Alison Littman - Radio Underground

“We are announcing that a demonstration will happen today,” a reporter began. “Students are gathering across the city to join a powerful march. We estimate thousands will participate. Please, join the thousands and stand up to Soviet repression. Send the Russians home!”

The reporter began reading the list of meeting points, just as I had laid them out in my note to Antal.

A web of chills spread across my back. We did it. Radio Free Europe reached almost every household in Budapest. And if people weren’t listening to that, they would be listening to the BBC, which surely would repeat Radio Free Europe’s message.

“Thank God, Antal made it.” At the mention of Antal’s name, Laszlo leaned back in his chair and delivered a swift snort.

“So I assumed correctly, then. They got this information from you? Last night?” Laszlo’s thick eyebrows converged on his forehead in a frown.

Laszlo had no qualms about expressing his disdain for working with Antal. He thought that by lending Radio Free Europe information, we were part of America’s political agenda to persuade Hungary to become just like the West. Laszlo didn’t want to be wrapped up in someone else’s ploy.

The radio repeated the message.

“Yes, I visited Antal.” I checked on our printer as I tried to hide the redness creeping into my cheeks. “I was worried, and of course I wanted us to print this in our paper too, but….”

“But what?” Laszlo demanded, his voice teetering, ready to fall sharply toward anger.

“I knew we couldn’t afford to print every day and that the paper wouldn’t go out for another week. I thought that the people should know what’s happening.”

“Why do you make these decisions without me? We made this thing together.”

“Why do you not trust me?”

Laszlo did not answer. He waited a full minute. Then he made his case that we weren’t just a newspaper, we were leaders, and had we verified that thousands were really participating in the demonstration? Was our estimate actually correct? If it wasn’t, we would be responsible for instilling false hope in these kids, encouraging them to face off with a nasty and heartless regime.

Of course, Laszlo made a valid point. I hadn’t verified my information with multiple sources by any means. But I saw those students talking last night, their determination fueled by an optimism far stronger than one Laszlo and I would ever feel at our age. If I hadn’t given Antal that intelligence, they would have gone through with it anyway. At least this way, maybe they would find some safety in numbers.

That’s when Antal burst into our office, wearing a scarf, gloves, glasses, and a heavy coat. He peeled off his disguise, his skin glowing beneath a veneer of sweat. I hugged him as Laszlo looked away.

“It’s not good,” Antal said. “Gerő’s going to take action. He’s planning an offensive.”

“But they’re letting the demonstration take place,” I said. At this point, even the government’s radio station had announced the march.

“Exactly,” Antal sighed. “So they can get all the rebels in the same place, and….” None of us wanted Antal to finish that sentence.

“As if you didn’t expect that.” Laszlo slammed his hand on the desk.

Antal ignored him. He explained that when he got back to Budapest, he went directly to Gerő’s office, knowing he had already probably missed multiple calls from him. When he arrived, Gerő handed him a whiskey, straight, and asked Antal to sit down. Antal tried convincing Gerő to let the students march rather than fighting them. That would only escalate the protest and embarrass the regime, perhaps on the world stage. “We can’t,” Gerő had said—intelligence indicated the students were far more powerful than they let on. They had connections to Imre Nagy, the ousted former prime minister and the only one who stood a chance at opposing Gerő.

Nagy had spent the last few months tiptoeing away from the political arena, terrified of anyone noticing his withdrawal. We all wanted him to put his heels down, turn around, and march back into the spotlight. Of course, it all made sense now, why wouldn’t he do that? The students started mobilizing because someone had tipped off their leadership that Imre Nagy wanted to return. Plus, if Imre Nagy was behind this, then there would certainly be force behind him. I congratulated myself for spreading news of a demonstration that, yes, actually did have a chance.

“Do we really want Nagy to be in power? Is he going to be any better than Gerő?” Laszlo faced me and Antal.

“He fell out of favor with the Soviets, which means he could want something different,” Antal said.

“But he is an old guard communist,” Laszlo snarled. “Even if we are victorious, what kind of government would he put in place? And how do we know he wouldn’t run right back to the Soviets?”

“It’s not about that,” I interrupted. “This is the intelligence we have, so we should report it.”

“Eszter,” Laszlo started, “How many times do I have to tell you we aren’t real journalists? We have a bias, an agenda, to bring down this regime. You already decided our fate should lie in this student march. Now we have to decide if Nagy is the right person to lead this movement before we print anything.”

“He already stood up to them once. He can do it again.” Antal stood between us.

“But he lost,” Laszlo said. “They ran him out of office.”

“We are stronger now.” Antal got closer to Laszlo and looked him straight in the eyes.

Antal certainly didn’t look stronger. I placed a hand on each of their shoulders, hoping it would calm them down to feel my steady, unflinching hands. “Nagy is our only chance,” I said. “And, maybe, even someone else will rise up through the ranks. There are only opportunities if we can unite people behind him, at least at first.”

“Yes, Eszter is right,” Antal bit his nails, something I had never seen him do before. He must have been excited. “And we can’t waste any time.”

I looked out the window and saw students walking together as the demonstration mounted. I imagined families bent over their radios, parents growing nervous, teenagers fidgeting in their fear, then excitement, then fear. And us? Like ventriloquists, we carefully threaded our hands through the strings that would lift the disparate parts of this movement into action. We felt invisible and invincible.

Antal began scribbling on a piece of paper, taking notes as he talked us through his plan. We would contact Radio Free Europe and tell them Nagy was ready to lead the student movement. We would also say Nagy was at home, waiting for the students to gather so he could appear and make his first speech as their leader.

“Radio Free Europe got us into this mess.” Laszlo scooped up Antal’s notes. “But Realit á s will be the one that gets us out of it. If this is the demonstration’s only hope, then we will be the ones to deliver the news. It’s up to us now.”

Antal lowered his face into his chapped hands and sighed. “I am too tired to fight you on this one,” he said. “But just know that you better get this to everyone.”

“We know,” Laszlo said.

A brown, emaciated cat wound its way through our office, having hidden in the shadows since Antal came in. It rubbed its back against Antal’s legs, meowing until Antal picked it up. As he pet the crook of its neck, Antal closed his eyes and his breathing slowed to the pace of the sleepy cat.

“Why don’t you take a nap?” I made a move to grab the cat, but Antal held on tight to it.

“I should.”

“You can sleep over there.” I pointed to the orange couch, where newspapers and crushed cans sunk into weathered cushions. “With the cat.”