‘Horvath, you horror!’
‘Can’t you stop being a librarian even for a minute?’
But Horvath is unrelenting, and while the radio continues to crackle and spit, he remorselessly continues to read Pascal’s words: ‘Are you less of a slave because your master loves you and flatters you? Lucky slave! Your master may flatter you now, but he’ll be beating you soon enough.’
‘Well said, Pascal! There you have those slaves of Rákosi and Gerö who think their Soviet master’s their friend because he gives them a slap on the back.’
‘We are fools to entrust ourselves to the company of those who are like ourselves: as miserable as we are, as impotent as we are, they will never be able to help us; we shall die alone,’ continues the Old Testament prophet, lifting the page close under his nose.
‘That’s enough, Horvath, you’re making me nervous.’
‘Just be careful. If you don’t stop I shall throw your book out of the window,’ adds Tadeusz, raising his voice.
The violinist is playing Paganini again. A little ray of sunlight comes in from the kitchen window. On such a grey damp day it seems a miracle. Everyone watches it light up a dancing whirl of dust.
Horvath sighs and closes his book. But he can’t resist repeating the last Pascal aphorism that he has just read: ‘It is horrible to feel everything you possess is failing. Amen.’
‘Throw that book away! Come here and listen,’ urges Tadeusz, still searching out new voices on the radio.
‘Well, here we are with comrade Dudás and his bodyguards, and the hundred and fifty men with him who have occupied the editorial offices of the Party paper Szabad Nep. What are your plans, comrade Dudás?’
A sound of chairs being moved and heavy breathing. Then the voice of Dudás, raucous and determined: ‘We are already printing a hundred thousand copies of a new paper to be called Magyar Fuggetlenseg. Our response to the concept of the single party.’
The sound of a rotary press can be heard.
‘When will the first number be ready?’
‘This very day,’ shouts Dudás happily.
‘We must get a copy of this new paper,’ says Hans.
‘For news?’
‘As a souvenir.’
‘Comrades, comrades,’ cries the radio. The five fall silent. The voice has managed to grab their attention despite Horvath’s Pascal, Ferenc’s violin and shots fired in the street.
‘Comrades, here is the speech Nagy made in front of parliament. Unfortunately we did not manage to record it because our batteries were flat. He said he recognises the national and democratic character of the insurrection. Those were his exact words. He announced that the Soviet troops will withdraw and the ÁVH will be dissolved, and that Gerö has already left for Moscow to join Rákosi. Comrades, we are free!’
Tadeusz starts leaping about the room. Horvath watches him with pity. Ferenc strikes up a jig. Tadeusz begins going round in circles. After a bit even Horvath is infected by the euphoria and joins the others in the middle of the kitchen with huge ungainly capers.
41
Horvath has developed a high temperature and is treating himself with powdered aspirin that Hans has procured at considerable expense. The serving of the medicine on a Eucharistic host found in Ferenc’s cupboard (which is full of the most unlikely objects), has become a ceremony in which everyone takes part. Hans spreads what is supposed to be half a gram of aspirin on the middle of the host which Ferenc holds open with three fingers, seeing that the soft little disc has a tendency to roll itself up. Tadeusz adds a drop of water and the host is then closed by the wise hands of Hans who folds it carefully and lifts it on high. At this point Horvath closes his eyes like a child and sticks out a long tongue red with fever, on which Hans places the host. Immediately after this Horvath protrudes his lips and tries to swallow the medicine with the help of a mouthful of tap water.
The coffee is finished and no more can be found anywhere. In its place there has arrived on the market a tea from China with very dark curled leaves that tastes like sundried straw. It seems Khrushchev has paid a visit to Mao and the two have decided to increase their trade links to include tea, poultry, lard and soya beans, which reach Hungary via the Soviet Union.
