Wojciech Zukrowski - Stone Tablets

“An attack by the Israeli Air Force on Port Said”; the speaker’s voice penetrated his consciousness. They were shooting from airplanes and the crowd dispersed, dissolved into individual particles, darting figures running in zigzags before they fell, as if they were simulating the deaths of insects. But Istvan knew it was real. On the screen it even had its own aesthetic; people toppled over like ninepins, and a low murmur of something like approval ran through a hall inured to such scenes by American battle films.

A view of Budapest from a monument by the Danube burst onto the screen. He saw General Bem in a hat with a curling cock feather and the crowd with uplifted heads listening to a speaker who had climbed onto the stone plinth. There was nothing unusual in this frame, but Margit, with her hand on Istvan’s, felt Istvan’s fingers lock onto the arms of his seat. His breathing quickened. He raised his head. All his emotion seemed to be drawn to what he was seeing. The commonplace faces, the bared heads of the singing crowd were profoundly moving to him, for they were his countrymen — Hungarians.

He felt a bond with them that was incomprehensible to her, a connection she would never share. She looked furtively at him; his reactions gave her clues as to the significance of the images that changed like clouds driven by a windstorm.

A closeup of a half-torn away plaque with the inscription Stalin Road and under it the old name, Andrássy Avenue: the camera gave a view of the streets over which the crowd was surging. Long tricolor flags with holes ripped out of their centers where the stars had been torn away hung from buildings. Batteries of cannon in the park fired among houses. Soldiers in uniforms like those of the Russians, with cockades on their caps, held long missiles in their hands; at a command the missiles’ mouths emitted clouds of steam. The film had no sound, only a music track. The picture trembled. Evidently it had been made by hand by an accidental witness.

A crowd stood on a small square, heads upturned. Suddenly a man flew out of a fifth-floor window and struck the gleaming wet pavement heavily as a sack of flour. Others in uniforms were led out and driven to a wall with kicks. A young man in a hat with an aigrette and a double-barreled shotgun in his hand hit an officer who was leaning on the wall — with a whirling motion hit him in the back so hard that the butt of the gun broke. The enraged man went on hitting with the barrel while the butt, broken off but dangling on its long strap, skipped on the pavement. Those in uniform standing by the wall stretched out their hands, explained, pleaded.

A sudden convulsion distorted the faces; they looked like children curled up in terror, calling in the darkness, “Mama…” But they had already taken the bullets. Some fell dully, their faces unshielded by their arms as they hit the paving stones. Others lurched against the wall, their backs leaning on it, marking the place with a pooling of liquid black, for blood appeared black on the screen and a cry for mercy is the black stain of an open mouth — a harbinger of the night that would envelop them.

“No. No.” A voice tense with repugnance came from somewhere in the audience. Istvan turned his head as if to see who had shouted.

Houses in flames. Tanks. A long column photographed by stealth from behind blinds. The segmented crawling wheel of a tank turning little by little to vanish beyond a house on a corner.

“I live not far from there,” he whispered in her ear, and again lost himself in what was being shown on the screen: the interior of a room; a stern, fanatical face. The cardinal was allowing himself to be interviewed in the American embassy. The sound came on, and the first words in Hungarian were followed by a voiceover in English. Margit was pleased; at last she could understand, and she nodded as if in agreement. But then she caught Istvan’s whisper:

“He summoned them to fight and escaped himself. Their blood is also on him.”

People passing over the border, a throng dragging suitcases and bundles. In the cold, in the pouring rain, their breath steamed. There were accusations, tears. Soldiers laid down their arms before an officer of the border guard. The Austrian nimbly felt the thighs of the defector, shook the inside pockets of his coat, and demanded in a terse German dialect, “No grenades? All weapons surrendered?”

Women in white caps with crosses on their bands were carrying meals to children from a field kitchen. The screen was filled by a close-up of a small, smiling face with tears on its cheeks seen across a steaming mess kit. Margit felt her eyes brim with tears; she sniffled. He could have been there — she squeezed Istvan’s hand — they could have killed him and buried him among the trees that hovered grimly, stripped of their leaves. And if he had managed to flee over the border, he would have been among those the West was hurrying to help. Joy kindled in her that he was, after all, here in Delhi, in another part of the world, far from Hungary. And he would not return there for she was stopping him, blocking his way.

“Did you see how it was?”

“Terrible.” She felt him quiver, so she corrected herself, “Awe-inspiring.”

“You cannot understand us—” he began, then went silent. From the screen a girl waved her hand toward them; she was speeding along on water skis, leaving two trails of foam. “Come on.” He caught Margit in a grip that was a little too strong. “We’re leaving.”

She rose obediently. The lights went on, illuminating the empty chairs and the tardy viewers packed around the edge of the theater, who now moved in a wave in search of seats. Steering them toward the exit, Istvan spied the pale, altered face of Ferenc, who saw him as well and followed him with his eyes. Istvan let go of Margit’s arm and whispered, “Walk faster.”

When they were in the car, he sat for a long time without starting the engine.

“What is it?” She leaned over him apprehensively. “Let me drive.”

“All right,” he agreed easily. They changed places and Margit gave him a lighted cigarette.

“Istvan — which side are you on?”

He inhaled and answered quietly, “When I talk with Ferenc, I know the insurgents are right. The same when I talk with the ambassador or with Judit. Talking with others, I think: What should be done to save Hungary from being torn apart? The survival of the nation itself is at stake. We can cease to exist. They will divide us; we will disappear from the map. It has happened even to larger countries.”

“Can it be as bad as that?” she asked incredulously, frowning. “You haven’t answered. Whom are you for?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I say that in all sincerity. And it wearies me, it drives me mad. I simply know too little about what has happened.”

The watchman with his bamboo rod lying tight against his arm welcomed them in military fashion.

Istvan sat in a chair with his head tilted and took a long time to light a cigarette. “I’m sorry you had to look at that,” Margit said.

“No. I must know. Only now do I grasp the scale of the disaster.”

“Even if you were in Budapest, you could see only a part of what was happening. Don’t despair. Think of what can be salvaged, how to get clear of this trap. Those who crossed the border have not stopped being Hungarians. They can do more for your cause than those who are gagged.”

He looked at her, blinking.

“Yes. So it would seem. For the time being, the world is moved by the tragedy of Budapest, but tomorrow they will have had enough of the refugees; they will only be burdensome foreigners. To remain in Canada or Brazil, which are offering hospitality to defectors, they must work, become like others, stop flaunting these bleeding wounds — in a word, year after year they must downplay their origins, put them in the drawer with their hidden memorabilia. It will come to this, that they renounce the very cause for which they took up the struggle.”