Gyuri spotted Laci and his gang by the main entrance. He squeezed his way through, earning a great deal of rancour from the people he had to shove and step on to reach them. ‘You haven’t seen Jadwiga?’ he inquired. ‘Yes,’ replied Laci, ‘she was here a minute ago.’ Adding proudly: ‘They’re going to read out the points.’
There was a stir around the entrance way and a suit full of shit started to shout: ‘The points are being read out now. Please go home. The points are being read out as I speak. Please go home.’ He sounded familiar and he had a booming voice; Gyuri assumed that he must be one of the presenters. The radio man stressed that the points were being read out and that people should go home. Then, from a window in one of the flats opposite the Radio entrance, a woman with the look of a harried housewife materialised. Balancing her wireless with some difficulty on the windowsill so that everyone in the street could faintly sample the broadcast, she shouted: ‘You evil liar! There’s nothing but music.’
The tear gas followed swiftly after this. It failed all round. The AVO didn’t have gas masks, most of the gas billowed back onto them, and since the street was so narrow and full, even those people who wanted to leave couldn’t do much about it. There was a lot of coughing and crying but more than anything else, there was a large amount of anger. It was something you could watch growing, like a darkening sky presaging rain. Gyuri dropped back to search for Jadwiga and because he knew it was coming. The Communists might not be good at organising the economy but if there was one thing they knew it was how to organise security.
By the time he had forced his way to the sanctuary of the nearby National Museum, not on a direct bullet line from the Radio entrance and endowed with walls and pillars so thick that gunfire would be no more effective than rain, the shooting started. It was the most sickening sound he had ever heard. His fear was overtaken by nausea at people being shot for standing in the wrong place. The streets, of course, were emptying as fast as possible.
In a doorway opposite, revealed sporadically as people ran past, Gyuri saw a tubby man slumped against the door, his legs straight out in front of him, like a propped up teddy-bear. He had a great red patch on his stomach. A companion was whispering in his ear, perhaps trying to talk him out of bleeding to death. Gyuri could discern two motionless bodies lying in front of the Radio. He was surprised how nauseous the sight made him. He had thought he had seen enough corpses during the war to be immune to queasiness, but obviously you had to keep your hand in when it came to indifference to death. And the anger. He had thought he had wanted to kill people before, but now he knew what the real thing felt like, that he truly wanted to, that it wouldn’t be a problem; the desire that had been unperceived in the wings now made its entrance, ready for action.
The shouts and running went on for some time. Then something happened that Gyuri hadn’t foreseen. Shooting started, towards the Radio. Windows began to shatter and Gyuri spied a young man taking advantage of a street corner to snipe at the building. He was dressed in civilian clothes. Where had he got the rifle from? Looking back towards Kalvin Square, Gyuri could see what looked like a parked Army lorry They must have been handing out weapons, because the sound of sniping commenced from every direction.
It would be funny, mused Gyuri, if a second revolution were to start here at the National Museum. It was here on these steps that Petófi had read out one of his poems cutting the ribbon, as it were, to inaugurate the 1848 revolution.
A couple of workers appeared, wearing the obligatory berets that explained they came from Csepel, swathed in belts of ammunition and carrying a heavy machine-gun. They were thinking out loud about how to get onto the roof of the museum from where they would have a superb arc of fire onto the Radio. ‘Never come to the Radio without your machine gun,’ one remarked.
A curly-haired, lanky guy also appeared, and taking up position behind a pillar, began to adjust the sights on his newly-acquired rifle. The payback for forcing everyone to do military training, thought Gyuri. He was positive he knew the man, the face was struggling to be named and placed. Looking at each other, there was a sudden ocular transfer of thought from the aspiring sharpshooter: Yes. It’s what we’ve been praying for. Armed revenge. He smiled widely at Gyuri. Maybe he did know him, maybe it was just the instant camaraderie of that night. ‘I feel so lucky,’ said the man. ‘This is simply wonderful. Wonderful.’ He fired off two rounds without much aim.
It was a long and bewildering night. Most of the shooting was just at the Radio, rather than any particular part of it or any specific target. People had fun simply shooting at the bricks. There was also a protracted exchange of fire with the other end of Sándor Bródy utca during a fear of AVO reinforcements coming. It turned out to be another group of self-armed listeners of the Radio wishing to register their complaints.
Tired and cold, Gyuri nevertheless came to the conclusion he could never forgive himself if he didn’t do a stint of shooting. He sidled up to one well-dressed combatant and asked him where he had obtained his gun. ‘A soldier gave it to me. But if you want one, please take mine. I have to go. It pulls a little to the left.’ Here he peered lengthily at his watch in the dark. ‘I was hoping to knock off an AVO but the wife will be wondering where I am. A gunfight at the Radio won’t be an acceptable excuse.’
At about two in the morning, Gyuri and some others slipped into an adjacent courtyard to see if they could gain entry to a top-floor flat. They found a group of five AVO men huddled in a corner, without weapons and without any inclination to fight.
‘Shouldn’t you be in the Radio building? Defending the gains of the people?’ asked one of Gyuri’s group sarcastically.
‘Do you think we’re going to die for a bunch of fucking Communists?’ retorted one of the AVO men indignantly. Unfortunately they were so pathetic, no one even wanted to kick them a bit. As they were pondering what to do with them, a charming pensioner appeared in her dressing gown and asked if anyone would like tea or coffee. ‘I’ve got a few crackers as well,’ she said, ‘but nothing more. I wasn’t counting on company.’ She brought them all a drink and got very angry when someone tried to give her some money. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
After his tea, Gyuri who still hadn’t fired a shot, went into the old lady’s flat, introduced himself to her husband, opened their windows and fired off three shots in the general direction of the Radio. He closed the window and thanked the couple for their co-operation. He felt much, much better. He had taken part.
Around six o’ clock it dawned on the people besieging that there was no one inside trying to stop them getting in. Going in, they found a few AVO rigors, but to their embarrassment it looked as if most of the garrison had slipped out a back door. One or two shamefaced broadcasters were discovered hiding under desks or in broom-cupboards. One enthusiastic youth, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, called them brothers and exhorted them to take up arms for the revolution. You could tell it was a revolution because this appeal didn’t sound ridiculous. Revolution. It was the first time Gyuri had heard the word mentioned in regard to the proceedings. And why not? Not surprisingly the presenters readily expressed their readiness to do what was requested. It’s amazing how much respect people have for you when you have a gun and they don’t, thought Gyuri.