‘Come on, young lady, let’s get you changed,’ says Katalin, lifting Eva out of the chair and taking her to the bathroom.
By some miracle – after a whirlwind of eating, dressing, washing and teeth cleaning – they’re all ready to leave fifteen minutes later. Zoltán left for work half an hour ago. There’s no sign this morning of András. Even her father seems to be having a lie in for once, which will do him good.
She closes the door behind her and takes the children upstairs to Petra’s. After a quick handover – she would like to stay and chat but there just isn’t time – she hurries down the stairs. József the caretaker is sweeping autumn leaves from the doorway and muttering something about all the litter flying around this morning. Katalin squeezes past him, murmuring a quick ‘Good morning.’ And then she’s off down the street before he has time to reply.
She’s hasn’t gone far before she realises that she’s the only person walking quickly. Usually people are in too much of a hurry to dawdle. There are trams to catch, early morning meetings to attend, queues to join if you want to get the best cuts of meat before the butcher sells out. But today people are huddled around trees and lamp posts and shop fronts, not seeming to care that they’re going to be late.
Katalin is torn between wanting to know what’s going on and getting to work on time. Can she spare a minute? She approaches a group gathered at a tram stop and peers around heads to see what all the fuss is about. Someone at the front is reading out a list of demands about democratic elections and freedom of speech amongst other things. There’s talk of a march this afternoon. Fine sentiments indeed, but she feels uneasy. After what happened to her father she knows you have to be careful what you get mixed up in.
Whatever is going on, it won’t last, no matter how much she would like it to. The government will put a stop to it and the consequences for the instigators will be severe. And now she really is going to have to get her skates on if she’s not going to be late. The children will be marching around the schoolyard in twenty minutes singing songs in praise of communism.
*
Márton is astonished to find that he’s slept in. Usually his demons wake him in the early hours of the morning. He dreams he’s heard the ringing of the doorbell, or he’s been told to type out his life story for the hundredth time and he’s run out of things to write. He’s crouching in two inches of water and his wrists are tied to his ankles so that his muscles cramp up. He wakes in a cold sweat of fear so he paces the apartment, unable even to find solace in his beloved books. But last night he slept soundly and he feels so much better for it. He puts it down to Zoltán persuading him to go along to the Petőfi Circle meeting. It’s done him good to know there is a real appetite out there for political change, that people are not afraid to stand up and criticise the regime.
The apartment is already empty. His daughter and son-in-law will be at work. András will be at the university, most likely. Feeling in the mood for some company and conversation, Márton dons his hat, picks up his stick and sets off in the direction of Feri’s café. It’s a crisp autumn day, the sun shining out of a cloudless sky. He’ll fortify himself with a coffee and a pastry and then maybe take a little walk. He’s doing himself no good sitting at home all the time. Life has to go on.
He doesn’t get more than fifty yards down the street when he becomes aware that there are groups of people congregating around lamp posts and trees. There’s a buzz in the air, as if something is afoot. A car toots its horn. People laugh and cheer.
What on earth is going on? He joins a group of people clustered around a shop window and tries to see what they are looking at. The window is plastered in sheets of paper covered in typed writing but he’s not close enough to read what it says.
‘What is this?’ he asks the man standing next to him.
‘It’s the students,’ says the man. ‘They’ve printed a list of demands for the government. Sixteen in total. Who’d have believed it?’
Who indeed, thinks Márton, this is quite extraordinary. He needs to get closer and see for himself.
Those at the front make way and he is able to move forward and read the list of points for himself. It’s a detailed list and in his excitement he skims the page, picking out the highlights. Amongst other things the students are asking for the immediate evacuation of all Soviet troops, a new government under the direction of Imre Nagy, free and secret elections, a reorganisation of the economy, a minimum living wage, a review of all political trials, freedom of the press, the removal of Stalin’s statue and the replacement of foreign emblems with the old Hungarian arms of Kossuth.
Márton can hardly take it all in but his scientific mind immediately starts to analyse the situation. The students’ demands are extensive and radical. They would require a complete overhaul of Hungarian life and politics. This is revolutionary talk. How he wishes he was still a student and could have taken part in the debate that led to this extraordinary document. The eternal optimism of the young to change the world!
He moves away from the window so that others can take their turn. Feeling energised by what he has read he walks with a brisker step to Feri’s.
Feri is doing a lively trade this morning. ‘What can I get you, mon ami?’ He beams at Márton from behind the counter.
‘A coffee please, and I think I’ll have one of your almond tarts.’
‘I take it you have heard the news?’ asks Feri, pouring a pot of coffee.
‘I read one of the posters on my way here. Quite extraordinary.’
‘Indeed.’ Feri places an extra large slice of almond tart onto a plate. ‘And this afternoon there is to be a march.’
‘A demonstration? Will the authorities allow that?’
‘Just let them try and stop us,’ says a familiar voice behind Márton. He turns to see András in the company of a pretty female student with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. ‘There are no lectures today. All the students will be out marching.’ The girl nods her head, her smile lighting up her whole face.
‘I will close the café this afternoon,’ says Feri. ‘I don’t want to miss something like this.’
