Anastasia

by Rupert Colley

  The demonstrators nearest them began shouting at them. ‘Are you going to fire on your own people?... You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

  A lanky AVO boy, pale as mist, whom Zoltan knew vaguely as Paul, began muttering next to him. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ snapped Zoltan; the boy was making him feel worse.

  ‘We’ve had it,’ said Paul. ‘They’re going to kill us. There’s millions of them.’

  The crowd drew menacingly nearer, edging forward, pushed in from the sides; the taunts becoming progressively louder, more aggressive. ‘Traitors... Death to the AVO!’

  ‘Oh, mother, what are we going to do?’ The boy’s rifle was trembling, the whites of his eyes looming in the dark.

  At that moment, one of the AVO gunners let rip a round of machine-gun fire into the sky. The mob immediately backed away but their jeers only increased in intensity. Windows clattered open above him and the hiss of tear gas descended onto the crowd. Huge holes suddenly appeared before him as the canisters fell amongst the crowd and bounced on the cobbles. Immediately, the air stank of the sharp smell of gas, stinging eyes and catching in the back of throats. Amongst the screams, shots rang out. The boy next to him followed the example and fired three shots into the dense mass. Zoltan couldn’t tell whether he’d hit anyone as people fell over themselves to avoid the gas and gunfire. A gap would appear, only for others to stumble in and fill it again.

  His eyes stung as the gas drifted across the street. He pressed his finger against the trigger, wanting to fire, but couldn’t bring himself to shoot randomly into the groping mass that now surrounded him. He had to escape; his life depended on it. He forced his way back, knowing that the gas and dark was providing enough of a distraction for him to breakout. Where had all the AVOs gone? Tears streamed down his face as he fought for space, tripping over a body writhing on the cobbled ground.

  He found himself in a side street with high buildings either side, lit by dingy street lamps. The sound of gunfire echoed from the Radio Building square, wisps of gas had floated across. He’d lost his rifle and cap but had no idea how. People ran in all directions, some, like him, clasping handkerchiefs to their eyes. Coming to a junction, he could see a line of army trucks parked along the wider boulevard. A moment’s relief was soon shattered – the soldiers were freely handing their guns to the rebels. The bastards, he thought.

  ‘AVO!’ someone shouted. Zoltan almost fainted. He turned and people had stopped in the street, staring at him. This is it, he thought, my time has come. ‘AVO.’ His very own mob began to close in as the tears from the gas smarted his eyes. But then a siren pierced the air, screeching above the sounds of chaos – an ambulance trying to get down the boulevard, heading towards the Radio Building. Only yards away, it was enough to distract his tormentors. ‘Let us get through.’ The driver was leaning out of the window, yelling at the mass blocking his way, slamming his hand rhythmically against the ambulance door. The ambulance lurched forward then braked. One of the back doors swung open and shut, and a gun fell out onto the road. Zoltan’s mob were the first to see it.

  ‘Hey, wait,’ shouted one of them.

  Zoltan edged away as they darted towards the now stationary ambulance, swinging open the backdoors. ‘It’s full of weapons. Look at all this!’

  ‘They’re AVO.’

  The driver and his mate scrambled out but too slow; the mob pounced on them and they disappeared under a shower of blows. Zoltan could still hear their screams as he sprinted back down the narrow side street, unsure of where he was going but relieved to escape the brighter lights of the boulevard.

  Amidst screams, shots and sirens, Zoltan ran.

  And ran.

  3.

  Meanwhile, three miles away in City Park, George was enjoying the spectacle. It was ten o’clock and the excitement of this momentous day showed no signs of letting up. Eva had wanted to go home, complaining of a headache, and Milan volunteered to take her back and rejoin George later. Hundreds milled round, chatting incessantly. Comrade Stalin’s statue loomed high in the night sky, his brooding presence surveying the city, a constant reminder of their servility. A group of youngsters had climbed onto the plinth and had flung ropes round Stalin’s neck. But however hard they pulled, the statue remained stubbornly in place. Stalin wasn’t prepared to be toppled. Suddenly, the rope snapped and the huddle of boys fell laughing into a heap. George and his fellow onlookers clapped. Amongst the spectators, stood a group of local soldiers, the Soviet five-pointed stars ripped from their caps. One of them stepped forward and shouted, ‘You’ll never pull it down; you’ll need proper cutting gear.’

