American Hungarian Trilogy

CHAPTER 1-4

“The Hungarian air force only has so many planes. The Russians don’t exactly trust us. But the real reason is because I am too talented as an artist. They had other plans for me.”

Michelangelo was nearly breathless, not because we were walking too fast, but because he was getting himself worked up. About himself.

“Oh, yeah, they had other plans for me. I was supposed to be a great cog in their wheel of propaganda. That’s what they said at the Party meeting.”

“You’re a member of the Communist Party?”

“You have to be if you’re in the air force. The problem they had with me is that I wasn’t enthusiastic. That’s how they put it. I didn’t have the right kind of enthusiasm or revolutionary spirit, whatever that is. So, I made a wisecrack during one of their propaganda jam sessions. After the fallout about my portrait of Stalin, we got into it. I felt they had violated my sense of artistic freedom and said so. They laughed and jeered and kept baiting me until I punched one of them in the mouth.”

“So, they hauled you off to jail because of that?”

“You got it, kid.”

I hated it when he called me kid or little girl. I told him about my posters and the Stalin Brigade.

“The Stalin Brigade, huh? Maybe they’re trying to make a soldier out of you,” he said with a laugh.

“Our principal’s an old fart,” I said, borrowing my aunt’s expression. “He said I’m following my father’s footsteps straight into prison. Did you know my father’s in prison?”

He said he knew about it. Michelangelo knew about everything, and he was talking up a storm like I feared he would. He whined about how artists have to serve the system instead of their personal muse. Stuff like that.

He did say something funny, though. It was a little off-color, but it was funny just the same. “It’s crappy here in this country,” he said. He had this friend of his who tried to escape at the border, but by nightfall, the border guards caught up with him. “The poor fellow,” Michelangelo said, “didn’t know what to do, so he squatted over a pile of dog kaka. You know, like it was nature’s calling. The border guard directed his flashlight at the dog turd and said, ‘Why, you scoundrel! That’s dog shit.’ In his defense, the man said: ‘We have a dog’s life. So we s**t dog shit.”

I cracked up. He said he read it in Ludas Matyi, a humorous magazine filled with political jokes. It was the only way people could blow off steam he said. Then he added: “I wonder how many years he got for that little morsel.”

Michelangelo kept up his drone whether I listened or not. After a while I stopped listening. Huge crowds came from all directions on the Pest side to cross Margit Bridge which was now filled with a moving mass of people. Far off I could see that the Chain Bridge was also jam-packed with demonstrators going in the same direction.

Once we were part of the moiling mob in Bem Square, Michelangelo said: “My God, look at that sea of humanity. This is big,” he said. “This is big. Look!” He pointed to a man who was using his pocket knife to s***h away at a Hungarian flag. He was cutting out the Communist emblem at its center.

The statue of General Bem towered above the crowd. He was a Polish general who had become our national hero because he fought with the Hungarians in the War of Independence against Austrian domination.

The demonstrators were laying a wreath at the foot of the statue. Michelangelo explained that the Poles had a big protest only recently. We were showing solidarity with the Polish people.

We got here in the nick of time. I heard a microphone being tested. Soon a man who was introduced as the head of the Writers Union recited a 16-point demand against the government. The first one was a demand for all Soviet troops to withdraw from Hungary. Another demanded the election of new leaders by secret ballot. Another demanded that Imre Nagy be put in charge of the new government.

“That’s stupid,” Michelangelo said. “If they want free elections why do they insist on Imre Nagy. Why can’t we vote by secret ballot like civilized countries?”

I didn’t know who Imre Nagy was, so I asked.

“He’s an old Communist dog, like the rest of them.”

I was sorry I asked. I was anxious to hear something, anything about political prisoners. The man was already on Demand Number 10 and still nothing. Then he read off Demand Number 11:

“We demand that all political and economic lawsuits be revisited by an independent judiciary, and all unjustly convicted prisoners be freed and rehabilitated.”

I thought my heart was going to jump out of my rib cage. A chill ran up and down my arms. I knew what it all meant. The people demanded the release of political prisoners. I looked at Michelangelo. He heard it, too. He was nodding. My eyes got watery and so did his.

“If the government gives in to these demands, your father is coming home, kid,” he said.

I gave Michelangelo a big hug. By now, my tears were flowing like crazy. I laughed and blew my nose. I was going to get my Papa back.

Suddenly the crowd got noisy. I glanced up. Some people on a second-story balcony were burning a red flag. We saw the Russian flag with the hammer and sickle go up in flames. Thousands cheered the rising smoke.

The crowd chanted, “RUSSIANS GO HOME!”

Michelangelo and I chanted right along. The chant came in waves. It would start with just a few people, then reach a loud, feverish pitch. My throat became hoarse from all the shouting, but I was ready for more.

