Mack Reynolds: After Utopia

“The Security Police? There’s fighting going on in the streets, but evidently they’re scared spitless. Hundreds of thousands of students, workers and whoever, and his cousin, are out in the streets. When they catch an AVO man they shoot him and usually string him up to the nearest lamppost.”

“It couldn’t happen to nicer people,” Tracy growled.

“They’re evidently storming the Budapest radio station in Sandor street. The broadcasts coming from it are really typical commie. They claim the revolt is being headed by foreign fascists and secret agents from the United States.”

“Typical is right,” Tracy snorted.

Dan said excitedly, “A big strong point is the industrial area of Czepel Island in the Danube between Buda and Pest. It seems the people from there stormed an arsenal and armed themselves.”

“Jesus,” Tracy said.

They reached the hotel and took the stairs two at a time.

They flicked on the radio. Dan sat on one of the beds, Tracy straddled a chair backwards, and they stared at the speaker.

Since Spain, and the formation of the organization, Tracy had become the more dominant of the two, even though he was younger. His dedication was strong and for years he had been working full-time for the movement. Dan was utilized often, when his expenses could be met by the meagre organization treasury, but he didn’t have quite the reputation that Tracy did.

Finally, Tracy reached over and flicked the set off. He looked at his friend and colleague. He said, “We’re going to have to get on over there, Dan.”

Dan Whiteley licked his lips. “Yeah. I guess so. Should we check with the Executive Committee?”

“No time. Besides, we’re on the scene, and they aren’t. We’ll have to play it by ear.”

“What’s our cover?” Dan said.

“The same as it is now. We’re American journalists. Nobody ever shoots a journalist. Not on purpose. It causes too much of an international stink.”

Dan said sarcastically, “A hell of a lot of good a stink does you after you’ve been shot. Who’s our contact in Budapest?”

Tracy said, “Damned if I know. Franz Zieglar would know. We’ll get in touch with him. I don’t think we have many members in Hungary. It’s like the other commie countries. Hard to organize there.”

Dan said, “You ever been in Budapest?”

“No.”

“I was there once. Few days. Great town. Good food, good booze. Nice people… in a Hungarian sort of way. They say that Hungarians are the only people who can go into a telephone booth and leave by a rear entrance.”

Tracy laughed and said, “The way I heard it was that they were the only people in the world that could go into a revolving door behind you and come out in front.”

Dan left to go to the public phone out in the hall and call Franz Sieglar, one of the local Austrian organization men.

While he was gone, Tracy growled to himself. “I’ll bet it’s a great town, these days. Gypsy music and everything… played from the top of Joseph Stalin tanks.”

Franz Zieglar was efficient, as Austrians went. About forty years of age, plump, and innocent looking, he was one of the organization’s liaisons between the western groups and Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Yugoslavia, Rumania, and Bulgaria. He had a beautiful cover. He owned a small antique shop on the Kohlmarkt, just behind the Hofburg former Imperial Palace.

He periodically made shopping trips to Budapest, Prague, and Belgrade, quite legitimately. His specialty was buying antiques, old paintings, and first editions from former aristocrats now on their uppers and unable to get employment. They would often have something valuable, left over from the old days, and would sell it for very little, by western standards. Zieglar broke no laws in so buying. The local Communist governments were glad to have him bring hard western currency into the country… sooner or later it would wind up in their coffers.

He gave Tracy and Dan a complete rundown on the state of the movement in Hungary, and particularly in Budapest. Tracy had been correct, there weren’t many members, and most of them were concentrated in the capital and most were intellectuals; that is, writers, artists, teachers, students. There were a few engineers and technicians out in the industrial towns such as Miskolc, Gyor, and Pecs. In fact, one member was a factory manager in Szolnok.

Their immediate contact was to be a poet named Gyula Rajk, who belonged to the Petofi Circle.

“A poet!” Dan said in disgust.

Franz Zielgar looked at him. “The poet’s art is more highly regarded in Eastern Europe than it is currently in England and America.”

Tracy said, “What’s the Petofi Circle?”

Zieglar turned his eyes to the American as though he couldn’t believe the question had been asked.

“The Petofi Circle! Why, it’s the group that started this whole thing. It was begun in April of this year, organized by students and members of the writer’s union. They brought out the Irodalmi Ujsag , the Literary Gazette, and from the first they criticized the bureaucratic interference with the writer’s freedom. Their meetings were soon attracting thousands of people.”

“All right. Okay,” Tracy said. “We’ll check ourselves out on that more when we get there. Now, what do you think of our going in as journalists?”

“Every newspaperman based in Vienna is either already in Budapest or is heading there. And more are being flown in from Paris, London, and everywhere else, by the minute. They fly here to Vienna and then take cars to Budapest. It’s about a hundred and eighty miles.”

“And they don’t stop them at the border?”

“The border is chaos. Nobody knows who is in charge, and thousands of refugees are crossing every day. The damned Russians stand around looking blank; representatives of the government have made themselves scarce, as the American expression goes; and the new worker’s councils, student councils, and so forth are too badly organized as yet to do anything even if they wished to. Which reminds me, foreign correspondents are extremely welcome in Budapest right now. The new uprising there wishes the world to know what is going on.” He took a deep breath and added, “They are apprehensive of the Russians.”

“They’d better be,” Tracy muttered.

The three of them were seated about a small table in the hotel room. Tracy took up the bottle of Enzian brandy which Dan had bought when they first arrived in Vienna. It had turned out to be repugnant stuff in spite of it being the national spirit, so most of it was still left, though in their time both Tracy and Dan had drunk some pretty repugnant stuff. Now he poured them each a stiff drink into water glasses.

He said to Zieglar, “Is there any way you could get us a couple of guns? We didn’t bring any when we came to Austria. Afraid they might shake us down at the border and newspapermen aren’t expected to be heeled. Besides, we didn’t figure there’d be any need for them on this mission.”

The Austrian unwrapped a paper package he had brought with him and pushed two holstered pistols toward them. They were heavy-calibered military weapons in heavy black leather sheaths, both of which carried a compartment for an extra clip.

“Walter P thirty-eights,” Zieglar said. “Are you acquainted with the operation of the P thirty-eight?”

“Yes,” Dan said wryly. “We’re acquainted with every goddamned gun that’s ever been fired.”

Tracy looked at him. It wasn’t the sort of thing that Dan said and his tone wasn’t as diplomatic as he should have used to an organization member, particularly one who was cooperating as well as this one was. But then he shook his head within himself. It didn’t mean anything. Of course they had handled the P.38, and this, and that, and the other weapon. It was like asking if you knew how to utilize a Litz hand grenade. You knew how to put on a Merry Widow condum, didn’t you? You weren’t entirely ignorant.