I told her about my meeting with Josef, about his efforts to protect me, about the prison and the guards. ‘I’m having to reassess my relationship with Josef, my ex-husband. The problem is I’ve grown so accustomed to not being in love with him, it’s difficult to feel different.’
‘It may come – with time.’
‘Oh, Agnes, I don’t know what to think. I still feel as if my heart belongs to another man.’
‘Your gorgeous Russian?’
I laughed. ‘Yes. My brief time with him was like an island of joy in a sea of grief. I still think of him. I wonder what he’s doing now, whether he still plays football; if he’s married and has children, whether he thinks of me as I think of him.’
For months I yearned for him, his touch, his smell. I think back to those dreadful days so soon after Anastasia and remember fondly our walks in the park, our coffees in the Café of the Revolution, and our last afternoon together in the Hotel Astoria. I remember the football match, and Valentin’s wonderful goal, dedicated to me. How important the result seemed – to me, who’d never been to a football game before nor since. It finished one-one, when the home team scored through a late penalty. And the poor chap who scored the goal and then fainted, so happy to have equalised. I think back to the café and remember too the man with the walrus moustache. I never did find out his name. I wonder whether he is still alive, telling his life story I got to know so well to other unsuspecting strangers.
‘Eva – are you all right?’
‘I’m sorry, I was miles away. So, how’s Ferenc?’
‘Well... oh...’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ll be damned, I know that woman,’ said Agnes.
I turned and followed her gaze. A woman in purple caught Agnes’s eye and the two of them waved at each other. ‘I’d better go say hello,’ said Agnes, leaning towards me. ‘She’s a colleague of Ferenc’s. Will you be all right on your own for a minute or two?’
‘Yes, go ahead, I’ll be fine.’
I sipped my wine. I needed the loo and caught Agnes’s eye and mouthed, back in a minute. As I crossed the bar the sight of the barman spinning a bottle in the air and catching it diverted my attention. As a result, I walked straight into someone and hadn’t realised I’d stepped on his foot until the shriek of pain and the sudden silencing of music and voices.
‘Oh my word, I’m terribly sorry,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I... yes, fine.’ What large brown eyes he had, and such a long, thin face. But somehow he seemed younger than he looked.
Conversations and music resumed. ‘Did I hurt your foot?’
‘No, no, it’s just a bit delicate, that’s all.’
‘Well, if you’ll excuse me...’
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he said it quickly and then flashed an embarrassed smile.
His clothes looked too big for him, his hands disappearing up the sleeves of his jacket. I suppose, looking back, I said yes out of pity. ‘Well, I did stamp on your foot,’ I said. ‘So really I should be buying you a drink but yes, a red wine would be nice, thank you.’
He waved at me as I returned from the bathroom. My wine sat on his table for me. His name, he said, was George, and he worked as a lathe operator in a munitions factory. The pianist had taken a break and the sound of muffled voices and the clink of glasses surrounded us. Agnes was still with her friend in purple so reluctantly I stayed and we talked in automated tones of Rakosi’s industrialisation, of teaching and the state of schools, both of us skirting round anything that could be construed as controversial. It was a typical, insubstantial conversation and I was thinking how to politely extricate myself, when he said, ‘I used to be a football player.’
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Were you any good?’
He smiled ruefully. ‘I think so. I used to score the odd goal.’
‘I once knew a footballer.’
‘Local?’
‘No, Russian.’
‘I miss it. Life seems so mundane now. Sebes Gusztav came to see me play once. At least, I was told he’d be there.’
‘You never spoke to him?’
‘No. Never had the chance.’
‘You don’t play any more?’
‘No, I broke my foot.’ He nodded towards his crutch, propped up against the table.
‘Oh dear, that’s not the foot I stepped on, is it?’ He raised his eyebrows in mocked pain. ‘My word, I’m sorry. How sad. When did it happen?’
‘Four years ago.’
I thought it strange he still had to have a crutch after four years but thought it tactless to pursue it. Instead, I said, ‘I went to a football match about four years ago.’
