Triptych (10 page)

“New within the old,” Irina says. “Conciliation. Coming together. The future from the past.” She nods approvingly. “Very nice.”

I smile.

Her gaze drifting to the flowers in my bag, she shakes her head and pricks my bubble. “But elsewhere you must do some personal unstitching.”

***

Budapest, 25 October 1956

Évike and her mother met Dóra downstairs in the courtyard. The weather was sunny but cool. The baby fussed as Dóra, having bundled Dórika in a tattered woolen blanket, positioned her in the dilapidated stroller and tugged a rough woolen cap over the baby's downy blonde hair. Dórika had a cherubic face, big blue eyes, and full lips like her father Tarján, the best friend of Évike's father. Bright, but less scholarly, Tarján had been conscripted into the Hungarian Army. His unit was somewhere in the city and Dóra had not heard from him since before the demonstration at Kossuth tér. The women had agreed to team up in the search for their husbands.

On the street, a sense of calm. People strolling freely. The farther they walked, the more it was apparent that the armed struggle was not over. The radio pronouncements…Pure propaganda.

In the next block, young men and women, even teenagers, wearing tricolor armbands, their expressions full of grim purpose, carried what seemed like oversized weapons. Évike recognized one the young soldiers, a boy from her school. She started to wave, but struck by the lingering taint over being singled out, removed by the director from her classroom, her hand returned to her pocket.

Suddenly the pavement shook. Dórika's wailed but her cries were drowned out by the approaching rumble of a Soviet tank.

Dóra had often spoken of Tarján's knowledge of Soviet tanks. He was assigned to a T-34, the WWII model the Soviets brought in to keep control over “meek” Hungary. Tarján liked to pooh-pooh the tank, calling it old-fashioned, but Évike could not distinguish old from new. And with its noisy treads, thick plating and raised turret, a giant machine gun angled from its hatch, the T-34 looked to her now like an angry rhinoceros barreling down on them, the long main gun its super-sized deadly horn. The radio had said the tanks were here to crush the uprising and as the speeding metal monster cut a corner, taking a chunk of a brick building with it, Évike felt the thump-thump of her heart, racing with both excitement and terror.

They reached Kossuth tér where a crowd of thousands had gathered, and a fleet of Soviet tanks in a semi-circle stood guard before the parliament building.

“Do you see Tarján?” Dóra asked in a shaky voice, eyeing the tanks.

“No, but there are so many units attached to Budapest,” the mother said. “Do you really think his could be here?”

Dóra looked around once more. Her shoulders sagged. “We're likely to have better luck finding members of our Petőfi group. They will know what is going on.”

They began elbowing their way through the masses, Dóra maneuvering the stroller in fits and starts.

Franciska grabbed her friend's arm. The foursome halted. “Look.”

More Soviet tanks and armored cars were positioned throughout the square among the mass of assembled protestors. Many of the tanks were draped with Hungarian flags, even flowers. One tank sported a tricolor tied to its radio antenna. Évike shook her head in disbelief. Demonstrators had clambered up some of the tanks and were waving Hungarian flags.

“Mother, is it over? Does this mean father will come home?”

Just then a handsome youth about eighteen, with sandy-blond hair, gray-eyes, and skin spotted with acne, pushed in next to Dóra.

“What is going on?” Dóra asked him. “Everyone seems so…well, friendly.”

The young man nodded. He raised his voice to be heard above a new round of chanting. “Yes, when we first arrived, we kept back from the tanks, but then, a strange thing happened. A few of us and the crew of one of the tanks start to talk. It is crazy, really. The Russians have been sent to intimidate us—kill us, maybe—but we are all chatting like old friends. Suddenly eight or ten demonstrators run to a tank, climb up on it. Students…Soviet soldiers, standing together. As if to signal an accord between the sides, then everyone takes up the mood…”

While the young man spoke, Évike was glancing at the blue October sky.

“But look, up on the Ministry of Agriculture building,” she said.

The young man tracked her gaze to the barrels of submachine guns mounted on the roof of the building directly across from Parliament. “Ah, yes, and over there.” He pointed to the rooftop of a six-story building at the square's southern end. “AVO snipers.”

Évike huddled closer to the women.

