The Class

  “Well, it’s hardly democratic for a government to force people to farm against their will—”

  “We do not force—”

  “Please, Father,” Gyuri answered with an exasperated sigh, “you’re not talking to some naive idiot.”

  “No, I’m talking to a yompetz, a worthless hooligan. And as for that girlfriend of yours—”

  “How can you criticize Aniko, Father? The party thinks she’s good enough to study pharmacy.”

  “Still, it hurts my standing when you’re seen with her. Aniko’s a bad type. She malingers. She sits in cafés in Vaci Ucca listening to Western music.”

  What really annoys you, George thought, is that I sit right next to her. Last Sunday in the Kedves we heard Cole Porter for nearly three hours.

  “Father,” said George, hoping for reasonable debate instead of a brawl, “if socialist music is so great, why doesn’t the Stalin Cantata have any good tunes?”

  Livid, the government official turned to his daughter. “I won’t talk to this yompetz anymore. He’s a disgrace to our entire family.”

  “I’ll change my name,” George said facetiously.

  “Please,” said the old man, “the sooner the better.” He stormed out and slammed the door.

  George turned to his sister. “Now what the hell did I do?”

  Marika shrugged. She had been the referee in these father-and-son combats for as long as she could remember. There seemed to have been conflict ever since their mother died—when George was five and she only two and a half.

  The old man was never the same after that. And in his fits of bitterness he would vent his anger on his eldest child. While she tried to grow up as quickly as she could to be a mediating force—a mother to her brother and a wife to him.

  “Try and understand, George, he’s had a very hard life.”

  “That’s no excuse for giving me one. But in a way I understand. He feels trapped in his job. Yes, Marika, even socialist officials harbor ambitions. The Farm Program is an unmitigated disaster. His boss naturally blames him, so who can he let out his frustrations on? Sometimes I wish we had a dog so he could kick it instead of me.”

  Marika realized that, despite George’s angry protestations, at a certain level he genuinely sympathized with his father’s disappointment. Yet, the old man had done well for someone who had begun life as an apprentice shoemaker in Kaposvar. Istvan Kolozsdi’s greatest misfortune was that he had sired a son whose brilliance would inevitably show how mediocre he really was.

  Somewhere in their hearts, the two men knew it. And this made them afraid to love each other.

  “I have tremendous news!” called Aniko as she dashed across Muzeum Boulevard to catch George between lectures at the Law Faculty.

  “Don’t tell me,” he smiled, “the pregnancy test was negative.”

  “That I won’t know till Friday,” she replied, “but listen to this—the Polish students are striking to support 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 Sándor 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 “Most vagy soha—now or never!”

  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 Bern 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 demonstrate 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 their prisoners.”

  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, yompetz, I see they haven’t arrested you yet.”

  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?

  He was never able to console himself with the thought that, on that cold October morning in 1956, he could not have dreamed how far he was going.

  The university was a tornado of rumors. After every radio broadcast, people would scurry around the hall like town criers. The exhausted students cheered upon hearing that President Eisenhower had said, “The heart of America goes out to the people of Hungary.” They sang to one another, “The whole world is watching!”

  But the peak of euphoria came on Tuesday afternoon, when Premier Nagy announced that the evacuation of Soviet troops had begun. George must have knocked down six people as he dashed ecstatically across the room to embrace Aniko.

  On the morning of November first, George was rudely awakened by Geza, a fellow law student.

  “What the hell—”

  And then he noticed something very odd. Scrawny Geza today looked like a circus fat man. George rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

  “What the hell has happened to you?” he asked.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Geza said. “I’m wearing all my clothes—at least everything I could squeeze on—and heading for Vienna.”

  “Have you lost your mind? The Soviets are gone. Don’t you hear Radio Free Europe?”

  “Yes, but I also hear my cousin in the village of Gyor. He rang about two hours ago and said there were hundreds of Russian tanks massing at the western border. They’re just regrouping to come back.”

  “Is he sure?”

  “Do you want to wait and find out?”

  George hesitated, but only for a split second.

  “Let me get Aniko,” he said.

  “Okay, but make it snappy.”

  She was reluctant.

  “What makes you so sure the Soviets are coming back?”

  “How many reasons do you want?” George answered impatiently. “Look, if Hungary goes independent, that will give the Poles and the Czechs big ideas. Then boom, the Russian empire tumbles like a house of cards.”

  Her face grew pale. She was frightened by the magnitude of the decision being forced upon her.

  “But what about my mother—she can’t manage without me.”

  “She will have to,” George replied impassively. He put his arms around her. She was sobbing quietly.

  “Let me at least call her,” she pleaded.

  “Yes. But please be quick.”

  They started walking. George and Aniko with just the clothing on their backs, Geza wearing his entire wardrobe. As they reached the outskirts of Buda, George saw a phone booth and suddenly thought of his sister.

