‘Long enough to regenerate a life.’
‘You forget how Zdanov and his criticisms landed on all our heads like a bucket of cold water.’
‘I’m not forgetting that. What I’m saying is that 1948 was a year of great dreams. Which we woke from with a sore arse.’
‘You are forgetting the trial of Rajk and the purges that followed, utterly unjust and brutal.’
‘Well, what about now, then?’
At this point the voices start interrupting each other. Everyone has his own opinion, while outside the sound of shooting intensifies. But who’s doing the shooting? Hans runs to the window but can’t see anything. Tadeusz fiddles with the huge radio set, an Orion with a striped face, which is sitting on a primitive icebox covered with a blue cloth. The icebox is empty. It is two days since they last saw the young boy who normally tours the district from morning to night on his bicycle with its large carrier full of ice.
Tadeusz twiddles the knob producing whistles, wheezes and crackles. Finally a contemptuous stentorian voice comes through clearly. ‘That’s Gerö,’ Tadeusz recognises it at once as that of the Party secretary, the most hated of the Stalinist bureaucrats.
‘Citizens, don’t be deceived!’ says the cutting voice. ‘Go back to your homes and listen to the directives of the glorious Hungarian Communist Party. Those at this moment putting the city to fire and sword are enemies of communism, enemies of Hungary, enemies of the People. They are in the pay of agents of the secret police of enemy countries. Their aim is to destroy everything the People have achieved in recent years, to reintroduce capitalism in our country. Citizens, don’t let yourselves be deceived. Budapest has fallen into the hands of a small group of lawless counter-revolutionaries. Stay at home, show your dissent from these hysterical criminals who hope to damage everything we hold most sacred in our country. Citiz—’ The voice is interrupted by the violent whirling of a csárdás dance.
Tadeusz looks at the radio in perplexity. The others too look up as if wondering what’s going on.
‘This is Radio Kossuth, Radio Freedom!’ shouts a youthful voice. The csárdás fades and the room fills with a rapid excited chatter. Horvath stands spoon in hand before the radio with his mouth open as if paralysed. The violinist bursts out laughing. Hans goes closer to the loudspeaker with his ears pricked.
‘They’ve taken the radio, they’ve taken the radio, boys!’
‘Shall we go and see?’
‘Wait a minute!’
‘Let me hear what he’s saying. Let me listen!’
The excited voice is shouting into the microphone as if it were a megaphone: ‘Budapest is in the hands of insurgents. We are no counter-revolutionaries. We are the citizens of this city, of this country; people who have had enough of Soviet bullying, who will stand no more servility from our own leaders, who have had enough of spies, arbitrary arrests, meaningless trials, torture and executions; enough of the single Party and censorship of everything and everyone. For once we, the citizens of Budapest, say No, whatever the cost. We demand the immediate withdrawal of our country from the Warsaw Pact. We demand immediate free elections and the abolition of the ÁVH secret service and its chief Gerö. We demand the right of a free vote for all, and the right of a free press and free speech. We demand …,
But the young man is interrupted by other voices. A girl with a voice like a child declaims in an inspired tone a poem by Gyula Illyés often heard at this time:
Where there’s tyranny, there’s tyranny
Not only in the rifle
not only in the prison, not only in the torture chamber
not only in the voice of the guard at night
not only in the obscure language of denunciation,
or in Morse code tapped on prison walls
not only in confessions
or the judge’s verdict of guilty without right of appeal!
Tyranny is everywhere
even in the nurturing warmth of schools and in fatherly advice
in a mother’s smile
in goodbye kisses
… in the face of the woman you love
that suddenly turns to stone
yes, tyranny is there too
in words of love
in words of ecstasy
like a small fly in the wine
tyranny is there
because you can never be alone
not even in your dreams
not even when you embrace
and even before that, when you feel desire
and wherever tyranny is
nothing has any meaning
not even the most faithful word
not even what I write myself
because from the very beginning
tyranny supervises your grave,
tyranny decides who you have been
who you are now and who you will be
even your ashes will still serve
tyranny…’
But the child is interrupted: everyone wants to speak, to say what they have to say. Someone is laughing in the background. Soon after more shots are heard. Moments of silence. The radio seems struck dumb. Then the music is back, and in that tiny kitchen in a small Budapest flat, in the midst of the smell of cabbage and unwashed clothes, four men start dancing to the rhythm of the csárdás. Amara watches astounded, incredulous. Then Hans takes her hand to show her the dance: right step, left step, a twirl, a hop. The two chairs and the pallet where Amara sleeps are moved to the far end of the little kitchen, the table is folded against the wall and the men wave their arms and leap and turn while on the radio the csárdás gets louder and louder.
But very soon the music is brutally silenced. ‘It is 23.30 hours on 23 October 1956,’ says an agitated voice, ‘we must give you the facts, comrades, before those damned people falsify them. The ÁVH opened fire on the crowd after several of them were hit by stones thrown from below. They have killed about a hundred people. Many are still lying wounded in the road. They are being taken to hospital though there is little light or water there. One boy has just died from loss of blood, we’ve brought him here to the radio so everyone can see him. If you have a camera, please come and take a photograph. His first name is László, surname unknown. He was fifteen years old. Hit in the head by a Soviet bullet. The government says it never ordered the ÁVH to fire on the crowd. But they did it nevertheless, encouraged and supported by Soviet troops. They must be held accountable for this …’
More shots are heard. The radio goes silent. A cry rips the air followed by desperate weeping. But what’s happening? The loudspeaker pours out an avalanche of song: a Red Army chorus. The five sit in a circle round the ancient Orion waiting for more news. But the music continues with no human voice to explain what is happening at the Hungarian National Radio.
The friends start arguing again. Tadeusz lights a cigarette. Hans pours a little homemade brandy into a dirty glass and offers it round. Each takes a sip and passes the glass on. They know how much that brandy is worth and how little is left.
A voice at last! Attention switches to the big Orion standing on its iceless icebox. ‘This is Radio Budapest. Here is an announcement by the Government of the Hungarian People’s Republic. fascist and reactionary elements have attacked public buildings and assaulted troops and the police. In order to re-establish order and promote eventual initiatives designed to re-introduce the rule of law, from this moment all assemblies and demonstrations are forbidden. The army has orders to apply every measure consistent with the law to all who do not obey these orders.’