“It is okay. We are unarmed,” the sandy-haired youth continued, smiling to put them at ease again. “We have made repeated announcements. The demonstration is to be peaceful.”

They left him and continued through the crowd. “Look at this—” Évike's mother swept her hand through the air. “Victory is close. Can you feel it? We are going to drive the AVO out.”

Pressing on through the crowd, they at last encountered a friend from their Petőfi circle, Josef Csoki. Évike had seen Josef many times at meetings and knew him to be a flirt. He was one student who sometimes would find time for her—and for her mother.

Josef had an olive complexion, heavy dark eyebrows, and wavy black hair. He smiled easily, and Évike thought his full lips and white teeth made him look all the more dreamy. “Sexy,” Évike's mother had observed privately to Dóra, giggling, and adding, “He's married. Just likes a good time.”

He dazzled Évike with a broad grin then turned to the women. “The tank guys are good guys, but I was just talking with a Russian soldier who—can you believe?—did not even know he was in Budapest. Thought he had been sent to Berlin.”

The women looked stunned, then laughed. Évike held back. Was he making a joke?

“No, this is real,” Josef said. “Jenõ…you know Jenõ, right?” The women nodded. “He told me he talked to a Soviet soldier who also thought they were in Berlin, fighting German fascists. These guys have lived so long under Communism…Maybe uneducated, raised on secluded farms—Who knows?”

“What about Nagy?”

“No sighting. Here, take some leaflets.”

Évike recognized the Cyrillic alphabet.

“What does it say?” asked Dóra.

“Please Do Not Fire On the Hungarians. We Are Not Fascist Counter-Revolutionaries.”

Looks good, huh? Printed this morning. At Athenaeum Press, after we captured it. We want all Soviets soldiers to get one. We need to counteract.”

The women peppered him with questions about their men, but Josef had not seen Tarján or Miklós. He headed off in another direction.

A short distance later, Évike's mother boldly tried to engage a Soviet machine-gunner, his fur cap jauntily tilted, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his finger resting casually on the trigger of his gun. He spoke only Russian.

“
Édesem
,” the mother said, addressing her daughter. “At last the Russian lessons forced down you have a purpose. Kindly explain to this gentleman we are anti-Stalin, not anti-Communist. We want the exchange of free thoughts, ideas. Individual rights, not a life dictated to us by others.” She thrust a leaflet toward the soldier. “We will liberalize Hungary and make it a decent place to live again. That is what this is about.”

The Soviet machine-gunner took the pamphlet and moved away from them.

They pushed deeper into the crowd. Atop a tank, Jenõ Toth, waving a giant Hungarian flag, his long black hair fluttering with the breeze, shouted, “Long live Hungarian Freedom! Long live our Native Land!” Others took up the chant.

“Jenõ!” Dóra exclaimed excitedly, steering the stroller in his direction.

The revolutionary climbed down and greeted them. Jenõ was twenty-one, the same age as Dóra. His black eyes blazed as he spoke.

“They can't sweep us away like garbage,” he told them, “We're not trash…. We offered a peaceful way out, but they have not taken us, our demands, seriously. Now, we fight. This show of Soviet force—” he gestured around the square, “will not deter us. Curfews…they expect to control us. They cannot. Freedom fighters have taken over public buildings.”

“Yes, we heard” Évike's mother said.

“And we have a stronghold in the main industrial center, Csepel. We seized a huge cache of arms from Bem tér barracks.” His fiery eyes searched the crowd as if expecting a troop of rebels to appear brandishing them. “Resistance groups are forming at every key location.” He rattled off the sites. The Corvin Cinema in Pest; Szena tér on the north Buda side; and Móricz Zsigmond körtér, at the south end of Buda, near the university.

“My husband, Tarján,” Dóra said. “Have you seen him? Is he here?” She cupped a hand over her eyes, blocking the sun, searching faces.

“He is with the Hungarian Army?” It was more of a statement than a question. “They will not fight on the side of the AVO even under orders. They are looking the other way, even handing over their guns.” He hesitated as if recalling the question. “No, I have not seen Tarján.”

Évike's mother spoke. “Yesterday, my husband Miklós—” At the name, Jenõ turned. “Miklós Benedek?” he asked. She nodded and continued, “Miklós, he said there was a rumor that some generals of the Hungarian Army will join the rebels.”

