But first, Donath tried again. ‘You are to disperse,’ he yelled through the inhaler. ‘Immediately.’
The insults bounced straight back, louder still. ‘Bastards, killers, death to the AVO!’
Donath threw the inhaler down. ‘Right, that’s it. We’ve got our orders, you know what to do.’
Zoltan and Paul exchanged nervous glances. Yes, thought Zoltan, we know what to do, but we didn’t expect to have to do it.
‘OK, men, I expect you to do your duty, unpleasant as it may be. Remember your loyalty lies not with this counter-revolutionary mob but with our masters, the government, and their worthy fight for socialism. If we don’t show these bastards who’s boss round here, things will only get worse. We fight now, for what we believe in, for the real workers of this country, not these renegades down there who masquerade behind the proletariat mask, these sons of the bourgeois, these capitalist offspring, whose veins run with blue blood.’ He paused, allowing his words to take hold while the noise from below intensified by the moment. ‘We do this for Hungary, for communism, for the advance of socialism. Gentlemen, and ladies, engage...’
Zoltan stiffened as his finger pressed against the trigger, the barrel of his rifle pointing down on the swirling body of demonstrators below.
‘Fire!’ The command seemed to provoke the end of the world. And the end of the world started with a scream; a communal scream that arose from the square, the like of which Zoltan had never heard before; a scream that encompassed every octave and each note between to produce a single sound so terrifying, he knew he would carry it within him for ever more.
Zoltan closed his eyes and pressed. No chance of missing, no hope of a single bullet being wasted. The consolation was that he didn’t have to man the huge machine guns either side of him, both now spurting their continuous and vile discharge into the crowd.
But as the screams crescendo, it was of scant consolation.
*
Zoltan is running. Again. How long did it last? Five minutes, two hours? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t take too long to kill so many so quickly. The Hungarian tanks had moved in – but on the side of the rebels. The army had gone over, as had the regular police force. They’d all deserted the regime, merrily gone over to the insurgents, handing out their guns like lollipops, raiding the arsenals, the ammo dumps. There was no time to lose, not with the tanks there. Some of the tanks were Soviet – T-54s and T-34s, but who was shooting at whom? Donath, fortunately, wasn’t prepared to hang about to find out. They, the AVOs, knew when it was time to go. A last look down onto the square. It was like peering down into Hell. Bodies prostrate, huddled, torn apart. The place was almost empty now, like a swarm of flies caught in a funnel of smoke, they’d panicked and battled and eventually escaped. Now only the dead and the dying remained. And a few others, those unable to pull themselves away from their fallen brothers and sisters. The dying who begged not to left alone to face the darkness by themselves; to have someone to hold their hands for those few last moments in that solitary region between dying and death.
How they’d got down the stairs, Zoltan didn’t know, nor did he know what had happened to Paul. What their orders were, he didn’t know that either. There was a truck waiting for them, thirty yards away. Some made a run for it, their guns still in their hands, but the insurgents came from nowhere, hundreds of them. Shots were fired but not for long. Zoltan didn’t wait. He ran and he was running still. They’d been lynching the AVOs. Boys he’d known, informers he knew but pretended not to, strung up, beaten to death. Or burnt.
People were dangerous now. That first day, that was still largely confined to the students and a few sympathetic workers. Now, it was the whole fucking lot of them. Bare-handed assassins, every one of them. Right now, tears marked every face, people hugging one another, seeking comfort, contact. Whatever they sought, Zoltan didn’t care, as long as their grief saved him, allowed him to escape. A boy in a roll-neck pullover holds a machine-gun so big he can hardly lift it. But attempt it, he does. He wants to make a name for himself. But not from me, thinks Zoltan, as he picks up speed and disappears round the corner.
And now he too is crying, his heart pleading for the warmth of her touch, the silkiness of her voice, the way she strokes Roza’s hair and talks gently into her ear, a voice capable of keeping away the worst of monsters.
‘Zoltan, Zoltan, speak to me, what’s happened?’