It’s even difficult to find bread. There are the usual perecs which Hans calls pretzels and eats with gusto even though they are made from potato flour and stick to your teeth. ‘They’re supposed to be crisp,’ says Hans, ‘but hunger is hunger.’ The great Orion on top of the iceless icebox is kept permanently on. Radio Kossuth and Radio Petőfi transmit classical music, most frequently Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony, Borodin’s D Major Quartet, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Shéhérazade, Kodály’s Galánta Dances and Khachaturian’s Sabre Dance. Every so often the music is interrupted by an appeal for calm. And above all, an insistence that people should hand in their arms. ‘All weapons, even the smallest, must be handed in to the government.’ But judging by the continued insistence, it seems reasonable to conclude that the arms are not being given up.
Every now and then they pick up the voice of a free radio station, but these tend to be no sooner born than they die again. Young voices that tell of a great longing for change. They announce that new workers’ councils are being formed spontaneously in factories throughout the land. Some discuss the concept of the dictatorship of the proletariat. Others go back to Trotsky’s theories of permanent revolution, while others again refer directly to the young Marx, and many invoke the free market. In fact, huge confusion. There is only one thing they all agree on: Soviets out of Hungary! And immediate free elections!
Shoot-outs are constantly denounced in various parts of the country, above all battles between the ÁVH and the insurgents. The Soviets take little part preferring to leave things to Rákosi’s old military police, the most hated force in the whole country.
The five get some hot soup inside them, made from the broth of a few meatless chicken bones, lots of margarine, half an onion and two rather soft potatoes. Suddenly an unusual voice comes over the radio. A tender woman’s voice singing in English. Something really unexpected.
‘But that’s Doris Day!’ says Ferenc, lifting his head.
They all listen. It really does seem to be Doris Day, the blonde girl with shining eyes who draws crowds to the cinemas throughout the world. Except in the self-styled socialist countries where she can only circulate in clandestine form in a few smoky film clubs frequented by youthful film lovers and only tolerated by the censorship because they appeal to such small audiences.
‘What’s Doris Day doing on Hungarian radio?’
‘Someone must have recorded the song secretly after picking it up on long wave, and is now broadcasting it from one of the free radio stations.’
The clear voice of the young mother trying to save her son from kidnappers in Hitchcock’s film penetrates the tiny apartment. ‘Que sera sera, Whatever will be will be, The future’s not ours to see, Que sera sera …’ Horvath laughs, but his laugh turns into an insistent hollow cough that nearly makes his eyes start from their sockets.
‘I’ll get the thermometer,’ says Tadeusz.
But Horvath holds up his hand as if to ward it off.
‘I really don’t want to know if I have a temperature or not. In any case, I won’t take anything except aspirin.’
‘Okay, but if it’s bronchitis, we’re going to the hospital.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’
In fact, no one thinks it’s a good idea to go to the hospital in such a wind. It’s late October. The cold has become intense. The city is in the hands of insurgents, and there is a shortage of basic necessities.
‘“The Nagy government,”’ reads Hans in a newspaper just printed and being distributed free in the street, ‘“the new government that contains communists, social democrats, members of the National Peasants’ Party and small proprietors, seems to have been accepted by the Soviets and to be taking its first steps towards normalisation. Cardinal Mindszenty has been fre
ed after many years in prison. The secret police, the ÁVH, has been abolished. Its place will be taken by a National Guard. Maléter has been promoted to general and made Minister of Defence. Free trade unions and cultural associations are being born again …”’
‘So all is well, damn it, everything is perfect, but in that case why is the city so uneasy and why is so much shooting still to be heard? And why can’t we find any food?’
Tadeusz has another newspaper in his hand, the Independence, which is launching a fierce attack on the new government. ‘These people aren’t satisfied,’ says Tadeusz, reading huge headlines printed in an ink that stains the tips of their fingers: ‘“We don’t recognise the Nagy government which is showing weakness towards the Soviet Union. We should not and cannot bargain. We no longer want the Soviets here. They have been occupying our country for eleven years. We don’t want them on our territory any more; we don’t want them shaping our politics for us, choosing our leaders, deciding our agrarian policies, our military investments, the products we manufacture, or planning our towns. Above all we don’t want their censorship. No more denunciations, disappearances, concentration camps, farcical trials and tribunals whose only aim is to suppress those who do not see things the way they do!”’
