The Phoenix Land

by Miklos Banffy

  The monarch in Vienna, or at his country place at Gödöllo not far from Budapest, gave constant audiences from which emerged new coalitions and governments that, like soap bubbles, burst as soon as they were announced. The atmosphere grew daily more heated, and there were those who took care that it should continue to do so. There were then many unscrupulous men who, for their own ends, did not hesitate to gamble with the lives of innocent young men: for example, by leading a demonstration to the royal palace in Buda regardless of whether the police would use force to disperse the crowd. ‘To Buda, to the king!’ they cried, although most people knew he was at Gödöllo and never came anywhere near Buda. The agitators had calculated aright. The government, demoralized and fatally weakened, nervously overreacted and ordered the police to cordon off the bridges and meet the demonstrators with drawn swords, thus adding fuel to the general exasperation as when kindling is thrown on the fire. Those who retreated unhurt proceeded to smash all the ‘By appointment to the king’ emblems on the city shops and smashed their windows. That same evening the ‘National Council’ was formed and supported by the majority since it was the only body to show any will to take control of affairs. All kinds of organizations, unions and people in authority, with baseless and futile confidence, hurried to join the Council with the same speed as moths rushing to a flame. Everyone was convinced that Károlyi would return from Gödöllo as Minister-President, and would then with great servility put on the robes of revolution.

  This is what had happened on the previous two days, which seemed to have raced by like a film run at double speed. It was like the moment before being struck by a tornado when, with heart throbbing, one is overcome by a nerve-wracking sense of impending doom: so menacing are the tumbling clouds in the sky that first appear at the corners of the far horizon and then are suddenly above our heads, swelling and towering until they cover the entire firmament, cutting off all light and leaving only occasional gaps which at any moment will close up with a terrifying clash until the whole sky falls down upon us burying the whole world with it.

  During those days this feeling never left us, and it was with a sense of deep foreboding that I went to our Monday evening dinner on 28 October 1918.

  The latest news was only of delay, postponement and more talks.

  On Saturday evening the king had taken Károlyi with him to Vienna arriving in the morning. There, Károlyi was told to wait at his hotel until he was summoned and, in the meantime, not to talk to anyone. Károlyi waited. Noon passed, and he still had no news. Finally he telephoned to the cabinet offices for instructions and was simply told to go home as he was not needed then … perhaps later in Budapest4?

  Knowing Károlyi’s passionate nature, I realized at once that he would not accept such a gratuitous insult without in some way hitting back. It was then certain that we must expect a violent outcome. Károlyi’s arrival in Budapest would herald the storm to come.

  At the Western Train Station a crowd of many thousands was already milling about. They had come from a huge public meeting outside the parliament building, called by the National Council where they had voted for the adoption of the Council’s program. When the news came of Károlyi’s imminent return the leaders at once suggested that they should all go there to greet the arrival of the evening express. The train came in. With deafening cheers and an air of celebration they lifted the ‘Leader of the People’5 onto their shoulders, passing him from hand to hand with outstretched arms. What happened next was strangely symbolic of his whole life to come. ‘The crowd … took Károlyi not towards the usual exit but in the direction of the warehouses. The people were so overexcited that they had not noticed that they had carried Mihály Károlyi into a blind alley that ran between the warehouses and Váci Street and which was closed by a tall iron gate that was locked.’ To turn back was impossible. The only way was to clamber over it and squeeze through the iron spikes on top. Mihály Károlyi scrambled through, but no one else. He was then carried off by the crowd milling around outside ‘with much dangerous jostling and pushing … like a piece of driftwood tossed about by chance, he was propelled forward sideways by the force of that determined crowd.’

  This happened on Sunday.

  On Monday came the news that discussions were being held by Archduke Joseph in his capacity of homo regis (literally ‘the king’s man’): a thankless task that, with real self-sacrifice, he had accepted at this late hour in an attempt to make peace between the rival factions in the face of such heightened passions.

  We discussed all this on Monday evening, weighing what seemed the most likely outcome; and also the most unlikely. At about ten o’clock we were just mulling over whether János Hadik had any chance of forming a government (an idea of which most of us had only just heard) and also the idea of nominating Archduke Joseph as Palatine (viceroy) when a waiter came in to call Andor Miklós to the telephone, saying it was very, very urgent.

  Miklós left us at once. In a few moments he was back, unusually pale.

  ‘There is a battle raging at the Chain Bridge,’ he said. ‘The men were ordered to shoot … many dead and wounded!’ and left to hurry back to his editorial desk.

  Jenö Heltai was with us, and we decided to see for ourselves what was happening.

