Goodbye to Budapest

by Margarita Morris

  Katalin and Zoltán meander amongst the crowds, arm-in-arm, silently observing the spectacle. Some people have brought candles with them. They place them reverentially on the steps of the marble plinth, lighting them with matches. The flames flicker in the breeze. Many of them blow out, but there are always more candles to replace them. It looks like a Catholic shrine. Just as long as Stalin doesn’t rise from the dead, they’ll be all right. Even Katalin can’t quite get used to the idea that he’s finally gone. He seemed so indestructible when he was alive. They all thought he would live forever. She cranes her neck to look up at the bronze statue. It’s so tall that the head is lost in the darkening gloom. Only the six-foot-high boots are properly visible. What will happen to the statue now? Will it become a temple to the god Stalin?

  She doesn’t want to be here anymore, surrounded by strangers whose grief, she thinks, is largely put on for show. ‘Let’s go home,’ she says to Zoltán.

  He nods his head in agreement. They turn their backs on the giant statue and start to weave their way back through the crowds which are growing by the minute.

  *

  At Recsk, the guards do their best to keep the prisoners isolated from the outside world but nevertheless, by the end of March 1953, a rumour starts to filter around the camp that Stalin is dead. For the first time in months, Márton sees a flicker of hope in the eyes of his fellow prisoners. And slowly, things start to change.

  The old camp commander who put Márton, András and Lovas into isolation after they were recaptured, is replaced by a new man who introduces a shorter working day and gives them Sunday off. The food improves, ever so slightly, and the men grow a little stronger. And then one day in June, on his way back from returning some tools to the tool shed, Márton sees a newspaper which a guard has left lying on top of a woodpile. The guards never used to be so careless. Looking around to make sure no one is watching, He grabs the paper in a state of high excitement. Words are food for the soul and for months he’s been starving.

  The totally unexpected news is that Imre Nagy has been made Prime Minister. Márton rereads the article to make sure he’s understood correctly. But it’s there in black and white: since the death of Stalin – a momentous event in itself – Moscow have put Nagy, the moderate, in place of Rákosi, the hard-liner, at the top of the Hungarian tree. This is news indeed!

  He folds the newspaper, tucks it inside his shirt and walks as fast as he can to the barracks to show the others.

  The newspaper is passed from hand to hand. Every man wants to read the news for himself.

  ‘But what does this mean for us?’ asks András.

  It’s a good question, and one that Márton doesn’t know the answer to. But the change of leadership at the top must be a good sign. He feels the stirrings of real hope.

  A couple of weeks later, a group of ten men are released from the camp. They are ordinary criminals who have never expressed much interest in politics. After that, ten or twenty a day are released.

  By September the numbers remaining have dwindled to a mere twenty men, Márton and András among them. Their release must surely be a matter of time now.

  And then eventually, on a warm autumn day, they’re standing in line to receive a shave from the camp barber. Afterwards they go to the warehouse where the guards issue each of them with an old suit and a pair of shoes which have seen better days. The commander gives each of them a judge’s order placing them under police surveillance and threatens that they will be imprisoned for ten years if they speak about their imprisonment and the conditions in the labour camp.

  ‘I advise you,’ he says, ‘to tell your families that you have been on a study trip in the Soviet Union.’

  The irony of the situation is not lost on Márton. In some ways the whole experience has been one long study trip. He has learnt, at first hand, of the brutalities of Soviet communism. It’s a lesson he’s never going to forget.

  At the gate, he turns back one last time and looks at the barracks standing deserted against the mountainside. Then he takes András by the arm and says, ‘Come on, son. We’re going home.’

  *

  Katalin reheats some soup in a pan and cuts herself a slice of bread. She’s been on her feet most of the day, teaching, and doesn’t have the energy to cook anything more complicated. Besides, since she’s been living on her own, cooking doesn’t seem worth the trouble. She’s expecting Zoltán to call round later but not yet. Often he works twelve or fourteen hours a day, by the time he’s attended the compulsory early morning collective newspaper reading, the lunchtime Marxist seminars, the after-work trade-union meetings, the factory committee meetings and the various campaigns such as the movement to increase productivity through the introduction of labour competitions. By the time he arrives home, he’s usually exhausted.

