Under the frog (30 page)

The
tear gas followed swiftly after this. It failed all round. The AVO didn’t have
gas masks, most of the gas billowed back onto them, and since the street was so
narrow and full, even those people who wanted to leave couldn’t do much about
it. There was a lot of coughing and crying but more than anything else, there
was a large amount of anger. It was something you could watch growing, like a
darkening sky presaging rain. Gyuri dropped back to search for Jadwiga and
because he knew it was coming. The Communists might not be good at organising
the economy but if there was one thing they knew it was how to organise
security.

By the
time he had forced his way to the sanctuary of the nearby National Museum, not
on a direct bullet line from the Radio entrance and endowed with walls and
pillars so thick that gunfire would be no more effective than rain, the
shooting started. It was the most sickening sound he had ever heard. His fear
was overtaken by nausea at people being shot for standing in the wrong place.
The streets, of course, were emptying as fast as possible.

In a
doorway opposite, revealed sporadically as people ran past, Gyuri saw a tubby
man slumped against the door, his legs straight out in front of him, like a
propped up teddy-bear. He had a great red patch on his stomach. A companion was
whispering in his ear, perhaps trying to talk him out of bleeding to death.
Gyuri could discern two motionless bodies lying in front of the Radio. He was
surprised how nauseous the sight made him. He had thought he had seen enough
corpses during the war to be immune to queasiness, but obviously you had to
keep your hand in when it came to indifference to death. And the anger. He had
thought he had wanted to kill people before, but now he knew what the real
thing felt like, that he truly wanted to, that it wouldn’t be a problem; the
desire that had been unperceived in the wings now made its entrance, ready for
action.

The
shouts and running went on for some time. Then something happened that Gyuri hadn’t
foreseen. Shooting started,
towards
the Radio. Windows began to shatter and Gyuri spied a
young man taking advantage of a street corner to snipe at the building. He was
dressed in civilian clothes. Where had he got the rifle from? Looking back
towards Kalvin Square, Gyuri could see what looked like a parked Army lorry
They must have been handing out weapons, because the sound of sniping commenced
from every direction.

It
would be funny, mused Gyuri, if a second revolution were to start here at the
National Museum. It was here on these steps that Petófi had read out one of his
poems cutting the ribbon, as it were, to inaugurate the 1848 revolution.

A
couple of workers appeared, wearing the obligatory berets that explained they
came from Csepel, swathed in belts of ammunition and carrying a heavy
machine-gun. They were thinking out loud about how to get onto the roof of the
museum from where they would have a superb arc of fire onto the Radio. ‘Never
come to the Radio without your machine gun,’ one remarked.

A
curly-haired, lanky guy also appeared, and taking up position behind a pillar,
began to adjust the sights on his newly-acquired rifle. The payback for forcing
everyone to do military training, thought Gyuri. He was positive he knew the
man, the face was struggling to be named and placed. Looking at each other,
there was a sudden ocular transfer of thought from the aspiring sharpshooter:
Yes. It’s what we’ve been praying for. Armed revenge. He smiled widely at
Gyuri. Maybe he did know him, maybe it was just the instant camaraderie of that
night. ‘I feel so lucky,’ said the man. ‘This is simply wonderful. Wonderful.’
He fired off two rounds without much aim.

It was
a long and bewildering night. Most of the shooting was just at the Radio,
rather than any particular part of it or any specific target. People had fun
simply shooting at the bricks. There was also a protracted exchange of fire
with the other end of Sándor Bródy utca during a fear of AVO reinforcements
coming. It turned out to be another group of self-armed listeners of the Radio
wishing to register their complaints.

Tired
and cold, Gyuri nevertheless came to the conclusion he could never forgive
himself if he didn’t do a stint of shooting. He sidled up to one well-dressed
combatant and asked him where he had obtained his gun. ‘A soldier gave it to
me. But if you want one, please take mine. I have to go. It pulls a little to
the left.’ Here he peered lengthily at his watch in the dark. ‘I was hoping to
knock off an AVO but the wife will be wondering where I am. A gunfight at the
Radio won’t be an acceptable excuse.’

At
about two in the morning, Gyuri and some others slipped into an adjacent
courtyard to see if they could gain entry to a top-floor flat. They found a
group of five AVO men huddled in a corner, without weapons and without any
inclination to fight.

