His spirits rise when he sees groups of armed freedom fighters taking up positions on street corners. Teams of men and women are tearing up the cobbles and overturning trams to build barricades across road junctions. The Hungarians are not going to take this assault lying down. They will stand and fight to the last man.
‘Surely the Americans will help us now,’ says András, gasping for breath. ‘They promised on Radio Free Europe that they would.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ says Zoltán. ‘Israel has invaded Egypt. The West won’t be interested in a little country like Hungary when their interests in the Suez Canal are under threat. We’re on our own, I fear.’
The air around the cinema is already thick with smoke, the sound of shellfire deafening. They are under attack but Zoltán can’t see where the shells are coming from.
Sándor is on the steps of the cinema, preparing the anti-tank gun. From the expression of grim determination on his face, it looks to Zoltán as if grief for Róza has been temporarily replaced with anger at the Russians. He just hopes his friend doesn’t try anything reckless.
Bandi runs over to greet them. ‘We’ve got trouble in Kisfaludy Street.’ He points behind the cinema. ‘A Russian tank is firing at us. Already about fifteen dead. Most of the men were sleeping in the Práter Street School when the tank approached and now they can’t get through because it’s blocking their way. We can’t get close enough to destroy it with Molotov cocktails.’
‘Then we need to use the anti-tank gun against them,’ says Sándor. ‘Don’t just stand there. Give me a hand turning this damn thing around.’
*
Whilst Zoltán, Sándor and Bandi are manoeuvring the heavy weapon into a new position, András spots a couple of teenage boys, one dark, the other fair, hanging around, carrying a box of homemade Molotov cocktails. They’ve come to join in the fight.
He doesn’t bother asking them their names or why they aren’t hiding somewhere safe. Maybe they don’t have homes left to go to. They want to help and he admires their courage. ‘See that building over there?’ He points to the apartment block on the north side of the cinema. ‘Do you reckon we can get inside and find a way to look out over Kisfaludy Street?’
‘Sure we can,’ says the dark-haired boy, his eyes lighting up at the suggestion. His friend nods his head in agreement.
‘Come on, then,’ says András. ‘Bring your bottles and follow me. I’ve got a job for you.’
*
‘Hold Grandpa’s hand,’ Katalin tells her son, ‘and be careful. Some of the steps are uneven.’ She clutches Eva to her chest, a basket of provisions over her arm, and follows her father and Lajos down the into the cellar. Behind her, Petra and Tibor help the old couple, Maria and Milan, to navigate the worn treads. József is already down there, setting up oil lamps.
The cellar is cold and dank and smells of coal. Each family stores their firewood and coal supplies down here, but there is a small space in the centre where they can congregate. Katalin is surprised to see that József has brought stools and benches, and even a paraffin stove. Those who lived through the war are prepared for events like this. She places her basket of food supplies next to the stove.
‘I hope we don’t have to stay down here too long,’ says Petra. ‘I get claustrophobic in small spaces.’ In the yellow light of the oil lamp, Katalin can see a sheen of sweat on Petra’s forehead, despite the chilliness of the air.
‘Can you take Eva for a moment whilst I sort out the food supplies?’ Katalin transfers the baby into Petra’s arms. ‘She’s grouchy at having been woken up so early.’ If Petra has someone else’s problems to focus on, she thinks, she’ll forget about her own anxieties. It seems to do the trick because Petra sits down on one of the stools, making cooing noises to the baby, her own worries forgotten for the moment.
The rumble of a tank in the street outside causes everyone to fall silent.
‘We should chuck petrol bombs at the tanks from an upstairs window,’ says Tibor, miming the action. ‘We could blow them up and the Russians inside would turn to toast.’
‘Sit down!’ says Petra sharply. ‘You are not throwing petrol bombs, and you are not leaving this cellar until I say so. Do I make myself perfectly clear?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ Tibor sits down, looking glum.
Another round of firing outside, and Lajos starts to cry.