‘To see your Russian friend play?’
‘Yes, that’s right. He scored a goal. It was one of the happiest days of my life.’
He laughed. ‘Football can do that. Would you like another drink?’
I glanced back at the table and Agnes was now sitting there, probably wondering where I’d got to. ‘Thank you but I’d better get back to my friend.’
‘Oh, OK,’ he said, not hiding his disappointment. ‘Well, it was nice meeting you.’
The pianist had resumed his playing. Returning to our table, Agnes pretended to be shocked that I could so brazenly accept a drink from a strange man. ‘Tell me next time and I’ll come with you,’ she said, indignantly.
‘What – as my chaperone or my nosy companion?’
‘Oh, listen to you, such ingratitude. No doubt, he tried to get you drunk.’
‘Don’t be silly. In fact, he was rather nice. A bit lonely, I think. He used to be a footballer.’
‘Well, watch out, here he comes again.’
Sure enough, the man approached with his crutch, looking rather sheepish. ‘I’m really sorry to interrupt...’
‘It’s OK.’ I introduced him to Agnes, who smiled a toothy grin at him.
‘Did you say four years ago – a Russian?’
The look of intensity in his face sobered me in an instant. ‘Yes, what of it?’
He slid into a chair without asking and glanced round his shoulder. ‘I have to ask,’ he said, his voice almost drowned out by the piano. ‘His name – was it Ivanov? Valentin Ivanov?’
Chapter 19: Valentin
Valentin Ivanov had never cried so openly. He wandered down Moscow’s Gorky Street in a haze. All round him, people looked shocked, many had tears in their eyes. Strangers embraced and consoled each other. Soviet flags hung everywhere half-mast, loudspeakers played Chopin’s Funeral March repeatedly. Trams and cars drove slowly as if embarrassed to be still going about their business on such a day as this. The whole world seemed to be in mourning. The unthinkable had happened; and now life would never be the same again. What would become of them; what did the future hold? But it was too big a question, too daunting a prospect and not one to be dealt with today, or for the foreseeable future, not while the shock still pained their souls, not while the grief seeped from every pore. Valentin knew he would remember this day forever more. 5th of March 1953 – the day Comrade Stalin died.
The day seemed to highlight the other disappointments in his life – the day his mother died, the day he left love behind in Budapest, the day he knew his footballing days were over. Years of existence, punctuated by these days of disappointment. And now this. For thirty years Josef Stalin had been their guiding light; for thirty years their father and saviour. And now he was gone. It was inconceivable. The man who’d been at Lenin’s side at the forefront of the revolution; who’d succeeded the Soviet Union’s founding father; the man who’d fought so hard to rid the country of enemies; who’d exposed sabotage and counter-revolutionaries at every turn as he sought to protect socialism; the man who’d guided the nation to victory against the Nazis, who’d out-thought and outmanoeuvred Hitler; who’d brought harmony to the Soviet Union. Yes, people had suffered, families torn apart, but no one said revolution was easy when there were so many with evil intentions and selfish
motivations. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Everything the country now stood for was down to the one man. And now that man was dead. No wonder people cried, no wonder they looked on the future with uncertainty. Life without Stalin was unimaginable.
Valentin was a soldier now, a sergeant in the Red Army and he wore his uniform with pride, but never with such pride as on this day. As a young lad, he’d managed to avoid national service by virtue of playing for one of Moscow’s premier football teams. He’d been the envy of his friends but his moment of glory was short-lived. The game in Budapest, four years ago, had, in effect been his swansong. On their return to Moscow, he was reprimanded for missing too many training sessions whilst in Hungary, for too often turning up late. When they demanded an explanation, he wouldn’t tell them. He couldn’t tell them it was because he preferred to be walking in the park with Eva; he didn’t want Eva’s name written in their grubby files. Then, soon after that, a youngster, a ‘name for the future’, had risen through the ranks and was waiting for his turn to play in the first team. His chance came at Valentin’s expense. Valentin remembered too well watching the team play, wanting them to win out of a lifetime’s loyalty while desperately wanting to see the usurper fail. But game after game the team won and the usurper played better each time until even Valentin had to stand back and admire his pernicious talent. The end wasn’t long in coming. Called in for a quiet word – greeted by the sympathetic voices and heart-felt gratitude for three year’s service, and then ‘goodbye’.
