I would feel my mind working at five times its normal speed. Millions of questions raced in and out of it, distracting me from answering any one of them. And this unknowing felt like a drug, infusing me with an obsessive energy as I considered the various drastic responses to the scenarios I concocted. The best decision I made was working for Realitás, where, at the very least, I could put this energy to some sort of use.
I would have supported anything or anyone who promised to lessen the paranoia that engulfed me every day. This movement was our chance. Yes, I preferred that we encourage the students to fight, if it meant that we could start invoking some sort of change. And I still had hope that our contacts would pull through and supply the kids with weapons.
“There,” I said, pointing at Laszlo’s description of Stalin’s head falling to the ground. “We have enough intelligence to work with. We’re going to publish everything you and I saw today. And then some more… to make sure this keeps going.”
“Eszter…,” Laszlo began. He almost had that tone in his voice, the one he used when he was coming on to me.
I thought, for a second, Laszlo would try to make love to me again, but before he could approach me, we heard Antal’s breathing became irregular. Slipping away from Laszlo and draping my jacket over Antal, I stooped next to the old man.
Still disfigured, his face began to twitch. Short nonsensical phrases slipped from his lips. Half conscious, he peeked his eyes through his swollen lids and mumbled “czar” once again.
I knew Antal needed to get to the doctor, but I would need to convince Laszlo first.
“Eszt,” Antal moaned as his eyes shot open. A vicious coughing spasm overtook his body, causing him to regurgitate even more blood onto the floor. “Eszter, thank you.”
Overcome by his gratitude, I clasped him to my chest.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Antal cried. His warm tears spread across my shirt.
I squeezed Antal tighter, savoring his need for me. It was the necessary contrast to Laszlo’s persistent detachment.
Laszlo pulled up a chair, leaned over, and looked Antal dead in the eyes. “We’re glad you’re okay. Now, tell us what happened.”
“I…,” Antal began. Without his three front teeth, he sounded like a child just learning how to speak, and in the face of Laszlo, he seemed ill-equipped to explain his situation.
“It’s okay, Antal, take your time,” I cooed, shooting a sinister look at Laszlo. “Just give him a second.” I felt bad for Antal, and somehow slightly responsible. Had I been there earlier, I may have been able to stop them.
“I was walking here…. That’s when five men, big men, surrounded me.” Antal said. “They demanded I lead them to… to the office. They said they knew I betrayed the government.”
Antal fell silent, his haggard breathing adding weight to his words.
“They asked again for me to lead them here as they drew closer and closer,” Antal continued. “When I said no, that’s when they started. I forgot most of what happened next, but I remember screaming, crying, but it wasn’t my own.”
The little boy must have been wailing near Antal. “Then I saw you, Eszter.”
“You kept muttering the word ‘czar,’ over and over again. Who is that?”
“I have no idea,” Antal said, with more energy and edge than I had ever seen him use, even when he was healthy.
Scratching his scruffy chin, Laszlo continued to stare. He allowed the minutes to spread before us, filling the room with apprehension. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I addressed them both.
“Clearly, there are dangerous people out there. Whether they call themselves czars, or what have you, they’re looking to hurt us. We have to embolden our demonstrators before these predators find us, and others.”
Laszlo snapped his head toward me. “We don’t have enough information, Eszter! What are we going to do? Print a two paragraph paper about Antal’s injuries and Stalin’s statue coming down?”
Did Laszlo not understand a movement quickened outside, one that relied on any information it could possibly get?
“I say we make sure people continue taking action. The revolution has already started, and who are we to stop it? We tell everyone something that will draw them into the streets. We will make sure that the crowd does not subside.”
“Wasn’t Nagy enough?” Squinting his eyes demonically at me, I thought, for a second, Laszlo would lunge toward me. And this time, lust would have no part in it.
“He hasn’t made a public stand yet, you know that. And we need a series of things to build momentum. We have to keep giving the people tangible hope—something real that will encourage them to keep going.”
“So we just continue manipulating people so that they risk their lives and give you the revolution you always wanted?”
“Yes,” I met Laszlo’s strength with my own, stepping toward him. “We have no chance, not one, especially if tomorrow less people are on the streets. If we can continue on, and outlast the government, we may be able to secure some sort of change.”
Interrupting our debate, a smattering of gunshots rang outside our office. Forceful and thunderous, they jolted the building’s foundation. We froze. Distant screams grew louder as people ran frantically past our office, swarming in frivolous patterns and chaotic directions. Frustrated that we missed the commotion and in dire need of information, I flung the door open and grabbed one of the kids running by the office. If we could collect more intelligence, Laszlo would be more likely to go with my plan. Once I wrestled our informant to the ground, I faced a trembling girl, a university student.
“What do you want?” the girl screeched.
Laszlo glared at me, as if asking me the same question.
“Don’t move.” Standing up and straightening my shirt, pulling tight the clasp that held my hair up, I demanded, “Just tell me what happened. We’re on your side. We’re with Realitás.”
I grabbed a mangled copy of the paper from the typewriter. The girl stared at the headline, then at me. She scanned the entire office, absorbing the menagerie of typewriters, papers, empty coffee mugs, and desk lamps.
“What’s your name?” I asked hesitantly.
“Marika.” She looked down at the carpet, trying to pick apart its grains with her shaky fingers.
“Marika…,” I paused. She resembled Dora so much—her dark, wispy hair fell gently on her thin shoulders. Her cheekbones lifted her entire face up, giving her the appearance of elegance and toughness all at once. She wore the same serious expression as Dora, like you could never imagine her lips breaking into a smile.
Laszlo squeezed my shoulder, bringing me back to the present.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly muttered. “Of course. Please, just tell us what happened to you. It would really help us.”
She cocked her head at an angle and said, “If all you want is information, let me give it to you quickly, and then let me go.”
We agreed. Eerily monotone and dispassionate, Marika explained how she was with a contingency of students who were in search of arms. They went immediately to the army barracks on Szentkirláyi út and shouted at the guards to let them in. They started pushing on the gates when a voice from above them said, “I’ll shoot if you break down the door.” That stopped them momentarily, then the soldiers inside started handing them their guns through the bars in the windows. One of the soldiers even left the barracks, led them to a patch of grass nearby, and gave them a lesson in shooting.