They Were Divided

by Miklos Banffy

  ‘If I have to I will then go quietly into retirement.’

  His reasoning was like a well-forged chain. There was not a single flaw, nor an unnecessary word. Every phrase was as solidly cast as bronze.

  Tisza then got to his feet and as Balint was escorting him back to the corridor of the House he thanked the younger man for his good wishes in the most friendly terms. Then, tall, erect and broad-shouldered, he walked calmly to the head of the stairs and disappeared from Balint’s sight.

  Tisza was elected Speaker on May 22nd.

  The socialists, who saw in this the death-knell of all their plans, at once announced a general strike. The factory workers turned out in force, joined up with the city rabble, and started overturning trams and trucks so as to build barricades. The mob was heading for the Parliament building but was stopped by the police at the corner of Alkotmany Street. Stones were thrown at the police and a few pistol-shots were heard. Then the police fired back: six dead, 182 wounded.

  While this was happening in the square outside, the legislators in the House were still voting for or against a host of unconsidered trifles.

  Throughout the country it seemed as if a storm was brewing.

  That was what each man felt and fancied he saw. Behind Tisza’s back all sorts of surreptitious discussions were taking place. Secret messages passed between Laszlo Lukacs and the Independents and, though it never became known exactly what happened, it seemed likely that the Minister-President was still seeking a peaceful solution through agreement over the suffrage question. What was certain was that Kossuth and Justh believed that such an agreement, whether based on law or not, existed. Only that could explain why, on June 1st, Kossuth demanded to be heard in debate and offered, in the name of the Independent Party, to abandon all obstructionist activity if the number of those to receive the vote was increased by 120 per cent. Lukacs at first gave an evasive answer but on the following day he refused categorically to accept Kossuth’s proposal. Some people thought then that he must have been influenced by fear of Tisza, but it is more likely that he had had to stall so as to have time to consult the Belvedere, and that the Heir refused his agreement because he had set his face against all radical reform until he succeeded to the throne.

  The disappointment aroused a storm of indignation in the ranks of the Independent Party and their next meeting was held in an angry mood.

  This was the situation which Balint found on his return to Budapest with his mother on June 4th. He had already realized that whatever he found going on in Parliament would be distasteful to him, for he had grown up with a belief in the sacredness of Hungary’s constitution and respect for its traditions. It had been painful to read about recent events in the newspapers, but now, seeing it for himself, it was worse. All the same he had to be there, just as eight and a half years before, when the derisively-named ‘Darabont’ (or Bodyguard) government had sent soldiers into the House to enforce its will. Balint sensed that something of the sort might happen again, now that passions were even more inflamed than before and there had been shooting in the streets outside. If the same sort of thing occurred in the present session then Tisza was not the sort of man to cower before the guns of the military, and if he were bold enough to stand up to them then Balint felt it would be cowardly not to do the same.

  The signs of the coming storm were all there when the session began. From the outset the opposition brought into play one of its oldest time-wasting tricks, the filibuster. A member whose ability to spin any point out for an unconscionable time demanded to be heard on a point of order concerning the Rules of the House. Traditionally such a demand must be given priority, and at least three-quarters of an hour or more could be satisfactorily wasted in this way. Tisza merely dismissed the request in the most summary fashion. Bedlam at once broke out on the left, with members drumming on the benches and demanding an immediate closed session.

  From where Balint was seated he could see Tisza clearly. The newly-elected Speaker sat there motionless, waiting for the hubbub to subside. The sun glinted on his short greying hair and his eyes were hidden by his thick glasses which were like two shining discs placed just under his forehead. At last, when it was possible to be heard, he said in a serious tone, ‘I must ask the honourable Members to abandon the course they have adopted, a course which is bringing our country to ruin.’

  Undoubtedly he knew in advance that so mild a rebuke would be in vain and that his request would be greeted, as it was, with whistles, drumming on the benches, stamping and loud irreverent shouting. Tisza called for order, and again started to speak. His voice was solemn and his manner calm, and only when he quoted back at his political opponents some of their own words did he allow himself some ironic overtones.

  ‘My duty,’ he said, ‘as guardian of order in this House, is to bring to a definite end all obstructive tactics and technical objections which, as Count Gyula Andrassy has said, can be forged into an effective weapon by a mere twenty ill-intentioned members, and which, Albert Apponyi has declared, constitute usurpation of the nation’s age-old liberties …’ but he was not allowed to finish the sentence for his voice was drowned by the uproar his words had produced. Men jumped to their feet from the benches on the extreme left and howled their anger, then, above it all, Tisza somehow again made himself heard.

  ‘I ask the House now if it accepts the Defence Estimate Bill or not? I wish for an answer: Yes or No?’

  The majority of those present at once stood up to show their acceptance and Tisza declared the motion passed. The opposition was now powerless to do anything but continue to howl their fury, cursing and raging and hurling insults in every direction, insults which never reached their mark for the noise was such that no one could hear what they were shouting. While this was going on Tisza closed the session, got up and walked out as slowly and as calmly as if he were merely out for an afternoon stroll.

