by Alan Duff
The second day is an adjustment period: each and every patriotic individual adjusting inside to certain death. So, the night comes swiftly, passed in a kind of daze of making that adjustment, of accepting death has our names on its files.
We use every device and means to lure the tanks into more vulnerable positions, getting them like stupid lumbering beasts to go down narrow lanes, alleys that just fit their width, and then we hit them. And those tank crew who do manage to get out of their metal cocoons are slaughtered, no better than wild animals. We tear them apart with bare hands, rip scalps off heads, throttle and castrate and pop eyes from skulls, tear out windpipes. They have set the rules: we play by them.
But when night falls on the third day, and we are deprived of sleep, it comes to us that we have lost. With this comes the crashing down of precious notions, of ideals that tell you if your fight is right then you will, eventually, win. When demonstrably we have not. So there is another process of psychological adjustment, of turning yourself into a copy of those who have done this to you: a murderer.
My father, in a moment of lucidity before he died, told me of the prison experience and how it was a series of adjustments. You go in there a proud man, a decent person done a terrible injustice. Then you go through a series of changes, of going from one kind of man to the next. You see your own kind betray you. You see your oppressor always on top. The world reduces and reduces, until one day there are no more doors to go through, you have reached the end. Once there, you slowly put your back against it and tell the world you are prepared for anything. Killing someone would be no more than swatting an insect. Life, other humans’ lives, cease to have meaning anymore. (Except somewhere along the way, Papa, you couldn’t take that last final step. There was one more door to go through, Papa. The one I am passing through now.)
Four days have passed, I go home to meet with my mother, as arranged. She is there. Does my face look as dejected as hers? She falls into my arms and weeps, though not for so long. (But not I, Mama. Your son does not cry, not even briefly.)
Have you been fighting, Mama?
No. Not this time. Helping bury the dead, give them Magyar dignity, like we did your father. There are so many dead the parks are mounds of graves.
Death, even of my own kind and innocents, means less now, there is not much to say. Tank salvo is a constant background roar — and shudder if it’s close. The cold, as the old saying goes, has run off with our smiles. The Kádár government is announcing on radio, the same as patrolling Ávós cars do on megaphones, that the fight is over. That this illegal and immoral anti-government uprising has been rightfully and comprehensively put down.
We’ve lost. They’ve won. We’re defeated enemies of the State. The State the heroic victor with appreciated assistance from their Soviet friends.
Mama wants to know what I intend. I ask her the same question, and she says, What choice but to go back to life as it was and doubtless will be worse. And you, my son?
Me? I will carry on the fight. There are many like me. And she does not try to dissuade; we just hug and agree to meet here in another two days. I am so tired I am numb of most feelings, even for my own good mother whom I leave standing in our doorway. I don’t even say another goodbye.
A GROUP OF Russians, in greatcoats and fur hats, stand around a flaming oil drum warming themselves. The freezing air turns their talk and explosions of laughter to frosty clouds. For the first time I’m afraid, because our plan is one of fantasisers. Yet here is the reality: five big Russian boys smiling in a night that is now theirs.
Astanavitsa! I know enough of their language — even though I was always last at it in class — to know he means stop.
Their leader gestures me closer — at gunpoint. I go slowly forward until told to halt, not far from the oil drum, fuelled by bits of wood and a vehicle tyre, which sends acrid smoke in wafts on the small breeze swirled around this passage between buildings.
Tell us why we should not shoot you on sight for breaking curfew, Hungarian scum. The leader speaks bad Hungarian. In my own tongue I am insulted like this. In my mind I name him Ivan. The Terrible.
My family has no food, sir.
Ivan turns to his mates and speaks in their tongue. They look at me in that way of men in packs in uniform, with blindness to all but their power, the menace born from it. This is the closest I have been to Soviets whom I am not killing — yet. A hard race, tough people, one of them fine looking, too, though I hate him the same as the others.
They say you are a traitor revolutionary, kid. And looking at you, the face of a fighter, I dare say, it would be the truth, igen?
I hate him using our language, throttling it like that.
I give my best innocent expression. I am no revolutionary, just want to feed my family.
Don’t we all. Now fuck off back to your cot, Hungarian child, or we will make it a coffin.
Must make my move now, but don’t know if I can make it sound so truthful even I believe it. But I must. I must.
I can exchange, soldiers …
Exchange what? Your stinking filthy jacket for one of our army greatcoats? Ivan laughs sending a balloon of breath to Hungarian air, which starts to freeze his laughter.
Look across the road, gentlemen … Her for meat, bread, whatever you offer.
No need for me to look at where I have directed them, only to see their faces, eyes widen, expressions change.
Only the one who speaks basic Magyar turns back to me — the others, it seems, cannot.
This a trick, boy? He advances, gun lifting to my chest. Up close, I can smell dried fish on his breath. And he might be half drunk.
I pat my stomach. The stomach cannot trick, sir.
First he glances back at her — for longer than he intended, since she stands there, under the streetlight, staring at them, never looking more beautiful. Then I get the Russian’s eyes. She is your sister?
No. Cousin.
Whore cousin.
No, sir. A hungry cousin, with no choice.
