Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

Now, after this ill-fated uprising, what will become of us? The facts say that we rose up against those who had to subdue us in order to liberate us. And we had our chance in our hands. Do we still have it? Who has the nerve to speak of friendship again over freshly spilled blood? Friendship — Rakosi and Gerő were always declaiming about it, and they built prisons, they sowed hate. Who will stand before the nation after what has passed and say, “Trust me, I am a communist?”

Kádár will form a government? And what sort of person is he? On what grounds did he call in Soviet tanks against Hungarians, he, who is Hungarian himself? What was he trying to save? Today he has everyone against him except for a handful who think as he does — think that they will rescue Hungary, or what remains of it after the madness and slaughter. Can the nation believe him now that cannons have pled his case? The Russians cannot trust him, for he came out of prison. He was tortured. He had his brush with death. He had been falsely accused. He came out of that prison his comrades had built. He came out alive, but was his faith in socialism intact? Has he outlived the memory of the injustice he suffered? Perhaps he called in the Russians so as to have the opportunity to even accounts with his old tormentors at last. Now he will take revenge…Does he have within himself the greatness not to aggravate the situation, not to condemn but to unite, to support, to rebuild what has not been destroyed? How can the Russians trust him, since his country let him out of his cell? He is, above all, a Hungarian.

Istvan rested his head on his hands and gazed at the winking, dancing flames. The burnt wood burst and a handful of sparks shot into the dusky funnel of the chimney. The dog exhaled heavily, as if she shared his anguish.

If Kádár brought about the recent coup in order to seize power and square personal accounts, in a hundred years a crowd will drag his bones from the burial ground and throw them into the Danube. If he truly wishes to rescue Hungary, taking on himself the terrible burden of responsibility — of being an object of suspicion and hatred — the nation will not only pardon him but will number him among its heroes, whose names generations to come will utter with gratitude and adoration. The next few years will make it clear. Time wounds; time heals.

There were many crises in the government. He was left alone on the field — he and the Russians, who were watching him closely. Is it possible to know what he really wants?

One thing is certain: the third world war will not start because of us.

The Hindu appeared in the doorway. Tilting his frizzled head, he announced, “I have the latest information. In spite of the occupation of the Austrian border by the Soviet armies, around two hundred thousand have left Hungary, according to provisional estimates. The United States has convened a special commission that will place them in camps and expedite emigration from Europe.”

“Well, I have my answer.” Terey’s knuckles whitened. “The exodus is beginning. Kádár lost. We all lost.”

He stared at the winking flames that lent a red glow to the cavern of the fireplace. He seemed to see, from a great distance, Budapest ablaze. He stared until it hurt, until a dull feeling of strain came over him. At last he shook off these painful imaginings and said under his breath, “No. I don’t want this.”

The dog turned her spotted head toward him, awaiting commands. He had forgotten the Hindu, who stood leaning on the door frame.

“I won’t wait any longer. I’ll call from home. Goodbye.”

“Mr. Nagar will be inconsolable if I let you go.” The young man gave him a limp, narrow hand.

Fear tore at Istvan. He lifted the curls of tape from the floor. The information that had been milled through the telegraph concerned — already! — other countries. No sooner had the cannons gone quiet in Budapest than the world, it seemed, had lost interest in Hungary. The uprising had fallen into an abyss of silence. The eruptions of passion, the battles, the blood, the hasty tamping down of dirt on fresh graves, were slowly dissolving into memory.

He was in no mood to meet Nagar, with his irritating sprightliness — his jaunty exhilaration, like that of a surgeon who exclaims, “What a fine tumor, a beautiful growth!” Or a painter who is arrested by the shriveled face of a beggar and his varicolored rags in a stream of tropical light, and finds the lines and the juxtaposition of colors worthy of perpetuation.

He did not even notice when he found himself in front of the brightly lit garden of the Soviet embassy again. The party was ending; the guests had begun to stream away. A megaphone interrupted the music and called up automobiles that docilely, with a crunching of gravel, rolled toward the stairs. This was not the official closing, for the ambassador had not said his goodbyes to those who were departing and the music was still playing in the pavilion in the park. A few onlookers sat here and there, looking sleepily at the greenish fires of jewels, at gold chains like glittering serpents, and at the odd dress of European diplomats.

He stood on the opposite side of the street under a spreading tree, in a chilly deep twilight like frozen ink.

The cars moved out, cutting the darkness with their beams. For a split second they uncovered a little cluster of Hindus in the darkness…policemen’s white gloves…tree trunks. He blinked warily, anticipating the glare before it washed over him. He was standing still, blinded, when he felt cool fingers above his elbow and heard a familiar voice.

“I counted on meeting you here. But no one came from your embassy. A groundless demonstration. Since it already happened…”

“How did you spot me?”

Attorney Chandra smelled of Yardley. The Asian stamp of the man was camouflaged by his dinner jacket.

“There was no trick. I wanted to see you and you appeared to me in the glow of a headlight as if you were on stage. Are you waiting for someone? Can we walk around? I drank a little. They have good vodka. But the cold penetrates when one is standing still.”

“Let’s walk. I don’t know myself what brought me here,” Terey said candidly.

“I did.” The lawyer rubbed his hands together. “I thought of you all the time.”

They walked in the darkness, rather hearing than seeing each other. At long intervals they passed through lamplight that sprayed through overgrown branches. Then Terey could see the Hindu’s set lips and the gleam of his smooth, glossy hair.

“What is your connection to Khaterpalia’s wife, counselor?”

“There is none. Well, I know her,” Istvan answered, surprised.

“Is none — and was none? There is a difference.”

“I know her husband from the club. We are friends. I have seen them, as you know, from time to time.”

“She hates you,” Chandra said in a tone of absolute certainty. “Something must have happened. Think. Search your memory.”

“No. They are both friendly to me.”

“This morning I had an appointment with your ambassador. You were right: he is a sensible man, he knows something about business, and we will surely arrive at an understanding. She was there before me.”

“Madam Khaterpalia?”

“They were concluding a conversation. My presence did not hamper her; she considers me a partner of her husband’s. He has confided in me on difficult matters, and she knows that I manage to conceal them in the depths of my mind as in a well. Are you not curious as to what they were talking about?”

“Curious? Yes—” he stopped and turned toward Chandra. They were wading through the darkness, through the bitter smell of withering leaves.

“Evidently she was warning the ambassador that you want to be on the other side, that you would not return to Hungary. Is that true? Do not be afraid to tell me. Only I can help you.”