But he can’t talk, his throat too dry, his mind filled with too many images; diabolic images he helped to create. She doesn’t realise it, his dear wife, but this time the worst of all monsters is in her arms.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ He repeats it again and again; no other words come to him. ‘I’m sorry.’
Slowly, Petra comes to understand the meaning of his story merely by listening to him uttering the same word repeatedly.
‘My God, Zoltan, what have you done?
‘I’m... I’m sorry...’
‘We’re dead. They catch us here, we’re as good as dead.’
The words permeate. He looks up at her, his head nestled in her bosom. It’s been a long time since they’ve had such physical contact. He knows it’s meaningless, but he’s grateful nonetheless. ‘What do we do?’ The very sentence signifies his final submission. All his working life, he’s tried. Tried to be the man he wasn’t, tried to be the hard bastard, tried to do his best for his family. But no more. No more. But Petra... she’ll know what to do; she’ll save them. ‘What do we do?’
‘Get you out of this uniform for one thing.’
Yes, she knows what to do; she’ll save them, all three of them.
Chapter 23: Day Four – Friday, 26th October
1.
They’d smashed the windows and doors, and broken into the Horizon bookshop. I watched as about a dozen men, including George and Milan, trailed in and out, carrying armfuls of books and dropping them ceremoniously onto the street. The shop’s stock of books was exclusively Soviet or Hungarian communist, dusty books no one wanted to read and that no one but the seller had touched for years. It was, after all, a Soviet bookshop. George, Milan and the others looked like boys playing a game they knew was forbidden, and enjoying it – the risk merely adding to the joy. But for now, there was no risk, yet the knowledge that what they were doing was, until last week, inconceivable more than made up for it. Many others crowded round and watched. I skirted round the edge of the spectators; fearful in case a convoy of Soviet tanks should appear. I half-listened to the gossip, the rumours and counter-rumours. Nagy’s gone to Moscow, Gero is dead, Gero is holding Nagy hostage, the Soviets are withdrawing, the Soviets are coming in greater number. It was a time of half-truths and untruths. President Eisenhower had apparently spoken, sending a message of support to the Hungarian people. Did it mean the US would act? Probably not, they thought, not with the presidential elections only a week away. Delegations had gone to the US and British legations, demanding that Hungary’s plight be brought to the attention of the United Nations. The world had to know what was happening – that we, the repressed, were standing up for ourselves, and for freedom.
George came to find me. ‘It just gets better and better.’
‘You be careful,’ I said in return. Ignoring my advice, as I knew he would, he returned to his work as the burner of books. The pile of books and pamphlets had now built up to a pyramid simply waiting to become a bonfire. The titles, in Russian or Hungarian, and the familiar portraits adorning the book covers stared up from the street – Stalin, Lenin, Marx, Khrushchev, and our own puppet versions – Rakosi, Gero, Kadar and their ilk. I wondered who on earth would want to buy a book of essays written by Ernest Gero? The thought was ludicrous. I guessed the shop must have survived on a subsidy because I was damned if I could see how it could make a profit – in all the years I passed it, I never once saw anyone go in or come out.
Finally, came the posters – thrown on top of the pile, the largest saved to last – a huge portrait of Stalin in his military
jacket, the medals, a supercilious smile, his determined eyes daring the viewer to dissent.
‘Are we ready to burn?’ asked Milan, a diabolic look in his eyes.
The small gathering cheered as George unscrewed the top of the petrol can and held it aloft like a trophy before pouring it over and around the Soviet pyramid. Milan produced a box of matches from his back pocket, lit one and threw it on the pyre. The flame caught and quickly spread through the posters, Stalin’s gaze disappearing inch by inch. People approached with sticks, prodding the fire, encouraging it to take, removing books and throwing them back on top.
‘Lenin,’ shouted out Milan. ‘Will the Bolsheviks Retain State Power?’
‘Rakosi – Moscow Education,’ added George. Together, they ripped up the books, tearing out large chunks of paper, and threw them into the fire with a cheer.