‘It’s not as if they were speaking straight out!’ remarks Ferenc, walking about violin in hand without ever finding time to play it. But Tadeusz intervenes: ‘This is no time for music, Ferenc. Go and find some meat for our supper.’ But the voice of Doris Day has moved them all. Like the voice of freedom.
‘“Let us ask the United Nations for military assistance in liberating a country that has spent too many years under the Soviet yoke. We demand a neutral Hungary. We insist on leaving the Warsaw Pact immediately. We want all Russian troops out of the country. Asylum and Hungarian citizenship, if they want it, can be granted only to soldiers who have fraternised with the insurgents,”’ reads Hans, smiling.
‘All this is extremely naïve.’
‘But it’s the truth.’
‘What truth, you fool?’
‘What the people are thinking, idiot, can’t you understand that?’
‘“Don’t touch anything in the shops, even if the windows are shattered!”’ Hans reads on, nodding. ‘“Let no one accuse us of being bandits! Even if you’re dying of hunger, don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you! We are in the process of organising points for the free distribution of bread and milk. Come and find us at the Corvin cinema or the newspaper offices, there will always be something for you. Signed József Dudás.”’
‘You know what, I’m going at once.’
‘Wait, I’ll come too.’
Amara and Hans start down the stairs. Outside it’s drizzling. Amara ties a scarf round her head. Hans puts on a Russian sailor’s cap, made of a limp waterproof material, with a little rigid peak from which a small red star has been ripped.
42
Amara and Hans come out of Magdolna, take Baross utca to Kálvin tér, from there pass along a section of Múzeum körút and head for Dohány utca. They run into a long queue of people waiting their turn to get a little bread. A woman wrapped in two coats, one longer than the other, is selling perecs from a pile on top of a chest of drawers dragged goodness knows how to that place. But they are of such poor quality and so mouldy that no one stops to buy. A group of students pass them at speed, singing the ‘Marseillaise’: Allons enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé, contre nous de la tirannie, l’étendard sanglant est levé …
Hans sings with them, moved. Amara watches silently. How much that music brings back to her! Amintore repeating the forbidden words in a low voice after checking that no one was listening. Her mother running to close the windows before joining in, mangling the words: Aux armes citoyens, formez vos bataillons. Marchons, marchons! qu’un sand impur abreuve nos sillons!
At every step there’s someone giving out leaflets. Hans takes them all and thrusts them into his pocket.
‘What do they say?’
‘I don’t know, we’ll look later.’
‘There, that’s the Kilian barracks,’ Hans points with his finger and stops in consternation. Nothing is left of the barracks but walls riddled with holes. Its roof has collapsed, its doors have been broken down, its windows are black cavities. In front, covered with chalk, is a line of dead bodies. Russian soldiers and Hungarian citizens lying side by side close to the road. They look the same under the layer of lime someone has strewn on them. Twisted statues like the dead recovered from the ash of Vesuvius and preserved in the museums of Naples, caught in a moment of confusion when trying to escape. Very young boys, their uncovered faces stained with blood and their eyes wide open as if in an attempt to understand the mystery of this defining journey. Poor quality clothes and boots smeared with mud.
A lorry backs up slowly. Two men in uniform, their red stars replaced by ribbons in the national colours, start dragging the bodies towards the lorry. Two others, sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders, lift them up to the level of the lorry, almost making them fly through the air.
Amara is deeply upset. In spite of herself her eyes fill with stinging tears.
‘Let’s go away!’ says Hans, for whom the excitement of the ‘Marseillaise’ has been replaced by depression and angry brooding. But Amara plants her feet like a mule and goes on staring at those bodies almost playfully lifted with an undulating movement before being unceremoniously thrown onto the lorry.
