Radio Underground

by Alison Littman

  Ferenc

  Dora Turján

  When Dora woke up, she found Ivan standing above her.

  “You’ve been asleep for seventeen hours.” He shook his head and sighed.

  “Ohhhhh, really?” Dora yawned and rolled over. “I’ll get up soon.”

  “You can’t do this forever. It’s dinner time.”

  “Just give me a few hours.”

  “You have one.” Ivan stomped out of her room, leaving her door open.

  Dora didn’t care. She closed her eyes and tried hard to go back to sleep. It had been three months since Ferenc and her mom made their escape, and still she woke up every morning feeling as if it only happened a few hours ago. The memories muscled their way into her mind, pushing past the warmness of sleep and weighing her down so much she just couldn’t get up.

  She remembered Eszter being driven away in the car. She could recall falling to the pavement and Ferenc rubbing her back. She certainly remembered waking up in his room, then sneaking out before anyone in his family saw her. When she got home, she sat down at the kitchen table, unscrewed a jar of jam, spread it on a slice of bread, and tried to eat for the first time that day. It made her feel even sicker. She gave up, electing to drink a glass of water instead. She noticed her hand shaking as she lifted the water to her lips. Her anger started there, but quickly went to her heart, which thundered in her chest.

  Sure, Dora knew her mom’s plot hadn’t been intended to mislead her. How could Eszter have known Dora was involved with Ferenc? Dora’s anger came from the fact that once Eszter saw Dora again, she didn’t tell her the truth. She actually only told Ferenc the code, probably because she knew Dora would sense there was something afoot. Yes, Eszter was sick, in many ways. But this was not something a crazy person would do. This was something a person thinking clearly, and methodically, would do. And in her moments of lucidity, Eszter could have come clean and insist Ferenc not join the envoy. She could have promised to go to Munich and arrange for Ferenc to get on the next envoy. But, no, she didn’t do any of that. Instead, she abandoned them.

  Dora wanted to punch something, but she wouldn’t. She wanted to scream, but she wouldn’t do that either. Instead, she walked to her room and went to sleep, hoping that when she woke up, a piece of her pain would be left behind in her dreams.

  Dora ended up sleeping for hours that day and into the night. For months after that, she continued sleeping voraciously, taking it in like a dog slopping up water after a salty meal. Ivan despised it, though he left her in peace most of the time.

  He had tried to hint that he knew what took place, or at least the scant outlines of the events from that day. He would mention Ferenc casually and say something along the lines of, “I wonder where he got off to ….” He once even left a memo out on the table that speculated on how Eszter escaped. It mentioned nothing of Ferenc, thank God. When Ivan saw Dora noticing it, he nodded to her and walked away.

  She noticed Ivan softening in other ways too. Instead of spending hours in his study after work, he would go out then return home happier than when he left. Dora assumed he was dating for the first time since Eszter was taken away. She couldn’t do the same, and she mostly found herself thinking about Ferenc. She missed him. She didn’t know what happened to him, but convinced herself not to speculate until she knew the truth. She assumed he had found a way to escape, but she wondered if he had made it safely across the border. Dora felt on edge so often, irritated at the smallest things, like waiting for the tram, or when someone in front of her was walking slowly. She wanted to rush through her everyday life so that she could get closer to seeing or hearing from Ferenc, wherever he was.

  On her way to work, Dora would go out of her way to walk by places that reminded her of Ferenc and fantasized about their conversations, drawing from a list of things she stowed away to share with him. Once a dog peed right on her shoe. Ferenc would laugh so hard when she told him about that. She had run into Adrienne recently, who ended up comforting Dora over Ferenc’s absence. He would be so proud.

  She dreamed about eating dinner with him, the desire to touch him so strong they held hands across the table. Dora could practically fit her entire hand in Ferenc’s palm. As he walked her home, he’d pulled her into him and they would kiss right there in the middle of the street. Dora would usually wake up at that point, convinced the moment was real. When she saw only the walls of her room surrounding her, she’d pull her blankets up to her chin and go back to sleep. She was in the process of doing that when Ivan intruded upon her, requesting she get out of bed.

  When Dora managed to banish him out of her room, she noticed he left behind an envelope wedged between the folds of her blanket. Addressed to Uncle Lanci, the letter had been opened, and the perpetrator seemed to want her to know that. Next to the letter, Dora found a small note in Ivan’s handwriting.

  It read, They are safe now.

  She recognized the handwriting in the letter immediately. It was from Ferenc. As she read the letter, she felt a warmth coat the fear that made her shiver, even during the summer. She no longer felt abandoned in her memories and longing. She had someone who could match them, even though he was miles away. The knowledge that both Ferenc and her mom had made it safely to Munich, and created some sort of life there, alleviated Dora’s anxiety. She imagined Ferenc playing with his little sister as he did with Adrienne, that goofy smile on his face reflecting the joy in his sister’s eyes. She imagined her mom sitting down and eating a warm meal, making progress on getting healthy. And despite Ferenc’s geographical distance, he seemed as enamored with her as he had been when he first met Dora, as Anika. The knowledge that he devoted himself to her completely made Dora feel suddenly buoyant.