  She stirs the soup. It’s just starting to bubble, so she turns off the heat and pours the steaming liquid into a bowl. She’s about to sit down when the doorbell rings. It can’t be Zoltán already. It’s probably Petra returning the cake tin Katalin lent her. She hopes it isn’t József the caretaker. She goes to answer the door.

  Two men stand on the threshold. An old man and a younger one. They’re both wearing shabby suits that hang off their lean frames. The older man lifts his face to hers and she lets out a cry of recognition.

  ‘Papa!’

  She throws her arms around him, feeling how thin and shrunken he is under his borrowed clothes. He staggers slightly under her embrace and she steps back, tears in her eyes. She’s been hoping for almost a year that her father would come home, but she always pictured him as he was when the AVO took him away: tall, upright, dignified and smart. The man who has come back to her is sunken, dirty, thin and shabby. But it’s her father, and when she looks in his eyes she sees that inside it’s still the same man.

  ‘Come inside.’ She takes him by the hand and draws him into the apartment.

  ‘Let me introduce my friend,’ says Márton, indicating the younger man who has retreated into the shadows. ‘This is András. He has nowhere else to go. I’ve told him he can stay with us for the moment.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Katalin, taking András’s hand. ‘You’re very welcome.’

  *

  The wedding is to be a simple affair. Róza has been helping Katalin to alter a dress that used to belong to Katalin’s mother. It’s the floral cotton dress Eva is wearing in the photo taken in Oxford on her honeymoon.

  The evening before the wedding, Róza brings the altered dress round to Katalin’s apartment for a fitting. Márton and András have been instructed to take Zoltán to Feri’s café for at least an hour so they won’t be disturbed.

  ‘You’re so slim, I’ve put some darts in the back to take it in at the waist,’ says Róza, smoothing her hands over the fabric. ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ says Katalin. ‘You’re so clever with a needle and thread. I could never do anything like that.’ Looking at herself in the mirror, she feels as if her mother is there with her, giving her blessing to the marriage. Zoltán proposed a month after Márton’s return, once things had settled down a little. They’re all still adjusting to the changes in their lives, but the wedding has given them something to focus on, something to look forward to.

  ‘Yes, well I’ve had enough practice sewing up cuts and wounds at the hospital,’ says Róza with a grim smile.

  Katalin pulls a face.

  ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t use a hospital needle on your dress.’

  ‘I should hope not!’

  ‘Now, what are we going to do with your hair?’

  ‘What can we do with it?’ Katalin has always envied Róza her thick red hair that is so easy to style into any shape.

  Róza rolls her eyes. ‘Really, Katalin, you weren’t going to walk down the aisle with it just hanging down, were you? What if it’s a windy day? It’ll blow all over the place. Now stand in front of this mirror.’ She moves behind Katalin and takes her long hair in her h
ands, deftly twisting it. Then she pulls hair grips and pins from her pocket and starts pinning the twisted knot of hair into place.

  ‘Ouch, careful where you’re sticking that,’ says Katalin as a hair pin grazes her scalp. ‘I hope you’re more careful with your patients.’

  ‘Sorry, but you have to suffer for the sake of beauty.’ She sticks a couple more pins in and says, ‘How does that look?’

  Katalin tilts her head in front of the mirror, turning first one way and then another. She’s impressed. She never thought that putting her hair up would make such a difference. Her neck looks longer, and more elegant. The line of her jaw is more defined. She looks more like Eva.

  ‘I like it,’ she says. ‘But you’ll have to do it for me tomorrow. I won’t be able to do it myself.’

  ‘Of course I’ll do your hair for you,’ says Róza. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Katalin, embracing her friend. ‘You’re the best. Now help me out of this dress before the men come home.’

