Erich Segal - The Class

George’s childhood had been dominated by two monsters: Joseph Stalin — and his own father. The only difference between the two was that Stalin terrorized millions, and his father merely terrorized George.

True enough, “Istvan the Terrible,” as George often thought of him, had never actually killed or even imprisoned anybody. He was merely a minor official in the Hungarian People’s Working Party who used Marxist-Leninist jargon to castigate his son.

“Why does he flagellate me?” George would complain to his sister, Marika. “I’m a better socialist than he is. I mean, I believe in the theory, anyway. And even though I think the party stinks, I’ve joined for his sake. Why is he so fed up?”

Marika tried to mollify her brother. And comfort him. For, try as he did to deny it, George was genuinely upset by the old man’s disapproval.

“Well,” she said softly, “he’d like your hair a little shorter…”

“What? Does he want me to shave my skull? I mean, lots of my friends wear Elvis Presley ducktails.”

“He doesn’t like your friends either, Gyuri.”

“I don’t know why,” said George, shaking his head in consternation. “They’re all sons of party members. Some are big shots, too. And they’re a lot easier on their children than Father is.”

“He just wants you to stay home and study, Gyuri. Be honest, you’re out almost every evening.”

“You be honest, Marika. I graduated first in my gimnazium class. I’m studying Soviet law —”

At that very moment Istvan Kolozsdi entered the room and, immediately taking command, finished his son’s sentence.

“You are at the university because of my party status, yompetz , and don’t forget it. If you were merely a clever Catholic or Jew, it wouldn’t matter how high your grades were. You would be sweeping some provincial street. Be grateful you are the son of a party minister.”

“Assistant minister,” George corrected him, “in the Farm Collectivization Office.”

“You say it as if it were a disgrace, Gyuri.”

“Well, it’s hardly democratic for a government to force people to farm against their will —”

“We do not force —”

“Please, Father,” Gyuri answered with an exasperated sigh, “you’re not talking to some naive idiot.”

“No, I’m talking to a yompetz , a worthless hooligan. And as for that girlfriend of yours —”

“How can you criticize Aniko, Father? The party thinks she’s good enough to study pharmacy.”

“Still, it hurts my standing when you’re seen with her. Aniko’s a bad type. She malingers. She sits in cafés in Vaci Ucca listening to Western music.”

What really annoys you, George thought, is that I sit right next to her. Last Sunday in the Kedves we heard Cole Porter for nearly three hours.

“Father,” said George, hoping for reasonable debate instead of a brawl, “if socialist music is so great, why doesn’t the Stalin Cantata have any good tunes?”

Livid, the government official turned to his daughter. “I won’t talk to this yompetz anymore. He’s a disgrace to our entire family.”

“I’ll change my name,” George said facetiously.

“Please,” said the old man, “the sooner the better.” He stormed out and slammed the door.

George turned to his sister. “Now what the hell did I do?”

Marika shrugged. She had been the referee in these father-and-son combats for as long as she could remember. There seemed to have been conflict ever since their mother died — when George was five and she only two and a half.

The old man was never the same after that. And in his fits of bitterness he would vent his anger on his eldest child. While she tried to grow up as quickly as she could to be a mediating force — a mother to her brother and a wife to him.

“Try and understand, George, he’s had a very hard life.”

“That’s no excuse for giving me one. But in a way I understand. He feels trapped in his job. Yes, Marika, even socialist officials harbor ambitions. The Farm Program is an unmitigated disaster. His boss naturally blames him, so who can he let out his frustrations on? Sometimes I wish we had a dog so he could kick it instead of me.”

Marika realized that, despite George’s angry protestations, at a certain level he genuinely sympathized with his father’s disappointment. Yet, the old man had done well for someone who had begun life as an apprentice shoemaker in Kaposvar. Istvan Kolozsdi’s greatest misfortune was that he had sired a son whose brilliance would inevitably show how mediocre he really was.

Somewhere in their hearts, the two men knew it. And this made them afraid to love each other.

“I have tremendous news!” called Aniko as she dashed across Muzeum Boulevard to catch George between lectures at the Law Faculty.

“Don’t tell me,” he smiled, “the pregnancy test was negative.”

“That I won’t know till Friday,” she replied, “but listen to this — the Polish students are striking to support Gomulka — and we’re organizing a sympathy march.”

“Aniko, the Secret Police will never let you get away with it. Those AVO thugs will beat your brains in, Or else our friendly Russian ‘visitors’ will.”

“Gyuri Kolozsdi, not only will you march with me, but you will carry one of the posters I’ve spent all morning painting. Now, which one would you like — ‘Hail Polish youth’? ‘Russians get out’?”

George smiled. Wouldn’t the sight of him carrying such a placard warm his father’s heart? “I’ll take that,” he said, pointing at “New Leadership for Hungary.”

They kissed.

March Fifteenth Square was electric with anticipation. Thousands of demonstrators had crowded onto its grassy turf, carrying posters and flags. There were delegations from factories, schools, and universities. A young actor from the National Theater clambered up the statue of Sándor Petofi and began to declaim the poet’s “National Hymn,” which had ignited Hungary’s 1848 Revolution.

The ever-increasing throng joined in with special vigor when they reached “ Most vagy soha — now or never!”

For the first time, George began to feel that something important was happening. And he was a part of it.

At last the procession began, led by chanting demonstrators who carried a wreath of red carnations. They began to pour into the main city streets, blocking traffic as they passed. But there was no animosity. Many motorists simply locked their cars and joined the marchers, whose ranks had already been swelled by the shop owners and workers all along the way. Every window, every balcony was filled with families waving encouragement.

As if by magic, Budapest was transformed into a boundless field of red, white, and green. People everywhere had fashioned tricolors of ribbons, cloth — and even paper. When the students took their final turn into Jozsef Bem Square, they could see that the statue at the center was already draped with a huge Hungarian flag, the Soviet coat of arms torn out of its center.

Toward sunset, many students talked about going to dem onstrate in front of Parliament. Others proposed an attack on the great statue of Stalin that had for so many years stood in the center of the City Park looking down at Budapest with cast-iron mockery. George and Aniko held hands and let the mainstream carry them back across the river toward Parliament Square.