Péter Nádas - Parallel Stories

And the places where the fighting seemed to persist were not necessarily the most dangerous places. If bullets were being fired at a steady height, and if we could see where they were coming from and where they were going, then we’d bend down, duck behind a fence, cling to an upturned streetcar, wait out the pause between two bursts of firing and then run across, bent over, exactly as others had before us. As if there were always others one could follow.

Of course there were stray bullets too.

As if there was always someone, a first one, who had already tried it. But then, when almost everyone had made it across, that’s when the stray bullet might hit someone. Either the person who was shot was left there, or others crawled back and yanked him to cover.

And that meant that a person no one knew was wounded or dead on the spot.

Milk was not to be found anywhere in Budapest. One woman’s milk can took a direct hit. It happened during the day, with weak sunshine filtering through the light autumn fog. The woman had been running across the street toward us from the opposite direction. A few of us were still waiting for the chance to get out of the bullets’ range, and everyone’s faces were contorted, mouths open and eyes narrowed to slits. As if everybody were saying two sentences simultaneously. Do it now. Made it again. When bullets hit her milk can, the woman stopped, incredulous and shocked. Like a mask, her face remained with that expression on it as milk poured out of the can in two separate streams. This told us that somewhere there must still be some milk; somewhere milk was being distributed. Or had been. As if the spilling milk were more important. She did not topple over, only lowered herself on one knee and in her fury knocked the can to the ground, knocked it three or four times, not letting go of the handle. Other people were screaming, more and more of them, but they were late with their screaming.

Then victorious silence.

A dead square, a mute intersection where, ominously, nothing moved.

Closed gates, rolled-down shutters.

Whether it was light or dark, you could not scratch this silence with the noise of your steps. At its depth, something was being prepared. Something was in the air.

This sort of frozen dawn waited for us that day near West Station; not a light anywhere, not behind the windows or above the streets, no movement, no noise. It was cold, foggy, which we felt mainly on our skin and in our noses. We couldn’t see or hear anything. No, not in that direction, that’s for sure. Maybe cats or rats feel things this way. We were still far from the square; we could just barely differentiate between the gloomy sky and the bullet-riddled towers of the station. We had marched to this point like a group of high-spirited noisy tourists. Now it was clear we must be silent and give the square a wide berth. Quickly receding footsteps could then be heard, their echo bouncing back from the surrounding buildings.

Even cats and rats know which way they should go.

From here, it seemed that the upper section of Podmaniczky Street was open.

Others turned there too, because it was the only sensible option. Not together; we walked separately. You said to yourself, somehow I’ll make it to Bajcsy-Zsilinsky Road, and you didn’t ask what would happen then. I saw the picture of Kálmán Street before me, where in peacetime the trolleybuses ran; that’s where I had to get to. Figuring probabilities or weighing possibilities was valid only one step at a time. I wasn’t interested in knowing how I’d get to Kálmán Street.

Only the next step, always.

Never before or after did I feel how deeply the city lived in me. Some need would specify a place, and right away I’d see my situation as if under a magnifying glass. I’d know and see what was where, what sort of corner, stone, recess, or hiding place I could count on, what sort of danger I might expect. Like an animal that knows every trail. Now I must get to Kálmán Street and from there continue without going anywhere near the Parliament or the Defense Ministry. Alkotmány Street was a big question mark because it was so wide, and an even bigger question was how I would reach the other side of Szent István Boulevard. But right now, Kálmán Street was under the magnifying glass, and I didn’t ask what would happen once I made it there. Either something expected would happen or something unexpected, or maybe nothing.

During the day there was always rifle fire somewhere; shooting went on everywhere — close by, far away, much farther away. But only shooting in the street that one chanced to be in meant direct, immediate danger.

When that happened, you were really trapped, and you could only try to find a way out. But of course your success could not be predicted.

As I walked along, somebody asked me what was happening. Bread at Glázner’s, I replied. The street had just started to breathe a sigh of relief. A few buildings had their gates open; insurgents carrying things were going in and coming out. Lights were on in some of the upstairs apartments. The foliage was still rich and full of color; the light made the entire street seem as if the fighting was dying down. The streets looked like this whenever people had a chance to breathe sighs of relief, but nobody knew how long the respite would last. The boy who asked me his hurried question must have been the son of the super. I thought so, anyway, because out of a lit window above us, a woman called down to him.

Pistike, will they turn on the water soon?

He was carrying a long ammo box on his shoulder.

Fuck it, man, you can’t get through here, the boy said to me with obvious goodwill, and he did not answer the woman.

Can’t you see what’s going on?

I did see, of course I did, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he despised me for not joining him. As if he were trying to tell me that I was nothing but a stupid civilian who understood nothing of what was going on. It wasn’t hard to acquire weapons. I could have asked him for almost anything. I had also seen them more than once handing them out from trucks.

It wasn’t fear that held me back, and I can’t say I had anything against the shooting. On the contrary, I approved. I couldn’t imagine it being otherwise. It was just. And where there is shooting there are dead bodies. But I was the one somehow who had to get bread and everything else, for the members of my family had escaped into helplessness. I found their fear truly disgusting.

We’ve already turned it on, madam. Please, go ahead and try it, please do, Pisti called to the upper floor.

I moved on. One didn’t think of saying good-bye to someone whom one had just spoken to. By the time I reached the intersection I found out from someone else that the Russians had pulled back to Szent István Basilica. And they had cannons. But the railway station remained in rebel hands. That’s where there was free passage to the other side. Only one didn’t know when the whole thing might start all over again.

There was a photo store at the corner, and in front of its bombed-out display window a familiar group was gathering again, or at least among the people coming together I could see familiar faces. Broken glass crunched under our feet. Someone should have made a move, should have decided to go in a definite direction toward a specific destination, but no one did. This one knew something, that one had different information, maybe we should do this or maybe we should do that. An interminable discussion was under way. Everybody was talking, but that wasn’t very interesting. What was good about the whole thing was that in this strange neighborhood one could see familiar faces. Somebody from your own street, your own district. People were looking at one another in the dark, explaining things, pointing at things. Some people were quiet, only listened, and the ones who first lost patience were mainly from this group.