  She got out of bed, and for the first time in months, smiled.

  *

  For years, Dora continued writing to Ferenc. The regular reports Ferenc gave on Eszter and his own mom pushed Dora through to the next day, then the next week, and finally the following years, giving her the life of certainty she always wanted. At first, she noticed subtle changes. She started doing her hair in the morning. She took longer to eat breakfast with Ivan. She agreed to go out with Marta. The big changes happened, too.

  Ivan would ask Dora how everything was going with her letters. She knew what he meant. She’d describe Eszter’s life in generic terms, saying things like, “I read in Munich inexpensive apartments can be purchased if an agency helps you. Many women are doing that and I know it’s working out for them.” He returned her responses with a grin, still tempered by caution, but perhaps a little larger than before.

  She found herself accompanying her dad on walks in the park, where they would talk about easy things, like the leaves changing colors, the books they were reading, or a new recipe he wanted to try making. She found his company comforting. Dora also noticed her face looked different. The severe curves of her cheeks had softened. She gained fifteen pounds, finally no longer so thin she could be mistaken for a student.

  She still went to the cemetery once a week to pay tribute to Boldiszar, his body still missing, as it probably always would be. She hated that she couldn’t remember the exact shade of brown in his eyes, or how high his voice would get when he saw a cute dog, or even what his hands felt like when they grasped hers as a little girl. The harder she tried to remember, the fuzzier her memories got. She knew she was letting go, whether she wanted to or not, and as she started to accept it, she began to remember him as an old friend rather than a reminder of the love she lost.

  After three years, Dora received her first letter from Eszter. She made similar pleas as Ferenc, begging Dora to come to Munich. That was her plan all along, Eszter said. She knew that if she got out of the country, she could one day reconnect with Dora from a safe place. Eszter never planned on taking Ferenc with her. There was only ever room for one, and it was Eszter. Eszter had given them the wrong code to lead them astray, and keep them safe. It was an utter coincidence that Ferenc and Dora ran into the
actual envoy when they did.

  Eszter said the people at the home had been helping her think, and she had brief moments of clarity when she felt sorry. She was experiencing one of those moments when she wrote this letter. She didn’t know when the awareness would fade, and she would retreat to her own world, the one she created to survive the horrors of those nine years in the ministry’s basement. Eszter kept repeating herself, sometimes writing the same sentence or word three to four times. Over and over, she urged Dora to come to Munich.

  With a cautious approach, Dora wrote back to her mom. She avoided any sort of emotional conversation or proclamations of forgiveness. She didn’t mention Boldiszar once, either. She talked about her work, what she ate for dinner, and a new outfit she bought. Eszter wrote back. Sometimes her letters made sense. Sometimes they didn’t.

  One day, Dora mustered the courage to ask Ivan if she could go on an extended trip to Munich. At first he said no, insisting that it was too dangerous, though they both knew traveling posed much less of a threat now. Kádár had rolled back a number of restrictions, putting in place his own brand of communism, which was just a watered-down version of the USSR’s system. It became easier to travel, and even the state radio played rock ‘n’ roll.

  Dora decided to go to Munich anyway. She hated the thought of leaving her dad, but she hoped his newfound good spirits would help him forgive her eventually. A few days after making her request, Dora found a train ticket on her bed. Its destination read: Munich.

  Dora turned on Radio Free Europe and lay down on the floor of her room, the only cool spot on the hot summer day. She smiled as she imagined how hard Ferenc would hug her when he saw her. She wondered if he would look different. Would the years of eating his mom’s food have plumped him up at all? Would he seem smarter now that he was studying dentistry? Would he seem even happier than when she knew him?

  Dora looked forward to seeing Eszter too. She didn’t know what she would say to her. Being with her would be enough. Dora realized she would never completely forgive Eszter. A part of her would always wonder when Eszter’s selfishness would manifest and drive her to hurt the people she loved again. And the image of her mom pulling the final trigger on Boldiszar, no matter how merciful she was being, would always be in Dora’s mind. She had no idea if she would ever see Eszter the same, but maybe she wasn’t supposed to anyway.

  Dora, however, was certain of one thing. She wanted a relationship with her mom. While she couldn’t abandon the past, Dora had promised to never go back to being a fearful person, terrified of showing any emotion lest she feel the pain of losing her mom. Dora could only love others if she loved Eszter. Who knew what Eszter may or may not do, but Dora would rather face it than endure the alternative. And so, Dora realized, in love there was strength.

  As Dora lay on the floor thinking about all of this, the brick wall outside her apartment began to slowly absorb the afternoon sun. In the seconds between when the light was just beginning to crawl along the wall and when it sprang on it in full force, Dora could just make out the brick’s original red—a momentary reminder of its former intensity. And within seconds, the sun had blotted that out, swathing the brick in such a powerful sheen it had no choice but to take on a new identity, one defined by the brightness pressing upon it.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Radio Underground is based on real letters written by Hungarian teenagers during the Cold War. I found them seven years ago at the Hoover Institution, where I had been frantically searching for primary sources I could use for my senior thesis. I had two months left to write forty pages positing an original take on a historical event—a graduation requirement where seniors pretend to be historians (to be graded by real historians). My stomach growling, my cell phone buzzing with texts, and my hands shaking from a combination of Diet Coke and coffee, I stumbled upon a letter I’d never forget:

  Dear Uncle Lanci,

  There are thousands of us who live only in sleep—who act, speak, applaud because we have to. When we utter YES, our hearts drum NO.

