Gomulka — and we’re organizing a sympathy march.”
“Aniko, the Secret Police will never let you get away with it. Those AVO thugs will beat your brains in, Or else our friendly Russian ‘visitors’ will.”
“Gyuri Kolozsdi, not only will you march with me, but you will carry one of the posters I’ve spent all morning painting. Now, which one would you like — ‘Hail Polish youth’? ‘Russians get out’?”
George smiled. Wouldn’t the sight of him carrying such a placard warm his father’s heart? “I’ll take that,” he said, pointing at “New Leadership for Hungary.”
They kissed.
March Fifteenth Square was electric with anticipation. Thousands of demonstrators had crowded onto its grassy turf, carrying posters and flags. There were delegations from factories, schools, and universities. A young actor from the National Theater clambered up the statue of Sandor Petofi and began to declaim the poet’s “National Hymn,” which had ignited Hungary’s 1848 Revolution.
The ever-increasing throng joined in with special vigor when they reached “
For the first time, George began to feel that something important was happening. And he was a part of it.
At last the procession began, led by chanting demonstrators who carried a wreath of red carnations. They began to pour into the main city streets, blocking traffic as they passed. But there was no animosity. Many motorists simply locked their cars and joined the marchers, whose ranks had already been swelled by the shop owners and workers all along the way. Every window, every balcony was filled with families waving encouragement.
As if by magic, Budapest was transformed into a boundless field of red, white, and green. People everywhere had fashioned tricolors of ribbons, cloth — and even paper. When the students took their final turn into Jozsef Bem Square, they could see that the statue at the center was already draped with a huge Hungarian flag, the Soviet coat of arms torn out of its center.
Toward sunset, many students talked about going to dem onstrate in front of Parliament. Others proposed an attack on the great statue of Stalin that had for so many years stood in the center of the City Park looking down at Budapest with cast-iron mockery. George and Aniko held hands and let the mainstream carry them back across the river toward Parliament Square.
“What do you think the government will do?” George asked.
“Resign. They have to.”
The immensity of the crowd in Parliament Square was almost frightening. Hundreds of thousands — it seemed like millions — were laying siege to the venerable government edifice with its embroidered Gothic pinnacles. All were shouting for the return of the only leader they trusted, Imre Nagy, who had been removed from office by the Russians the year before.
Evening became night and the air grew bitingly cold. But many had made torches of the newspapers and pamphlets they held in their hands and continued to shout for Nagy.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a slight figure appeared on a balcony. From the front rows a ripple of voices began to echo and crescendo toward the back. “It’s Nagy, it’s Nagy!” Somewhat weakly, himself overcome by the emotion of the moment, the deposed leader raised his hand to plead for silence.
“Has he gone mad?” George wondered out loud, “He’s waving his hands like a lunatic.”
But in an instant all became clear. He was leading the massive throng in the singing of the national anthem. It was a stroke of genius!
After the song ended, Nagy disappeared as swiftly as he had materialized. The crowd — thrilled and elated now — began to break up. Instinctively, they knew no more would happen that night. At least not in Parliament Square.
George and Aniko were halfway back to the university when they heard gunfire. He took her hand and they began to run down toward Muzeum Boulevard. The cobblestone streets swarmed with people, excited, curious, frightened.
When they reached the Muzeum Garden, there were still traces of tear gas in the air. She took out a handkerchief and held it to her face. George’s eyes were beginning to burn. A hysterical young girl was shrieking that the Secret Police had massacred defenseless people.
“We’re going to kill every one of those bastards!” she sobbed.
“Fat chance,” George whispered to Aniko. “I’ll believe it when I see my first dead AVO man.”
He took her hand and they began to run again.
Less than a block later, they stopped in their tracks, horrified. Above them, strung up by his feet from a lamppost, were the bloody remains of a Secret Police officer. George felt sick.
“Gyuri,” said Aniko with a shudder, “we know what they did to
On the next block they saw corpses of two more AVO agents.
“God,” Aniko pleaded, “I can’t bear this anymore.”
“Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“Well,
It was nearly 5:00 A.M. Istvan Kolozsdi was seated close to the radio, exhausted, smoking nervously. Marika rushed to embrace her brother.
“Gyuri, we’ve been hearing such terrible rumors. I feared that something had happened to you.”
“Forget rumors, Marika,” the patriarch interrupted. “The truth has just been on the news.”
“Really?” George said softly. “And what is Radio Budapest’s version of tonight’s events?”
“There was a small Fascist insurrection, which the police have dealt with severely,” said Istvan Kolozsdi. “And where have you been all evening?”
George sat down in a chair opposite his father, leaned forward, and said with a smile, “Listening to Imre Nagy.”
“You are mad. Nagy is a nonperson.”
“Try telling that to the thousands who cheered him in Parliament Square. And we’re going to get him back as party leader.”
“And I’m getting my hair back on my head. You’re all a bunch of crazy idiots.”
“Spoken like a true socialist,” said George, as he headed out of the room. “I’m going to sleep. Even lunatics need rest.”
Scarcely three hours later, his sister was prodding him. “Wake up, Gyuri. Nagy is named premier! It’s just been on the news.”
George forced his weary body to get out of bed. He had to see his father’s face.
Still buttoning his shirt, he shuffled into the sitting room. The old man seemed welded to the spot beside the radio, surrounded by ashtrays spilling over with cigarette butts.
As Marika handed George a cup of black coffee, he asked his father, “Well?”
The patriarch looked up and, without the slightest trace of irony, replied, “You have never heard me say a word against Imre Nagy. In any case, he must have the blessing of Moscow, because he has asked for help from the Soviet troops.”
“Now I think you’re the dreamer, Father.” And then, turning to his sister, he said, “When Aniko calls, tell her I’ve left for the university.”
He tossed a jacket over his shoulder and hurried from the house.
In the years that followed, George looked back at this moment and wondered why he had neglected to say more of a farewell. Not to his father. For he was angered by the old man’s shameless display of hypocrisy. But why had he not been more affectionate to Marika?