From an open window overlooking the balcony, a man was taking one picture after another of the flag burning and the clamoring crowd.

“I bet you that cameraman is with the ÁVO,” Michelangelo said.

“The what?”

“The secret police. If the government decides to crack down on the demonstrators, these guys will eventually catch up with our flag burners, arrest them, lock them up and throw away the key. You can count on it. The bastards.”

“How can they? Look at all these people.”

We must’ve been in the thousands.

The crowd started moving again, and we headed back across the Danube and into the heart of the city. We were chanting, singing old Hungarian patriotic songs from the time of the Hungarian War of Independence in 1848.

A girl who I swear was younger than me was passing out little Hungarian rosettes and boutonnieres to pin to our collars or button holes. I pinned mine to the V neck of my pullover. I have never experienced so much brotherhood and camaraderie, so much good will.

It was getting cooler outside as the sun was going down, but I don’t think anyone felt the chill. We were all fired up, that was for sure. And when you get fired up, you forget about time.

When we got to the end of Margit Bridge, word got out that other demonstrations were either going on or were starting up in other parts of Budapest. Workers from the factory district of Csepel were on their way to Heroes’ Square to join thousands of protesters. The crowd was buzzing with rumors that they would topple the monstrously large Stalin statue there. Others were hurrying toward Parliament to demand independence for Hungary. Another group, mostly students, had these plans to go to the building of Radio Budapest to broadcast the 16-point list of demands to the people.

For Michelangelo and me it was snap decision. For different reasons, both of us wanted to see Stalin, the great hero and liberator, topple from his high perch. But Heroes’ Square was far away. And it would take some time for the Csepel workers to get there with their heavy equipment. We were already late. My mother would kill me for sure. We were maybe a block from the Parliament Building, so we decided to flow with the crowd, stop to see what was going on by Parliament, then head for home.

The square by Parliament had the most demonstrators yet. I’d say hundreds of thousands. This crowd was not as tame as the one by the Bem Statue. They wanted the red star on top of Parliament to come down, and they wanted the puppet Communist leader tossed into the Danube. Some of the protestors had bullhorns. They began to chant and the crowd would take up their chant. One chant after another:

“Throw the tyrant in the River. All good Hungarians band together. Imre Nagy is our leader.”

It was getting dark. Michelangelo glanced at his watch, and we shouldered our way through the crowd and picked up our steps to get home as soon as possible. I didn’t want my head to end up on a platter.

Our building on Sándor Bródy Street was just a block from the Radio Station. I reminded Michelangelo that we were already in hot water, so we might as well go.

“It’s your hide, kiddo, not mine. Not that I relish your aunt kicking me in the pants. She’s done it before and she’ll do it again. Maybe we better go home. Come on, I better take you home.”

“Then you’ll have to carry me, because I’m not going.”

Michelangelo rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself. You’ll be sorry. I have a feeling I will be, too.” We both laughed.

But not for long. The scene in front of the Radio Building was chaotic. Someone said a truck-full of armed soldiers tried to get through the crowd earlier, but the crowd closed ranks and wouldn’t let them pass. They gave up and left.

By the Radio Building’s entrance, a scuffle erupted between an angry mob of students and the police. A few windows were already broken.

Michelangelo asked the college student standing next to us what was going on. He said a delegation of students had gone in earlier but they didn’t come out. They were probably detained by the secret police without being heard. “It may even be worse,” he said. “Those closer to the building said they thought shots were fired. There’s nothing left to do but to storm the building.” Saying this, he elbowed his way toward the main gate.

The crowd was growing in size. They had become agitated. A rock sailed through the air and broke another window.

Finally, two officials from the Radio Station appeared on a balcony and shouted at the crowd to disperse. That only made things worse. Someone with a bullhorn hurled obscenities at the officials.

A student heaved a bottle which shattered near the balcony. Michelangelo and I laughed, seeing the officials scurry like rats back into the building, close the door, and turn off the lights. Then, one by one, each lighted window went dark.

The total blackout made the angry crowd even bolder. The protestors cleared enough of a path to let a car through. It looked like the car was going to ram the gate. I saw enough to know it was a Czech car, one of those little Skodas.

The crowd grew silent.

The Skoda’s first impact was deafening. The little car spun its wheels till they smoked. The engine roared. Then the blunt sound of steel on steel. The Skoda’s fenders were twisted like a pretzel, but it backed up for another running start. “Again!” the crowd roared. The Skoda rammed the heavy gate again. This time its hood crunched up and steam hissed out of its engine. The driver had trouble backing up. The front fenders rubbed against the tires. When it was about ten meters from the gate, the car gave up its ghost. The motor was dead.