Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

Istvan looked up attentively and tried to guess the other man’s thoughts. Did he know more than he was saying?

“At the moment no such thing is happening,” Trojanowski snapped. “There is more complaining and searching for omens than foresight. But the West is raising a hullabaloo because it sees an opportunity to drive a wedge. You will see. Tomorrow they will begin to give you instructions—” he turned to Terey. “We have it behind us. We know.”

“Those who are willing to incite others always manage to extricate themselves,” Misha admitted. “But everything depends on how Hungarians behave — on whether a political row is to your liking.”

“Everything depends on how the Russians behave,” Istvan said defensively.

“And I tell you, what is most important is what the West will do,” called Nagar, hearing the end of the conversation. “It can stir the waters, create a situation in which one side or the other moves too fast. Then something will go wrong. If it were only a struggle for power…quiet!” He waved to calm Terey, who was indignant. “I know: justice, freedom, sovereignty — catchwords. The serious question is, who will govern? You would bluster, you would shoot, some would be locked up, others would go on the lam; somehow order would be restored. Even if this were a conflict between the Russians and the Hungarians, some solution would be found, for in the end this is an internal matter to — what do you call it? The peace camp. As a camp, it must have order.” He lowered his voice. “But when other forces, external forces, get into the game…For the time being they have put Nagy on the committee, that philosopher Lukacs, and Kádár. Nagy was the premier. What is he like? Can he do the job?”

Istvan reflected. “In recent years he has been deprived of influence. Rakosi expelled him from the party.”

“That is why the street supported him. Clearly they count on him to be different from the others,” Trojanowski said thoughtfully. “They have put their hope in him.”

“He is different. A man with a heart,” Terey put in.

“That is not good.” Nagar twisted his birdlike head. “What is needed is a brain, a coolly calculating one that will not allow itself to be carried away. In politics one must think with the head and the stomach and engage the heart least of all. The heart is not a good counselor.”

The Hindu appeared in the doorway again, his neck swathed in a woolen shawl. The night was cool for him; from the open door to the garden drifted a mild autumnal tranquility.

“What now?” Nagar stood up.

“They want you on the telephone again.”

“Quite a night!” He rubbed his hands like a monkey hulling a grain of rice. “The whole world is staying awake, listening to hear what is happening in Budapest. Gunfire there!”

“Are you expecting fresh dispatches?” Trojanowski asked the Hindu, who was warming his hands over a lightbulb from which he had removed the shade; it gave the blood in them a rose-tinted glow and vividly etched the dark lines of the knuckles.

“I will stay awake, but I do not expect anything before six in the morning. Radio Delhi broadcasts the first news of the day at five-thirty. There will be no information, but we are interested in the commentary. The international pressures will set in.”

“Yes.” Misha looked sadly at Terey. “What for you is freedom, justice, an outpouring of patriotism, for others is a playing card that can be seized to begin a new round of bidding.”

Disturbed by the movement of those who were rising from their seats, Trompette let her muzzle droop onto her front paws and gave a wide yawn.

“There is nothing to wait for,” Trojanowski said. “We are going. Terey, you must sleep for a few hours.”

“It is nearly midnight.” Misha showed him his watch. In his “Good night” Istvan seemed to hear a trace of involuntary malice.

They went out. The dog accompanied them only as far as the threshold. Lifting her muzzle to sniff the aromas of fall, she was put off by the cool of the dew and returned to her place under the table.

“Everyone is asking if it is true that the Hungarians are fighting the Russians.” Nagar poured some vodka. “There is a repugnant curiosity in this. Is it possible? It would be a hopeless struggle, after all. Would anyone take your part, offer you support? Would it not set off a wider conflict? Drink, Istvan. You know I rarely urge you, but vodka will do you good today. It has grown cool somehow, and one doesn’t feel like sleeping yet.”

The mournful whining of jackals floated in from the garden, as if an abandoned infant were setting up a wail. Trompette moved her head, pretending not to hear. With her muzzle snuggled on one front paw, she wheezed. Istvan held his glass high. The amber liquid gave off a smell like fermenting yeast. “Are they really fighting there?” he asked.

“Not exactly. There were a couple of skirmishes. Tanks were burned with accelerants — bottles of gas — so some divisions withdrew to the suburbs, where they are waiting in readiness. The new premier, Nagy, promised to carry on talks about getting them out of the capital completely. The protesters say that the presence of the Russians does not lessen the tension, but aggravates it. It brings back memories of the war.”

“Old times. Eleven years ago, who would have thought of this?” Terey took a pull at the whiskey.

“And where were you then?”

“I was defending Budapest. I was wounded.”

“Fighting for the Germans?”

Istvan nodded.

“Well, you see. You see yourself,” Nagar said worriedly. “There are thousands like you. They remember. It is fixed in their minds. Good thing you are here. You would have been shooting by now.”

“No.”

“So one says.” He huffed skeptically. “But it seems to me that you would shoot. Believe me, it’s easier to shoot than to think.”

“No. No.”

“No, what?”

“I wouldn’t shoot at the Russians anymore.”

Nagar turned this statement over in his mind as if he were conducting an investigation. “They overran you, after all.”

“Not so long ago we encroached on them. I was on the Ukrainian front for nearly two years myself. Villages burned…a hellish winter. Frosts of forty degrees below freezing. Burning a cottage was a death sentence for the women we drove into the snow. When we were retreating I saw curled, shrunken figures in snowdrifts. My soldiers shot partisans — anyway, who knows who they were that were caught? I didn’t issue the command to fire only because I had half a liter of plum vodka and I bought my way out of it. A friend went with the platoon to carry out the execution. Do you know why I paid him off with the vodka? Not for conscience’ sake. Only because he didn’t want to drag himself out of the cottage in such a frost.

“My mother instilled in me with prayers that where there is guilt, there must be punishment, and if there is not, one should tremble, for the future will bring something worse. When there is still no punishment, mete it out yourself: atone.

“To love Hungary. Do you think that means to close our eyes to our past? I am one of the guilty. Because of that, I am afraid.”

With both hands Nagar stroked the glass he was resting on his bony knee. “That is magical thinking. It smacks to me of India. Well, then, let us assume, my champion of justice, that you would not shoot. But people would shoot at you. Unfortunately, history does not seek out the guilty. It favors collective responsibility, and sometimes grandchildren pay for the fantasies and grandiosity of their forefathers. Yes, that is the way it is.” He blinked with lashless eyelids.

“Do you think there is hope?” Terey held out a pleading hand.