Alison Littman - Radio Underground

A student climbed atop the van and grabbed the microphone from Valéria. He held up its cord, revealing that it was attached to nothing but air. The radio was not broadcasting their demands. It was all a farce. With newfound strength, the students surged forward into the van, and toward the radio building, determined to make the regime pay for trying to fool them.

This time, they managed to destroy the gates and doors of the radio building, breaking into the fortress. Armed and prepared, Marika and her gang followed at the tail end of the invasion. By the time they got inside, it looked like a band of looters had wreaked havoc on the building. Chairs were missing legs and cast off to the side. The couches bore dirty footprints and gaping holes from people running over them. Memos, documents, and files were scattered across the floor, dirty and ripped by the rush of invaders. The secret police ran through the crowd, shooting at the moving targets in unpredictable patterns.

Marika and her friends used their newly acquired guns to fire back, though she wasn’t certain whether they had actually hit anyone. Soon, she found herself ducking behind a stack of chairs and watching a police chief yell at a group of younger policemen who seemed hesitant to shoot. One of the men shook his head, and when the rest of the men saw that, they also shook their heads. The chief, in one swift movement, took out his gun and shot all the men, point blank. Marika crawled out the back window and ran. As she fled, she heard more shots being fired.

“When I looked back, I saw people on the ground. They weren’t moving.” Marika said, her eyes planted on the ceiling as if looking up could somehow force her tears back into her head.

“Are you okay?” I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Yes,” she nodded with such force she shook loose the tears she had tried to hold in. “Can I go now?”

“First you have to tell us one thing. How many do you think died?”

“How many?” Marika turned as white as the paper loaded in the typewriter behind her.

“We need this information.”

“I don’t know.”

“Even a guess is better than nothing.”

Marika sobbed into her hands. “I think it was fifty. At least.”

I hugged her, my touch triggering some instinct for aggression in the girl. She pushed back against me.

“I have to go,” Marika said. “You’re going to let me leave, now.”

“Of course, just do one thing for me.”

“What now?” Her eyes, puffy and moist, flared open, creating a stark contrast between the gentleness of her sadness and the sudden intensity of her anger.

“Don’t return to the radio building. Go somewhere safe.”

“Okay.”

“Just be careful.” I kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ll try.”

We both knew she would go back to find out which of her friends had survived, and which didn’t. And, a part of her would die, was dying. I watched her walk away until I could no longer see her.

“We are doing something about this,” I declared, turning back to Laszlo and Antal. I imagined Realitás igniting such a swell of support that it would completely decimate those murderers like that police chief. If we could only sound convincing enough, we could make this happen.

“I promise,” Antal wheezed, “I promise I’ll find more arms for those kids. You have my word.”

“Thank you.” I kissed Antal’s forehead and put my arm around him. “That sounds like a better plan than anything else we’ve thought of. But we should do something else too.”

“Don’t try this again,” Laszlo said.

“We should tell everyone Gerő’s supporters are fleeing. It wouldn’t be a complete lie, since you are one of them and you’ve defected,” I said, squeezing Antal.

“Dammit, Eszter, Antal didn’t defect. He was beaten to a pulp!” Laszlo yelled.

“I know, but listen. People won’t fear Gerő if they think his beloved henchmen are starting to join their forces too.”

Once that lie tumbled from my mouth, it felt more real than anything happening around me. More palpable than Antal’s wounds, more piercing than Laszlo’s eyes, and more tender than that little boy’s tears. My lie came from a very real place within me. And once it hit air, it became truth.

“Eszter, please,” Laszlo started in an unnaturally calm voice.

But we all knew the other option—the one that would happen if this fledgling revolution failed. It was death, and no matter how ferociously Laszlo trumpeted the merits of journalistic integrity, he couldn’t compete with our basic, human desire to live. Soon he grew quiet. No one spoke for twenty minutes as we considered our options.

“If only we had some serious help for this fucking revolution. Imre Nagy leading us is not going to be enough, no matter how much experience the bastard has. Where is the West when we really need them, huh? They claim the Soviets are their enemies, but they haven’t helped us one bit, besides playing this damn radio.” Laszlo shot a glare at Antal before kicking the radio across the room.

We all knew the West was just a lesser evil compared to the Soviets. Like their professed enemies, the West’s affection was wrought with contingencies.

“What if they did help us?” Antal said.

“You mean…,” I ventured, “… once they learn about the immense strength of our pending revolution, which they probably already have, they will come to our aid?”

I understood the futility of such a statement. The possibility, however slim, tempted me though. Radio Free Europe gave me just enough hope, like sunlight peeking through the blinds of a dark room. I imagined something absolutely brilliant and glowing beyond my view, and I refused to let go of the fantasy.

Antal and I worked together to etch out a plan for us to wield the West’s influence to fuel our own revolution. First, we would draft a one-page version of Realitás . In it, we would update everyone about the day’s events—the crowds, the statue, the shooting of the students, and anything else we witnessed. We would also include in it the strong possibility of the West sending troops and aid in support of our revolution. We would say the conclusion was obvious. With the West’s help, the regime stood no chance. Antal would then send the information directly to Radio Free Europe with only ten minutes left until its broadcast for that evening. With the radio’s pending deadline and Antal’s stamp of legitimacy, the producers would push the information on air without double-checking it.

Antal sat up now, grabbing his knees for support as he straightened his back. “This is the best we have.”

“Let’s do it.” I said. “Laszlo, are you in?”

Laszlo turned away from us. I interpreted his passive resistance as acceptance of our grandiose scheme. I realized then why he had protested so vehemently against our plans. He was terrified of defying the government beyond publishing our flimsy newspaper. This journalistic integrity, his initial attempts to stop the revolution, was just a cover. If the revolution grew, it would expose Laszlo’s darkest embarrassment—his paralysis.

Crouching over the typewriter, putting words to our plan, I began to write. I felt like a leader forging Hungary’s future before she was even ready for it. I prepared her for what she did not see coming.

“This needs to go to Radio Free Europe first.” Antal rested his hand on mine. I could feel it emitting an immense amount of heat. He surely had an infection.

“But… then we have to use the teleprinter….” I promised Laszlo I wouldn’t use it unless there was an emergency. The machine could send and receive messages, but at the risk of being intercepted and revealing our whereabouts.