The Hungarian prime minister visited London. A professor who specialized in Hungarian politics took me to the press conference for the prime minister and his delegation. It was held in a stately room, packed with bright lights, televisions cameras and journalists. The buzz and energy contrasted vividly with the quiet libraries of academia. This life seemed much more dynamic and fun.
The professor introduced me to a BBC reporter stationed in Budapest. I told him that I wanted to visit Hungary, watch the demonstrations, see all the change.
“Get journalistic accreditation,” he urged. “Anyone can watch protest marches but only journalists have access to senior leaders in the Hungarian government, press conferences, Parliament.”
“How?” I asked. He pulled out a pen and scribbled down a list.
“That’s what you need to do.”
In the weeks that followed I thought about what he told me and decided to act on his advice. I telephoned foreign editors at newspapers to inquire about the possibility of reporting for them in Hungary. Although I did not have experience, some editors expressed interest because I knew a little about Communist Hungary at a time when few others did. Through a friend in Canada I obtained a letter from a news agency. Vaguely worded, it only said that the agency might take occasional reports, but it was printed on letterhead, a criterion for accreditation. That letterhead, and the editor’s freshly inked signature, made my heart leap.
The day finally arrived for my last medical appointment. I sat in the crowded waiting room at University College Hospital. When the receptionist called my name I hobbled into the orthopaedics clinic.
The doctor examined a recent X-ray and said the bones had healed well. I could not thank him enough. The metal bar and screws that protruded from my leg had already been removed. Now I could walk without crutches, which meant I could travel with ease. This excited me the most. I knew exactly where I would go.
I landed at Budapest Ferihegy International Airport in May 1988, with press accreditation for a Communist Party conference. I asked the taxi driver who drove me into the city a question in Russian.
“That language, people will spit at you,” he growled in one angry burst of Hungarian-accented Russian.
I sat in silence for the rest of the trip, partly cowed by the driver, but mostly dazzled by the stately Austro-Hungarian architecture. Parliament buildings stretched along the Pest side of the Danube River; elegant bridges arched over it. Then there was the spectacle of the castle district opposite, perched high on the Buda side. We passed people at an outdoor café that overlooked the river. I had not imagined such scenes or beauty in a Communist country.
The next morning I arrived at the conference venue. “We won’t sit with the delegates? I so wanted to see Kádár,” I told a Dutch reporter as an organizer corralled us in to the press centre, far from the conference hall. The reporter did not answer but just slid away and kept her distance after that.
I filed stories that no one commissioned,
“But it’s historic. Károly Grósz just replaced János Kádár as General Secretary of the Communist Party,” I told the Ottawa news editor in my most persuasive voice.
“We took it from the wires,” he replied.
None of my stories was published, but I did not mind at all. Just sitting in the press centre, pounding telex keys convinced me that I was already a journalist.
After the conference I met with a Foreign Ministry press officer who promised me permanent accreditation. Certain more than ever that luck ran in streaks and that mine had turned, I now focused on finding a rental apartment. After rummaging through a language school garbage can, I found an ad for an apartment in central Budapest. Luckily it was still available and the landlady spoke English. She accepted a deposit. I flew back to London on a wave of optimism, my accident in the past, convinced that Hungary would undergo significant change. I planned to return in a few months and felt that nothing could go wrong.
2
EAST GERMANS
One Sunday morning in July 1989 I heard the doorbell ring. I looked down from my second-floor kitchen window and saw three enormous knapsacks and the tops of three heads, no one that I knew. I was now a stringer for the Guardian and had been thrilled to receive business cards that stated Budapest Correspondent in bold type. I hesitated for a moment before going downstairs as I was at work on a story. When I opened the door, a young woman with a strong German accent and short blond hair held out her hand.
“Sabine,” she said, then quickly added, “I know Jonathan. He gave me your address.”
Sabine asked if she and her two friends, Helga and Ute, could stay with me for a week.
“We are from East Germany and the biggest problem for us in Budapest is accommodation because we have not enough money to live in hotels.”
I had hosted many visitors, though none from the Eastern Bloc. I respected my English friend Jonathan’s judgment. If he had sent Sabine, she must be trustworthy. I already admired her straightforward manner and adventurous spirit. She and her friends did not let financial constraints stop them from travelling and exploring. I hoped faced with a similar situation that I would behave the same way.
I guessed that Sabine could be no more than a year or two younger than me. She wore tidy no-name jeans, a T-shirt and comfortable walking shoes — a practical choice for someone small perched under such a large, heavy knapsack. She had an open likeable face, with an easy smile. I told Sabine and her friends that they could stay.
“We are thanking you so much,” Sabine said. As we climbed the stairs to the apartment, Sabine informed me of her itinerary in Budapest.
“We will first visit the castle district,” she said. “We know that the district is rebuilt after heavy damages in the war.”
Sabine’s friends, Helga and Ute, had not yet spoken. They followed behind. Once inside the apartment, Sabine took charge. She instructed Helga and Ute where to place their belongings. I stood aside and watched.
There were hints this was no ordinary visit early on. It seemed rude to ask what my three East German guests carried in their tractor trailer–sized knapsacks. They unpacked and the kitchen shelves soon overflowed with pots of dried noodle snacks and other instant meals from East Germany. They did not pitch tents on the living room floor, but otherwise had all the supplies for an urban camping expedition. None of the dozen visitors who had stayed with me over the past few months travelled like this.
It was late afternoon by the time they finished, so I offered to make dinner. Helga hovered near the kitchen door.
“May I help?” she asked. I handed her a small paring knife and a few tomatoes.
“Thanks,” I said. “Could you chop these?”
Helga sliced each tomato into perfect, identically sized wedges. Her movements were spare and her physique, lean. Taut in face, body and manner, she seemed a serious, pensive nineteen-year-old. As we sliced vegetables, Helga discussed politics. She spoke in a low, intense voice, which indicated she was someone with strong opinions but with enough experience not to share them widely.
“There are really great differences between the situation in DDR and Hungaria,” Helga said. “We heard a lot about the changings in Hungaria and I want to see this for myself.”
I told Helga that I did not know much about her country but had heard the East German government was repressive.