‘Then I’ll join you,’ says Márton, taking a bite of his almond tart. He feels years younger already.
*
Not a lot of work is being done at the factory today. Everyone is too distracted by the posters they picked up on their way into work this morning. Even Csaba Elek’s reading from A Free People was less self-assured than usual and the applause less enthusiastic, petering out after just a minute or two. Sándor dared to yawn and look at his watch as if he was bored.
As a result of all this distraction, productivity levels, which have never been as high as the management likes to claim, plummet to a new all-time low. They definitely won’t hit their unachievable targets for the month, but they wouldn’t have done anyway. So much for the Five Year Plan. Csaba Elek must be having palpitations, thinks Zoltán with glee.
Instead of focusing on their work, the employees are all talking about the students’ sixteen demands, especially the one about earning a living wage. They’re all struggling to feed and clothe their families on the pittance they earn. One brave soul has pinned one of the posters to the factory noticeboard, obscuring a schedule of committee meetings and Party directives, thereby risking the wrath of the Party Secretary. But nobody cares anymore what Csaba Elek thinks. There’s talk of walking out early so they can join the march and lend their support to the students.
‘Are you up for it?’ asks Sándor, his eyes alight with excitement.
‘You bet I am,’ grins Zoltán. ‘This could be it – the start of the revolution.’
*
‘Hush, everyone. Listen.’ Feri turns up the volume on the radio behind the counter. Márton pauses in the conversation he is having with András to listen to the announcement.
In the interests of public order, The Ministry of the Interior has banned all public gatherings in Budapest until further notice.
A sto
rm of protest amongst the café’s clientele drowns out the broadcaster’s next words.
‘They can’t do that,’ says András. ‘The march has to go ahead.’
Márton admires the boy’s spirit, how much he’s grown in confidence since those days at Recsk. Anna seems to have worked wonders on him. ‘They are probably too late to stop the demonstration now anyway.’
‘Then we still go?’ asks Feri.
‘Why not?’ says Márton.
‘Then we shall all have another slice of cake, on the house,’ says Feri. ‘We must keep our strength up for the long walk ahead.’
A further announcement on the radio an hour later informs them that the demonstration will be allowed to proceed after all. A cheer goes up and everyone prepares to leave.
Márton, Feri, András and Anna join the crowds gathered around the statue of the poet Petőfi overlooking the Danube. There must be thousands of people here, and not an AVO officer in sight. Some people are carrying small posies of white flowers as a sign of peace. The Hungarian people have seen enough bloodshed in their history. This is to be a peaceful demonstration.
Márton feels tears spring to his eyes as a young actor from the Budapest National Theatre reads aloud Petőfi’s poem.
Arise Hungarians.
Magyars, rise, your country calls you!
…
And then they’re off, walking along the banks of the Danube, the crowd swelling with every passing minute. Márton and Feri link arms, two old friends who’ve survived both world wars and who just want their country to be free. András and Anna are holding hands, two young people radiant with the glow of love and the excitement of the demonstration which they have helped to bring about. They all join their voices with those of their fellow citizens. They proclaim their solidarity with the brave Polish people who have led the way in standing up to their Soviet oppressors. They demand the right to self-determination.
As the crowd moves across Margaret Bridge towards Buda there are shouts for Erno Gerő – architect of the Five Year Plan which was supposed to transform the Hungarian economy, and now leader of the Party – to be thrown into the Danube. People wave Hungarian flags with a gaping hole in the middle where the Soviet star has been cut out. There are cries of Russians go home!
Onward they march until they arrive at the statue of General Bem, the national hero of Poland and Hungary, in Bem Square, joining forces with another large crowd from the Technological University in Buda. Márton hasn’t walked so far in years, but instead of feeling exhausted – like he did when he had to carry rocks down the mountainside at Recsk – he feels reinvigorated. The hope of the crowd has infected him and given his ageing body new life. His dear friend Feri is fired up with optimism. If only Béla were here to witness this, how he would have loved it.
At the statue of General Bem the students’ sixteen demands are read out once more and then there are calls for the demonstrators to go to Parliament Square. Márton will keep going as long as he has breath in his lungs and blood in his veins.
*
When school is over for the day, Tibor and his best friend Géza have no intention of just going home. How could they? The city is alive and no one is afraid anymore, especially not a pair of fourteen-year-old boys, going on fifteen, as they like to remind everyone.
They explore the streets, enjoying the spectacle. They can’t remember the last time they had so much fun. They join a crowd watching in awe as a firefighter climbs an extra-long ladder to remove the five-pointed Russian star from the top of a public building. Coming across a Russian bookshop that specialises in the writings of Stalin, Lenin and Marx, they find the windows smashed and the shelves bare. The books have been piled high in the street and set alight in a gigantic bonfire. Hundreds of thousands of words of communist propaganda and rhetoric are turning to ash and blowing away in the wind.
Moving on, they find themselves caught up in a groundswell of people heading towards the City Park. There is talk of toppling Stalin’s giant statue.
‘We’ve got to see this,’ says Tibor, his eyes wide. His mum will no doubt give him an earful for being late home, but she’ll understand when he tells her where he’s been. He wants to do something that will make her proud and prove that he’s not a child anymore.