  She hopes the wedding will be a new start for everyone. Zoltán will move into the apartment she shares with her father because it’s larger than his own place. They’ll be able to care for Márton together, who is still recovering from the effects of his imprisonment. Who knows, maybe one day they will have a child of their own. It’s something to hope for the future.

  The wedding day itself dawns cold and bright. Róza arrives at the apartment early to help Katalin dress. She’s managed to find some winter flowers to weave into Katalin’s twisted hair.

  Her father has put on his best suit, the one he didn’t wear when he was arrested. It’s too big for him but he’s put a belt in the trousers to keep them up. He’s in the living room, gazing at the photo of his wife and himself on their honeymoon in Oxford.

  When he looks up, she can see the surprise in his eyes. Wearing her mother’s dress, she does look like Eva did when she was younger. He takes a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs at his eyes. Then he straightens himself up and walks towards her. For the first time since his return, he looks like his former self.

  ‘Katalin, my dear, you look beautiful.’ He kisses her on the cheek.

  A car pulls up outside and toots its horn.

  Róza runs to look out of the window. ‘Sándor’s here,’ she says. ‘It’s time to leave.’

  Katalin takes her father’s arm and together they descend to the ground floor. Sándor is waiting for them beside the open door of a car he has borrowed for the occasion. She and her father sit in the back and Róza joins Sándor in the front.

  It’s only a short drive to the nearby church. The priest is waiting by the open door when Sándor pulls up outside.

  ‘Good luck,’ says Róza, giving her hand a squeeze.

  Sándor and Róza go inside whilst Katalin and her father exchange a few words with the priest, an elderly man in a long cassock.

  ‘If you’re ready?’ asks the priest.

  ‘Yes,’ says Katalin. ‘I’m ready.’

  The priest enters the church and gives a nod to the organist who starts playing Mendelssohn’s wedding march.

  As Katalin and her father walk down the aisle, Zoltán turns to her and smiles. She’s never seen him looking so smart and handsome and her heart fills with joy.

  Afterwards, they all gather at Feri’s for a private party. He has pushed the tables together to make one long table and he has baked a special cake for the occasion. Katalin and Zoltán sit in the middle of the table, surrounded by their family and friends. Sándor has his arm around Róza and she is smiling and laughing at his jokes. András and her father are deep in conversation. Petra is wiping a smear of chocolate off Tibor’s face whilst he tells her to stop fussing.

  In the middle of dessert, Feri stands up and taps his spoon on his wine glass. ‘Ahem, mesdames, messieurs, if I could have your attention please? Thank you. I wish to propose a toast to the happy couple. To Katalin and Zoltán, may they live long and happy lives, in freedom and prosperity!’

  As everyone raises their glasses, Katalin looks at the smiling faces of her family and friends. She vows she will do everything she can to keep them safe in the future. She won’t let them be separated again.

  Part 2 - October 1956

  Chapter Ten

  Monday, 22 October 1956

  The cry of an infant invades her dreams.

  With a mother’s instinct, Katalin is awake at once, pushing back the bed covers and feeling her way across the cold floor to the cot at the foot of their bed. Little Eva is six months old and has only recently started sleeping through the night. But with military precision she wakes at five thirty every morning demanding to be fed. Katalin scoops the baby into her arms, breathing in her warm, biscuity smell and pops her little finger into the tiny mouth to silence the squawks before she wakes her two-year-old brother, Lajos, who is still fast asleep in a camp bed on the other side of the room. Zoltán is stirring now too, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. A grey light filters through the curtains and outside the first trams of the day trundle past.

  Katalin takes her daughter into the kitchen and straps her into her high chair. She needs to hurry and get some food into the child before the crying wakes the whole building. There are six of them living in the apartment now. Katalin, Zoltán and the children sleep in what used to be her parents’ room and Márton has moved into what was Katalin’s room. András sleeps in the former spare room. It’s a bit crowded at times, especially when they have to queue for the single bathroom, but they’re lucky they have the place to themselves, with so many people forced to live in communal apartments with strangers. Katalin tears off a chunk of bread and passes it to Eva who starts to gnaw at it with her half dozen tiny teeth. The crying stops and Katalin breathes a sigh of relief as she warms some milk in a pan.