A hungry whore, willing to exchange her body to the enemy for food.
Food is life, is it not, sir?
Life is not life if you are a traitorous revolutionary against your Communist masters. Another brainwashed soul.
My fear has gone, I am so calm inside, even if my heart pounds. Mind has separated temporarily from emotions, which is how I am when in a fight. How I’ve been of late when killing enemies like these.
Whatever you say, sir. Look, is she not beautiful? Now I do feel the traitor, but of her, my beloved, my Aranka, my lover and dearest friend. Offering her like this, even if with her collusion, in fact she suggested it. And we argued; I asked how could she after what Friss did. She answered that being female and considered beautiful ought to be considered a weapon, no different to one of higher intelligence or superior fighting skills.
Beautiful indeed, she has reduced them to stunned silence. They go into a huddle, discuss in whispers, men considering breaking orders; they haggle, near to arguing. They have changed, been weakened despite their military and political superiority. The tables have just turned, my dear Aranka. If we can hold our nerves.
Out from the group marches Ivan The Terrible, who snatches me hard by the front of my coat — he is very strong — breathes his Russian vodka smell into my face. I could drive my forehead into that broad nose of his and do it over and over again until his bone structure is shattered, (ten to one) for I cannot stand another person being this threateningly close to me. Let alone with foul breath.
If this is not for real, Hungarian youth, then you will die very painfully. He lets me go. I am not sure how long I would have lasted from retaliating. I see — hear — him swallow, the lump of sexual desire risen up. (You’ll not be bedding her, Russian dog, you’ll be dying and wondering where you went wrong.)
Where? he asks with the sex clogging up his throat. That’s all he had to ask and all I have to do is lead him and them.
Lead them to t
he beautiful apparition crossing the street at an alluring diagonal, teasing by suggesting there must be a little factor of chase in it, for such an exceptional beauty there should — and is. Five men follow like dogs on heat.
Of course they are suspicious. Which is why one suddenly turns and punches me in the face and spits warning in his Russian tongue, that this better not be an amateur set-up. My cheek hurts from the blow, taste my own blood; I want to retaliate so badly.
Another comes alongside and thrusts his rifle barrel so hard into my side it feels as if I’ve been stabbed. And he whispers words in Russian, offers a face of murder foul should this be not what I claim. I have to blink away my untrustworthy friend, Rage.
The streets are so silent now they’ve beaten us. But evidence of our magnificent stand is still there in tank wrecks, three in this street alone, and buildings pock-marked with bullet holes, and large holes blasted out by tank fire. There are no other humans in this curfew period, just us: men wanting to possess beauty ordinarily beyond their reach; beauty wanting to own her true self; and me wanting to avenge, avenge, so many good people. And myself.
At gunpoint, they decide at the last, they make us lead down steps to the basement I have indicated. Where, if any slightest wrong move, we will be shot. We get to the door, shadowed by the building, and I hear them grabbing indecently at my lover, their sex-laden chuckles. And Rage comes and refuses to go away. So I make promise to him that if he is patient, then I will let him loose. (I promise you, Rage.)
Wishing now I’d bothered to learn more Russian as I watch the leader push Aranka up against the wall and kiss her … see his hand groping at her, hear his deep tone … Watch my Aranka in the same state of resigned acceptance as with Colonel Friss. This time, though, I am close enough to kill the violator. Old enough and experienced now, too.
Inside we’ve lit with kerosene lamps. There is no power supply to this street, the better to demoralise. An abandoned dwelling of the poorest, it is with smells and odour of the departed inhabitants. And now Russian stink joins with wretched Magyar residue.
I have seen this sight, of whore and angel readying for that bed. And the men are also changed by the same sight but with differently, singularly, focused eyes. It is no surprise to me, even whilst I dread within that I might lose my battle with Rage.
The man who has drawn or negotiated first turn with her is undressing, without slightest self-consciousness; though his friends laugh a little uneasily, and make movement of sexually aroused males, though still soldiers in a hostile land.
Now it’s astonishment they wear, as Aranka’s shadow moves in the kerosene light, removing her coat. I hear every deep-throated murmur and involuntary grunt of these lusting males. And inside I tell Rage: soon. It will be soon.
Suddenly, I am slammed up against the wall by the one who prodded me with his rifle. He’s speaking in Russian and I have enough in my school memory to know he means turn around. He turns me the other way. And I am immediately seized by panic, that Aranka has lost sight of me, the just-discernible looks of support I have been giving her. So, I walk for the wall, turn and lean against it with raised arms so they see no threat. And my beloved sees me.
Now two of the five start looking around, Ivan one of them, wrenching open wardrobe doors, one checks under the bed; they pull open a door, disappear behind it, come out, go in another, emerge and there is only one more door left, the bathroom.
Ivan in my face again, demanding to know why is there a bed in this, the living room?
We carried it here. The bedrooms you will see are with filthy mattresses. So many of our homes destroyed, uninhabitable.
But you are mere swine, Hungarian youth. You could live anywhere. And you lugged a double bed down here, for that slut woman to lie with the enemy — enemies — to obtain food?
We all must eat. Can’t now get myself to call Ivan sir, not even with false respect. Do you think we do this gladly?