‘Shouldn’t
you be in the Radio building? Defending the gains of the people?’ asked one of
Gyuri’s group sarcastically.

‘Do you
think we’re going to die for a bunch of fucking Communists?’ retorted one of
the AVO men indignantly. Unfortunately they were so pathetic, no one even
wanted to kick them a bit. As they were pondering what to do with them, a charming
pensioner appeared in her dressing gown and asked if anyone would like tea or
coffee. ‘I’ve got a few crackers as well,’ she said, ‘but nothing more. I wasn’t
counting on company.’ She brought them all a drink and got very angry when
someone tried to give her some money. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

After
his tea, Gyuri who still hadn’t fired a shot, went into the old lady’s flat,
introduced himself to her husband, opened their windows and fired off three
shots in the general direction of the Radio. He closed the window and thanked
the couple for their co-operation. He felt much, much better. He had taken
part.

Around
six o’ clock it dawned on the people besieging that there was no one inside
trying to stop them getting in. Going in, they found a few AVO rigors, but to
their embarrassment it looked as if most of the garrison had slipped out a back
door. One or two shamefaced broadcasters were discovered hiding under desks or
in broom-cupboards. One enthusiastic youth, who couldn’t have been more than
fifteen, called them brothers and exhorted them to take up arms for the
revolution. You could tell it was a revolution because this appeal didn’t sound
ridiculous. Revolution. It was the first time Gyuri had heard the word
mentioned in regard to the proceedings. And why not? Not surprisingly the
presenters readily expressed their readiness to do what was requested. It’s
amazing how much respect people have for you when you have a gun and they don’t,
thought Gyuri.

The
studios were empty, with the signs of hasty retreat, but from a radio they
could hear music being played as if it were a normal Wednesday morning. They
were transmitting from somewhere else. ‘Now what do we do?’ said one of the
victors putting his finger on the issue. Gyuri passed his rifle to another
enthusiastic but unarmed youth and walked home.

In
front of the Keleti Station he saw a convoy of unmistakably Soviet armoured
personnel carriers and tanks clattering along. Well, it had been a laugh while
it lasted.

He got
home to find Elek breakfasting modestly in the kitchen.

‘Don’t
tell me you’ve missed her,’ he said, looking shocked. Without waiting for
further illumination, Gyuri ran out and explored the neighbouring streets
persistently. It was ridiculous. He was going to stick to his philosophy of
staying in bed (Pataki’s departure had brought him a new sleep machine to
replace the one he had burned in Spartan ardour) until Jadwiga turned up.

‘Imre
Nagy has been on the radio,’ said Elek. ‘Did you hear?’

‘No, I
missed that.’

‘He’s
Prime Minister again. He’s asked everyone to calm down.’

‘He’s
going to have to ask very hard indeed,’ mumbled Gyuri from his bed.

* * *

On his
way to the Technical University, he saw an AVO man taking a flying lesson. He
had woken on the afternoon after an unsatisfying six hours’ repose, romance and
other adrenalin-pumpers marring his sleep, and he had determined to head tc
the University since all the studenty activities were probably being
co-ordinated from there. ‘Listen,’ he said to Elek, who felt events justified a
day off at home, ‘I’ll be back at eight on the dot, regardless of how
interesting the revolution is. Tell Jadwiga she should
wait
if she comes home.’

Outside,
there was the sound of remote gunfire, at the right sort of distance to be
piquant but not trouser-soiling. At the Lenin
Körút, people had obtained ladders to help pull down the street signs with
Lenin Körút on them. A crowd had formed to enjoy this but suddenly there was a
scuffle, and a round-faced man in a raincoat was seized by those around him to
shrieks of ‘AVO! AVO!’ Gyuri couldn’t tell what had given him away, but there
was no doubt that the charge was correct. The round-faced man produced a
pistol, and ended his career by firing off two shots, severely wounding a tree.
Held by eight pairs of hands, his documents were examined. Then someone said: ‘Let’s
give him a flying lesson.’

So they
did. He was conducted to a rooftop and made to walk a non-existent plank. The
AVO man wasn’t much good at flying. He came straight down and squandered all
his energy on screaming.

