‘The Germans, what a cultured people when they’re not invading your country,’ Miklós explained. Miklós had done a stint in the anti-Nazi resistance. Caught, the Hungarians were too lazy to execute him and passed him to the Germans who put him in Dachau where he had been dying of cholera when the Americans arrived. He got better. ‘It seemed a bit pointless to die when you’d just been liberated.’
He came back to Hungary. ‘Talk about being stupid.’ Where he worked for the Smallholders’ Party. ‘Talk about asking for it.’ Then he got a free ride in a black car which led to him being imprisoned in Recsk. The concept of Recsk was that you went in but you didn’t come out. ‘Its scope was modest compared to the Soviet or German models, I suppose,’ Miklós conceded, ‘but we’re a small country, after alclass="underline" there were only fifteen hundred of us.’ For three years Miklós and the others had no news from outside. ‘The only news we got was from shitty newspaper we filched from the guards’ latrine and let’s be honest, the papers aren’t much to talk about in the first place. We only found out about Stalin’s death when one of us noticed a black border around his picture in the main office.’
Miklós was very talkative despite the discomfort of his position, pinioned by a first division basketball player. ‘You know what the worst thing was? It’s all crap about how important freedom, friendship all that abstract stuff is. You know what matters? Sleep and food. The hunger was unimaginable. You thought it was bad during the War? I tell you, a few weeks, a couple of months of going hungry – it’s nothing, nothing. A doddle. A year… two years…three years without enough to eat,’ he was now shouting, ‘it’s beyond human belief. Ever since I got out, I always carry this.’ With some difficulty, he unwrapped a cloth containing a piece of cheese, a hunk of bread and some radishes. ‘I have to carry supplies with me all the time. I hardly ever use it. I just have to have it with me.’ He offered Gyuri a tired-looking radish.
‘No. Thanks. So are you going to be looking up your old guards while you have a chance to express your gratitude?’
‘That’s an interesting question. We used to discuss that a lot at Recsk. What sort of people could beat someone to death just for the hell of it? There was disagreement about this in the camp, as there’s always disagreement when you get two Hungarians together. You know how the 23rd of October is going to be described in the history books? The day the Hungarians agreed.
‘Anyway, my view was that the guards at Recsk were basically very ordinary, if not too bright lads. They’d been told we were the scum of the earth, the most evil, degenerate, child-murdering, odious, verminous parasites to be found in creation: in short the sort of people who would run concentration camps. What use was it us trying to explain we were there because we h ad voted the wrong way?
‘The other thing is that, you know, someone who is jailed falsely for a long time, not a year or two, but three or more, tends to go to one extreme or the other. Judging from my experience you either become excessively forgiving or excessively vengeful. I feel we should remember Recsk. People should know what happened. But we should also forget about it and get on with other things. When the tanks go.’
A moving-off rumble came. Having made its point and intimidated the vicinity, the tank moved off. When Gyuri saw people emerging from the buffet he knew he could safely stand again. His clothes were soaked with sweat, the nostril-curling stench of fear. ‘Nice meeting you,’ he said, shaking Miklós’s hand, ‘hope you like the revolution.’
He bought some food. It was after seven, and because he had made eight the rendezvous time with Jadwiga and because his luck was sorely depleted, Gyuri was very keen to get home. Moving up to the Keleti Station he was annoyed to see the revolution strengthening. Dead Russian soldiers were lying in gutters and against buildings like inebriated vagrants. While Gyuri had no objection to dead Russian soldiers, it suggested that he was moving closer to the fighting rather than away from it as he desired. His hands were still shaking from his time out on the target range. His stomach would be mulling over the terror for weeks. Ridiculously, in the middle of the shooting he had had the impulse to shout at the tank crew: ‘Stop! You don’t understand. I’m a coward. This isn’t fair. Find some brave people to shoot at.’
A Soviet armoured personnel carrier that had erupted, probably by grenade, was proving a big hit with the locals because, apparently, it had a headless Russian on display inside. People vied to peer into the charred interior. Gyuri was totally unmoved by the sight of the Russian dead. He had heard all the arguments about how the Russians were people, how everyone is the same, what a great composer Tchaikovsky was; nevertheless he couldn’t help wishing that the Russians would fuck off and be people and the same, back in the Soviet Union. An incinerated corpse at his feet failed to elicit any compassion. Probably a conscript- he didn’t give a toss.
All around the Keleti Station, there were groups of tanks cutting off his intended route home. The Russian tanks weren’t doing anything but they didn’t seem to want to move. They were just occupying space. No one, Gyuri noticed, was strolling around close to them. The streets were full of people, no one wanted to stay at home, but a peopleless belt extended for hundreds of metres round the tanks. The streetcorner militia that had formed on the Rákoczi út were discussing what to do. There were two soldiers, several new teenagers (two on roller-skates) and a hotchpotch of individuals you’d find waiting for a bus, including two postwomen. ‘We need petrol bombs. That’s what they’re using at the Corvin. Who can get some empty bottles?’ asked one of the soldiers.
It was nearly eight. Gyuri cut down a sidestreet to see if he could sidestep the Red Army.
An hour later making his final approach, closing in from the direction of the Zoo, Gyuri was annoyed to discover that the Red Army had completely surrounded his flat. He was getting angry enough to attack one of the tanks.
As he was observing the tank blocking the end of Benczur utca and trying to think of a way of blowing it up, safely, without risk, with his bare hands, from an enormous distance he saw a man walk out of one of the blocks of flats at the end of the street and start to knock on the side of the tank, as if he were knocking on a door. He knocked very assiduously and after a few minutes, the turret opened and a leather-helmeted head popped out. What was the man doing? Asking them for a light? Hoping that the Russians would be less likely to open fire in mid-conversation, Gyuri galloped over. When he ran past, despite his grudging Russian, he realised that the man was haranguing the tank crew. ‘What are you doing here?’ the man demanded.
‘We’re here to protect you from hooligans and reactionaries,’ the officer protested.
‘Where are the hooligans? Where are the reactionaries?’ It was an intriguing exchange, but Gyuri had had enough current affairs for one day. Going up the stairs, he met Jadwiga coming down.
‘You’re late,’ she said sternly.
‘Time flies when you’re having a revolution.’
Inside, Elek greeted them with the news that Imre Nagy had formed a new government. ‘I’m pleased for him,’ said Gyuri, ‘but if you’ll excuse us, there are some urgent aspects of Hungarian-Polish relations to consider.’
Why shouldn’t things be conducted in comfortable conditions? thought Gyuri, glad that he had obtained a fully-qualified bed from Pataki as his farewell present. Worn out by history, worry, fear and his conjugal work, he was reclining into sleep when Jadwiga said apropos of nothing: