Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

The Nagy government’s call for anarchy to be brought under control had the ring of a desperate appeal. But how could one make the argument for reason to an armed, infuriated crowd? Too many injuries had festered, too long a silence had been forced on the people, for them to be quiet now. Those freed from prison reminded everyone of the false charges leveled against them. They showed the scars of their torture. They lifted above the throngs gathered in the squares hands from which the nails had been pulled during interrogations. No one remembered the services rendered by the leaders, the gains made by the people, the rapid modernization of the country. They remembered the special shops, the limousines, the informers. The mob was demanding blood; it was not a question of justice but of revenge. And its revenge was murderous in its cruelty. It was enough to shout, “Secret police!”, “Collaborator!”, “Toady of Moscow!” for a man to be beaten to the ground and trampled to a bloody pulp (so the Western agencies crowed triumphantly).

They gathered in Ferenc’s office, analyzing correspondence and reportage, looking anxiously into each other’s eyes and asking wordlessly: What next?

“The Austrian border causes me the most concern.” Ferenc showed them a drawing in the Times. “They could push in agents and insurgents that way.”

“You think in old paradigms.” Terey spoke loudly and testily. “Why the devil are they going to send anyone when the whole country listens to Radio Free Europe because we are afraid to tell the truth?”

Ferenc looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Locks of wavy hair dangled on his forehead; he pushed them away with an impatient motion of his head, like a colt shaking its mane. They were quiet, mulling over unspoken accusations. Mistrust was growing between them. Judit gazed anxiously into their angry faces.

“And what does the ambassador say to all this?” Istvan asked. “After all, for the love of God, we have to take a position! Journalists called me in the night, demanding comment. I think I’ll go mad; they understand literally nothing of what is happening in our country. We must call a press conference, explain, offer some assessment of the situation.”

“And do you understand what is going on in our country?” Ferenc retorted. “I would not take it upon myself…”

“Are you waiting to see who wins?”

“I am waiting for an official communiqué from the ministry. We are functionaries; it is not for me to amuse myself with crystal-gazing and prophecies.”

“We are Hungarians,” Istvan elongated his words for emphasis, “and a struggle for our independence is going on there.”

“For socialism,” the secretary corrected him, adding his own emphasis.

“To me it’s the same. But one has to believe in this socialism, not just fashion slogans for the naive — the uninitiated — and commit oneself beforehand to vassalage, to a lackey’s obedience.”

“Mind your words,” Ferenc snapped. “You will answer for them!”

Judit raised her plump, shapely arms and sighed profoundly. “Is there anything to quarrel about? We cannot influence anything this way. We must wait. Bajcsy wanted to inform himself about the situation today, to meet with the Soviet ambassador—”

They both looked up.

“—but the Soviet ambassador said he had no time.”

Ferenc made a wry face and rubbed his forehead impatiently.

“Perhaps it was true that he had no time.”

But Judit was not through. With wise eyes like an owl she looked around forbearingly, as if to say: Please let me finish.

“Then the boss called the Chinese”—she drew out her words to underscore the gravity of this information—“and the ambassador will receive him today”—she glanced at her narrow gold watch—“in an hour.”

“What do you make of that?” Istvan leaned toward her.

“Perhaps the Chinese will support us?” She looked around as if she were at a loss.

“No more of that ‘us’!” the secretary exclaimed. “What ‘us’? There is the government — and we must listen to it — and a hostile, rebellious mob. There is no ‘us’ when Hungarians are shooting each other. People must choose. We must be on one side or the other”—he shoved a hand toward Istvan—“one sees that at once. And that will have consequences. We cannot allow anarchy, even in a small enclave. We must not forget what powers it falls to us to represent. An employee is obligated to be at the disposition of the ministry.”

“Especially when there is none.” Terey mimicked the man’s unctuous tone.

“Until there are new instructions, we are bound by the old ones. Otherwise there would be anarchy here as there is in Budapest.”

“I wonder what the boss is looking for from the Chinese.” Judit brooded. “What can they tell him?”

“They will offer a declaration of friendship with the full ritual of the heating of jasmine tea,” Ferenc said carelessly.

“It’s not unimportant. The boss won’t feel so isolated then,” Terey pointed out.

“Don’t quarrel. Please.” Judit’s voice was weary.

“Well, ask yourselves — won’t he still be on our hands for a little while?”

“Why do you come to me for an opinion?” Istvan asked truculently.

“Because it is my duty to ask you, as it is yours to answer my questions. I must know whom I have by me.”

Terey clenched his fists. In a sudden spasm of anger he lashed out, “Do you know what they’re doing with people like you in Budapest?”

“Fortunately this is not Budapest, and you are not leading a gang of rebels.” With perfect posture and measured steps, Ferenc left the room.

“Well, why did you exasperate him unnecessarily?” Judit hunched her shoulders deprecatingly; her swarthy body with its matronly embonpoint exuded a maternal warmth. “He will remember this. He saw the photographs of the people who were shot. He feels threatened. Why make him count you as one of his enemies?”

“I was carried away,” he confessed. “It’s difficult. I said so.”

“You have your share of worry as well. I know. Your wife. Your children. And nothing, nothing can help. I know that. But I was alone, and you will have your family. Remember, in spite of everything, one must live. When I was by the Kama, I was jealous of my family because they were living in Budapest. And in May of ’44 the Germans took everyone to Auschwitz, put them in the gas chambers and burned them. And I am alive.”

“Yes. But you must not forget that it was the Germans who did that. We sheltered Jews. Only when it came to light that we were ready to capitulate to anyone except the Russians did the Szalasi faction carry out a coup—”

“They were Hungarians as well,” she said bitterly. “I don’t know myself why I was so bent on being one of you. I have no home or kin in Budapest, not even in a cemetery. But nothing connects me to Israel, either. Although you barely tolerate me, I am a Hungarian, for I want to be one and no one can forbid me. Be careful about these wrangles over who is the greatest patriot.”

“I said nothing against you. I’m truly fond of you.”

“And what does that count for when you do not understand my feelings? You are certain that you had to do these things — first to go with Hitler, then to hand us over.”

“What do you want from me? I was in the army. They mobilized everyone.”

“Listen, Istvan. I had a friend. He was also in the army: a professor at the conservatory, a pianist. He was not given a rifle, only a shovel. The Jews were segregated; they formed battalions of ‘combat engineers.’ The ones with rifles were the ones who kept watch on them. Those better Hungarians! Only there did he feel himself to be a Jew.”