I knew Antal needed to get to the doctor, but I would need to convince Laszlo first.
“Eszt,” Antal moaned as his eyes shot open. A vicious coughing spasm overtook his body, causing him to regurgitate even more blood onto the floor. “Eszter, thank you.”
Overcome by his gratitude, I clasped him to my chest.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Antal cried. His warm tears spread across my shirt.
I squeezed Antal tighter, savoring his need for me. It was the necessary contrast to Laszlo’s persistent detachment.
Laszlo pulled up a chair, leaned over, and looked Antal dead in the eyes. “We’re glad you’re okay. Now, tell us what happened.”
“I …,” Antal began. Without his three front teeth, he sounded like a child just learning how to speak, and in the face of Laszlo, he seemed ill-equipped to explain his situation.
“It’s okay, Antal, take your time,” I cooed, shooting a sinister look at Laszlo. “Just give him a second.” I felt bad for Antal, and somehow slightly responsible. Had I been there earlier, I may have been able to stop them.
“I was walking here …. That’s when five men, big men, surrounded me.” Antal said. “They demanded I lead them to … to the office. They said they knew I betrayed the government.”
Antal fell silent, his haggard breathing adding weight to his words.
“They asked again for me to lead them here as they drew closer and closer,” Antal continued. “When I said no, that’s when they started. I forgot most of what happened next, but I remember screaming, crying, but it wasn’t my own.”
The little boy must have been wailing near Antal. “Then I saw you, Eszter.”
“You kept muttering the word ‘czar,’ over and over again. Who is that?”
“I have no idea,” Antal said, with more energy and edge than I had ever seen him use, even when he was healthy.
Scratching his scruffy chin, Laszlo continued to stare. He allowed the minutes to spread before us, filling the room with apprehension. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I addressed them both.
“Clearly, there are dangerous people out there. Whether they call themselves czars, or what have you, they’re looking to hurt us. We have to embolden our demonstrators before these predators find us, and others.”
Laszlo snapped his head toward me. “We don’t have enough information, Eszter! What are we going to do? Print a two paragraph paper about Antal’s injuries and Stalin’s statue coming down?”
Did Laszlo not understand a movement quickened outside, one that relied on any information it could possibly get?
“I say we make sure people continue taking action. The revolution has already started, and who are we to stop it? We tell everyone something that will draw them into the streets. We will make sure that the crowd does not subside.”
“Wasn’t Nagy enough?” Squinting his eyes demonically at me, I thought, for a second, Laszlo would lunge toward me. And this time, lust would have no part in it.
“He hasn’t made a public stand yet, you know that. And we need a series of things to build momentum. We have to keep giving the people tangible hope—something real that will encourage them to keep going.”
“So we just continue manipulating people so that they risk their lives and give you the revolution you always wanted?”
“Yes,” I met Laszlo’s strength with my own, stepping toward him. “We have no chance, not one, especially if tomorrow less people are on the streets. If we can continue on, and outlast the government, we may be able to secure some sort of change.”
Interrupting our debate, a smattering of gunshots rang outside our office. Forceful and thunderous, they jolted the building’s foundation. We froze. Distant screams grew louder as people ran frantically past our office, swarming in frivolous patterns and chaotic directions. Frustrated that we missed the commotion and in dire need of information, I flung the door open and grabbed one of the kids running by the office. If we could collect more intelligence, Laszlo would be more likely to go with my plan. Once I wrestled our informant to the ground, I faced a trembling girl, a university student.
“What do you want?” the girl screeched.
Laszlo glared at me, as if asking me the same question.
“Don’t move.” Standing up and straightening my shirt, pulling tight the clasp that held my hair up, I demanded, “Just tell me what happened. We’re on your side. We’re with Realitás.”
I grabbed a mangled copy of the paper from the typewriter. The girl stared at the headline, then at me. She scanned the entire office, absorbing the menagerie of typewriters, papers, empty coffee mugs, and desk lamps.
“What’s your name?” I asked hesitantly.
“Marika.” She looked down at the carpet, trying to pick apart its grains with her shaky fingers.
“Marika …,” I paused. She resembled Dora so much—her dark, wispy hair fell gently on her thin shoulders. Her cheekbones lifted her entire face up, giving her the appearance of elegance and toughness all at once. She wore the same serious expression as Dora, like you could never imagine her lips breaking into a smile.
Laszlo squeezed my shoulder, bringing me back to the present.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly muttered. “Of course. Please, just tell us what happened to you. It would really help us.”
She cocked her head at an angle and said, “If all you want is information, let me give it to you quickly, and then let me go.”
We agreed. Eerily monotone and dispassionate, Marika explained how she was with a contingency of students who were in search of arms. They went immediately to the army barracks on Szentkirláyi út and shouted at the guards to let them in. They started pushing on the gates when a voice from above them said, “I’ll shoot if you break down the door.” That stopped them momentarily, then the soldiers inside started handing them their guns through the bars in the windows. One of the soldiers even left the barracks, led them to a patch of grass nearby, and gave them a lesson in shooting.