  “Anybody got some change?” he asked.

  Aniko pressed a coin into his hand.

  “Gyuri,” his sister said anxiously, “where are you? Even Father’s been concerned.”

  “Listen,” he replied, “I’m in a hurry—”

  Just then, Geza stuck his head into the booth and whispered, “Tell her the Voice of America is passing code messages from refugees who make it across.”

  George nodded.

  “Please, Marika, don’t ask me any questions. Just listen to the Voice of America. If they say that—” He hesitated once again. “That ‘Karl Marx is dead’—that’ll mean I’m all right.”

  “Gyuri, I don’t understand. You sound scared.”

  “I am,” he confessed, and then added, “so for God’s sake, pray that he does die.”

  He hung up without another word.

  “What about your father?” Aniko asked. “Won’t he get into trouble when they learn you’ve fled the country?”

  “Listen, he’s a consummate politician, with a genius for self-preservation. He’ll be just fine, I assure you.”

  And in his heart he thought, He turned his back on me during my whole childhood, why should I care what happens to him now?

  They plodded on in silence. The only traffic on the road was the occasional ancient truck—nearly always heading toward the western border. Once in a while the trio would get a lift for a few dozen kilometers. The drivers never asked where they were going or why.

  It was nearly nightfall when they reached the outskirts of Gyor.

  “What do we do now?” George asked Geza. “It’s much too cold to sleep outside, and I’ve barely got a few forints in my pocket for food.”

  “I don’t even have enough for a bowl of soup,” Aniko added.

  Geza merely smiled. “Leave it to me. Do you have the strength to walk another hour?”

  “Only if I knew we could get inside somewhere,” said George. Aniko nodded agreement.

  “Tibor Kovacs’s parents live in Enese—about ten kilometers from here. He was going to leave with us. His parents would be expecting him.”

  Aniko gasped. “Don’t they know he was shot two nights ago?”

  “No,” Geza replied, “and there’s no point in telling them.”

  And he began to lead them toward Enese.

  In half an hour, they were trudging down an icy country road lit only by moonlight. They had been walking since early morning and were almost too tired to speak.

  “Tomorrow would be a good day to try to make it across,” said Geza. “It’s All Souls’ Day. The roads will be filled. Everybody will be going to the cemeteries.”

  The Kovacs family was glad to welcome friends of their son and did not seem concerned that he was not with them. He had been instructing various groups of the newly formed militia in the use of arms, so that George’s fabrication—that Tibor was needed for another few days in Budapest—seemed perfectly plausible.

  Dinner was a dream. Unlike the capital city, the villages had plenty of food, and Mrs. Kovacs set before them a feast of chicken and vegetables. There was even a bottle of Tokay.

  “I admire you.” Mr. Kovacs smiled broadly. “If I were a few ye
ars younger, I’d be going, too. For sure as snow will fall tomorrow, the Russians will be back. Everyone I speak to has seen the tanks. They are off the main road, but they are out there in the forests, waiting like hungry bears.”

  Aniko was offered Tibor’s bed. Though inwardly horrified, she knew she had to accept. The two young men curled up by the fire in the main room.

  The next morning it was snowing heavily.

  Geza looked at George and Aniko. “In this weather, I think the best idea is to try to catch a train to Sopron. From there, we have a long and very sparse border with Austria. If we are lucky, we should be able to walk across tonight.”

  At midday they thanked the Kovacses and started off, leaving all sorts of encouraging messages for Tibor.

  At the outskirts of the village, they got their first shock. The Russian tanks were no longer hiding behind trees. Two of them were squatting right in the center of the road.

  “Well?” George asked Geza.

  “Don’t panic, Gyuri. It’s snowing like hell and they don’t seem to be paying very close attention. We’re not carrying any luggage, so why should they suspect us of anything?”

  “You, Geza, look like a walking football in all those clothes,” said George. “If you intend to try to bluff your way past those tanks, you’d better strip down.”

  A sudden look of anxiety crossed Geza’s face. He was loath to part with five-sixths of his worldly possessions.

  “Let’s go around the town and see if we can reach the railroad from the other side,” he insisted nervously.

  And so they set off.

  But there were two more tanks at the farther entrance to the village. They had hiked for more than an hour in the snow to no purpose. George and Aniko stared at Geza. Without a word, he began to unbutton his top jacket. His fingers were trembling—and not merely from the cold.

  “Who—who—who’ll do the talking?”

  “Come on, Geza,” George replied, “we’ve all had at least six years of Russian. Let’s just be sure we tell the same story.”

  “Your accent is the best, George,” Geza insisted. “It would be much better if you spoke for us. Besides, when it comes to inventing lies, you’re something of a genius.”