  George had never seen such entertainment, never felt such a sense of freedom. One thousand, three hundred and seventy days, followed by three years of mundane jobs in filthy factories. However hard they worked, it was never enough. If they, the workers, exceeded the quota, then the quota was upped and still they were expected to exceed it. The award for greater output was the demand for even more. Wages continued to rise but at only a fraction of the spiralling costs of food and basic amenities. Such bleak times.

  He remained friends with his old team-mate, Milan; the two of them speaking for hours on their favourite subject – football. George had never mentioned the talent scout – there was little point. And over the years, he’d come to doubt Mark Decsi’s legitimacy, believing that it had all been a ruse to impress his mother. He’d persuaded himself now that his talent would never have been good enough to interest Gusztav, the national manager, not because he truly doubted his talent but because he couldn’t bear to think of the things he’d missed out on. In 1952, the Hungarian football team won Olympic gold in Helsinki; and then, in ’53, doing what no team had done before – beating England at Wembley, Puskas inspiring the team to a historic 6-3 victory. And then, in ’54, they played the World Cup only to be beaten in the final by the West Germans (although rumours persisted that the government had ‘sold’ the game to the Germans for hard currency).

  What could have been in a life of could-have-been’s. But amongst it all, he had found perhaps not love but certainly companionship. Eva had been there – back in ’49 at his final game, his final performance. Like so many Hungarians, they shared a history of disappointment. But it was their shared experience of a football match that had brought them together following his release from prison. After that first meeting, they agreed to meet, to share a drink and talk football and the what-could-have-been’s. But when he asked if they could meet again, she said no.

  A year later, she was back, a small suitcase in hand. She’d lost her apartment – requisitioned.

  Their relationship was based on mutual need. Him with his dodgy leg; her with her dodgy past. But they were never that close, however much George would have wished it otherwise.

  Someone had driven a van into the park and, with the help of others, unloaded bottles of gas. Now, they were busy with the blowtorches, working away on Stalin’s knees, just above his jackboots, the intensity of fire illuminating their faces. Minutes later, satisfied they had sufficiently weakened the bronze, they flung the ropes round the legs and neck, and, with the van, pulled. More people came to help, a whole team pulling on the rope in a tug-of-war contest; the Hungarian youth verses Stalin. George joined in the cheering and laughed at the catcalls, Bring the old bastard down; we’ll give you the People’s Democracy. Bit by bit, Stalin’s resistance weakened, His legs slowly giving way. Then, with an enormous groan, He lunged forward and tottered. He was coming down! The tug-of-war team scattered in different directions, whooping with delight. And then He fell, the bronze figure crashing to the ground to thunderous applause. Then they set about Him, smashing the metal to pieces with sledgehammers from the van, pieces of bronze ricocheting across the path, picked up by onlookers as souvenirs.

  Three and a half years after his death, Comrade Stalin had finally fallen.

  Chapter 21: Day Two – Wednesday, 24th October

  1.

  The noise started as a lo
w rumble, slowly pushing its way into my subconscious. As it became louder, I awoke and wondered what on earth it could be. It seemed to be getting nearer and nearer and suddenly from my drowsy state, I was wide awake. It was still dark. Despite the now-monstrous roar, George and Milan were still asleep; George, as usual, on the bedroom floor. I rushed to the window and swept aside the curtain. Dawn was beginning to rise. But the sight that hit me sent a shiver down my spine. ‘George, Milan, wake up.’ After some prodding, they too were alert and staring with disbelief down onto the street.

  ‘The bastards,’ said Milan.

  ‘T-54s,’ observed George, matter-of-factly. Snaking its way along the narrow avenue was a long procession of Russian tanks with the hammer and sickle painted on the sides, dozens of tanks, rolling boldly passed our apartment and towards the city centre.