  Can this partial assimilation end up in a complete one? This is our question. In our childhood we were looking for beauty and for the realization of human ideals, and what remains today? A hesitant search for existence and a life under the compulsion of permanent lying. We can go forward only in the middle of the road…

  -Titanilla

  10 December 1964

  Radio Free Europe Archives, Hoover Institution, Stanford University

  This letter turned out to be one of dozens written by Hungarian teenagers during the 1960s to a rock music DJ, Uncle Lanci. As I did more research, I learned that Uncle Lanci’s real name was Géza Ekecs, and at the time he was living as a Hungarian émigré in Munich and working for Radio Free Europe. Founded in 1949, the CIA-backed radio station aimed to enact psychological warfare on the Soviet Union. Through its news, lifestyle programs, and music broadcasts, Radio Free Europe would gently persuade those behind the Iron Curtain to identify with the West, thereby renouncing their allegiance to the Soviet Union and its communist ideology.

  In 1959, Radio Free Europe started broadcasting rock ‘n’ roll to Hungary, exposing young people to the rise of The Beatles, The Beach Boys, and other Western bands staunchly forbidden on Hungary’s state radio. Government officials behind the Iron Curtain loathed rock ‘n’ roll for its inherently anti-communist undertones, which encouraged independence, open-mindedness, and individuality. Indeed, young people in the Eastern Bloc used rock ‘n’ roll as a means to defy the regime, organizing secret rock concerts, forming cover bands, and selling albums on the black market. I once read that in the USSR fans made copies of Beatles records out of X-rays they stole from hospitals.

  Capitalizing on Beatlemania and the love of music it inspired in a generation of young people, Ekecs created a number of programs centered on rock ‘n’ roll. One of these programs was called Mail Order Melody, where he played music requests mailed to him directly from Hungarian teenagers like Titanilla, and our beloved Mike a Korvinközből (yes, that was a code name used by a real letter-writer). Since the government read, censored, and sometimes destroyed mail, Ekecs instructed his listeners to use pseudonyms and to call him Laszlo Cseke or Uncle Lanci. Many letters never made it to Ekecs, but for those that did, the authors’ pseudonyms were read aloud before their requested songs.

  In their letters, fans opened up to Ekecs about their lives, relationships, ambitions, and struggles. Finally, someone representing a powerful institution was listening to the young people of Hungary, rather than telling them what to do. “We like this program also for another reason: It has several ‘co-editors,’ who write to you because their requests would never be fulfilled at home,” wrote a listener going by the name “Örefegu.” Or, as another fan put it, writing to Uncle Lanci was like having “an affair with the enemy.”

  When I first found these letters, I would have never guessed they would be the beginning of a novel. I featured them prominently in my senior thesis and graduated college. I moved to New Mexico, started working as a journalist, and tried to move on from that stressful senior year. Every few days, however, my mind would wander back to the letters. I think what struck me the most was the deep optimism and openness these teenagers maintained, despite the repression they endured. They believed in something better. Except, it wasn’t necessarily the West they believed in. It was just that expression could set them free, and they would pursue that to no end, both through their words and in the music to which they listened.

  Mike a Korvinközből, in particular, really touched me. He dreamed of being a dentist, but was blocked from doing so by the government. He wrote to Uncle Lanci asking for help getting to the West. I’ll never know if he received that help, but I can only hope that he found a way to follow his dream. While I imagined his story, as well as that of Ekecs and the remaining characters and circumstances in Radio Underground, I endeavored to mirror the thoughts and feelings of the letter-writers as much as possible. They are, and
always will be, some of the most honest, fun, and brave people I have ever encountered.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Deepest gratitude to Last Syllable Books and Selene Joy Castrovilla, who pushed me to complete Radio Underground and put it out there for the world to see. To Joyce Sweeney, who gave me the confidence and guidance to turn Radio Underground into a novel. To Jenny Peterson, whose careful editing saved me many errors and missteps, and whose eye for detail is something I will always be in awe of. To Damonza for designing a cover that represents so perfectly the story I tried to convey. To the University of California, Berkeley for inspiring me to study history and challenging me to write that menacing thesis, which turned into this very book. To Stanford University’s Hoover Institution Library and Archives, which houses the letters that inspired Radio Underground. To Kate Sederstrom, Susan Breen and Kim van Alkemade for being great liaisons to the literary world. To my family who always knew I could do it, even when (especially when) I didn’t believe in myself. To my mom, dad, Bill, Lisa, Ben, Sam, Lizzie, grandpa, Celia and, of course, my grandma, to whom this book is dedicated.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Alison Littman was born in 1987. She lives in San Francisco where she is a writer by day and stand up comedian by night. This is her first novel.