“Have a heart. In 1848. A hundred years ago.”
“Whom did he fight?”
“The Austrians and the army of the czar,” Istvan explained in an agony of suspense, trying to snatch the teletype tapes away from Nagar, who was hiding them behind his back.
“The Russians!” Nagar exulted. “At last I understand. After a hundred years you still remember that.”
“Maurice, I have a family in Budapest!”
“All right. Listen.” He grew serious, but he wanted the pleasure of recounting everything himself too much to let the tapes go. “They tried to disperse the crowd. The police fired. Gerő had to appear and speak, unfortunately, and then the disturbances began.”
“Did he make threats? What did he say?”
“Rational things: that they should sit calmly and make no noise, for he would lock them up. But as he could not do that, why talk that way? Button it, keep mum. Since it was not possible, it should have been he who sat quietly and did not exasperate the people. When they got weapons, they attacked the radio station. Then their call went out not only to the street, but to the whole country. They took control of the Capital City National Committee; the secret police defended themselves, but they killed them to the last man. A mob is a raging beast. It doesn’t pick and choose. The blood goes to its head. It is merciless.”
“And the army?”
“The soldiers put down their arms or joined the people on the street. Gerő threatened to bring in the Russians; he called them in to help.”
“Was the government in control of the situation?” In an agony of suspense, Istvan seized a fistful of communiqués as if he did not believe Nagar.
“Here — read the slogans they are writing on the walls: Court-martial Farkas stop Free all political prisoners stop Expel Rakosi from the party stop Call a plenary assembly of the Central Committee stop Disclose the contents of the trade agreements stop Examine the investment plan stop. Modest enough demands,” he added mockingly.
“Monsieur Nagar”—the Hindu assistant leaned in—“the manager of the Hindustan Standard asks that you come to the telephone.”
“They all flock to me as if I were a rabbi. Nagar ought to know, and Nagar knows,” he exclaimed excitedly. “Here. Read. Read.” He raked the rest of the dispatches off the table and pushed them at Istvan. “All the world pricks up its ears at the news from Budapest.”
A huge weight fell onto Terey’s shoulders; he had a terrible sense of impending danger. He knew what these developments would bring. If the West seized the opportunity, they would have speedy access through Austria. Civil war…he felt a tremor as if tanks were rumbling by. Civil war. But perhaps everything would take its course as it had in Poland. Gerő and Rakosi would have to back down. The machine would cleanse itself and punish those who had committed abuses and unlawful acts. Perhaps everything would still turn out for the best. Shooting on the streets of Budapest. At whom? Children, a wife, two streets away from the city committee headquarters.
“Yes.” He heard Nagar squealing. “Yes, skirmishes broke out almost simultaneously in Győr and Miskolc. All Hungary is in the grip of revolution. Yes! I have confirmation.”
The journalist’s exuberance drove Terey to fury. He is enjoying this. There, people are dying. Our blood is being spilled.
He sat with his hands dangling between his knees, holding the ribbons of paper with bulletins in short, dry sentences. By now he had almost memorized them. Trompette sauntered up drowsily, her claws thumping, and put her heavy head on his lap. She raised an expectant yellow eye, waiting for him to scratch her ears.
“Go away!” The sound of his own voice made him tremble; he was speaking to the dog in Hungarian. No. Nothing will happen to them. He clenched his fists. Geza and Sandor are sensible boys. Ilona will not let them out on the street at a time like this. But it will be hard to keep them in. Boys are carried away by the music of gunfire; it is alluring to them. That wild, devouring curiosity to see where the shooting is. The rattle from machine guns. He could hear the whistles, the cat’s meow of a projectile deflecting from the pavement, vanishing into a cloud that spread from above the Danube. And the trees in the park are full of red and yellow. The earth, sprinkled with leaves, exudes scents: an acrid fermenting smell mixed with the sour odor of explosions and the stifling smoke of distant fires. How well he knew it from there, from the front on the Dnieper, and later from the winter battles when the ring of the Soviet offensive had closed in around the isolated capital. They would not sit at home.
“Sandor…Geza,” he whispered, his throat tight with fear. The bitch looked at him with mournful eyes and, disappointed in her hope of being scooped up by a friendly hand, sighed like a human being. She walked away, quite offended, to warm herself by the waning hearthfire.
“Too bad, Terey.” He heard a voice behind him; he turned to see Trojanowski standing in the doorway and a stout, balding blond man from Tass.
They shook hands without a word. There was sympathy and comfort in their masculine grip; he was assured that they shared his anxiety and wanted to see him through. Yet he turned his face from them because he was afraid of their searching looks. He knelt, threw a pungent-smelling log on the fire, and raked up the ashes. The wrought iron tongs rang on the stone, startling him. He blew patiently, as if the revival of the earlier fire were of great concern to him.
“Do you have family there?” Misha Kondratiuk was bending over him.
“Very close family.”
“Istvan, this had to come. You know yourself, this is the storm that cleanses,” Trojanowski said by way of consolation. “A few days ago it seemed that there would be bloodshed in our country as well. There were those who shoved guns into the hands of the workers and baited the Russians, but the instinct of loyalty to the nation triumphed. You will see; everything will happen as it should. Be calm. Those you love will be in no danger. This is not a war against women and children.”
“I understand you, Comrade Terey.” Kondratiuk spoke soberly. “For injustice, for criminal actions, it would have been sufficient to bring the guilty before the courts. Stalin did not like distinguished party activists; he preferred provosts. It is time to drive those people away, but if you begin to beat the big drum and declare holy war against socialism…”
Istvan looked up attentively and tried to guess the other man’s thoughts. Did he know more than he was saying?
“At the moment no such thing is happening,” Trojanowski snapped. “There is more complaining and searching for omens than foresight. But the West is raising a hullabaloo because it sees an opportunity to drive a wedge. You will see. Tomorrow they will begin to give you instructions—” he turned to Terey. “We have it behind us. We know.”
“Those who are willing to incite others always manage to extricate themselves,” Misha admitted. “But everything depends on how Hungarians behave — on whether a political row is to your liking.”
“Everything depends on how the Russians behave,” Istvan said defensively.
“And I tell you, what is most important is what the West will do,” called Nagar, hearing the end of the conversation. “It can stir the waters, create a situation in which one side or the other moves too fast. Then something will go wrong. If it were only a struggle for power…quiet!” He waved to calm Terey, who was indignant. “I know: justice, freedom, sovereignty — catchwords. The serious question is, who will govern? You would bluster, you would shoot, some would be locked up, others would go on the lam; somehow order would be restored. Even if this were a conflict between the Russians and the Hungarians, some solution would be found, for in the end this is an internal matter to — what do you call it? The peace camp. As a camp, it must have order.” He lowered his voice. “But when other forces, external forces, get into the game…For the time being they have put Nagy on the committee, that philosopher Lukacs, and Kádár. Nagy was the premier. What is he like? Can he do the job?”