  ‘How dare they?’ I asked, as if their presence was a personal affront.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Four thirty.’

  ‘Put the radio on.’

  The announcer’s grave voice talked of counter-revolutionaries attacking public buildings. Milan turned the radio off incensed. ‘How dare they call us counter-revolutionaries,’ he said, indignantly.

  2.

  An hour later, I was alone. George and Milan had dressed and shaved (both wanting to appear smart for the revolution, as they called it), and had had breakfast. I had the place to myself, which in itself, was a rarity. I picked up the fragment of bronze that George had so proudly brought home last night – a piece of Stalin’s tunic, he’d said. How heavy it was, this small piece of metal, and how bright it shone.

  The sight of the Russian tanks made me think of Valentin so many miles away in Moscow. I pulled out Milan’s old copy of Stalin’s Collected Works, Volume One – old but still in pristine condition. He’d bought it so that it’d look good if the AVO ever came to him. Not that they had for many years, so he told me. And there, hiding beneath the back flap was Valentin’s blank postcard. On the front, a picture of a parade of Red Army soldiers, marching erect, their heads facing left, acknowledging a podium of dignitaries, perhaps even Stalin himself; and the back addressed to Mr and Mrs Horvath – but no message. But I knew, of course. Valentin had joined the army and, what’s more, he still thought of me. He still thought of me. I lived in a bubble of joy for weeks after that. It was as if he’d sent me a ten-page letter. But my thoughts, these days, are more with Josef. I realised now that my infatuation with Valentin was no more than that – an infatuation in the midst of such difficult times. Josef had just left me, supposedly for another woman, and Valentin provided a distraction in the grey world I inhabited then. I visit Josef once a year – every March. Five minutes. Each time, he sounds a little more cheerful but still he dismisses me whenever I try to broach the subject of our daughter. And each time I come away more frustrated. It’s left me questioning why it is so important to me that not once, not once, has he mentioned the fact that for sixteen days he and I had a daughter. I need to know why.

  I lived now with George and Milan in Milan’s rather chaotic flat, although, from what he says, it’s certainly less crowded than before when, as a ruse, he hinted to his housemates that he was an informer. Three years ago, I was obliged to move out of the apartment I had shared with Josef – it was needed for a new star of the party and his wife. I stayed with Agnes and Ferenc for a few months until Ferenc got bored of having me around. I took the hint and sought out George, almost a year after our meeting in the bar. They made a strange pair. George with his kind heart acts as a foil for the brash Milan. I sometimes worry that George likes me a little too much. But he respectfully keeps his distance – he knows I am waiting for my husband to return. For return he will one day.

  ‘Eva, turn on the radio quickly.’ George was already returning, rushing into the still-deserted apartment. ‘Quickly, there’s going to be an announcement.’ He stopped to catch his breath, then added, ‘There’s already been some fighting with the tanks, some Ruskies killed, and still disturbances going on round the Radio Building. Quickly, Eva, the radio.’

  The announcer’s voice crackled severely from the wireless set: “The Central Committee of the Hungarian Workers’ Party announces that Comrade Imre Nagy is the new Prime Minister and Comrade Ernest Gero, the First Secretary, Janos Kadar, Secretary. The members of the newly appointed Politburo are...”

  ‘Sod that,’ bellowed George, drowning out the announcer’s voice. ‘Gero’s still there, and Kadar; what damn good is that?’

  ‘But Nagy’s Prime Minister,’ I ventured.

  ‘Window dressing; he’s only there to be Gero’s puppet. They say Nagy called in the Soviets and Kadar’s talking of our “Soviet brothers” defending the nation against counter-revolutionaries. It’s sickening.’ He reached for a cigarette.

  ‘George, not in the living room, please.’

  ‘He’s turned out no better than the rest of them and now they’re threatening to cancel the international against Sweden on Sunday week.’

  ‘Can they do that?’

  ‘Of course. Why don’t you come out with me?’ asked George, the unlit cigarette in his mouth. ‘You should see it out there, it’s mayhem.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to. Anyway, where’s Milan?’

