She got out of bed, and for the first time in months, smiled.
For years, Dora continued writing to Ferenc. The regular reports Ferenc gave on Eszter and his own mom pushed Dora through to the next day, then the next week, and finally the following years, giving her the life of certainty she always wanted. At first, she noticed subtle changes. She started doing her hair in the morning. She took longer to eat breakfast with Ivan. She agreed to go out with Marta. The big changes happened, too.
Ivan would ask Dora how everything was going with her letters. She knew what he meant. She’d describe Eszter’s life in generic terms, saying things like, “I read in Munich inexpensive apartments can be purchased if an agency helps you. Many women are doing that and I know it’s working out for them.” He returned her responses with a grin, still tempered by caution, but perhaps a little larger than before.
She found herself accompanying her dad on walks in the park, where they would talk about easy things, like the leaves changing colors, the books they were reading, or a new recipe he wanted to try making. She found his company comforting. Dora also noticed her face looked different. The severe curves of her cheeks had softened. She gained fifteen pounds, finally no longer so thin she could be mistaken for a student.
She still went to the cemetery once a week to pay tribute to Boldiszar, his body still missing, as it probably always would be. She hated that she couldn’t remember the exact shade of brown in his eyes, or how high his voice would get when he saw a cute dog, or even what his hands felt like when they grasped hers as a little girl. The harder she tried to remember, the fuzzier her memories got. She knew she was letting go, whether she wanted to or not, and as she started to accept it, she began to remember him as an old friend rather than a reminder of the love she lost.
After three years, Dora received her first letter from Eszter. She made similar pleas as Ferenc, begging Dora to come to Munich. That was her plan all along, Eszter said. She knew that if she got out of the country, she could one day reconnect with Dora from a safe place. Eszter never planned on taking Ferenc with her. There was only ever room for one, and it was Eszter. Eszter had given them the wrong code to lead them astray, and keep them safe. It was an utter coincidence that Ferenc and Dora ran into the actual envoy when they did.
Eszter said the people at the home had been helping her think, and she had brief moments of clarity when she felt sorry. She was experiencing one of those moments when she wrote this letter. She didn’t know when the awareness would fade, and she would retreat to her own world, the one she created to survive the horrors of those nine years in the ministry’s basement. Eszter kept repeating herself, sometimes writing the same sentence or word three to four times. Over and over, she urged Dora to come to Munich.
With a cautious approach, Dora wrote back to her mom. She avoided any sort of emotional conversation or proclamations of forgiveness. She didn’t mention Boldiszar once, either. She talked about her work, what she ate for dinner, and a new outfit she bought. Eszter wrote back. Sometimes her letters made sense. Sometimes they didn’t.
One day, Dora mustered the courage to ask Ivan if she could go on an extended trip to Munich. At first he said no, insisting that it was too dangerous, though they both knew traveling posed much less of a threat now. Kádár had rolled back a number of restrictions, putting in place his own brand of communism, which was just a watered-down version of the USSR’s system. It became easier to travel, and even the state radio played rock ‘n’ roll.
Dora decided to go to Munich anyway. She hated the thought of leaving her dad, but she hoped his newfound good spirits would help him forgive her eventually. A few days after making her request, Dora found a train ticket on her bed. Its destination read: Munich.
Dora turned on Radio Free Europe and lay down on the floor of her room, the only cool spot on the hot summer day. She smiled as she imagined how hard Ferenc would hug her when he saw her. She wondered if he would look different. Would the years of eating his mom’s food have plumped him up at all? Would he seem smarter now that he was studying dentistry? Would he seem even happier than when she knew him?
Dora looked forward to seeing Eszter too. She didn’t know what she would say to her. Being with her would be enough. Dora realized she would never completely forgive Eszter. A part of her would always wonder when Eszter’s selfishness would manifest and drive her to hurt the people she loved again. And the image of her mom pulling the final trigger on Boldiszar, no matter how merciful she was being, would always be in Dora’s mind. She had no idea if she would ever see Eszter the same, but maybe she wasn’t supposed to anyway.
Dora, however, was certain of one thing. She wanted a relationship with her mom. While she couldn’t abandon the past, Dora had promised to never go back to being a fearful person, terrified of showing any emotion lest she feel the pain of losing her mom. Dora could only love others if she loved Eszter. Who knew what Eszter may or may not do, but Dora would rather face it than endure the alternative. And so, Dora realized, in love there was strength.
As Dora lay on the floor thinking about all of this, the brick wall outside her apartment began to slowly absorb the afternoon sun. In the seconds between when the light was just beginning to crawl along the wall and when it sprang on it in full force, Dora could just make out the brick’s original red—a momentary reminder of its former intensity. And within seconds, the sun had blotted that out, swathing the brick in such a powerful sheen it had no choice but to take on a new identity, one defined by the brightness pressing upon it.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Radio Underground is based on real letters written by Hungarian teenagers during the Cold War. I found them seven years ago at the Hoover Institution, where I had been frantically searching for primary sources I could use for my senior thesis. I had two months left to write forty pages positing an original take on a historical event—a graduation requirement where seniors pretend to be historians (to be graded by real historians). My stomach growling, my cell phone buzzing with texts, and my hands shaking from a combination of Diet Coke and coffee, I stumbled upon a letter I’d never forget:
Dear Uncle Lanci,
There are thousands of us who live only in sleep—who act, speak, applaud because we have to. When we utter YES, our hearts drum NO.
Can this partial assimilation end up in a complete one? This is our question. In our childhood we were looking for beauty and for the realization of human ideals, and what remains today? A hesitant search for existence and a life under the compulsion of permanent lying. We can go forward only in the middle of the road…
This letter turned out to be one of dozens written by Hungarian teenagers during the 1960s to a rock music DJ, Uncle Lanci. As I did more research, I learned that Uncle Lanci’s real name was Géza Ekecs, and at the time he was living as a Hungarian émigré in Munich and working for Radio Free Europe. Founded in 1949, the CIA-backed radio station aimed to enact psychological warfare on the Soviet Union. Through its news, lifestyle programs, and music broadcasts, Radio Free Europe would gently persuade those behind the Iron Curtain to identify with the West, thereby renouncing their allegiance to the Soviet Union and its communist ideology.