Because Adrienne’s expression grasped my heart like a tourniquet, I decided to solve her problem. And, arriving at the thought, my problem as well. I could not bear it any longer, and so I informed Adrienne that I would find our mom and escort her back home. I do not want Adrienne to endure what I have been for years.
Do you ever get that sensation like you are yourself in one second, and then a moment later you are someone else? That sensation succumbs me ad nauseam. Especially when my mind traverses in reverse to when my mom would fix her hands on me and utter granules of special phrases of special love. Her appearances in my mind incite this disillusioning sensation where I can’t recognize my past. It has no correspondence to what I am today. The day she left was the day my entire existence severed in half, its two parts becoming one hundred percent disconnected from one another.
That’s why I am planning on going to Munich. To find her and reunite everything. For years, unbeknownst to my father and my petite sister Adrienne, I have been trying to go to the West. I even received a visa, valid for the whole of Europe, but it was cancelled without a surmountable number of motivations. I suspect it was because I dabbled in the revolution. I solely received a correspondence in the postage that said, “Tragically, your application cannot be filled at this intersection.” I know I have a long way to go until I surmise a way to get out of here.
When I announced this, my father proceeded to give me a scowl. If I was approximate to him he would have kicked me very persistently in the shin until I halted talking. I comprehend his actions. I would have uttered the same statement anyway. Father attempted to speak, but his voice shook like he had bumps in it. He inquired how I would perform this brave feat, and I told both of them, in the most adequate confidence I could mutter, that I had not refined the details yet, but I would. Adrienne is not so trusting to believe these words right off, but I think it gave her three percent of comfort. My father refused to utter even one more saying to us. I think his head is still fuming with the betrayal I enacted upon him. I spoke without requiring forethought, and now some part of Adrienne grows hope that I will return her to her mom.
Later, when Adrienne snored like a hound dog, Father grabbed my shoulders and shook them very fast. He demanded I inform him why I imbued Adrienne with false promises. I told him I do not intend for them to be false. In reaction, he refrained from anger, like I predicted, but his shoulders sagged and he sat on the ground next to me, like Adrienne does sometimes.
I was not supposed to be in this character. I am his son; he is my father. Why did he not just seek to find her himself, and why is he upset when someone has offered to do this for him? Why must I be the hero to my parents? At that moment, I pondered if it is ever possible to completely love the parents who raised you. I sometimes speculate they were supposed to betray me. They spooned fed me love, and I became dependent on that love. But, is it right to remain enamored of their love, inaware to the burden it places on them?
My mom did not want to see me. It was too much for her to exist as a mom. It was us, Adrienne and I, not Father or Hungary, that served a threat to her life. When I drifted this theory by Father, he became very quiet. He informed me it’s not my burden that she became ill. Did he really speculate I would be satisfied from this answer? That’s the thing, with these people who raise you. They throw you into the washing machine of their shit, hoping that it will somehow cleanse you. And it smells absolutely foul, and then they ask that you understand why it smells so bad. It’s not fair, you say, you thought you were getting cleansed the whole time! Now you realize you are just covered in crap! You spend your whole life covered in their shit.
If I found my mom, he belabored, I wouldn’t be helping Adrienne because I would have to inform her that her own mom did not want to view her. I told him that will not happen. He said it would. I said it wouldn’t. He said it would. I said it wouldn’t. He resorted to his room, and I fled to work.
I experienced so much anger, Uncle Lanci, so was welcoming of work to take my mind away from it. But, as I cleansed that damn Ministry of Interior (the one on Andrássy út), an occurrence took place that I must inform you about. I was there with Andras, my cleaning mate, and naturally after we cleansed for but twenty minutes, we indulged in the peacefulness of the voided building. We were in the main compartment, on the initial floor, in one of those pesky offices. Andras lit my cigar, as the usual routine demanded, and then we settled into the couch. We sunk into the comfort of that moment, praising that it wouldn’t come to a stop.
That’s when our ears picked up on a scratching like a rat was stuck in the floor. It scuttled and banged itself against the floorboard. It bemoaned and bemoaned ad nauseam. Andras and I nearly had shits right upon the couch. Okay, it possibly could have been a mere rat, I reasoned, except then it uttered these words: “Cseke, Cseke, Cseke. Laszlo, Laszlo, Laszlo.” That is your name, isn’t it? The first and last? I do not know what was uttered next, since we streaked upward and ran out the door.
Uncle Lanci, who is that being beneath us? You must know! I contemplate the chance exists for you to obtain some knowledge of this sound’s origins. I am aware of your intelligence spindles that extend all the way into the most intimate areas of Hungary. I am so curious, but so scared. I do not know which one will conquer the other. Perhaps you could just inform me as to whether it’s a-okay to return to cleansing this building?
In return for the fear and sadness that insists on arriving at my house this evening, I request you play “Blowin in the Wind.” Perhaps I will sneak into my bed, where my sister has already snuck in. I’ll cuddle beside her. I’ll shut my eyes and imagine your music until I forget what I promised tonight, and I’ll wake up and think it was solely a dream and store it just as that. A dream. Unfortunately, for me, dreams are meant to be accomplished.
Sincerely,
Mike a Korvinközből
Desire is fueled by all, but fulfillment. —Ernő Osvát
ESZTER TURJÁN
October 23, 1956—Afternoon
HUNDREDS OF STUDENTS pushed against me, nudging me closer and closer to the middle of their frenetic gathering. “Let us speak! Let us speak!” they yelled at the state’s radio office. It was a goliath of a structure, taking up the entire city block with its jumble of offices, hallways, and courtyards haphazardly connected to each other behind heavy oak gates, which the students were determined to take down.
Above us, a group of police held submachine guns and fire hoses in ready position. They kept unleashing the latter on us, drenching us in a deluge of water every few minutes. A flurry of goose bumps was practically plastered to my arms—but rather that than blood, I reminded myself. I was thankful the police hadn’t used their guns… yet.
I was witnessing the culmination of a day of demonstrations. The government had tried to ban the student march, but failed to stop it. I had made it to the couriers and the factories in time to distribute Realitás to the workers, advising my most trusted contacts to begin setting aside arms. When I ran low on copies, I hung the paper on every bulletin board I found. By the time I joined the march, whispers of Nagy taking over had started circulating through the masses, and Radio Free Europe had even announced the same thing. (Antal must have woken up and informed them.) I felt satisfied with my work. We had successfully planted the tiny seeds of hope growing and reaching into our collective conscience. Nagy was our man.