  ‘Roaming the streets with a rifle he picked up. Come on, Eva, it’s history in the making –’

  ‘I said no, I’d rather not. Thank you.’

  He threw his arms up in the air and looked at me goggle-eyed, unable to comprehend my reluctance to venture out. I couldn’t tell him, he’d be suspicious, but the fact was I didn’t want to see any Russians killed.

  One of them might be Valentin.

  3.

  The rain splatters on the trees around him. It is pitch black in the forest. Some of the men sit in huddled groups, talking, smoking. He ought to get some sleep, he’ll need it, for goodness knows what they’ll encounter tomorrow and it could be days before they can sleep again – if at all. But they’ve been told it’ll be an easy operation. Go in and restore order. That was about it. Then get out. Not too difficult – not against an unarmed, disorganised mob.

  Most of the men don’t know why they’re here, or even where they are. But Valentin knows. He knows all too well. It is something he’s dreamt about for a long time. He’d never expected it to happen nor for it to happen in this manner. His mind wishes it wasn’t happening at all, but in his heart he is pleased. After he’d left with the tears welling in his eyes, he never thought he’d see the city again. But tomorrow he will. For tomorrow, they enter Budapest.

  Chapter 22: Day Three – Thursday, 25th October

  It was a terrifying sight; Zoltan had never seen so many people crowded into a single space, a solidified mass of humanity with a life of its own. The young AVO with the pale face, Paul, had attached himself to Zoltan and, like some nursery rhyme, it felt that wherever he went, Paul was sure to follow.

  Word had got to them that something was going to happen in Parliament Square, and every AVO man and woman was ordered straight there. Now, from the rooftops of the Agricultural Ministry, directly opposite the Parliament Building, they gazed down on this seething sea of proletariat resentment, with their slogans and banners and songs. Zoltan now understood the meaning of fear. For years, he and his many colleagues and their army of informers had induced a state of permanent fear on the population. Never had they expected the tables to be so swiftly turned. Never had the AVO expected to be shaking in their boots. And with his rifle at hand, Zoltan was certainly shaking.

  At the very moment they needed the government to react, it dithered, unsure what to do; whether to crush the uprising or yield to it. Rumour had it that the Kremlin had sent in some of their top brass to give the shaky ship a guiding hand. God, it needed it, especially with the chief ditherer, Imre Nagy, as prime minister; a cloth-hearted liberal if ever there was one.

  Donath had decided to act and was now poised to speak to the mob, loud hailer in hand, his rubber
y skin as red as the beetroots the farmers were smuggling into the city. ‘You boys ready?’ he shouted to his teams of machine-gunners either side of him. Satisfied that everything was in place and to his liking, he lifted the hailer to his lips.

  ‘This is the police,’ said Donath, his crackly voice cutting through the drone of chanting drifting up from the square. ‘This is the police,’ he repeated, ensuring he had their attention. Twenty thousand Hungarians listened. He hesitated, perhaps aware of the magnitude of responsibility that lay with him. His fingers rubbed the metal of his Order of Lenin medal. ‘This is an unauthorised demonstration...’ A howl of jeers thundered up. Donath cleared his throat. ‘I repeat, this is an unauthorised demonstration. You are to disperse immediately.’

  ‘This is a peaceful demonstration,’ came the reply from a few voices amongst the thousands.

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Donath.

  The voices from below continued. ‘We are unarmed... we carry no weapons... this is a peaceful demonstration...’

  ‘Peaceful or not,’ Donath replied through the inhaler, ‘it is still unauthorised and illegal. You are hereby ordered to...’

  But his voice was lost, drowned out by the mass of responses. ‘Assassins, murderers! Death to the AVO...’

  Donath paced up and down the rooftop behind his men, ‘How dare they?’ he seethed. ‘How dare they?’ He raised the inhaler but the jeers and insults intensified. He lowered it again.

  ‘Pigs, down with the AVO, out with the Russians...’

  The sweat was pouring off Donath’s face now as the speed of his pacing quickened. Zoltan knew what was coming next and knew also that whatever happened, they, the AVO were going to suffer for it.