Márton, who is sitting quietly on one of the benches, says, ‘Come here, child, sit on my lap.’ Lajos clambers onto his Grandpa’s lap, sucking his thumb. ‘Now then, did I ever tell you the story of St George and the Dragon?’
Lajos shakes his head.
‘Well, once upon a time, in a country called England there was a very brave man and his name was St George.’
Whilst her father recites the familiar story, Katalin lets her mind drift. The idea of going to England has always seemed like an impossible dream. But what is going to be left of their country after this fighting? What is going to be left of her family? If they survive, is it possible that they could escape?
*
An explosion rocks the building and Tamás is jolted from his hiding place by falling rubble and shattering glass. Since escaping from the Communist Party Headquarters five days ago, he’s been living a hand-to-mouth existence in abandoned apartments, raiding kitchen cupboards for scraps of food, and dressing himself in clothes left behind by people who have fled or been killed.
Now the empty building in which he’s been sheltering for the last two nights no longer feels safe. This morning a group of insurgents moved into the ground floor with their crates of petrol bombs and the building is now a target for Soviet reprisals. One more blast and the whole building will be destroyed, and Tamás with it. He flees down the stairs as fast as he can and finds a way out the back, stepping over the bodies of two dead Hungarians.
Once again he finds himself out on the streets with hellfire raging around him. He’s so tired of scurrying from place to place in fear of his life. He doesn’t know who he’s more afraid of – vengeful Hungarian lynch mobs or Soviet tanks. Maybe he should just lie down in the path of a tank and all his troubles would be over. He’d hardly feel a thing.
He roams the streets mindlessly but when he looks about him he sees that his feet have brought him to the street where, it seems to him, all his problems started. He gazes up at the building where Katalin and Márton Bakos live and remembers that day, so long ago now, when Vajda ordered him to join the team that was going to arrest an academic by the name of Professor Bakos. In those days he was so sure of the communist cause and his part in it that he didn’t question anything, certainly not his boss Vajda. But there was something about Márton Bakos, the way he maintained a quiet dignity despite the degradations of the cells and the treatment he endured at 60 Andrássy Avenue, that sowed the first seeds of doubt in Tamás’s mind, although he didn’t realise it at the time.
If he asks for Márton’s forgiveness will he receive it? Will Márton remember the times Tamás let him sleep when he was supposed to be writing his life story?
*
It’s a newer tank than the old second-world-war T-34s, many of which were destroyed by the freedom fighters in the early days of the uprising. This is one of the Soviet Union’s new T-54 models, a highly engineered killing machine. And it’s doing what it was designed to do. Zoltán feels utter despair as he takes in the bodies lying in Kisfaludy Street, too many to count, and the buildings with their fronts ripped off, exposing the devastated rooms inside. All testament to the tank’s destructive power.
‘Further over to the left,’ shouts Sándor as they heave the anti-tank gun into position by the corner of a building. ‘Point it at the bastards.’
Sándor seems to be driven by a manic energy, as if he’s single-handedly going to face down the might of Soviet aggression. Zoltán understands that for Sándor the fight is now personal as much as anything else. He knows he would feel the same if anything happened to Katalin and the children.
&nb
sp; The tank discharges a shell at the building opposite and they run for cover as a shower of masonry crashes to earth, throwing up a blinding cloud of dust and debris. When Zoltán is able to see again he realises that Sándor is already manning the anti-tank gun, winding the rope attached to the trigger around his hand.
But the Russians must have spotted him, because the tank is swivelling its gun in his direction.
‘Get back!’ shouts Zoltán.
But Sándor doesn’t hear him, or chooses to ignore him. As he prepares to pull the trigger, the tank fires again, hitting the metal shield of the anti-tank gun, blowing it into hundreds of lethal pieces of jagged metal. Zoltán throws up his arms to protect his head from flying shrapnel. When he dares to lift his eyes, his first thought is for his best friend. But Sándor has vanished.
*
The inner courtyard of the four-storey apartment block is deserted. The residents, András guesses, have either fled or are hiding in the basement. A blast from Kisfaludy Street rocks the ground they’re standing on, bringing home to them the urgency of their mission.
