If I gave anything, it was to myself; so whatever happened to me, I brought it on myself.
They handcuffed me, woke up the whole building on purpose, wanted everybody to see that even a member of State Security had something to be afraid of; they blindfolded me and got me downstairs from the fifth floor by kicking me all the way, making sure I hit the wall at every landing.
They took him away on Easter morning, in 1949.
The day before, I talked to your mother on the telephone; she told me the forsythia in your garden was in bloom, wasn't it wonderful? we were both ecstatic, spring was here, we chattered away on the phone, even though she also knew.
She knew what was waiting for me in the next three days; I knew it, too, yet it was more than I could imagine.
But I will tell you all about it, child, everything, step by step.
I've never told anyone, and I still can't, I'm still in their clutches; but now I will tell you, I don't care what happens.
I was never a big fish.
She was in charge of the day-to-day maintenance of secret locations used by State Security; she had to make sure that the furnishings and special equipment were in proper order, and that the houses were cleaned, well heated, and the staff well fed.
My rank was much higher than my actual position; the only reason they hauled me in was that they wanted at least one defendant who was involved with the practical end of the operation; I was needed to complete the picture.
She was still sorry she didn't just mow them all down, shoot all the bastards when they came for her.
I had time to reach for my pistol, but I still thought it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding that could easily be cleared up.
They couldn't trick me again, that's for sure.
They watch my every move, you know; I'm on all their lists.
They won't take me back, but I can't leave for good either.
Where would I go, anyway?
The only thing my neighbors know is that I did some time.
But they could start spreading the word anytime that I was still one of them.
She raised a finger to her mouth, stood up, and motioned me to follow her.
We went into the bathroom, which was filthy; she flushed the toilet and turned on all the faucets; there were piles of dirty laundry everywhere.
Giggling, she whispered into my ear that she wouldn't buy their poison from them.
Her lips tickled my ear, her glasses felt cold against my temple.
Luckily, her neighbor knows the score, goes to a different food store every day, she'd never bring milk from the same place twice.
Milk is the easiest to put the stuff in.
When they let her out, they gave her this apartment because it was bugged already.
She turned off the faucets and we went back to the living room.
All right, now listen, all of you, hear the things you all did to me.
I will tell this child everything.
I was like a fly caught by a huge warm hand.
For once you'll hear me out, hear what you've all done to me.
From that moment on she wasn't talking to me, and I also felt as if the two of us were not the only people in the room.
They took her away in a car, the ride was long.
Afterward, judging by the sound, they lifted the grating off a sewer or some other trapdoor and on steep iron stairs led her down what may have been a large water tank.
It couldn't have been any of the houses under her care; this was special treatment, then, to make sure she didn't know where she was.
They waded through knee-deep water, climbed a few stairs, and then they locked her up behind a steel door.
She could hear no sound; she tore off the blindfold with her handcuffed hands and hoped her eyes would get used to the dark.
A few hours must have passed; wherever she reached she touched wet cement; the space she was in felt enormous and every little move produced an echo.
She tried to determine at least the height of the ceiling, so she started yelling.
Later, the steel door opened, people came in, but it remained as dark as before; she tried to get out of their way, but they followed her; there were two of them, they were closing in, she heard the swish of truncheons; she managed to avoid the blows for quite a while.
She came to on a silk-covered sofa.
She thought she was dreaming and in her dream she was in a baroque mansion; she didn't know where she was.
Her instincts told her to pretend she was still asleep; gradually she remembered what had happened to her.
The handcuffs were gone, and this confused her; she sat up.
They must have been keeping an eye on her from somewhere, because the moment she did, the door opened and a woman came in carrying a cup.
It seemed to her that it was late afternoon.
The tea was lukewarm.
She was grateful to the woman for bringing the tea; but as she sipped it, she noticed an odd look on the woman's face, and the tea tasted strange.
The woman smiled, but her look remained cold; she seemed to be very intent, as if waiting for some reaction.
She knew they tried out all sorts of drugs on people here; this she still remembered, but as she tried with her tongue to locate the strange taste in the tea, her mind went blank.
The first thing she remembers after that was a feeling of being very ill; everything was huge and bloated; as soon as she looked at something it began to swell, and from this she concluded that she must be running a high fever.
And all sorts of loud sentences were screaming inside her head.
It seemed to her that she was talking but that she screamed her words, and every word hurt so much she had to open her eyes.
She saw three men standing before her.
One of them held a camera; the moment she budged he started clicking, and after that he wouldn't stop.
She screamed at them, she demanded to know who they were and what they wanted from her, and where was she, and why was she sick; she wanted to see a doctor, wanted to jump out of bed, which was some kind of low couch next to the wall in a large sunlit room full of mirrors; but the three men didn't say a word, they kept out of her way, and the one with the camera took pictures all the time she was having this fit of anger.
First she lost the feeling in her legs, she collapsed, but managed to hold on to a chair; she wanted to grab the camera, but the man photographed that, too.
Then the other two fell on her, punching and kicking, while the third one kept clicking away.
This happened on the second day.
On the third day they pulled her up from the water tank on a rope; she was blindfolded again, and she kept knocking against the iron stairs, but she was glad, because at least she knew where she was, she knew for sure, she heard them slam the steel door.
A long journey followed; they gave her no food or drink, they didn't let her go to urinate; she was so weak she made in her pants.
First she heard the crunch of gravel under the tires, then an iron gate creaked open and they pulled into a closed space, presumably a garage, where the car quickly filled up with the smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes; then with a huge bang they slammed the door shut.
She was overjoyed.
Because if they were going to take her down a winding staircase now, and then along a narrow corridor, where linoleum covered the stone floor to muffle footsteps, and if they were going to shove her into a cell that was like a woodshed, then she knew exactly where she was.
Then they must have brought her back.
Then she was in the house in Eötvös Street, the house she herself had picked out and where she'd supervised every alteration; and then everything was all right, and soon she'd be surrounded by familiar faces.
There was a winding staircase, but no linoleum; there was a woodshed, she could smell the freshly chopped wood and the sulphur smell of coke briquettes, but what her bound hands touched was a damp brick wall.