  Everything was quiet outside the Kaszino. There was nobody about in front of the National Council’s headquarters in the Hotel Astoria just across the road where, on previous evenings, crowds had gathered to listen to speeches from the Council’s spokesmen. We started off briskly towards the Chain Bridge, passing the Town Hall, down Bécsi Street and Harmincad Street. The streets were empty, and the only sounds we heard were our own footsteps. Then suddenly, at the corner of Gisella (now Vorosmarty) Square, we met a huge crowd. The whole square was packed with men, shoulder to shoulder. The reason we had noticed nothing and made this so unexpected was their total silence. There was something essentially dramatic and sinister about this mute voiceless multitude, something far more menacing than if they had all been shouting and noisy. There must have been several thousand men gathered there – and not a sound. Every window was dark except, far away at the corner of Váci Street, there were lights in the windows of the Károlyi party headquarters. Through those windows the outlines of men moving to and fro could vaguely be seen, and maybe some speeches were being made there, but this I do not know for certain as no sound reached us. We asked some men standing near us what had happened, but they did not answer. They just shrugged and turned away.

  Then we decided to go to Jószef Square.

  Only a few steps from there two lovers stood entwined, caring nothing for what was going on around them, perhaps even finding a good opportunity amid the general chaos. Oblivious to their surroundings and clinging tightly together they went on kissing happily.

  Heltai laughed. ‘That’s Budapest for you!’ he said as we hurried on.

  On the far side of Jószef Square a barricade had been built, and the soldiers manning it would not let us through to the Chain Bridge. They were from a Bosnian regiment, and we heard later that they had been sent to replace the 32nd Infantry who had had orders to close Dorottya Street and Vigado Square but who had not only let the demonstrators though without a word of protest but also, in good part, left their own ranks and joined them. Now, however, every street leading to the Danube was closed by the loyal Bosnian regiment. Here again not a voice was to be heard, not even a command. The only sound was the rhythmic beat of the soldiers’ iron-studded boots. That dark night was the last occasion when anyone was to hear the measured tread of the Imperial Habsburg army on the march.

  Notes

  4. Károlyi’s version of this visit to Vienna and of the events which follow is significantly different in many respects: see Memoirs of Michael Károlyi (Jonathan Cape, London, 1956).

  5. Bánffy is here quoting from the account published by the Budapest newspaper Az Est.

  Chapter Two

  It was only on the following day that we learned everything that
had happened at the Chain Bridge.

  From early in the morning Archduke Joseph had spent the day in his palace in the fortress of Buda, negotiating with various politicians in an attempt to form a government. Mihály Károlyi was due to join him in the evening. While he was there, István Friedrich and László Fényes, from their party headquarters, decided to lead the crowd that had gathered there – a crowd, it transpired later, that consisted mainly of workers from the outlying districts of the city – up to the fortress to ensure the appointment of Károlyi as prime minister by a show of force. ‘To Buda!’ they cried just as they had on the previous Friday.

  With their two leaders at their head, the mob moved off only to find that the army had blocked Dorottya Street and formed a solid cordon in Maria-Valeria Square. There they learned that access to the Chain Bridge was also barred by the armed forces. Nevertheless, everything went well with them at first. The first two lines of guards made no resistance and let them through, as did the soldiers at Ferenc-József Square. There were police guarding the entrance to the Chain Bridge, but they only put up a token resistance, and soon the crowd had broken through. There, just where the stone lions stand, was a line of gendarmes.

  This was serious. Some men tried to climb up from the roofs of the warehouse that stood below and so get onto the bridge behind the gendarmes. At this point they were met by a round of rifle fire, while the mounted police charged the crowd with drawn sabres. Helter-skelter the mob turned to flee. Scared and distressed, the workers ran for their lives back to the protection of the Károlyi party headquarters6, whence they had set out not long before.

  As usual in such affairs, the leaders emerged unscathed, but there were three dead and some fifty wounded in that anonymous crowd which consisted largely of simple well-meaning factory workers. These were the victims. Ambulances took them to the Ritz where the hotel’s entrance hall was transformed into a hospital ward to give them first aid.

  That was the story of the battle on Monday night.

  It was this demonstration, which had drowned in its own blood, that effectively made it impossible for Károlyi to be part of the proposed government even if – and this I do not know – he had been willing to do so. This was the immediate result of the demonstration, and there were those who said that it had been organized with precisely this end in mind.

  For those like myself who had distanced themselves as far as possible from the witch’s brew of politics, the next two days seemed to pass without any significant developments. But it was only the silence which precedes the storm: a silence full of disquiet for it was broken by the news that the machinery of state continued to disintegrate as the Budapest police force had gone over to the National Council!

  In the streets the mob leaders were publicly embraced by those very police who, only the day before, had charged them with drawn sabres. It was in this climate that Count János Hadik formed his government, news of which was received everywhere with indifference, for I am sure that no one had any confidence in Hadik’s selfless initiative.

  ***

  Now followed the evening of the real revolution.

  I had dined in the Kaszino, as I had most evenings in the last few weeks, although fewer and fewer people had been there, and it must have been about eleven o’clock when we left the club, being the last to do so. There were three of us, together with another friend who was escorting the old chairman of the Jockey Club. We had taken to doing this in the last few days, for recently a number of suspicious-looking men had been seen loitering in the streets – a phenomenon previously unknown in the centre of the town, and from time to time gunshots had been heard.