Marika and her friends returned immediately to the radio building. By then, a radio van with a large satellite had pulled up right in front of it. Valéria Benke, the head of the state’s radio station, Radio Budapest, stood atop the van, apparently having agreed to read the students’ manifesto over the radio. Quietly, Valéria began reading their sixteen demands. As the students listened, the people watching from the apartments above shouted at her to speak louder. She ignored them, trudging on through the list.
A student climbed atop the van and grabbed the microphone from Valéria. He held up its cord, revealing that it was attached to nothing but air. The radio was not broadcasting their demands. It was all a farce. With newfound strength, the students surged forward into the van, and toward the radio building, determined to make the regime pay for trying to fool them.
This time, they managed to destroy the gates and doors of the radio building, breaking into the fortress. Armed and prepared, Marika and her gang followed at the tail end of the invasion. By the time they got inside, it looked like a band of looters had wreaked havoc on the building. Chairs were missing legs and cast off to the side. The couches bore dirty footprints and gaping holes from people running over them. Memos, documents, and files were scattered across the floor, dirty and ripped by the rush of invaders. The secret police ran through the crowd, shooting at the moving targets in unpredictable patterns.
Marika and her friends used their newly acquired guns to fire back, though she wasn’t certain whether they had actually hit anyone. Soon, she found herself ducking behind a stack of chairs and watching a police chief yell at a group of younger policemen who seemed hesitant to shoot. One of the men shook his head, and when the rest of the men saw that, they also shook their heads. The chief, in one swift movement, took out his gun and shot all the men, point blank. Marika crawled out the back window and ran. As she fled, she heard more shots being fired.
“When I looked back, I saw people on the ground. They weren’t moving.” Marika said, her ey
es planted on the ceiling as if looking up could somehow force her tears back into her head.
“Are you okay?” I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Yes,” she nodded with such force she shook loose the tears she had tried to hold in. “Can I go now?”
“First you have to tell us one thing. How many do you think died?”
“How many?” Marika turned as white as the paper loaded in the typewriter behind her.
“We need this information.”
“I don’t know.”
“Even a guess is better than nothing.”
Marika sobbed into her hands. “I think it was fifty. At least.”
I hugged her, my touch triggering some instinct for aggression in the girl. She pushed back against me.
“I have to go,” Marika said. “You’re going to let me leave, now.”
“Of course, just do one thing for me.”
“What now?” Her eyes, puffy and moist, flared open, creating a stark contrast between the gentleness of her sadness and the sudden intensity of her anger.
“Don’t return to the radio building. Go somewhere safe.”
“Okay.”
“Just be careful.” I kissed her on the cheek.
“I’ll try.”
We both knew she would go back to find out which of her friends had survived, and which didn’t. And, a part of her would die, was dying. I watched her walk away until I could no longer see her.
“We are doing something about this,” I declared, turning back to Laszlo and Antal. I imagined Realitás igniting such a swell of support that it would completely decimate those murderers like that police chief. If we could only sound convincing enough, we could make this happen.
“I promise,” Antal wheezed, “I promise I’ll find more arms for those kids. You have my word.”
“Thank you.” I kissed Antal’s forehead and put my arm around him. “That sounds like a better plan than anything else we’ve thought of. But we should do something else too.”
“Don’t try this again,” Laszlo said.
“We should tell everyone Gerő’s supporters are fleeing. It wouldn’t be a complete lie, since you are one of them and you’ve defected,” I said, squeezing Antal.
“Dammit, Eszter, Antal didn’t defect. He was beaten to a pulp!” Laszlo yelled.
“I know, but listen. People won’t fear Gerő if they think his beloved henchmen are starting to join their forces too.”
Once that lie tumbled from my mouth, it felt more real than anything happening around me. More palpable than Antal’s wounds, more piercing than Laszlo’s eyes, and more tender than that little boy’s tears. My lie came from a very real place within me. And once it hit air, it became truth.
“Eszter, please,” Laszlo started in an unnaturally calm voice.
But we all knew the other option—the one that would happen if this fledgling revolution failed. It was death, and no matter how ferociously Laszlo trumpeted the merits of journalistic integrity, he couldn’t compete with our basic, human desire to live. Soon he grew quiet. No one spoke for twenty minutes as we considered our options.
“If only we had some serious help for this fucking revolution. Imre Nagy leading us is not going to be enough, no matter how much experience the bastard has. Where is the West when we really need them, huh? They claim the Soviets are their enemies, but they haven’t helped us one bit, besides playing this damn radio.” Laszlo shot a glare at Antal before kicking the radio across the room.
We all knew the West was just a lesser evil compared to the Soviets. Like their professed enemies, the West’s affection was wrought with contingencies.
“What if they did help us?” Antal said.
“You mean …,” I ventured, “… once they learn about the immense strength of our pending revolution, which they probably already have, they will come to our aid?”
I understood the futility of such a statement. The possibility, however slim, tempted me though. Radio Free Europe gave me just enough hope, like sunlight peeking through the blinds of a dark room. I imagined something absolutely brilliant and glowing beyond my view, and I refused to let go of the fantasy.