Jenõ's smiled. “Not a rumor. Colonel Kopacsi, commander of the civilian police in Budapest, Military Commander Kirahly, both have come over. Marton, Kana, as well. And at mid-city this morning, Colonel Maléter was taking a detachment of Hungarian Army tanks to fight rebels at Kilian Barracks when…”

A look of panic crossed Dóra's face. “Maléter…Wh-what happened?”

“The old T-34s are not well-suited to street by street combat.” Another smile. “Rebels on roofs along Üllõi ut peppered them with gunfire and Molotov cocktails. Two tanks retreated in flames. The other three tanks made it through the main gate…but not without difficulty.”

“Please,” Dóra said, her voice desperate now, “Tarján is in Maléter's unit. Do you know? Did his tank make it?”

“Sorry.” Jenõ's hand brushed Dóra's shoulder. “Be brave. I am sure he is fine. He is on the right side now. Because as I was about to say, this morning a miracle.” Jenõ paused, barely able to contain his excitement. “Maléter, he raised a flag signaling cease-fire then spoke with rebels. After this, he sent word to the Minister of Defense. ‘Going over to the insurgents!'” Another grin. “The Soviets will not defeat us now.”

Évike knew about Colonel Pal Maléter. There were pictures of Maléter at her school. He was a highly decorated, heroic figure, one of Hungary's finest military commanders, who had served in the Second World War. What she remembered most about the revered Colonel was his height—Six-feet-six inches, the caption below one photo claimed. And that he had a large head with a mound of hair swept back like Elvis Presley's in the contraband photo card that had been shown around at her school.

“Colonel Maléter,” Évike's mother was saying. “At last. A real leader!”

Jenõ waved to a figure in the distance. ”I must go. Nagy will make an appearance soon. This time we will not leave without assurances.

“We want Imre Nagy,” Jenõ shouted, pumping his fist in the air. A chorus of voices joined him.

Évike's mother turned to Dóra. “Don't worry. Tarján is fine. We will find him, and Miklós too.” She half-smiled, adding, “They are forming rebel corps. Maybe we should start a women's unit.”

Around them, the chanting got more bold, fevered. “
We don't want Stalin's soldiers
!”

An AVO officer shouted back, “Disperse! This demonstration is illegal.”

The demonstrators began heaping insults on the AVO officer, then began yelling at his men, stationed high on the roof across the street. “
Pigs! Assassins! Down with the AVO!
”

Suddenly, from a rooftop, the rattling staccato of submachine guns. Gunfire resounding wild and random. Volleys pinging loudly against pavement nearby. Évike froze. Beside her, a student collapsed, blood spraying from his head, spattering the cement near Évike's feet. Her legs felt suddenly weak. Around her the panicked crowd scattered, shoving her, pushing her. Soldiers in the Soviet tanks seemed to panic too. They fired at the rooftop, but also on the young people they had been talking with only moments before.

Évike, caught up in the fleeing swarm running for their lives, at last ducked free near a monument.
Where was her mother?
Sweat drenched, heart pounding, she crouched, pressing into the hard marble, trying to catch sight of her. Of Dóra. Dórika in the stroller.

The spectacle, the smoke, the screams, the tanks, their turrets spinning in all directions, firing wildly, momentarily mesmerized her. Another wave of demonstrators racing for shelter swept by, taking her with them. Vaguely aware of the forms sprinting beside her she saw others lying prone on the square.
Were they shot? Paralyzed with fear?

She stumbled, tripped to her knees. At eye level, a woman and two children, lifeless bodies in blood-soaked clothes, split apart.

She turned, forced herself upright. Terrified masses continued fleeing past, catching her up again. She wanted to collapse, but she could not stop. Gunfire cut someone down next to her. Her eyes squeezed shut only to open again to meet the horror on the face of a man, his side blown open, his guts spilled out where he lay. She ran, screaming herself now. Her foot kicked something. A severed limb…
Arm
?
Leg
? It was too much. Tears streamed from her eyes, blurred her vision. Still she ran. She knew she was screaming, “Mother!” but could not hear her own voice. Then, suddenly her mother was there. Grabbing Évike's hand, pulling her to her. Beside them, Dóra clutched little Dórika. The baby, covered in blood.