Goodbye to Budapest Read online

  Zoltán has long thought that if the workers could have half an hour extra in bed, or time for some breakfast and a coffee, then they might be more productive at their work. Instead they have to stand here like lemons, whilst Csaba Elek tells them that productivity has tripled, nay quadrupled, in the factories in recent months thanks to the economic wizardry of Erno Gerő and his miraculous Five Year Plan.

  Zoltán catches Sándor’s eye and the other man stifles a yawn which makes Zoltán want to yawn too. Yawns are catching like that. As is laughing. Both are frowned upon severely by the Party officials who sit on the platform, scanning the assembled workers, noting absences and indiscretions. Both are taken as signs of disrespect towards the Party. And disrespect is a punishable offence.

  ‘…and this is all thanks to our great leader, Mátyás Rákosi.’ Csaba Elek’s voice rises to an emotional climax at the mention of Rákosi’s name. If this were an opera, thinks Zoltán, now would be the moment for an impassioned aria or a stirring chorus. Instead the assembled factory workers dutifully break out into thunderous applause. This happens whenever Stalin or Rákosi are mentioned by name. You have to demonstrate the appropriate level of enthusiasm, or risk being a marked man. The Party officials are on their feet, clapping along with everyone else, but mostly they are watching for anyone lacking sufficient fervour. Zoltán joins in. He can do without the hassle of being labelled a troublemaker.

  After a moment or two the applause becomes a rhythmic clapping that is almost hypnotic. It’s tiring to keep this up for minutes on end, but no one dares be the first to stop.

  The old man standing in front of Zoltán, a veteran of the First World War who lost half his right leg fighting the Russians, sways on his one good foot and his wooden peg leg. He looks as if he might keel over and then those around him would topple like dominoes. Zoltán risks the wrath of the Party Secretary and stops clapping so he can put a steadying hand on the old man’s shoulder. Surely this can’t go on for much longer, can it?

  He’s tired himself today. He didn’t get much sleep last night. He was reading late, a favourite pastime of his, when he heard the sound of car engines in the street. In a country where few people own a car, the sound of a throbbing engine, particularly after midnight, usually means only one thing. He turned off the light and stood to one side of the window frame so that he was hidden from view and watched as two black Pobedas pulled up outside. Six AVO men got out of the cars and went into the building opposite, let in by that miserable old caretaker, József. Then a few minutes later the lights went on in the Bakos’ apartment and Zoltán’s worst fears were proved right. They’d come for Márton Bakos. Her father.

  When the AVO men brought Márton Bakos out into the street he saw her, with her forehead pressed against the window, a look of desperation on her face. He wanted to call out to her, offer some comfort, but there was nothing he could do. If he’d interfered they’d have come for him too and he’d be no good to her locked up in some AVO cell. He would have to find some other way to lend his support.

  Eventually the Party Secretary gives the sign for the clapping to stop. The workers drop their hands to their sides, the sense of relief palpable. The reading is over for today.

  From the platform Csaba Elek glares at him. He must have noticed him stop clapping before the others. He has blotted his copybook, which was never perfect to begin with. Zoltán stares back defiantly.

  ‘Thanks, son,’ whispers the old man. ‘Don’t know what came over me there. Felt a bit faint.’ He limps off to his workstation, his wooden leg tapping on the floor. He should be taking it easy, thinks Zoltán. Not working in this factory twelve hours a day until he drops dead.

  Csaba Elek carefully folds the newspaper and tucks it under his arm as if it’s a sacred text. He’ll go to his office now and write up his daily report: who was missing, who wasn’t paying attention, who stopped clapping before the order to cease had been given. Zoltán has no doubt his name will be on it. With a sigh, he turns away and finds Sándor by his side.

