters open. Katalin looks up in alarm, but then she almost laughs with relief when she makes out, in the dim light, the figure of Zoltán coming down the stairs. She runs into his arms.
‘Thank God you’re safe. I’ve been so worried about you. Where are the others?’
‘Anna has taken András to meet her family.’
‘And Sándor? He’s not still fighting the Russians, is he?’ Her voice trails away when she sees the bleak look in her husband’s eyes. The expression on his face is one of sheer wretchedness.
Goodbye to Budapest Page 26