‘Over there,’ shouts András, pointing to an open door in the corner of the building.
The electricity is out, shrouding the stairwell in semi-darkness.
‘Up to the top floor,’ he says to the two boys. ‘Let’s see if we can get into one of the apartments.’
The teenagers nod their understanding and start to mount the stairs, the petrol-filled bottles clanking against one another in the box.
‘Careful in the dark,’ says András, following behind. ‘You don’t want to trip and drop that lot.’
They’re younger and fitter than him – they haven’t spent months of their lives on a labour camp breaking rocks – and they soon disappear round the bend in the stairs, leaving him to catch up.
A fresh round of firing in Kisfaludy Street causes the plaster in the ceiling to crack, and a shower of dust descends on him. Dear God, it feels as if they’re trying to destroy the building. He hurries to catch up with the boys.
On the top landing there are two doors. One is locked, but the other is ajar, as if the tenants left in too much of a hurry to worry about their personal possessions. András pushes it open with his foot and the teenagers follow him inside.
From the living room window they can see the tank in the street below, but it’s about twenty yards off to their left.
The fair-haired boy calls from the hallway. ‘There’s a hatch into the attic. If we go up into the roof space, we might be able to get through to the neighbouring building and get closer to the tank.’
‘That’s a terrific idea,’ says András, patting the boy on the back. ‘Fetch that chair and help me up.’
*
Time drags. It feels to Katalin as if they’ve been in the cellar for days, but it’s only been a matter of hours so far. The blasts and explosions outside make it sound as if the world is ending.
She has politely declined to share the bottle of Pálinka which József brought down to the basement, preferring to keep a clear head. The old couple, Maria and Milan, have both had a generous slug and are now dozing peacefully propped up beside a coal bunker. Tibor is telling Lajos stories about Superman, and Eva is sleeping in Petra’s arms.
Katalin kneels by her father’s feet. He has a faraway look in his eye, as if his mind is elsewhere.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks.
He strokes her hair with his hand. ‘I was remembering the last time we hid down here.’
She knows what he means. She’s been having the same thoughts too. How her mother looked after everyone, making sure they were all right, that everyone had enough food to eat – although that was a daily struggle – and how she kept their spirits up by singing songs. She was always so cheerful, even in the midst of the darkest days. In fact, Katalin only recalls one time when she saw her mother rattled. It was just before the war started – Katalin must have been eight or nine – and they’d gone to the Lukács thermal baths in Buda. Katalin loved splashing in the warm water and demonstrating her aquatic skills. After an hour in the water, they were heading back to the changing rooms, their wet hair plastered to their heads, when they ran into Ilona Novák, emerging from a cubicle, her dark hair piled dramatically on top of her head, a towelling bath robe hugging her shapely figure. Eva caught hold of Katalin’s hand.
‘Eva, what a surprise,’ said Ilona, her shrill voice echoing off the hard tiled surfaces of the baths. ‘And Katalin too. My, hasn’t she grown since I last saw you. How are you both?’
‘We’re well, thank you.’
‘And Márton, how is he?’
Eva’s hand tightened on Katalin’s, crushing her fingers. ‘He’s busy at the university.’
‘Of course.’
Ilona smiled and Katalin waited for her mother to say something else, maybe ask after Ilona’s husband but the silence stretched awkwardly. Finally Eva said, ‘We should go. Katalin will be getting cold.’ Eva dragged Katalin away to fetch their clothes without another word being exchanged between the adults.
The following week when Katalin asked if they could go swimming again Eva said she was too tired. They never went again.
*
‘Sándor!’ Zoltán staggers into the smoke, shouting frantically for his friend. What the hell happened to him? He was standing right here, behind the anti-tank gun, and now it’s as if he’s been obliterated. Heedless of his own safety, he stumbles like a blind man with his arms outstretched, through the cloud of dust. He almost trips over a figure lying on the ground. ‘Sándor!’ The blast must have thrown him backwards. He grabs Sándor under the arms, dragging his limp body out of the line of fire.