  ‘Hey, Zoltán, you all right? You look a bit rough today if you don’t mind me saying.’ Sándor lays a hand on his friend’s shoulder. The two of them are like brothers. After a shared childhood on neighbouring vineyards north of Budapest, they enlisted for the labour battalions together in ’44. With hundreds of others they were shipped off to Transylvania to build the Árpád Line, a chain of trenches and fortresses in the Carpathian Mountains intended to ward off the Russian advance. Their defensive efforts may have been ultimately futile, but their childhood bond grew all the stronger.

  ‘Late night,’ says Zoltán. Now is not the time to go into details, even with Sándor. Too many listening ears.

  ‘Oh yes?’ asks Sándor raising an eyebrow. He always has an eye for a pretty girl.

  ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’ Although he wouldn’t have stayed by the window keeping watch for anyone else.

  *

  Katalin wakes with a start. She’s grown cold and stiff, curled up on the sofa. She hadn’t expected to sleep and her neck is painful from lying at an awkward angle. She sits up, rubbing her eyes. A cold, grey light bathes the room. All around her the floor is strewn with books, papers and photographs. The sight of all this chaos brings back the events of last night with such frightening clarity that she looks behind her in case they are still there, lurking. The hated Secret Police. But they have gone, and they have taken her father with them.

  Fear turns to rage.

  How dare they barge in like that and arrest her Papa. What possible reason could they have for doing such a thing? She and her father live quietly, minding their own business, trying not to ruffle feathers, but still the Secret Police have violated their lives, and her father is now goodness knows where. She’ll never forget the sight of him being manhandled into the back of the black Pobeda and driven off. A thought strikes her. What if that is the last time she ever sees him? People disappear and never come back. You hear such stories, but you try not to think about them. You keep your head down and try not to draw attention to yourself. But someone drew attention to her father and now he’s been taken. She chokes back a sob. No, she mustn’t think like this. She must try to stay strong, for his sake.

  She gets to her feet, careful not to step on precious photographs and books. Many of them now bear the imprint of AVO boots. She would like to start tidying up straight away, restore order and remove all traces of those men, but there isn’t time now. She has to go to work. Piroska Benke, the school secretary, will mark her file if she’s late. The woman is a bureaucratic machine, keeping detailed reports on all the pupils and members of staff. She guards her office more securely than the Catholic Church guards the treasures of the Vatican. And the headmaster, György Boda, is always looking for any excuse to find fault. How can we expect the children to learn punctuality and the correct forms of behaviour if we do not set an example ourselves? Besides, she has to pay the rent on the apartment. She doesn’t expect that her father’s salary will be paid now that he has been arrested.

  She steps across the living room and pulls the door closed behind her, telling herself she’ll deal with it later. In the kitchen she is confronted with yet more mess: a ripped open loaf of bread; unscrewed jars, their contents spilt; pots and pans taken from the cupboards and left on the worktop; a smashed plate on the floor. It’s from a set of her grandmother’s crockery with a blue flower design. They’ve always taken good care of things. The communists would say the design was bourgeois but Katalin has always thought it rather pretty.

  There’s no hope of mending the plate. She picks up the broken shards and places them carefully in the bin. Then she tears a hunk of bread off the damaged loaf. She finds a pat of butter that hasn’t been touched and spreads it on the bread, forcing herself to chew and swallow. She doesn’t want it, but she can’t teach all day on an empty stomach. She must keep her strength up for the day ahead, and the days after that. Her father rebuilt his life one day at a time after the war and
she must now do the same. She washes the bread down with a cup of strong black tea. Then she goes to her bedroom and finds a clean skirt and blouse. For a moment she looks at her violin case, remembering her small victory over Tamás. She’d like to take the violin with her but she has no need of it today. It’s safer here. She puts on her coat and leaves the apartment, taking care to make sure the door is locked behind her.

  She makes her way down to the ground floor, annoyed to see that József the caretaker is up already, sweeping the front steps in his slippers. Did he rise early on purpose to observe her? She hoped not to encounter him today of all days. She is suspicious of the role he played last night in letting the AVO into the building. She steps nimbly around his broom, keen to avoid being drawn into conversation.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Bakos.’ The old man’s voice is thin and squeaky. Katalin recoils at the whiff of Pálinka – plum brandy – on his breath.