‘Wait a moment, I’ll ask what’s been happening,’ says Hans, going up to a man who is leaning against a tree smoking. He too has his rifle over his shoulder and seems lost in contemplation of the dead.
The two talk for a while. The man stays leaning on his tree. Hans presses him with questions. Then, after a quick salute, returns to Amara.
‘Colonel Pál Maléter was ordered to recapture the Kilian barracks from the insurgents. They gave him five tanks and the men of the Esztergom armoured division, plus a hundred officer cadets from the Kossuth Academy. But by the time he reached the Kilian on the morning of the 24th he had only one tank left. The others had stopped on the way, seized by armed citizens. The officer cadets refused to fire on civilians. So Colonel Maléter, instead of attacking the occupants of the barracks, decided to negotiate a ceasefire with them thus clearly putting himself on the side of the insurgents. Then the Hungarian military authorities called in the Soviets who arrived and began bombarding the barracks. A full-scale battle followed. Men were killed on both sides. Let’s go.’
Amara moves on reluctantly. They pass in front of a hotel with two armed guards outside it. The old name, Hotel Britannia, has been erased and replaced by BÉKE in cardboard block capitals.
‘Shall we go in and get something hot?’
Amara nods. The thick carpet adorning the floor has been covered by coloured rags on which the muddy prints of boots can be seen. The hotel bar is crowded. All eyes turn to the newcomers. Someone greets them in French. ‘The Western journalists’ favourite hotel,’ says Hans, ordering a draught beer. The table they lean their elbows on is sticky.
‘What would you like to drink?’
‘Tea.’
The waitress is wearing an ankle-length coat, though it’s not particularly cold inside. Then Amara notices that every opening of the door brings in a gust of cold air. The windows of the kitchen have been blown out and all the waiters are going in and out in thick coats.
The tea turns out to be hot water darkened by some leaf without taste or smell but as sweet as treacle. Amara takes her cup in both hands.
‘At least it’s hot.’
‘Have we got the money to pay for it?’
Hans nods. He drinks his beer at a single draught and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater. Meanwhile a fat bald man has come to their table.
‘Journalists?’
‘Yes and no,’ says Hans.
‘You need visas?’
‘Just waiting for them.’
‘Italians
? How many of you?’
‘The lady is Italian. Maria Amara Sironi. I’m a mixture, part Hungarian and part Austrian … And you?’
‘Call me Alain. I can’t remember my surname. I’ve crossed too many borders. But anyway, if you need visas I can get you two. Not more.’
‘We want to get to Poland.’
‘Poland? What for?’
‘To look for a child, or rather a man.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be able to get to Poland just now. I can get you into Austria, nothing more.’
‘How much?’
‘Eight hundred forints each.’
‘I think we’ll wait.’
‘Could take a long time. I don’t think the Soviets are going to give way.’
‘In what sense?’
‘They may invade in the grand manner. Hundreds of tanks and thousands of men. Make a clean sweep of everything. Maybe even bomb the city.’
‘Are you advising us to get out?’ ‘It would seem logical. There are people prepared to pay a thousand forints just to get to the Andau Bridge. It could soon be too late.’
‘Well, we’re in no hurry,’ says Hans casually. But then he adds, ‘Can you give me your phone number? In case of need, I could call you.’
The bald man looks pityingly at them.
‘The telephones are tapped. And in any case, they don’t work. They’ve cut the lines. If you want me, you’ll find me here.’
With this he gets up, takes Amara’s white hand in both his own and kisses it in an extremely theatrical manner before leaving them with a cunning conspiratorial smile.
‘Might be useful.’
‘But could we trust him? Anyway, who’s got eight hundred forints?’
On the way out they notice on a little table in a corner of the lounge a metal radio set with aerodynamic lines and a long aerial; a lot of people are sitting round it listening.
Train to Budapest Page 27