Dora decided to wander over to the alley next to the building. She leaned against the wall, enjoying the cover it gave her. She heard a soft tapping. It came from beneath her, from the top of a small, barred window at her feet. Dora squatted down to inspect the window—maybe it was cracking from the cold. She could only see the top of it, the bottom half sunk below the ground, into the ministry’s basement.
Steam clung to the glass, and Dora realized she must be peering into some sort of locker room or laundry facility. As she looked closer, she could make out a shape—a white circle, a dimly lit light fixture, surely. It must have been hanging next to an air vent, which caused it to hit the glass. She squinted, focusing her eyes on the circle, until its dimensions began to materialize.
It wasn’t a light. It was a face, with eyes. Sunken in and murky gray, the eyes floated in space. They didn’t register Dora. They stared back vacantly, as if they were watching a boring movie. Dora froze. She didn’t breathe as she looked into them, like someone looking at a terrible accident. She was waiting. But for what? The eyes didn’t blink; they didn’t look away. The body—if there was one—was lost in the heavy steam of the room. Dora heard Marta calling her name from far away.
She wanted to go toward her friend’s voice, but her legs refused to budge. She tried to take a step backward, but fell instead. She managed to scoot herself away from the window, the pebbles of asphalt digging into her hands. The eyes continued gazing out at her, with the same bleak expression. She felt a familiar sense of panic grip her body, halting her breath altogether. Sweat sprung onto her forehead and underneath her arms. Without warning, the eyes disappeared as if they were never there, the steam completely overcoming the window. Dora shot up and fled the alley, practically colliding with Marta on her way out.
“What is it, Dora?” Marta’s smile instantly dropped the second she saw her friend.
“What?”
“Your face, it’s the color of the sidewalk,” Marta said.
“I’m just thirsty,” Dora said, determined to forget what just happened. “I just need some water.”
“Come on, you don’t look well. I’ll take you inside for some water.” Marta grabbed Dora’s hand, but only managed to reach her fingers, causing Dora to nearly fall over.
“No, thank you. I’ll get some at the rally.” The thought of entering the ministry terrified her.
“Okay… are you sure you want to go though?”
“Yes!” Dora needed a distraction as soon as possible.
Peering at her friend for only a few seconds, Marta shrugged. “Okay, let’s go then, but I’m going to keep my arm around you.”
As they walked, Dora fixed her gaze straight ahead, high above ground level. She resolved to never inquire about the ministry’s basement where those eyes lived or—Dora shuddered at the realization—died.
MIKE A KORVINKÖZBŐL
January 22, 1965
Dear Uncle Lanci,
Sometimes I think a more than sparse number of women walk through the streets all day with heinous perceptions about themselves. They are incompatible with who they want to be. They walk along on Nagymező or Erzsébet út, and who they so desire to become walks by them. She’s kilos lighter or monstrously breasted. How do I know this? Because I think Hedvig is one of them, and I know that I successfully combated it with just a mere compliment.
We were just meandering through the streets (the endless nights in my bedroom begged us to venture outward) when Hedvig suddenly looked at me like she was preparing shits and, elongating her arm toward another woman says, “She’s so attractive. Isn’t she so attractive?” First up, her question forced me to peel my eyes away from her, which no one particularly takes pleasure in. I couldn’t ignore her question, Uncle Lanci, since then I would be an insensitive bratwurst.
Well, I said a big no to the urge to say, “Yes! She is one sexy specimen!”
This urge resonated immensely due to my rebellious persona. But I don’t have the brain of a monkey. I am aware of what a remark would do to Hedvig. In plus, Hedvig is wonderfully beautiful. So, I told her so and said this woman was not as pretty.
The rest of the night we continued gleeful. She even said to me, “Mike, I know you switched the radio in my car. You are a clever genius.”
Okay, I’m not real here. She refrained from using those precise words, but that’s what I imagined she meant when she said, “Mike, have you heard of Radio Free Europe? I frequently listen to it in my car after I discovered it a few days proceeding.”
I put on the most maximum smile possible and asked her if she liked it. She said yes one million times strong. I informed her how your station is the sole one to play The Beatles and The Rolling Stones so she could withstand how important your station is. She brought forth politics into the situation, saying that your station talks too much about it. I agree one hundred percent. Now how does that make you feel, Uncle Lanci? Anyway, I stored the information away that I was the one who put your station on Hedvig’s radio. I would rather not be the robber to her feelings of discovery.
After I departed from Hedvig, I decided to pass time with my petite sister Adrienne. I accompanied her to her KISZ meeting, the communist youth group our father—who we simultaneous love and hate—forces us to attend.
There, Adrienne performed a feat that made me so proud to call her my sister. At the initiation of the meeting, they dispelled a video about, you wouldn’t believe, your very radio show. A narrator with a much less pleasurable voice than yours began telling those moldable children that your programming would eventually place them in jail! Listening to your program would cause them to initiate an armed uprising that would be crucified, it said. These statements could not be placed any further away from reality! It’s quite evident not one Hungarian possesses enough faith to try another revolution after 1956 was found faced up on its back. What a heap of dog shit.
Next, a boy, eight or nine years old, stood before us on the screen. He looked like a giant. He read a poem about what Hungarian children can achieve if they listen to their mom. Anyone who follows his mom can be viewed as a good person. Just like we listen to our moms, we listen to our mom government, additionally. This smelled of prime bullshit. I almost scrunched my face into a complete ball of absolute wincing. Adrienne spied me next to her with a monstrous wince on my face. We stood in the back, rest certain. Suddenly, Adrienne, who I honestly had no idea she even had such courageous tendons, galloped to the front most portion of the room, grabbed a radio out of her coat pocket, and began putting on your station!
Only God could plan such perfection, because the song that came upon the radio was “Twist and Shout!” All the children began laughing and dancing. How joyous it felt to be present in their petite rebellion. Adrienne screamed about grooviness as she sprinted throughout the bunches of these miniscule grown-ups.
I expect these meetings will not take place for a while now. The bureaucrats will have to recover from their embarrassment. They failed to even flinch as this took place. They just sat cold and absorbed. I wonder, with regards to them. Do they lack any passion with regards to their work? Are they frightened? Or, I speculate, they are feeling smudges of agreement with even people like Adrienne, and that’s just enough to shut their mouths from spouting upward. That would be enough for me. It is enough for me. Does it not wow you when someone with so few years does something one hundred percent profound? More profound than you could do? Adrienne stood before three hundred people and unleashed the subject the regime considered despicable.