  ‘Good morning, József.’ She holds her head high, determined not to be intimidated by him. But a caretaker wields considerable power over the tenants in his building. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn he’s an informer. She must be careful. Take care.

  ‘Bad business about your father.’ He smacks his lips together.

  Katalin narrows her eyes, picking her words with care. ‘I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding and will be sorted out soon enough. If you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way.’

  He returns to his sweeping with a shake of his head. Katalin walks on, feeling his eyes on her back, but not daring to turn around.

  The streets are busy with people hurrying to work, no one catching anyone else’s eye. There’s a queue at the tram stop and another one at the bakery, snaking around the corner. Although Katalin feels marked out, no one pays her any attention. Everyone has their own problems to keep them occupied. Most people know someone who has been arrested. They’re not interested in one more.

  There’s a chill wind to the early October day. The cold air clears her head and she finds she’s able to think better. Last night shouldn’t have come as such a shock, she realises, because the signs have been there for a while. Her father is a physicist who teaches at the Technical University in Buda. A few months ago he was asked to sit on a committee on atomic energy and had been attending meetings at the Central Research Institute for Physics in Csillebérc, Budapest’s 12th district.

  ‘It’s all part of the Five Year Plan,’ he told her on one of their walks through the City Park. ‘Gerő hopes nuclear power will bolster the economy by providing cheap electricity for the factories.’

  ‘I thought you were sceptical about Gerő’s Five Year Plan.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see it succeed. It would be good for Hungary if it worked.’

  ‘I suppose it’s an honour to have been chosen to sit on the committee.’

  ‘You don’t refuse such a request.’

  But for weeks now her father has suspected that his letters are steamed open and resealed before he receives them. When he uses the telephone at work there’s a click on the line. Father and daughter have always talked openly to one another, but recently they have avoided discussing politics in the apartment in case of bugs. They play the radio at a high volume to mask their private conversations. Hungarian gypsy music is effective at drowning out their voices and is approved by the authorities, unlike American jazz which is seen as subversive. Recent walks in the park or to the cemetery to visit her mother’s grave have been marred because her father feels there is someone following them. If travel were permitted they might have gone to Oxford, a place he always talks about with such fondness. As it is, they’ve had to stay in Hungary. She has sensed a growing pessimism in him lately, as if he knew it was only a matter of time before the Secret Police came for him. And now they have.

  The question is, what is she going to do about it? People say you mustn’t make a fuss, otherwise they’ll come for you too. But she can’t do nothing. If there’s no news in a couple of days, then she’ll go and see her father’s friend and colleague, Professor Károly Novák. She’s known Professor Novák ever since she was a little girl. He and his wife, Ilona, have always been good friends to her father. Yes, that’s what she’ll do.

  At the school gates she hears the sound of running footsteps behind her. It’s Tibor, the ten-year-old who lives with his mother in the apartment above hers. He’s chewing on a piece of bread, his backpack bouncing on his back. He’s growing fast. His trousers are too short for him, and his wrists are sticking out of his jacket sleeves.

  ‘Careful you don’t trip, Tibor,’ she says, pointing at his shoe lace which has come undone, if it was ever tied in the first place.

  He gives her a mischievous grin, stuffs the chunk of bread in his mouth, and bends down to tie his lace. He’s a good kid, if a little boisterous. He runs ahead of her into the playground to join his friends. Katalin envies him his carefree attitude and wonders how long it will last. Then she takes a deep breath before going into the school.

  *

  How many times, in the space of an hour, can you walk up and down a cell that measures three yards by four? Márton Bakos has already lost count. It only takes him a couple of strides to get from one side to the other.