Why, is your young arse on offer too? I think one of us likes both. His chuckle means only between us, since he said the words in my language. Then he speaks in Russian and his friends laugh, they laugh too loud for my comfort. Though that is nothing in seeing Ivan walk for the bathroom door. It won’t do. It won’t.
Tanya? I call her by false name. Why do you take so long to show these good sirs what you have? They are taking it out on me.
I think that was my papa speaking on my behalf, since Rage was frothing up and about to spill over.
Ivan and the other stop by the door, their friends’ eyes on Ivan to translate, a rifle pointed at me in readiness. Aranka unbuttons a thick winter shirt. A vest, white as a virgin’s, reveals beneath, barely but an enticing veil over a fine body; men’s collective intake of air. Me, her lover, staring unblinkingly at her: It is all right, my friend. It is all right.
Ivan must be translating what I said. He thinks it’s pretty funny. And anyway is quite distracted by Aranka now.
(See what she is, Russian scum. Begin first with her hair, how it falls down from that pulled-away scarf, and adds mystery, of more, much more, to come. You’ll have never beheld any such as this.)
The two by the bathroom have still not resumed their checking. The rib-prodder, right in front of me, has slowly turned his back full on, and if I had a knife I could plunge it into him. The other, the good looker and youngest, who must have second turn, waits awkwardly by the bed, not sure where he should stand or how to conduct himself. We will murder him with no less fury than his more coarse comrades.
Would-be lover-boy is down to his underwear with undressing suspended, to stare at Aranka’s final act of disrobing. Lower jaw is losing its connection to upper, I can see his misshapen bottom teeth, a glint of spit caught in the kerosene glow. The obscene bulge of penile excitement strains in his undershorts.
And I have seen this sight of woman angel, oh, how I have seen it; as victim, as abject surrender to another violator, I know the way her chin lifts to show defiance they could never discern. It is her, the brave woman, the suffering Widow Pálfia; it’s in our language, layered and layered, from centuries of having to disguise overt thoughts and intentions from our succession of invaders and oppressors.
This sight of woman, pure in act but hurting, dying inside because she thinks she is everything but purity. But you need not think that, Aranka, you are more than any in this room. You are naked and yet clothed in the robes of dignity. I have dreamed it, this sight, and once experienced it in reverse, when the whore Izabella became the angel Klaudia.
This one, Aranka, becomes all of good Woman, she is herself, my mama, her mother, every female, she is a heroine the same as Zsófi, surrendering something vital of herself for the cause and yet giving nothing.
Nothing? I start having doubts, fully unclothed that she is. I see every goose bump, feel how cold she is, how exposed. The same time fearing that even the distraction of her like this might not be enough to leave that last door unchecked. Rifles of pending lover and next in line lean against the wall, whilst the arsehole in front of me keeps his tommy-gun slung over shoulders; so, too, the pair still staring at my Aranka.
What men say of naked woman has always been said, just differently. This laughter I hear is without any admiration, not even basic respect. They simply want. And they can, simply, soon have.
This sight, too, I have seen and yet know the least. For it is not really this except in physical image. Of spreadeagled legs — wrenched to that position by the lover mounting her — and every set of man-invader eyes on the sight and only the sight.
Missing the door behind that pair starting to ease open.
If he enters her, if he penetrates her, then our plan has not worked. Not to go that far. But Pál enters this room, and so does his mother — disclaiming, she must have to be, her God and Catholic beliefs. Son and mother, about to take sons from their mothers — for ever.
The pair nearest the bathroom go down to rapid pistol shots. Pál executing both; I see the surprise, the eyebrows
flying up, an issue of hair and blood erupt from one’s scalp.
From that uneasy, even dangerous air of men in sexual need, this basement has transformed in the instant to yelling, crying, shots reverberating, gurgling, rapid-fire talk in Russian. The bad one topples over, shot by Pál or maybe his mother, just as he is about to fire.
It was Margit, now she’s looking in disbelief at what she’s done. Killed a man. Still killing him, for she’s before me, firing and firing, and Pál has put a pistol in my hand … and I take the man with the uncomfortable demeanour, standing by the bed, peeing his pants, the wet stain spreading, arms wrapped round himself, his shivering, vest-clad body that was awaiting its turn with my angel.
Of course he dies crying, Mat, Mat, for his mother.
I find myself at the bed, but Aranka is not there. Just this bare flesh, which the fingers of my one hand is tearing at, whilst I’m trying to position to shoot him with the other.
I’ve let Rage have his head, he wants to end this one’s life with (our) bare hands. I am not using Rage as an excuse, we are one and the same. For just one moment, when I catch glimpse of Aranka emerging from the floor on the other side of the bed, I get a thought: of an avenging angel.
His throat, his throat, from breathing that sexual want has at last gained satisfaction, now the air escaping comes gurgling on a flow of blood, escaping where nature did not design it to. Throat with wide blood smile, impossible gash, life spilling over the edge like a burst dam. And she who did it, smiling at me. Green they are, her eyes. Red is blood, it has always been red, till you look a little closer should you get chance like this, and see it can be the colour of celebratory claret.