Train to Budapest (34 page)

‘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 freed 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.

Amara and Hans go closer. The voice is speaking in English. It says a Hungarian delegation is on the point of leaving for the United Nations to attract the attention of delegates to the problem of their country. ‘A massive intervention by the Soviet Union is feared,’ comments the speaker. ‘The Hungarians remember that the Warsaw Pact states that allies may intervene in the case of external aggression against a member country, but this is not the case in Hungary at present.’ The journalist also states that President Eisenhower has made a statement in New York deploring in advance any aggression whatever by the Soviet Union against a people fighting for their freedom, adding the exact words: ‘America is on the side of the Hungarians with all her heart. The students and workers fighting on the streets of Hungarian cities are subject to the rights of man, as expressly guaranteed to the Hungarian people by the peace treaty signed by the Hungarian leadership and their associated allied powers, including the Soviet Union and the United States.’

‘In short, we can count on the United States. Great news!’ 

43

Yet another bonfire. They’re burning a mountain of Soviet flags. A man in a padded jacket is taking photographs, down on one knee on the wet stone pavement. ‘Pedrazzini of
Paris Match
,’ says someone, pointing at him. A group of young people are walking hand in hand. The usual woman with the enormous bottom is selling perecs at the corner of Dohány utca, next to a cart. Pieces of coal are smoking in a rusty tin drum; every so often she stirs them with a stick. A strange ambulance passes in the form of a cart pulled by a bicycle. A small boy with bound head is pedalling. Behind, black hair tied back with string, is a girl steadying a rolled-up stretcher. Both have white shirts. Over the girl’s knees is a white flag with a red cross glued to it. The pair clank rapidly down the potholed street.

Amara and Hans hurry towards the Corvin cinema. There is always the risk of a sniper firing from a high window or balcony. An ÁVH officer avenging dead friends. The streets are covered with mud. Small handwritten posters have been stuck on the walls. But they do not stop to read. They are in a hurry. They must find bread for their friends. It’s already no mean thing that Tadeusz and Ferenc have agreed to put them up in that tiny apartment. And now, on top of that, Horvath is ill. They must find coffee and milk. In front of the cinema is a Soviet tank captured by the rebels. On it are a dozen youths with machine guns. A bareheaded boy well wrapped in a long black coat stops them to ask for identification. Hans pulls out his papers. The boy studies them carefully. He seems unconvinced.