It was then that I saw it – fallen to the side, as yet unnoticed by either the gathering or the flames – a book in Hungarian entitled Famous Soviet Footballers, 1947 – 1953. I tried to ignore it but the more I tried, the more I was drawn to it. Apart from the gold writing the cover was plain, dark green in colour, nothing to attract the eye. And I wanted it. How famous was Valentin? Probably not that famous at all, but the book was thick, and he had played for Moscow Lokomotiv, and the years coincided. There was a chance he might be listed or referred to. I had to check, I couldn’t leave this book to burn.
‘Stalin – Collected Works, Volume Ten.’
‘Marx – Das Capital.’
‘Hey, George,’ shouted Milan. ‘Why did Lenin wear normal-sized shoes while Stalin wore boots?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘In Lenin’s time, Russia was still only ankle-high in shit.’
I kicked the book free from the rest and quickly bent down to scoop it up and picked another at the same time and held them both behind my back.
But I wasn’t quick enough. ‘What have you got there, Miss?’ asked a hard-faced youngster wearing a quilted jacket. He had two cartridge belts zigzagged across his chest and a rifle over his shoulder.
I tried to move away, pretending I hadn’t heard him, slipping the two volumes into my coat pocket, edging round the now huge bonfire, the heat scratching my face.
This time, he shouted at me, drawing the attention of many others. ‘Can’t you hear me, Miss? I said what book have you got there?’
He’d said book not books. I felt inside my pocket and drew out the thinner title. By now I was being watched, some half dozen pairs of eyes strangely interested in me. But not George or Milan, they were still busy on the opposite side of the fire, their outlines visible only as blurred figures.
‘Recipes for the Proletariat Housewife,’ I said triumphantly. It was a title I’d recently got to know well. The dishes, in theory, looked delicious but in practice were impossible to make – few of the ingredients were ever available for us to buy.
But my heart sunk, as his voice came back to me again, edged now with undisguised menace. ‘And what about the other book?’ he said.
‘Other book?’ I was playing for time, hoping George would come to my aid.
‘Yeah, come on, what about the other book?’
I drew it out knowing I didn’t want to lose it, convinced now that Valentin’s name would appear within these untouched pages. ‘Only a book on football.’
‘You can’t keep it, you can’t keep nothing from this place – it’s all scum. Throw it on the fire.’
The few people nearest me echoed his words. ‘Go on, throw it,’ they said, not realising the torment they were causing me. I lobbed the cookery book into the heart of the flames and watched it disappear instantaneously.
‘George! Milan!’ They heard me and through the haze of flames. I saw them looking round for me. ‘The other book is for them,’ I said firmly.
‘They can’t have it,’ said the youth.
‘You OK, Eva?’
‘I’ve got you a book, George – on football.’
‘Didn’t know you were browsing.’
‘She’s trying to keep it.’
‘I thought you might like it.’
George went to take it from my hand but I gripped it firmly, not willing to let it out of my reach. ‘Soviet players, forty-seven to fifty-three, your era, George, it might have some of the Lokomotiv players you played against.’ Please, just accept it; don’t make me burn it.
But the youth interrupted. ‘You can’t keep anything from this shop, you know that.’ Others round him consented through a chorus of jeers.
‘I don’t even think about those times now; anyway, the boy’s right, burn it.’
‘Then I’ll have it.’ Milan put his hand out. Oh, thank you, Milan. I tried to pass it to him but the youth tried to grab it. It fell, landing on a smattering of dying embers. I scrambled down, forgetting all show of decency, and plucked it off knowing I had just made matters worse by my inelegant haste.
‘You’re a sympathiser, aren’t you?’ The boy placed both his hands on his rifle strap.
‘She’s AVO,’ shouted an ugly female voice from somewhere. Someone laughed. My head throbbed; an accusation was as fatal as a judgement. I stepped back, my eyes fixed on his filthy hands toying with the strap, threatening to slip the rifle from his shoulder.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, she’s with me,’ said George, inching towards the youth.
Milan joined him. ‘You keep your twitchy fingers to yourself, pal.’ The two of them together was enough to calm the boy. He stepped back but the indignation in his eyes still burned on me. ‘I’d say she’s AVO,’ he said, playing to his audience.