  As soon as we stepped out of the Kaszino’s front door it was promptly shut behind us. I glanced across the street towards the Hotel Astoria, which had been taken over as the National Council’s headquarters, and it seemed that rather more people than usual were gathered there, although there were probably not more than one or two hundred. No doubt someone had made a speech from the balcony and just as probably there had been some cheering in the street; although as this had been going on for more than a week we had become used to it. Not far away the streets were as dark and empty as they always had been at this time of night. Then some shots were heard coming from the direction of the Danube, but there was nothing unusual in this. I was alone by the time I crossed Calvin Square, and it was then that I heard repeated firing from Ráday Street. This was unusual. The rapid sound of bullets hitting the steel shutters of some shop made a loud cracking sound, almost a sort of howl. Although I was not unduly worried because we had heard it before, on this night there seemed to be more of this crazy random shooting than ever.

  After getting home I must admit that I slept soundly, although occasionally, when still half-asleep, I seemed to hear more rumbling of heavy lorries passing under my windows than on previous nights. However, since the street outside was the habitual route for deliveries to the market halls nearby, and the market cars had always rattled past noisily long before dawn, it did not seem to be different from any other night in the year.

  It was only later that I heard what had happened early that morning. When my old valet called me he announced three things: my bath had been prepared, revolution had broken out, and Count Mihály Károlyi was now Minister-President.

  Soon afterwards István Zichy came to see me and related what he had seen and heard outside in the streets, and together we went out onto Museum Boulevard.

  Most of the shops were closed, and there were many people just standing about on the pavement. It looked as if all the cleaners and domestic servants of the district were there, standing about in groups of five or six before each doorway, openmouthed and gaping, just as Zichy and I were doing along with countless other citizens who had streamed out to gaze around in wonder.

  It was both interesting and amusing. Everyone seemed in festive mood, smiling and wearing white asters7.

  Enterprising youths from the suburbs were selling the flowers, and should anyone dare to refuse to buy the friendly offers were soon suffused with unconcealed menace. Resistance to these offers swiftly melted away. However, very few did refuse for man is a Herdentier – an animal that always follows the herd, a gregarious animal – and quickly follows its neighbour’s example. It may well have been us two, Zichy and myself, who alone failed to pin on the symbolic flower, but this was not from mere contrariness but because it went against our nature blindly to endorse such trivial emblems. Anyhow, even without us, there were plenty of asters to be seen on the passers-by, on the sightseers standing in the doorways and decorating some shop windows, just as there were on some heavy army weapon-carriers which suddenly appeared among the crowd and just as suddenly rumbled away. Some of these were lavishly decorated with their rusty sides, radiators and headlights garlanded with white flowers. By contrast the army vehicles were packed with sooty-faced, heavily armed soldiers. People ran alongside wildly as the great lorries were driven directly into the crowd, regardless of anyone or anything that might be in their way. None could tell if they were hurrying to some unknown goal or were roaming the streets at random.

  The crowd was in far too festive a mood to be worried by any of this, nor did anyone seem to notice that among the many soldiers wandering about so aimlessly there were a number, heavily armed, their tunics unbuttoned and dirtier than any I had seen even on the worst days at the Front. Some seemed merely to be seeking a sympathetic listener to whom they could explain in hoarse voices, perhaps for the umpteenth time, what heroic deeds they had done that night. There were others who, dead tired, tramped mechanically on like the solitary ant who has lost his way back to the heap and pauses, looking around in bewilderment. No one bothered about any of these men, even though they all carried loaded rifles and were hung with hand grenades. The crowd was in too festive a mood to be worried, indeed most of them seemed to rejoice in the soldiers’ presence, as in everything else that day, for was it not the same for them as for everyone else? All that anyone could
take in was that the terrible war was over, that now there would be no more flour tickets and food rations, and that peace would come again, at long last peace, wonderful peace. No worries, no anxiety clouded their exuberant joy, for did not every danger and every misery belong to the past, that evil past which must now be utterly forgotten? From this very day the future would hold nothing but brotherly love and friendship … and peace, wonderful peace.

  Zichy and I, who also saw these soldiers from whom every vestige of discipline seemed to have drained away, were filled with trepidation at the thought of what would happen if this disintegration spread to the whole of the armed forces. For a while we saw nothing encouraging, but then we were faced with a wonderful example of enduring discipline and courage, a beautiful act that only we had witnessed and would remember.

  A young officer appeared in the middle of the street, with some men, perhaps eight or ten, lined up behind him, all apparently from different units. Seeing that one of the aimless armed soldiers I have described was leaning against the railings of the Museum Garden, he stopped his little troop and walked over, alone, to speak to the man. He passed just in front of us. His emblem of rank had been wrenched off his helmet, he wore no officer’s sword tassels, and the stars had been ripped from his collar; but these humiliations had left no other mark on him and there was something serious and dignified about the way he carried himself. In a friendly voice he called upon the lounging soldier to join the little troop he had gathered around him. ‘We have to return to barracks,’ he said. ‘The revolution is over. Now all we need is a little order, a little solidarity.’ He added that if he were needed he would remain with the others … but there was also such a thing as duty. Now was the time for discipline … With words such as these, and without giving an order or asking to be obeyed, he just talked to the man quietly and resolutely.