The barren years, as he liked to call them, followed. Years of mundane jobs disguised as doing one’s duty as a proletariat that sapped his energy. Feverish attempts and applications for a transfer to Hungary were rejected out of hand. He could provide no reason or justification for such a move. Finally, he gave up, as he knew he would do all along.
Then, the previous year, in a moment of patriotic ardour, he volunteered. No conscript was he, but a volunteer. There was kudos in that, and when added to his illustrious past as a footballer, it resulted in a fast promotion to the rank of sergeant. He was liked, his companionship sought, his opinion respected. Unlike the dukhs, the young conscripts, Valentin never suffered the bullying, the habitual violence meted out by the longer-serving boys while the officers too readily turned a blind eye. He was never forced to clean toilets with a toothbrush, or made to spend hours cleaning one pair of boots. Officers and recruits furnished him with books, writing paper, cigarettes and respect.
He’d joined with a grin on his face, happy that he’d made the commitment and given himself some direction in life. They shaved his hair and gave him his uniform, trained and drilled him, and finally accepted his oath of loyalty to the People’s Army, promising to serve their beloved leader and the motherland with honour and dignity, prepared, if necessary, to forfeit his life for the greater good. He spent his spare time in the barracks’ Lenin Room, reading his history, learning military science and polishing up his political theory. The officers appreciated the good example he set to the younger boys, and verbally patted him on the back. He purposely kept his distance, refusing to join cliques, maintaining a jovial comradeship with all but aligned to none.
By chance his regiment had been ordered into Moscow a month before Stalin’s death. Amongst their duties was guarding visitors through Lenin’s Mausoleum, the most sought-after and easiest of duties, guiding the daily streams of visitors passed Lenin’s waxwork-like figure, ensuring no one stopped or tried to take photographs. The day of fifth March was a rare day’s leave. Never did he think he’d spend all of it in tears, his ears devoid of all sound but Chopin’s Funeral March.
Often, during his idle moments, he would think of his days in Budapest. It felt like another lifetime, a memory that by right belonged to someone else. He’d had many affairs during his time as a footballer; the players attracted women, and his affair with Eva was amongst the most short-lived. They’d only made love the one time, the rest consisted of coffee in the café and genteel strolls in the park. But it was Eva with her beautiful bronze-coloured hair, and Eva alone, who’d stolen his heart, and she alone who remained indelibly fixed in his memory. There’d been a sadness about her, a part of her life stained by some event too raw to mention, too real for words. But he’d never been tempted to ask. Her past belonged to her and he had no wish to interfere; he didn’t want to associate her with any catastrophe he had no control over, just as he knew that he could never exist in her future, nor her in his. Theirs was a time spent in the present for each other. That present now survived in the past but the smell, the touch of it still belonged in his memory as a living thing. He found himself capable of reliving their conversations, their sideway glances, the gentle brushing of hands. He remembered too the old man thrown out of the café, the two waitresses, the boy and his football in the park, the little details, the small components that made up the whole.
He remembered vividly the goal he scored, the goalkeeper who should have saved but fumbled. He wasn’t a player who scored often but that was his most prized goal because she’d been there to witness it. It was also quite the strangest game he played in, something had upset the Hungarian players, something he could never pinpoint, culminating in their goalscorer’s fainting fit following his penalty goal (the most doubtful of penalties he’d ever witnessed). The boy looked like death, fear written all over his face, as if scoring that goal was the biggest mistake of his life. Strange game, football.
He wished he could relive those times for real, to touch her, to smell her breath; to relive that final afternoon in the hotel room, her nakedness, her desire. He’d call it love but love seemed too big a word for so short a time. But, he knew, in his heart, there was no other way to describe it.