  For now he’s given up pacing and is standing in the freezing cell, shivering from a combination of cold and fear. The cell has a wooden plank for a bed, with no mattress, no pillow and no blankets. Above the plank is a tiny window covered in iron bars. The window opens into an air shaft which is letting in a cold draught. In the middle of winter it will be unbearable. A naked bulb on the white-washed wall glares permanently. There is no off-switch in the cell.

  He has no idea what time it is, but thinks it must be late morning. He’s been here hours already.

  He doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to stand this. He’s not a young man anymore and he feels older than his fifty-five years. The war aged him. It aged everyone it didn’t kill. And the subsequent years of Soviet occupation have left him disheartened. Communism has not delivered the brighter future it promised and instead people lead lives of deprivation and fear. But he must not give way to despair yet. Without hope the body soon gives up too.

  When the doorbell woke him last night, it was hardly a surprise. There had been warning signs – letters opened and inexpertly resealed; the telltale click of a listening device on the telephone line; that creeping sensation on the back of his neck that told him he was being followed. It was only a matter of time. If he could have done something about it, he would have. But you can’t just run away. That only makes you look even more suspicious. Besides, they can always find you, wherever you go.

  Not that he’s done anything wrong. At least he doesn’t think he has. In this country you don’t have to commit a crime to find yourself on the wrong side of the law. Someone will have denounced him, maybe in an attempt to further their own standing with the Party. He doesn’t want to think who that might be. He’d rather not know. His only thought is for Katalin. She mustn’t try to find out any information, or she’ll put herself in danger. That was what he really meant when he said, ‘Take care.’ He hopes she understood him.

  He’s at 60 Andrássy Avenue. He recognised the place immediately, although they drove him in through a side entrance into the inner courtyard. This grand building, in the Italianate style, has the power to strike terror into the hearts of ordinary Hungarian citizens. During the war it was home to the fascist Arrow Cross Party. Now it’s the headquarters of the equally reviled communist Secret Police, the AVO. Different regime, same methods.

  You hear rumours about what lies behind the building’s elegant façade, but only now has he discovered for himself the truth of those rumours.

  On arrival, they took him to a room on the first floor where a young officer with a supercilious air was sitting behind a desk. The officer regarded him with a mixture of boredom and disgust. Márton stood tall and tried to retain his dignity. It’s how he was brought up, to
be unfailingly polite. He spoke to confirm his name.

  ‘Hand over your shoelaces and tie,’ said the officer. The request surprised him but he tried not to let it show. He did as he was asked. It seems he mustn’t be allowed to kill himself. If they want him dead, that’s their prerogative, not his. After the way they arrested him, barging into his home in the middle of the night, he didn’t expect to be treated like royalty. But he wasn’t going to give this arrogant upstart the satisfaction of showing that his manner offended him.

  ‘And your watch.’

  Márton undid the leather strap and laid the watch on the desk next to his tie and shoelaces. It had been a present from Eva on their first wedding anniversary. He wished that he’d left it at home but he never went anywhere without it and had put it on without thinking.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why he had been brought here, but the officer gave the order for the guards to take him away and he was brutally shoved out of the room.

  They took him to a staircase which led down to the cellars. Every fibre in his being recoiled at the thought of descending into that unknown dungeon. But with a rifle butt jabbing him in the small of his back, what other choice did he have? They were trying to intimidate him and he was determined not to let them. He placed a foot on the first step and took a deep breath. He had the feeling he was descending into hell, except that he had always imagined hell to be hot and dark, and this cellar was cold and damp and lit with a harsh electric light. At the bottom, the air was rank with a concoction of disinfectant, body odour, blocked drains, and other unidentifiable stenches. He tried to breathe through his mouth.

  The guards marched him down a corridor. At the end they threw him into a tiny cubicle and slammed the thick wooden door, sliding the heavy steel bolt into place.

  His first reaction was one of panic. He’s never liked confined spaces, especially underground. He ran to the door and banged his fists on it.