People
didn’t cheer this but nor were they bothered. It was about right. Some
public-spirited citizens started to drag the body out of the road, and as they
were doing this, a diminutive, silent fellow next to Gyuri, who had been
watching all this as if waiting for a bus, threw himself on the body without
warning, stabbing away with a penknife as if he were hammering on a door,
shouting ‘You killed my brother, you killed my brother’ with the same monotony
as his stabbing. The others were perplexed as to what to do, but interrupting
his rage would have been impolite.

Gyuri
had thought the disturbances would be over by now, that the flirtation with
liberty would be a one-night stand. But clearly, people were still doing
whatever they felt like. What were the Russians up to?

In the
centre of the city, closer to the University, Gyuri saw Russian tanks parked
menacingly here and there, trying to look aggressive and unobtrusive at the
same time but he didn’t witness any fighting.

Immediately,
at the university, Gyuri found Laci, with a tricolour band around his arm and
sporting a pistol in a holster. Clearly he was in Laci’s orbit just as he was
out of Jadwiga’s. In the main hallway of the University the standard fashion
accessory seemed to be a firearm, either a davai guitar, or as a minimum, a
revolver. Gyuri was expecting Laci to tell him that Jadwiga had just been
looking for him, but he hadn’t seen her at all.

Laci
was shaken: ‘We were attacked this morning. Some AVO men in a car drove past,
they opened up, killed one of us. I had a machine gun, I had them in my sights…
Gyuri, I simply couldn’t pull the trigger.’

So
there it was. The shock of being an idealist. Some people can’t tell jokes or
touch their toes. Laci can’t pull a trigger. It was funny, his brother would
have been trotting around with extra magazines. As Gyuri commiserated with him,
another student joined them. ‘Hey, Gyuri, are you enjoying the revolution? Do
you want to see our AVO collection?’

The
chemistry lecture hall contained twelve predictably miserable AVO employees who
had been acquired by student patrols. They were being tortured by a student who
was outlining their prospects under the principles of international law and
natural justice; how they would be formally, correctly and legally investigated
by a properly constituted body and if they had committed any illegal acts they
would have to stand trial. Surveying the hunched figures, surrounded by
half-eaten plates of spinach casserole (which even starving students found hard
work), Gyuri thought how lucky they were to be captured by students, and not
walking non-existent planks.

Someone
called his name. It was, Gyuri realised, Elemér, the dog-catching mailed-fist
of the proletariat. ‘Gyuri, Gyuri, why don’t you explain to everyone who I am?
Tell them I only worked in the stationery and office supplies department. They
don’t understand I’m no one important.’

Gyuri
was so taken aback that he was left fumbling for emotions and responses. Later
on, he would wonder whether Elemér’s consummate invertebratery wasn’t in some
senses admirable, such a remarkable absence of moral backbone being as worthy of
attention as a circus contortionist. The ability to survive surely being a
laudable thing. Elemér’s tone would have been apt for greeting a long unseen
friend at a party. Gyuri settled for staring at him, aghast that he wasn’t
standing between a Radio building and a loaded submachine gun. It was a case of
either beating him to death or doing nothing. Since he knew the students would
be upset at his tarnishing the propriety and decorum of their AVO reservation,
giving Elemér a look that he knew would affect his digestion, Gyuri left.

Outside,
he could still hear a muted battle raging, like the muffled argument of a
domestic dispute a wall away. Trams had become a rare species, hardly glimpsed,
but a tram appeared to take Gyuri across the Zsigmond Moricz Square, where he
had a good, close-up view of two Soviet tanks shelling what he assumed were
freedom-fighter strongholds. Once the tram was over the bridge track in Pest,
things were quieter, a few streetsweepers were brushing the pavements clean
with their customary sluggish swishes; their union evidently hadn’t called them
out.

While
keeping a look-out for any discharging tanks, Gyuri reflected on the corpse of
the student killed that morning, now laid out in state in front of the
University by some trees, surrounded by impromptu wreathes and flowers, and
table-clothed by a national flag that had been draped over him. It was one of
the old fashioned tricolours that must have been stored away somewhere, not one
of the new-style flags that everyone was parading around, minus the centre
where the Communist coat-of-arms had been cut out.