Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“And the Americans?”

“Behind their backs Eden and Mollet are trying to take back the canal.”

“You said that Israel…”

“It is the third shareholder. It has no stock on deposit; it must put in the blood of its soldiers, thus creating a reason for intervention. A beastly role, but very remunerative. Turn on your radio; you will learn the details. And drop in at my place, because everything is at the boiling point just now, and that uprising of yours will no longer be the private affair of Hungarians.”

“Has the deal-making begun?”

“The devil only knows. But you must take into account that from this morning you have become a bargaining chip. The tacit assent of the West. Let each keep order in his own back yard. You know what that means. You were a soldier.”

“Call me, Maurice. I’ll be there this evening.”

“What am I doing just now? Am I not calling you?”

Still holding the receiver as if expecting to hear something more, he remained bent over his desk, gazing at the pile of newspapers and cuttings clipped together. Global developments were jeopardizing the struggle for change in his country.

Someone knocked at the door. This time it was the caretaker, who poked his head in and announced that comrade secretary was summoning the staff to a meeting with comrade ambassador, but had not been able to reach Istvan on the telephone. Terey replaced the receiver angrily.

He found them all in the ambassador’s office, but his tardy entrance attracted no one’s attention, for they were all riveted to the radio, hearing about the crushing force of the armored divisions that were invading the Sinai Peninsula. The ultimatum of both great powers had been met with condemnation by the Arabs; the commentator expressed the hope that the Soviet Union and the United States would be able to restrain the aggressors and prevent a widening of the conflict.

The speaker had sympathetic remarks for Egypt. Nasser, having resolved to fight, was appealing to the conscience of the whole world. Everyone knew that Israel alone would be able to defeat him, let alone two imperial powers such as England and France. But violence should not be allowed to become the deciding factor in international relations.

Budapest was calm; the workers’ demands had come before the Central Committee, which was meeting in continuous session. Flyers were being distributed to the Russian armies: “Soviet soldiers, do not fire on Hungarian workers and farmers! Our revolution ousted Rakosi and Gerő and opened prison gates…”

Istvan noticed that Bajcsy bridled with irritation and looked alertly at the faces of his staff. But they were listening with praiseworthy composure.

“Comrades,” Bajcsy began, breathing deeply and straightening himself as if his self-confidence had just returned, “the government of Premier Nagy has announced a series of reforms which are necessary for the good of the people. Peace prevails in our country. We must not believe the imperialist propaganda that tries to stir the waters — not only to push us into a fratricidal struggle, but to embroil us in conflict with our allies in order to divert attention from the aggression at the Suez. The dispatches which I have received from Budapest say that the situation is completely under control. The party and the government…”

The cryptographer was stealthily manipulating the knob on the radio in an effort to lower the voice of the speaker to a barely audible whisper. Ferenc jostled his arm and he turned around. From the radio came a harsh cry, “The Russian armies, which steadily grow in numbers, invoke the Warsaw Pact. ‘If they do not withdraw voluntarily, we are prepared to renounce that pact and declare neutrality,’ warns the Hungarian premier.”

Everyone turned toward the radio. Kereny shrank back like a man convicted of a crime.

“Turn it off!” Ferenc shouted. When the cryptographer moved too slowly, he jerked the cord from the socket. Bajcsy suddenly bent over and went pale, as if a fist had battered him under his heart. He swallowed loudly and stammered something through lips too sticky to part. The office went quiet. Judit handed him a glass of water. He drank it in great gulps with his swollen eyelids half shut.

“Comrades,” he said softly, “the international situation may push us…but perhaps this government…I ask you to avoid unnecessary disclosures. The more distance we keep from the Americans and the English, the better. And from the French,” he added after a moment. “On the other hand, I am directing you to meet with diplomats from our camp, especially from the Soviet Embassy. I myself approached…” with a limp hand he rubbed his sagging, carelessly shaven chin—“understand: according to these”—he reached for a newspaper, flipped noisily through its pages, then crumpled it—“they may be keeping an eye on our behavior, watching for treason. Use good judgment. Better to feign stupidity, even to appear a coward, than to make a remark that causes something to blow apart for us. What I am saying is confidential.”

They stood waiting for more precise instructions, but the ambassador sat heavily in his chair and signaled with his hand that they should leave.

He had been stricken, though he was trying hard to hold the rudder, to pretend he had foreseen these events. Had it occurred to him after that bulletin that he might suddenly find himself with no place to return to? A new Hungary was being born; would he find the strength to reinvent himself again, to condemn his own earlier behavior, to renounce what until now had been ascribed to him as merit? But perhaps the only road that remained to him was the one taken by those who left under a volley of curses — those whom a wall of bayonets had saved from being brought to court.

“Comrade ambassador”—he leaned across the desk—“this evening I will be at Agence France-Presse. So that nothing can be misconstrued between us, I want to know…”

“What I said does not apply to you, Terey,” the ambassador wheezed. “I also want to know the whole truth. I am in the dark enough as it is.” He seemed deserving of pity, close to breaking.

After noon, though he was tired, Istvan did not give way to the enervating drowsiness. He lay down, then got up, searching for news on the radio. He telephoned Kondratiuk, who assured him that an agreement had been negotiated in Hungary, that the movements of the armies were evidence that the old garrisons were being evacuated, and that only troublemakers could see in them a stratagem to encircle Budapest. He alluded to Nagy’s private conversations with Mikoyan, who had the power of a special plenipotentiary and who had expressed to journalists his satisfaction with the outcome of the meetings.

“Do not worry, Comrade Terey. We have reassuring signals. The workers will not hand over the factories and the farmers will not let the land out of their hands. The propaganda of the reactionaries was misleading.”

But from Radio Calcutta he heard that the Soviet armies had taken over the airports and barred Hungarian pilots from approaching their planes.

“Sir, Agra is calling,” the cook shouted desperately, holding the receiver with his fingertips as if it were burning them.

He heard Margit’s voice from far away. “How are you? Have you had news from home?”

“No. I’m calmer, though. The situation is becoming clearer.”

“Do you need me?”

“Yes!” he said fervently. “You know I do.”

“Do you really want me there?”

“I’m waiting. When will you be here?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll fly in on the evening plane. Perhaps you will come for me. I’ll be alone.”

“And you’ll be here for good? Will you stay in Delhi?”

“That depends on you. Till tomorrow, then.”