Dacia Maraini - Train to Budapest

‘There, now they’ve shown the claws they were keeping hidden, see? If they had not been called in, the Soviets would not have been able to come into our country. Without a formal request from a government legitimised by the people it would have been an invasion pure and simple, wouldn’t it?’

Tadeusz is in tears; Ferenc is stroking his head to comfort him. A louder than usual explosion throws them all to the ground. The neighbouring building must have been hit. They go into the next room and hope the whole building does not collapse.

‘During the war we used to go down to the cellars. But then they closed them.’

‘What are the other people who live here doing?’

‘There’s not a soul on the stairs. They’ve all shut themselves in and are keeping quiet like us. Anyway, what can anyone do against all those tanks?’

‘We could go up on the roof and throw down grenades.’

‘And where would we get grenades?’

Ferenc, amid the general despair, sticks his violin under his chin and begins Bach’s Chaconne . Perhaps the only thing that makes any sense. Only those elegant, geometrical, rational notes are capable of imposing meaningful thought on chaos, death, arrogance and bullying.

A loud knocking on the outside door. A moment of panic. Horvath, blanket round his shoulders, calloused feet naked and face twisted, goes to peer through the spyhole. He opens the door. There on the threshold is the man with the gazelles. Amara runs and throws her arms round him. Tadeusz weeps with joy. Ferenc, never far from his violin, quickly plays a Romanian Dance by Béla Bartók to celebrate the return of their friend.

‘We thought you were dead.’

‘And here I am.’

‘But it’s two days since you went out saying you would be back directly. What happened?’

‘I had to hide. The first night I slept in the back room of a shop, taking refuge with others from a round-up. The second night I slept on a sofa at the Hotel Béke. I took a few risks, but not too many. The Soviets are so impressed by the grand scale of their own invasion that they don’t notice details.’

‘But what did you do?’

‘Have you any news?’

‘The Corvin cinema has been virtually destroyed. The parliament is as full of holes as a shovel used for target practice. The Király barracks has been smashed to pieces. The national army headquarters has been besieged. General Gyula Varadi has been arrested and taken away by the Russians.’

‘And Nagy?’

‘Taken refuge with other members of his government in the Yugoslav Embassy.’

‘And Maléter?’

‘Arrested.’

‘And Dudás?’

‘Arrested.’

‘And the delegation to the United Nations and all the promises they made us?’

‘As far as words go, they’re a hundred per cent with us. But no one dares touch the internal affairs of the Warsaw Pact.’

‘And Kádár, who was with Nagy? Is he with the rebels? Or is it true he’s betrayed us, the swine? I can’t believe it, wasn’t it he who a few days ago declared in favour of the great new workers’ revolution?’

‘He’s changed his mind.’

‘So was it his voice we heard on the radio, asking the Soviet armed forces to intervene in the name of the Hungarian people? But what does it all mean?’

‘At one point Kádár disappeared, remember? No one could find him anywhere. It seems they flew him to Moscow and told him either you’re with us or against us. One or the other. In short, if he agreed to ask officially for armed assistance they’d spare him and he could join the new government. If not he would disappear into some Russian prison and later be shot for high treason. So he made up his mind.’

‘But we’ve heard firing. A lot of sub-machine guns against the uproar of heavy artillery. There must have been some resistance.’

‘A great deal. From every roof in Budapest. Against thousands of tanks. The Corvin cinema and its garrison resisted for two days, firing and throwing grenades. At the Hay Market they kept the Soviet tanks at bay for twenty-four hours. They were nearly all killed. Including the man with the wooden leg, d’you remember him? The man we saw our first day in Budapest.’

‘It’s hopeless to try and resist tanks. It can never be done.’

‘D’you know how many Soviet tanks there are here now? Five thousand. More than Hitler threw at Russia in 1941. They’re talking of fifteen thousand dead and fifty thousand Hungarian wounded. Our people seem to have managed to burn nearly a hundred Soviet tanks and kill nearly a thousand Russian soldiers.’

‘Who told you all this?’

‘The foreign journalists at the Béke are always well informed.’

‘And what about phone lines to the outside world?’

‘They function intermittently. But many of the journalists have private radio transmitters. That’s how they communicate.’

‘But what did you see yourself?’

‘Trams overturned. Houses smashed to pieces. Huge numbers of dead lying in the streets. I saw a group of students loaded onto a lorry. I went to look for the woman who always used to sell perecs at the corner of Dohány utca, d’you remember? But she’s vanished. I wanted to bring home a little sugar and some bread, but everything’s closed and locked up. A general strike has been announced. Not a single worker has gone back to his workplace. They want to take the city by famine. Outside the metallurgical factories on Csepel Island, I saw a barricade built against a crowd of Soviet tanks. The Russians have arrived in their thousands, marching in orderly ranks and firing in all directions. And they’ve been answered with cannons. I don’t know where they got them from, but they managed to destroy at least ten Soviet tanks with them. The Russian artillery even climbed to the top of Gellért Hill to fire down onto the Csepel workers. At one point when they sent a plane to bomb the factory, the workers managed to hit it with a rudimentary missile and smash it into a thousand pieces. Everyone cheered. They seemed invincible, our metal workers at Csepel. But the Soviets brought in a dozen planes from an hour away that dropped hundreds of bombs and Csepel vanished, destroyed. Hundreds were killed. I saw people queueing for bread in defiance of the bullets raining down on them from all sides. There’s a general strike in progress but our people have organised distribution posts that move according to where the tanks go. The Russians have set fire to the reserves of petrol at the port, sending stinking black smoke soaring into the sky. In the midst of all this some citizens have concerned themselves with stopping thieves, the profiteers who loot the smashed houses. I saw one boy throw a hand grenade from a window. It blew a tank into the air. He looked out again to gauge the effect and another tank fired at him. I saw his head fall from his body into the road. Other tanks gathered in front of his home, leaving only a fragment of wall standing. Many have died, buried in the ruins. Some came out into the road to attack the tanks, hurling petrol and burning faggots. Then they hid behind the hospital. The Russians, furious, set fire to the hospital. And when the doctors and nurses fled with their patients, planes flew low over them to shoot them one by one. I threw myself to the ground with the rest. I saw mud thrown up from the pavement by the shells right next to my head. But I think I must be protected by the gods because I wasn’t hit. But I saw many die at my side. Though nothing can stop the Magyar boys running like madmen among the tanks, zigzagging so as not to be hit. Then turning suddenly to throw a grenade or a burning bottle. Even boys of fifteen or sixteen. A group of about thirty were surrounded and captured. Half of them, the ones with weapons, were immediately killed with a bullet to the head; the others were piled into a lorry which set off at speed for the base at Koliko. I was told they were students from a mathematical college. Many people are heading for the borders. They have no intention of staying under a new Soviet dictatorship. Large numbers of them. But before they go, some stop to bury the dead. I’ve seen improvised graves dug at the roadside: a little pile of earth, a few flowers, a wooden cross with a light stuck on top. I met long lines of people with bundles on their shoulders heading for Austria. Back at the Hotel Béke I looked for the bald man selling visas. But I couldn’t find him. I was stopped twice by Russian soldiers and twice by insurgents. Luckily I’d got rid of my rifle. I spoke Russian to the first lot, Hungarian to the second. They let me pass.’