  She turns at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Her father appears in the kitchen in his dressing gown.

  ‘I hope Eva didn’t wake you,’ she says.

  ‘I was awake anyway,’ says Márton. Since his release from the labour camp at Recsk, he doesn’t sleep well. She hears him moving about the apartment late at night or in the early hours of the morning as if he can’t exorcise the ghosts of his imprisonment. She has tried to get him to talk about his experience as a prisoner, but he just shakes his head and turns away. He hasn’t been allowed to return to his old job at the university, but he says he wouldn’t have the heart for it now. Sometimes he asks her to play the violin for him and he listens with his eyes closed. It seems to soothe him and she’s glad to do it.

  She pours the warm milk into a bottle and passes it to her daughter. ‘Shall I make us some coffee?’

  ‘Yes please, love.’ He sits down at the table, patting his granddaughter on the head. Only the children have the power to cheer him up these days.

  For the next half hour the apartment is bustling with life as everyone gets ready for their day. Zoltán appears with Lajos and makes the little boy some breakfast. Katalin gets herself ready for work. András eats a slice of bread and leaves for a lecture at the university where he’s studying engineering. Márton says he’ll go and visit Feri at the café later.

  When Zoltán has left for the factory, Katalin takes the children upstairs to Petra’s, along with bottles of milk and spare nappies for Eva. She pays Petra a small allowance to look after the children whilst she’s teaching at the school, but Petra says she loves to do it anyway.

  On her way up the stairs, Katalin passes Tibor coming down. He’s shot up, and at thirteen – nearly fourteen, he often reminds her – is now taller than she is.

  ‘Morning, Miss,’ he says, grinning. He’s at the high school now, but he hasn’t lost any of his cheeky charm. She can’t help glancing at his shoe laces to see if they’re done up. She wonders if he still has his collection of American comics and hopes he remembers to keep them hidden. Things have changed, but you can’t be too careful.

  Petra holds the door open to let them in. Lajos runs int
o Petra’s apartment as if it were his own home.

  ‘Aren’t you getting a big girl?’ says Petra as she takes Eva in her arms.

  ‘I’ll try not to be late,’ says Katalin. Piroska Benke, the school secretary, has called a meeting tonight to discuss efficiency and productivity quotas. What that has to do with education and the welfare of children, Katalin can’t begin to imagine.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Petra. ‘We’ll be fine here.’

  ‘Be good,’ Katalin calls to her son. She pecks Eva on the cheek and then heads off to work.

  *

  Zoltán suppresses a yawn as he listens to the nasal voice of Csaba Elek droning on from that day’s copy of A Free People. The factory workers still have to gather half an hour before the official start of their shift for the daily reading. It’s the same old Party propaganda that Zoltán has heard thousands of times before.

  On the wall behind the Party Secretary, portraits of Erno Gerő and András Hegediüs, the latest General Secretary of the Party and Prime Minister respectively, look down imperiously at the assembled workers. It amuses Zoltán to see Csaba Elek trying to keep up with the changing faces at the top. When Nagy, the reformer, was deposed, Csaba Elek wasted no time in hanging the new portraits as if he feared imprisonment for not being up to date with the powers-that-be. The period of relative liberty when Nagy took over as Prime Minister in June ’53, and which resulted in the freeing of prisoners – including Zoltán’s father-in-law – from the labour camps, came to an abrupt end in April ’55 when Nagy was suddenly expelled from the Party, presumably for having gone too far with his reforms. Nagy was lucky not to be executed. Instead he retired to his house in the country to enjoy life, and who can blame him? Meanwhile the puppet masters in Moscow appointed Hegediüs as Prime Minister, but real power still lay with Rákosi as General Secretary of the Party. And now, even Rákosi has been replaced with another hardliner, the infamous Erno Gerő of the failed Five Year Plan. Hungary’s politicians are selected according to the whims of the Kremlin.