Bandi runs over to help. ‘Is he dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ gasps Zoltán. ‘But he’s knocked out and his leg’s a bloody mess. Help me carry him to the school.’
Bandi takes the ankles and Zoltán lifts Sándor under his arms. Sándor lets out a groan and Zoltán almost weeps for joy. He’s still alive. There’s hope yet.
Together they carry him as quickly as they can to the first aid station in the school where Anna is single-handedly manning the fort. Blood is pouring thickly from a gash to Sándor’s right thigh where a piece of shrapnel has embedded itself.
If Anna is shocked by the sight of Sándor in this state, she does her best not to let it show. Zoltán is grateful to her, because he’s barely managing to hold it together himself. What he needs right now is for everyone to do their best for Sándor.
Anna instructs them to lay Sándor down on a row of desks which have been pushed together to form a makeshift operating table. Wasting no time, she rips open his trouser leg, exposing the wound in all its horrific detail. The flesh of the right thigh has been shredded, revealing splinters of shattered bone.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Bandi, making a gagging sound in his throat.
Even to Zoltán’s untrained eye, it’s obvious that the leg can’t be saved. But what about Sándor’s life? That’s all that matters now.
‘Give me your belt,’ says Anna. ‘I need something to tie tight around the top of his thigh to stem the flow of blood.’
In a daze, Zoltán obeys, pulling his belt out of his trousers and handing it to her. Anna ties the leather strap around Sándor’s thigh as tightly as she can, ignoring the blood that is staining her hands and clothes.
‘We need to get him to the hospital immediately,’ she says, ‘otherwise he’s almost certain to bleed to death. He’s already lost so much blood.’ She puts two fingers on his neck. ‘His pulse is erratic.’ She looks around helplessly at their dwindling stocks of bandages and splints. Zoltán understands. She can only patch people up, not perform life-saving operations.
‘No one can get to the hospital at the moment,’ says Bandi. ‘The fighting out there is too intense. The ambulances can’t get through. It’s chaos.’
‘Then I’ll carry him there myself,’ says Zoltán, preparing to pick up the prone figure of his friend.
‘Don’t be a fool.’ Bandi grabs his wrist.
Zoltán pulls his arm free. ‘You can’t stop me.’
‘I can and I will.’ Bandi steps in front of him, blocking his path. ‘There’s a raging battle going on out there. If you try to take him to the hospital you’ll both end up dead and as the commander of the Corvin Circle I can’t allow that to happen.’
*
Katalin tries to distract herself by organising the cooking of lunch. They all have to eat. She and Petra crouch by the paraffin stove and sort through their ingredients, deciding what to cook. A shell explodes on the street right outside and the flame on the paraffin stove flickers, threatening to go out. They’ll need to watch they don’t gas themselves in this confined space.
They heat up lentils and beans with a little lard, stirring in slices of smoked bacon and sausage. Katalin remembers her mother being inventive with whatever was to hand in the war when fierce battles raged outside in the street. But when the food supplies started to run out there were days when they had virtually nothing. Until…No, she mustn’t think about that time now or she’ll fall to pieces. She stirs the stew and tries to focus on the present situation, on her family and neighbours who need feeding. But now that her memory has been stirred, the thought she is trying to suppress refuses to go away. It demands her attention. She stares into the pot but all she sees is her mother preparing to go out in search of food. As the siege dragged on and food supplies ran perilously low, abandoned horses from German cavalry units became their only source of meat. It was on a Tuesday, she remembers, when a neighbour from across the street reported a freshly dead horse not far from their apartment. ‘I won’t be long,’ said Eva, tying a scarf around her hair. ‘A good piece of horse meat will last us all week.’ Katalin never knew precisely what happened to her mother, other than that she was killed by a stray bullet on her way to the horse. Friends carried her home on a door used as a stretcher. Maria’s husband, Milan, made a coffin out of an old chest of drawers.
Goodbye to Budapest Page 25