Antal and I worked together to etch out a plan for us to wield the West’s influence to fuel our own revolution. First, we would draft a one-page version of Realitás. In it, we would update everyone about the day’s events—the crowds, the statue, the shooting of the students, and anything else we witnessed. We would also include in it the strong possibility of the West sending troops and aid in support of our revolution. We would say the conclusion was obvious. With the West’s help, the regime stood no chance. Antal would then send the information directly to Radio Free Europe with only ten minutes left until its broadcast for that evening. With the radio’s pending deadline and Antal’s stamp of legitimacy, the producers would push the information on air without double-checking it.
Antal sat up now, grabbing his knees for support as he straightened his back. “This is the best we have.”
“Let’s do it.” I said. “Laszlo, are you in?”
Laszlo turned away from us. I interpreted his passive resistance as acceptance of our grandiose scheme. I realized then why he had protested so vehemently against our plans. He was terrified of defying the government beyond publishing our flimsy newspaper. This journalistic integrity, his initial attempts to stop the revolution, was just a cover. If the revolution grew, it would expose Laszlo’s darkest embarrassment—his paralysis.
Crouching over the typewriter, putting words to our plan, I began to write. I felt like a leader forging Hungary’s future before she was even ready for it. I prepared her for what she did not see coming.
“This needs to go to Radio Free Europe first.” Antal rested his hand on mine. I could feel it emitting an immense amount of heat. He surely had an infection.
“But … then we have to use the teleprinter ….” I promised Laszlo I wouldn’t use it unless there was an emergency. The machine could send and receive messages, but at the risk of being intercepted and revealing our whereabouts.
“We have no choice,” Antal said.
Laszlo pretended to read a book, and I, once again, took his silence for permission.
During the Radio Free Europe broadcast, we all retreated to different sides of the room. Antal and Laszlo crouched in their respective corners and I sat at my desk, biting my nails. Antal’s face was twisted into a disconcerting combination of exhaustion and excitement. Ashen and swollen, his skin lacked any sort of pigment. A faint smile tugged at the edge of his battered mouth. Laszlo smoked five cigarettes in succession and his eyes seemed almost jumpy, as if trying to grip every word the broadcaster said.
As Laszlo put out his last cigarette onto the carpet, the broadcaster summarized the words I crafted, the words that Laszlo neglected to prevent from airing.
“If the Soviet troops really attack Hungary, if our expectations should hold true and Hungarians should hold out for three or four days, the United States will send military help to the Freedom Fighters,” Zoltán Thury, the broadcaster, said. “If the Hungarians continue to fight until Wednesday, we shall be closer to a world war than at any time since 1939, and in the Western capitals a practical manifestation of Western sympathy is expected any hour.”
Thury had expanded upon my words, making the broadcast even more reactionary than I predicted. I felt high, almost manic, like I could do anything. I imagined the head of Radio Free Europe reading Realitás and calling the president of the United States to convince him of our cause. The energy of my success buzzed through me, and all I wanted to do was run and yell.
“We did it. I can’t believe we did it,” I said, beginning to stuff my bag with copies of Realitás. I had to start distributing it to the people who missed the broadcast.
“Do you know what this means?” Laszlo’s eyes were moist, and I thought, finally, he was softening.
“What does it mean?” I put down my things and rubbed his back, ready to coax out the t
enderness I had been waiting for.
“We are fucked.”
“What?” I hissed, the energy I gained from our success converting into rage.
“I said … we are fucked.”
I squeezed his shoulders, letting my nails dig ever so slightly into his back. “How can you take this one glimmer of hope, Laszlo, and completely destroy it?”
“You think being pawns of the Soviets is bad? What’s going to happen when the Americans get their chance to play with us?”
At that moment, I wanted to leave the office and never come back, if only to make Laszlo regret what he said. But then the phone rang.
Eszter Turján
October 23, 1956—Evening
We all stared at it. Was it a coincidence the phone started ringing only minutes after Radio Free Europe announced Western aid would come to our country at any time? Or was it fate? As a precaution, we never gave out our number or accepted phone calls. But tonight, as the revolution spat the unknown throughout our city, we abandoned our former rules.
Antal scooped up the phone, cradled it to his ear, and turned his back to us. Laszlo ignored him, busying himself with posthumously correcting the already-published Realitás. He scribbled all over the paper, sighing as red and black ink rubbed off on his arm, making it look like he went to battle with the paper, and lost.
Antal beckoned me to him, subtly, and without the notice of Laszlo, though I’m sure he heard me as I tiptoed across the room. Antal handed me the phone. Raspy coughing echoed on the other line followed by someone clearing their throat.
“Eszter,” the voice of a woman spoke. “We need you to do something for us.”
Her voice had an intoxicating fragility to it, as if every word was in danger of being overtaken by sheer exhaustion. Covering the mouthpiece with my hand, I asked Antal who she was. “Anya, the Radio Free Europe chief,” he replied, solemnly.
The second Antal said that to me, I knew it was true. I had heard Anya a few times over the radio, when she stepped in for an absent colleague. She had taken the place of regular broadcaster Zultán Thury just last week.
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