But for now, he was a soldier in Stalin’s army and Stalin was dead. It was impossible to comprehend, that a man who’d been such a huge part of everyone’s life, should now be gone. Impossible and frightful. The world would never be the same again. And at that moment, on the afternoon of 5th March 1953, the future looked bleak.
Very bleak.
PART THREE: OCTOBER 1956
Chapter 20: Day One – Tuesday, 23rd October
1.
The morning was warm, a hint of autumnal sunshine. Wandering down Andassy Avenue in Budapest, I wondered why there were so many crowds congregating everywhere. A car roared down the street beeping its horn. People waved at it, shouting and cheering. There was an excitement in the air. People ran passed me, shouting, laughing. Something was happening. I joined a small group of workers dressed in dungarees jostling round a tree. What were they looking at? It was a piece of paper with writing, a poster. Looking round, I saw similar groups gathered round other trees and lamp posts and shop fronts. The sheet of paper seemed to be everywhere, causing much elation.
‘What is it?’ I asked a man sporting a trilby with a flower incongruously peeking out of the ribbon.
‘Demands.’
‘Demands?’
He laughed. ‘The students – they’ve printed up a list of political demands, sixteen of them.’
I gasped. I tried to squeeze through. ‘What does it say?’
As if to answer my question, someone at the front began reading them out: ‘We, the honest and law-abiding citizens of Hungary demand a new government constituted under the direction of Comrade Imre Nagy, and that all criminal leaders of the Stalin-Rakosi era be immediately relieved of their duties.’ The gathering cheered. ‘We demand that general elections, by universal and secret ballot, be held throughout the country to elect a new National Assembly, with all political parties participating...’
I staggered back. It didn’t seem possible. We did as we were told; we didn’t make demands. More people were pouring into the street, smiling faces, walking with a new-found purpose. Words filtered through – revolution, uprising, reform. It didn’t seem possible. I expected to see AVOs restoring order, putting an end to these frightening words. But there were no AVOs. I had to get home; I had to t
ell George and Milan. They were due to go to work at eleven; they’d still be in bed. But they wouldn’t want to miss this. The thought made me laugh aloud – they’d never forgive me if I allowed them to sleep through a revolution.
It was as I was scurrying home that I saw it for the first time. The sight of it made me stop in my tracks, leaving me open-mouthed with shock and no small amount of admiration – a boy, no more than thirteen, was leading a group of excitable men and women. He was holding a flagpole bearing a large Hungarian flag – but the Soviet emblem that adorned the tricolour had been removed, leaving a large gaping hole at its centre.
2.
Zoltan Beke was less enthusiastic about the turn of events. It was now dark; the time approaching nine o’clock in the evening. An hour earlier, he’d been dispatched as part of a detachment of about two hundred AVO men and women to the Radio Building. At first, he’d been comforted to see so many of them armed with Kalashnikovs and that, dotted among them, were a few AVO machine-gunners. But not now. Now, they seemed hopelessly outnumbered against the sea of angry faces filling the cobbled square in front of them; a huge mob baying for the right to broadcast from the Radio Building. He’d never felt so frightened. The noise, the stamping of boots, the jeering. Even with his rifle trained on the crowd, he knew that if they charged, he and his colleagues didn’t stand a chance; his detachment would soon be overrun.
The rebels had marched from the Parliament Building where Ernest Gero had addressed them, told them to go home, and referred to them in unflattering terms that only managed to make things worse. When someone lit the Soviet electric red star adorning the building, the crowd booed and hissed until it was turned off again. Nagy addressed them too, the man they wanted as leader, but even that had done nothing to diffuse matters. This lot had gotten their blood up and if someone didn’t take control soon, things would only get awkward. The hum of hatred filled his ears. Zoltan felt a little reassured that, parked in nearby streets, were lorry-loads of soldiers waiting to go in. But would it be enough?
Anastasia Page 13