  This all happened before midday.

  Abady went to the House again for the afternoon session. It was barely half-past three when he looked into the Chamber and saw that the opposition was already there in force. They had heard that Tisza had ordered a police cordon and had been afraid that they would not be allowed into the building. And so it happened that, with only a few exceptions, all the seats on the left-wing benches were already occupied. Everyone there seemed happy, even merry, exchanging jokes and laughing as if they were expecting something exceptionally amusing to happen. Some had brought whistles, others bells; and they were busy showing each other what they had brought and gently trying them out. What fun we’ll have, they muttered to each other; what jolly, jolly fun!

  At four o’clock the government party took their seats and there was an ominous hush which lasted until Tisza rose to open the session. Then bedlam broke loose again with the sound of whistles blowing, bells ringing, voices shouting and crowing with manic laughter. No one could hear a word the Speaker uttered, though everyone could see his mouth open and shut. Then he stopped trying to speak, noted something with his pencil, rose and left the Chamber, all members of the government party trooping out after him. The noise-makers thought that they had won that round.

  But not for long.

  A moment or two later the red plush draperies over the door to the Chamber behind the left-wing benches were drawn aside and the Chief Usher entered with a paper in his hand. Behind him could be seen a high official of the Parliament in his gold-braided uniform, and behind him row after row of policemen.

  From where Balint stood it was difficult to see exactly what happened next, but behind the dense phalanx of policemen there seemed to be some heated discussion, perhaps even a brawl.

  What happened was this. Mihaly Karolyi, who found himself in the corridor just as it was filling up with policemen, pushed his way into the Chamber through the central door on the left, jumped up onto the writing desk of the first bench in front of him, stepped over the shoulders of those sitting there and ran, white shoes flashing and arms spread wide, along the bench
-tops until he found himself in front of Justh. Then it seemed that he struck out at the nearest policeman with both fists – though it was impossible to see whether they reached their mark or not for at that moment expert arms caught him and lifted him in the air, and four stalwart policemen carried him bodily outside. He was the only one who physically attacked the police that day, though strangely enough his name never figured on the list of those who were arrested later.

  The others merely adopted an attitude of passive resistance. When the man in gold braid touched them on the shoulder, they got up quietly and were escorted out by two policemen.

  Abady left after the first of the obstructionist members had been ejected from the Chamber.

  He had come to the session because he considered it his duty; and he remained until the police arrived because, though he knew that he would be deeply shocked by what was going to happen, he agreed that it was necessary. While all this was going on he just stood like one mesmerized, for though his innermost feelings were outraged and although he was horrified by what was happening, he could not tear his eyes away but felt impelled to stand there and watch the horror as it happened.

  With a bitter taste in his mouth he stepped out into the corridor. It was empty, for Tisza had evidently given orders to his followers that on this day they should keep discreetly in the background and not wander about as they usually did. Even the ushers had disappeared.

  Balint walked swiftly downstairs. In the hall on the ground-floor a small group of ejected Members stood nonchalantly at one side surrounded by policemen; they were still there when Balint returned from the cloakroom having collected his hat and stick.

  Now they were crowding round the main entrance and Balint wondered what on earth they could be waiting for. Could it be checking of their papers, or were their captors expecting others to join them before they were all hurried away in one large group?

  Abady was soon enlightened: the ejected members were having their photographs taken.

  Eager newsmen were standing outside beside the pillars of the portico, and each group of three or four arrested men paused on the threshold as they came out, their guards flanking them, and moved on, only to have their place taken by the next group, as soon as all the cameras had clicked.

  Soon it was the turn of Marton Kuthenvary, who had had more experience of newspaper men than most. He knew exactly what was needed and asked his escorting policemen to take him out into the sun before stopping for the picture-taking ritual. He wanted to be sure that the picture was a good one and knew that anything taken in the shadow of the portico might be too obscure for the ‘victim’ to be immediately identified.

  The police, whose orders, it turned out, had been only to escort the recalcitrant Members to the door but no further, demurred, but Kuthenvary insisted, cunningly pointing out that the colonnade of the entrance was an integral part of the building and that they would not be infringing their orders if they came with him as far as the outer pillars. The argument was reinforced with a couple of good cigars, and the astute Kuthenvary got his way.

  The published picture was one of the best. There the ‘victim of tyranny’ stands framed by agents of authority, the very picture of outraged, dignified righteousness. Since he was being forcibly removed from the building Kuthenvary had asked the policemen to hold both his arms as if pinioned and, even when the photographers were on the point of getting their distances right, he had stopped everything, crying ‘Wait!’ as he took off his hat and handed it to one of his attendants. This done, he had again struck a pose and said, ‘All right, I’m ready now!’

  The result was everything Kuthenvary could have wished. His flowing hair, cut to look like that of the great poet-patriot Petofi, waved dramatically in the wind and his tall figure looked at its most impressive between two little short men in uniform.

