Dacia Maraini - Train to Budapest

Amara moves on reluctantly. They pass in front of a hotel with two armed guards outside it. The old name, Hotel Britannia, has been erased and replaced by BÉKE in cardboard block capitals.

‘Shall we go in and get something hot?’

Amara nods. The thick carpet adorning the floor has been covered by coloured rags on which the muddy prints of boots can be seen. The hotel bar is crowded. All eyes turn to the newcomers. Someone greets them in French. ‘The Western journalists’ favourite hotel,’ says Hans, ordering a draught beer. The table they lean their elbows on is sticky.

‘What would you like to drink?’

‘Tea.’

The waitress is wearing an ankle-length coat, though it’s not particularly cold inside. Then Amara notices that every opening of the door brings in a gust of cold air. The windows of the kitchen have been blown out and all the waiters are going in and out in thick coats.

The tea turns out to be hot water darkened by some leaf without taste or smell but as sweet as treacle. Amara takes her cup in both hands.

‘At least it’s hot.’

‘Have we got the money to pay for it?’

Hans nods. He drinks his beer at a single draught and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater. Meanwhile a fat bald man has come to their table.

‘Journalists?’

‘Yes and no,’ says Hans.

‘You need visas?’

‘Just waiting for them.’

‘Italians? How many of you?’

‘The lady is Italian. Maria Amara Sironi. I’m a mixture, part Hungarian and part Austrian … And you?’

‘Call me Alain. I can’t remember my surname. I’ve crossed too many borders. But anyway, if you need visas I can get you two. Not more.’

‘We want to get to Poland.’

‘Poland? What for?’

‘To look for a child, or rather a man.’

‘I don’t think you’ll be able to get to Poland just now. I can get you into Austria, nothing more.’

‘How much?’

‘Eight hundred forints each.’

‘I think we’ll wait.’

‘Could take a long time. I don’t think the Soviets are going to give way.’

‘In what sense?’

‘They may invade in the grand manner. Hundreds of tanks and thousands of men. Make a clean sweep of everything. Maybe even bomb the city.’

‘Are you advising us to get out?’ ‘It would seem logical. There are people prepared to pay a thousand forints just to get to the Andau Bridge. It could soon be too late.’

‘Well, we’re in no hurry,’ says Hans casually. But then he adds, ‘Can you give me your phone number? In case of need, I could call you.’

The bald man looks pityingly at them.

‘The telephones are tapped. And in any case, they don’t work. They’ve cut the lines. If you want me, you’ll find me here.’

With this he gets up, takes Amara’s white hand in both his own and kisses it in an extremely theatrical manner before leaving them with a cunning conspiratorial smile.

‘Might be useful.’

‘But could we trust him? Anyway, who’s got eight hundred forints?’

On the way out they notice on a little table in a corner of the lounge a metal radio set with aerodynamic lines and a long aerial; a lot of people are sitting round it listening.

Amara and Hans go closer. The voice is speaking in English. It says a Hungarian delegation is on the point of leaving for the United Nations to attract the attention of delegates to the problem of their country. ‘A massive intervention by the Soviet Union is feared,’ comments the speaker. ‘The Hungarians remember that the Warsaw Pact states that allies may intervene in the case of external aggression against a member country, but this is not the case in Hungary at present.’ The journalist also states that President Eisenhower has made a statement in New York deploring in advance any aggression whatever by the Soviet Union against a people fighting for their freedom, adding the exact words: ‘America is on the side of the Hungarians with all her heart. The students and workers fighting on the streets of Hungarian cities are subject to the rights of man, as expressly guaranteed to the Hungarian people by the peace treaty signed by the Hungarian leadership and their associated allied powers, including the Soviet Union and the United States.’

‘In short, we can count on the United States. Great news!’

Yet another bonfire. They’re burning a mountain of Soviet flags. A man in a padded jacket is taking photographs, down on one knee on the wet stone pavement. ‘Pedrazzini of Paris Match ,’ says someone, pointing at him. A group of young people are walking hand in hand. The usual woman with the enormous bottom is selling perecs at the corner of Dohány utca, next to a cart. Pieces of coal are smoking in a rusty tin drum; every so often she stirs them with a stick. A strange ambulance passes in the form of a cart pulled by a bicycle. A small boy with bound head is pedalling. Behind, black hair tied back with string, is a girl steadying a rolled-up stretcher. Both have white shirts. Over the girl’s knees is a white flag with a red cross glued to it. The pair clank rapidly down the potholed street.

Amara and Hans hurry towards the Corvin cinema. There is always the risk of a sniper firing from a high window or balcony. An ÁVH officer avenging dead friends. The streets are covered with mud. Small handwritten posters have been stuck on the walls. But they do not stop to read. They are in a hurry. They must find bread for their friends. It’s already no mean thing that Tadeusz and Ferenc have agreed to put them up in that tiny apartment. And now, on top of that, Horvath is ill. They must find coffee and milk. In front of the cinema is a Soviet tank captured by the rebels. On it are a dozen youths with machine guns. A bareheaded boy well wrapped in a long black coat stops them to ask for identification. Hans pulls out his papers. The boy studies them carefully. He seems unconvinced.

‘Austrian?’

‘Yes, my mother was Hungarian.’

‘And what are you doing here?’

‘Visiting my father.’

‘Occupation?’

Hans doesn’t know what to say. He glances at Amara who gestures with her head. Can he tell them his job is taking brides to the altar?

Amara answers for him: ‘He’s a journalist,’ she says in French.

The young man in the long coat, now joined by a boy in a red beret with a red scarf round his neck, gives them a puzzled look.

‘You are Italian?’

‘Yes.’

‘What are you doing here?’

Amara turns to Hans. She doesn’t understand.

‘Will she write that we are counter-revolutionaries?’

‘She will tell what she has seen. That everyone is out in the streets, workers and students, housewives and employees. She will write that there’s a festive atmosphere that does the heart good.’

The young man in the long coat gives them a slap on the back and lets them pass. In front of the Corvin cinema there’s a crush of people. People on the steps, in the entrance and in the foyer, pushing, muttering and chattering.

They join the queue. Hans lights a cigarette. Some women come out with bread batons under their arms.

‘Is there any milk?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know for how much longer. It’s a long queue.’

A woman with a small baby slung on her back appears. People move to let her pass. A short sturdy man is singing in a low voice ‘ Que sera sera …’ Doris Day’s song broadcast by a radio station and immediately copied by other improvised radio stations. None of these people can have seen the film in which a mother uses that very song to save her son! But everyone knows what’s involved. The Hitchcock film has become an unexpected symbol of resistance. Someone else launches into Que sera sera … and a dissonant little chorus is born. A woman weeps. A man caresses her head. ‘They say the Russians are leaving.’ ‘But can you believe they’ll let go as easily as that?’ ‘I saw them heading north with my own eyes.’ ‘That’s true, I saw it too.’ ‘No, you fool. They’re just withdrawing to their base at Tököl. They won’t let anyone near there. They say Suslov and Mikoyan have slipped in secretly by air to check the situation on behalf of Khruschchev.’ ‘But we have the Nagy government, which is what the absolute majority of the Hungarian people want. I’d like to see what they can do against a government legitimised by the people.’ ‘Don’t push, you idiot!’ ‘Let’s hope they won’t run out of bread!’ ‘Stop pushing, you fucker!’