‘Russian whore...’
George spun round, his fists already clenched. Milan grabbed his arm. ‘Leave it, George,’ he said; the youth slipped the rifle off his shoulder.
‘George, help me.’
They were closing in, the three of us, trapped in an increasing circle of hate, the heat of the fire sucking the breath out of me, the flames reflecting in their eyes, giving them each a demonic look. Under the noise of the fire, no one had noticed the Soviet tank poised at the end of the street. The thunderous boom of the shell smashing into the building behind us took all by surprise. The glass in the windows sucked out in slow motion, followed by whooshing sound of a million glass arrows.
The flash of pain tore through my right hand as a shard of glass embedded itself. My mind blank, I yanked it out, the glass burning my flesh as it withdrew. The pain dulled; my mind tottered between two worlds.
Many of the crowd, which moments before had threatened to lynch me, now shrieked and scrambled to their feet. Others lay prostrate, pierced by glass. A cloud of black smoke, dust and masonry descended on us, dampening the intensity of the flames. The woman, who first accused me of being AVO, lost her footing as she tried to get up and burnt herself on the edge of the fire. Shots fired back, the bullets pinging off the metal hulk of the tank. A machine gun rattled in return, but their aim was poor. I felt myself being dragged to my feet. ‘Get up, Eva, for God’s sake, get up.’ It was George, his face black with heat and sweat.
I saw the small groups of men, crouching behind a tree or pressed against the building, firing at the tank, their faces contorted in concentration, their boots crunching on the carpet of broken glass and masonry. The youth with the quilted jacket lay on the pavement, a hole in his neck, his eyes that had viewed me with such hostility now facing skywards. But where was George now? Or Milan? I was by myself – standing to the left of the fire, the side of my face feeling like it would melt in the blaze, my right hand stabbing me with pain. But I couldn’t move. The tank drifted in and out of view behind the cloud of smoke and dust. The air filled with gunfire and screams.
‘Get down,’ shouted a strangulated voice nearby but whether it was aimed at me, I couldn’t say.
I didn’t know anything any more; my mind had ceased to operate, numbing me of pain or fear or any sense of self-preservation.
But in the depths of my consciousnes
s, there was something I was certain of. In the Soviet tank that now bore down on me sat a man, a Russian, whose name appeared on the pages of the book in my coat pocket.
2.
‘There, there – to your right, two o’clock, fire!’
The machine gun clattered, the noise bouncing within the confines of the metal hulk. They had them running, scurrying away like rats.
‘What are they burning?’ asked Vladimir.
‘Don’t know,’ replied Valentin, ‘but the smoke’s getting everywhere.’
‘Fire!’ Another round brought down a couple more.
‘That’s a Russian bookshop there, they’re burning all the books, the bastards.’
‘We’ll teach them to burn our books – fire,’ said Petrov, the driver.
Valentin peered at the scene in front of them, the bonfire, the spiralling smoke, the insurgents shooting at them, the women hiding behind those with guns, some scurrying away, others hit, writhing on the ground. But he envied their freedom, to be able to roam about the streets, to breathe the air, to have circulation in the legs. After almost a week in a claustrophobic tank, tempers were frayed, the conditions inside hideous, the noise unceasing, the smell of excrement, dirt and fumes so thick you could bite it, their clothes rank, their food limited and obnoxious.
‘Unit forty-two, unit forty-two, come in, come in.’ The radio crackled into life, the distant voice belonging to Andropov, the divisional commander.
Vladimir answered it. ‘Sir? Over.’
‘Calling for assistance, what’s your position? Over.’
Vladimir held his hand over the radio. ‘What’s our position?’ he mouthed.
‘Fuck knows,’ came the reply.
‘I can’t tell him we’ve got lost down some side street.’
‘Tell him anything then,’ said Petrov.
‘Unit forty-two, are you still there? Over.’
‘Sorry, sir; lost you for a bit there. We’re uncertain of our exact position but we’re in the district of the British Legation, not far from the Interior Ministry building. Over.’
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