  Balint reached the square just as the photograph was taken. Then Kuthenvary came down the steps.

  ‘Hello! Balint, my dear fellow!’ he called out. ‘I’ll send that to my constituents in Csik … a hundred copies … it’ll be excellent propaganda, don’t you think?’

  From that afternoon the Parliament building was surrounded by a police cordon.

  Nevertheless, three days later one of the excluded members, an obscure, little-known MP called Gyula Kovacs, managed somehow to climb in over a balcony, jump into the Chamber, fire three shots at Tisza and aim a fourth at himself.

  Tisza was unhurt and remained standing calmly at his place. Seeing his assailant fall and assuming that he had killed himself, he continued what he was saying, adding in his precise everyday manner:

  ‘This is just the doing of some poor miserable madman, who has himself anticipated his just punishment. We should all look upon his action, and his fate, with the compassion due to those who lose their wits.’

  From that moment the opposition members did not even try to attend the House. They had a ‘Manifesto of Protest’ published in the papers; but it was received by the general public with lethargy and indifference.

  The session was brought to an end as soon as some amendments had been made to the House Rules and some minor legislation passed, unanimously of course. Then followed the summer recess.

  Balint did not wait for the official end of the session. He went home to Transylvania.

  Chapter Three

  THE STEAM-SAW’S RHYTHMIC WHIRRING could be heard all over the sawmill compound, through the mountains of sawdust, through the neat stacks of prepared planks which rose in high regular blocks beside the tar-covered roofs of the motor-shed, the canteen and the manager’s offices, through the dense pine forests which covered the surrounding hillsides, and far down into the valley of the Retyicel at the head of which the Abady sawmill had been built. The timber-fenced compound was as large as a mountain village.

  It was midday and the sun’s bright rays were almost perpendicular. There was no shadow anywhere and on the smooth pillar-like trunks that had been stripped of their bark in the forest the sunlight glinted with a shimmering yellow glow. The newly cut planks could have been made of yellow-gold velvet and the piles of sawdust were like saffron-coloured snow … and, as always wherever a steam-saw is in action, everything looked as clean as if it had just been scrubbed.

  About half an hour before, Abady had ridden down from the ridge of the Fraszinet where he had been inspecting a new plantation in the forest. There, the forest-manager, Winkler, and the head forest guard, Andras Zutor (Honey), had walked the plantations with him. A few hundred yards away was the forest lodge of Szkrind where they would all eat before starting off for the mountain pass of Kucsulat. Balint’s tent was already on its way with two other foresters – the gornyiks – and a supply of fresh horses because they would have a long way to go if they were to arrive that evening near to the source of the Beles which rose just below the southernmost part of the Abady forests on the slopes of the Ursoia. Balint was to start after the others, and with his fast horse he expected to catch them up about halfway; but in the meantime he had come down to the sawmill where he had to meet one of the directors of the Frankel enterprise to whom Balint was contracted to sell all his timber.

  As Balint emerged from the labyrinth of woodpiles a young man appeared, somewhat stealthily, less than a hundred paces away where the compound almost touched the surrounding woodlands. It was Kula, whose full name was Lung Nyikulaj, the grandson of the old headman of the village of Pejkoja whose inhabitants Balint had for some time been trying to protect from the extortions of the local officials. He was a well-intentioned youth and for some time had been Abady’s confidential informant.

  Kula had hurried down from his village and disappeared across the willow-fringed stream marking the boundary of Pejkoja into the dense woodlands behind. He did not go directly to Meregyo, which was his ostensible objective, but had started from home saying that first he had to visit the canteen manager at Szkrind who wanted to buy some cheeses. From there he would go on to Meregyo to see the judge who had two horses
for sale. All this was because everyone in the mountains knew everything about everyone else, and had he been seen at Szkrind without good reason, especially when he was supposed to be going to Meregyo, news of this unusual detour would have spread abroad just as if it had been reported in the newspapers. And nobody must get to hear that he had had a clandestine meeting with the mariassa – the lord – for, in that part of the mountains where all the peasants were of Romanian stock, a Hungarian land-owner who was also an aristocrat was inevitably an object of suspicion.

  Because of this, Honey Zutor and Kula had concocted the plan between them that the only way such a meeting could be kept secret was if it should take place, apparently by accident, in an alleyway between those towering blocks of wood where nobody would see them. The mariassa would stroll casually out from the side of the mill and Kula would come in from the other side. The day and exact time were settled in advance and, as at midday the Fraszinet ridge could be clearly seen from Pejkoja, all Kula had to do was to keep watch and set out as soon as he saw Balint leave the ridge. Everything had gone according to plan and Kula was already there waiting among the trees when Balint rode into the sawmill compound.

  Young Kula was taking a great risk. What he had to tell Abady concerned the nefarious activities of Gaszton Simo, the Hungarian notary for the Gyurkuca district, whose unscrupulous dealings had caused much misery and hardship for the men of the mountains, and who saw to it that no one crossed him with impunity.