‘You bet,’ says Géza, playfully punching him on the arm.
The crowd heading towards the park is so huge that people are walking in the road, blocking a convoy of trucks from getting through.
The driver of the front truck leans out of his cab. ‘Hey, what’s the big deal? Where’s everyone going?’
‘To the statue,’ shouts Tibor. ‘We’re going to pull it down.’
The truck driver pulls a face at Tibor and Géza. ‘Are you kidding?’
‘Absolutely not,’ says Tibor.
The driver considers his response then seems to come to a decision. ‘All right then, hop in the back. I’m going that way.’
People crowd into the backs of the trucks and the drivers take them to the City Park.
A huge crowd has already gathered around the giant bronze statue of Stalin. But they have not come here to pay their respects, like they did on the day that Stalin’s death was announced. They have come here to destroy this icon of communist power and oppression. There’s just one problem – the statue is enormous. Even climbing up it would require a feat of superhuman strength and agility, never mind pulling it down.
The driver who gave Tibor and Géza a lift introduces himself as Péter. ‘I have some steel cables in my truck,’ he says. ‘The problem will be getting up to the statue to attach them.’
‘I’ve got some rope,’ says another truck driver. ‘We could throw a rope lasso around the neck and climb up that way.’
‘I’m good at climbing,’ volunteers Tibor. He expects the adults there to dismiss his offer, but no one does. They’re serious about bringing this statue down and they’ll take all the help they can get.
It takes a whole team of them using ladders and standing on shoulders, but they eventually manage to secure a rope round Stalin’s neck. The spectators cheer.
‘Think you can manage to get this steel cable up there?’ Péter asks Tibor.
‘Sure,’ says Tibor. When he was little he dreamt of flying around Stalin’s statue, one arm outstretched, like the images of his hero Superman in the comics which his mum told him to keep hidden. He might not be able to fly, but it’s still a dream come true to climb the statue as if it were a mountain waiting to be conquered. Stalin used to be the one with all the superpowers, but now he’s just a grotesque lump of metal.
Tibor loops the steel cable around his shoulder and climbs one of the ladders to the top of Stalin’s six-foot-high right boot. At the top of the ladder he reaches for the length of rope and secures it around his middle. Then, grasping the rope in both hands, he puts one foot against Stalin’s leg and starts to hoist himself upwards. He’s young and strong and it feels fantastic to be doing something so daring. When he reaches Stalin’s right arm, which is folded across his chest, he levers himself up so that he’s standing on the dictator’s forearm. Don’t look down, he tells himself. You can do this. Just a bit further and he’s standing on Stalin’s shoulder. He loops the steel cable around the massive neck, then makes his way back down to the cheers of the crowd.
Géza slaps him on the back. ‘You did it.’
Only when Tibor looks back up at the statue and realises how far he climbed does he start to laugh. When more cables have been looped around the statue, the ends of the cables are tied to the backs of the trucks.
‘Everyone stand back,’ shouts Péter.
The truck drivers climb into their cabs and, on the count of three, they all press their accelerator pedals. Exhaust fumes belch, wheels spin and rubber tyres burn, but the statue doesn’t budge.
‘We need more weight,’ shouts one of the drivers. ‘Everyone get in the trucks.’
Tibor, Géza and dozens of other people scramble on board to provide
human ballast. But still nothing happens.
And then the cables start to snap one by one.
‘It’s not working,’ cries Tibor in frustration. He feels as if the statue is mocking them. They’re like ants trying to bring down a mighty oak tree. There has to be another way.
Then some factory workers arrive in a van and they’ve brought bottles of gas and blowtorches with them. Right, thinks Tibor, now we’re talking. He stands back as the workers set about blasting Stalin’s knees, just above the top of his boots. Sparks fly as the intense blue flame cuts into the bronze.
‘That should do it,’ shouts one of the workers. ‘Now get the trucks again.’
This time when the truck drivers hit the accelerator pedals, they actually start to move forwards.
‘It’s coming down! It’s coming down!’ shouts Tibor.
And sure enough, there’s a creaking and cracking sound and the giant statue totters on the brink.
‘Run!’ shouts Tibor.
Everyone scatters in different directions, laughing and cheering, as the giant figure falls to the ground in a great crash. The crowd roars in delight.
Tibor wipes the sweat from his brow and leans forwards, his hands on his knees. They did it. They actually did it. The mighty god has been toppled. He looks up at the stone plinth where a pair of empty bronze boots still stand. Their owner will never wear them again.
*
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Zoltán and Sándor turn to face Csaba Elek who is trotting down the corridor after them, looking flustered. He can’t be having a good day, thinks Zoltán.
‘Haven’t you heard? There’s a revolution going on,’ says Zoltán. He almost feels sorry for the Party Secretary whose world is crumbling before his eyes.
‘But the working day is not yet over,’ protests Csaba Elek, making a point of looking at his watch.
‘Dear me, how inconsiderate of the revolutionaries not to wait until the end of the factory shift,’ says Sándor.
Goodbye to Budapest Page 17
