1.
I woke this morning with my ex-husband sleeping only a few feet away.
I stared at him for a while trying to equate this crumpled figure with the man who’d once been a constant in my life. Yesterday afternoon, in the park, we sat for what seemed like hours with his head in my lap, the two of us sobbing.
I asked him where he was staying but he couldn’t speak, he seemed totally helpless. I needed to act for him, to make his decisions. He was too weak to walk the distance back to the apartment but I managed to catch us a lift on a truck full of men with guns. Josef hesitated before climbing aboard, his attention caught by the large Kossuth emblem someone had painted on the side of the truck. I knew the feeling, no one had ever thought we’d see it again, the symbol of our country, the emblem of our patriotism. But now it was everywhere, crudely painted on vehicles, on shop fronts, on signs. He stared at it, his eyes wide, the emotion stifled by surprise, when a pair of arms, strong patriotic arms, reached down and physically hoisted him onto the truck.
On this late Monday morning, the sun made an effort to brighten the living room as we ate our breakfast of bread and jam, with cups of black and unsweetened coffee. Basic foodstuffs that both of us, but especially Josef, thought were the pinnacle of luxury. But hungry as I was, I couldn’t eat, too worried about George, about how to explain the reappearance of my past. Josef ate slowly, savouring each mouthful; a habit, he told me, from his time in prison. The cherry flavour of the jam was almost too much for him, his senses not use to such an assault on his taste buds; and the coffee made him feel heady, so unaccustomed was he to its strength. Ordeal by luxury.
Mid-morning. Josef and I sat quietly at the table, the shared breakfast plate empty. Still no sign of George or Milan but it wasn’t the first time they’d disappeared for a couple of days, revelling in the joy of chaos and the chaos of liberty. Occasionally, Josef asked me a flurry of questions – what had happened during his time away; what had caused this sudden uprising; what had happened to the old Stalinists like Rakosi and Gero; where did Imre Nagy fit into it all. I answered as best as I could, often leaving him with more questions. I longed for Josef to talk without peppering me with questions, longed for him to mention Anastasia, but our past was not a subject we broached, nor the future. Both seemed too far away. For now, we concentrated on the present. And all the time I kept a watch on the door. At some point, George would be back. How would I explain this stranger in his space, this dishevelled man with baggy eyes and long, witch-like fingers? Josef was a weakened man. I remembered him as a man of some eighty kilos. He now weighed little more than fifty-five. I dreaded to think what deprivations he endured.
‘How strange everything feels,’ he said. ‘It’s odd but after a while life in a cell becomes your only reality. You give up on dreaming of freedom and your past begins to feel as if it belongs to someone else. So you’re left with this stretch of meaningless time. After months of solitude you crave company, for a pair of friendly eyes, a sympathetic ear, and when it happens you love your fellow inmates with an intensity that is frightening and then, after months of living on top of one another, one longs for solitude.’
2.
‘I’m cold, Mama.’
‘I know, Roza, here, let me rub your back.’ Petra knelt down and wrapped her arms around her daughter and squeezed her tightly. ‘Papa’s going to get us away from here soon, aren’t you, dear?’
Zoltan, sitting upright in the armchair, made no attempt to answer, instead kept his eyes fixed on a portrait photograph of Rakosi on the opposite wall. He hadn’t shaved for days, his ‘dead man’s clothes’, as he called them, fitted poorly and were of such dreadful quality it was a wonder they didn’t fall to pieces whenever he moved. He still wore his AVO regulation boots, solidly made from black leather; and in his pocket, he kept his AVO service revolver; the only remnants from eight year’s service. Zoltan’s career, that had been gradually grinding to a halt, was finally over. But right now, that was the least of their worries.
Their surroundings were unfamiliar, having abandoned their upstairs apartment and come to a vacant basement one instead. The block had survived relatively intact, but the building next to it had been pummelled by Soviet shells, and they felt safer being nearer to the ground. The place was also covered in a heavy layer of dust; many of the windows smashed and, despite the gas fire, he had never felt so cold.
‘Zoltan? Zoltan, we can’t stay here.’
Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes red, his face etched with symmetrical lines – years of age accumulated in seven days. ‘We can’t go out there; I’d be recognised.’ He looked back at Rakosi’s rounded and deceptively jocular features and his shiny bald head. ‘Lynched,’ he said, spitting the word out.
‘You have to go back to them and fight,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘To the AVO.’
‘The AVO’s dead.’
‘No. There’s still enough of you to take control of the city. Find Donath and fight, Zoltan. If you don’t, they’ll take over completely. The city, the whole country will be in the hands of barbarians. You owe it to us.’
Roza nestled in closer to Petra’s bosom. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘I know, sweetheart, I’m going out soon to find something. You can come too, if you like.’
*
It could be that simple, thought Petra. She and Roza could leave the apartment and not come back. While they remained with him, they too were marked but not if they simply walked out on him. Most people wouldn’t know; wouldn’t associate them with Zoltan or the AVO. Ten years they’d been married, thrown together, like so many couples of their age, after the defeat of the Nazis. Did she love him; had she ever loved him? In 1946 it wasn’t a matter of love, it was a matter of survival, and a massive effort to start life again while adjusting to the ever-perpetual presence of the Russians. Love didn’t come into it, but ideals did. Zoltan was an idealist; they both were. A dedicated fighter against fascism, he became a communist, determined to root out those who threatened its early survival in Hungary. Stepping into the AVO boots seemed a logical progression. But ideals and logic had lost all meaning many years ago.
A fine layer of snow covered the streets, mirroring the white dust inside. Petra walked quickly, holding Roza’s hand, encouraging her to keep up and get warm. Everywhere, people swarmed about or huddled in groups, youngsters with cigarettes and guns, men reading revolutionary newspapers, women carrying string bags half-full of vegetables, people in bandages, nursing their wounds, somewhere a dog barking. But still, she thought, how quiet everything seemed. No more crackle of machine guns, no screams of battle, no rumbling of tanks. But the evidence lay all around them; the debris of revolution all the more visible in the silence: disjointed corpses covered in lime to disguise the stench of death, burnt out tanks, hanging cables and uprooted tram lines, collapsed buildings and gaping craters, and smashed cars, abandoned trucks and empty trams. Everything around her in need of an adjective because normal things had lost all sense of their normality. Roza squeaked and hid her face in a gloved hand – hanging upside down from a tree, a man stripped bare, his body gently swaying in the wind, his torso red, black and raw, his mouth stuffed full with bank notes. Petra tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand and pulled her along, regretting the need of having to drag her along, exposing her to such sights.
The queue was mercifully short but she soon realised it was because she was late. There was nothing left, said a robust middle-aged woman in a battered apron, come back tomorrow when they were expecting fresh supplies from the country. The look on Roza’s face reflected how Petra felt. But here, said the woman, have a couple of beetroots. It was of little consolation but Petra thanked her.
She started walking towards the City Park, the opposite direction from the apartment. Roza asked where they were going and Petra palmed her off with something about needing exercise. She wasn’t going back; she’d made up her mind, she wasn’t going back.
At first, she walked as if on golden pavements. She grinned at passers-by, believing that she shared in their victory – the Russians had gone, democracy was around the corner and she was free of Zoltan and the death sentence he carried on him like a label. But after almost half an hour, Roza’s occasional moan had become constant; the cold seeped into their bones and Petra, when she thought about it, had no idea where to go. In living the life of relative luxury as an AVO’s wife, she had, one by one, lost all her friends. Until this moment it had never bothered her. But it bothered her now.
‘Good morning, again, Mrs Beke.’
She spun round. He was there, standing casually behind her, as if he’d been expecting her, as if he’d been standing there all the time, wearing his quilted jacket and beret, smoking a handmade cigarette. He must’ve been following them. The faint smile on his face made her shudder.
She turned her back on him. ‘Come on, Roza, we’re going home.’
‘Back to Mr Beke?’
Roza glanced inquisitively up at her mother. ‘Isn’t that –’
‘Yes, come on,’ she said, pulling on her hand, desperate to get away from him as quickly as possible.
‘Mr Zoltan Beke, officer of the AVO,’ he said, the voice behind her quiet but piercing.
She stopped but didn’t turn around – too frightened to do so, too frightened to carry on walking. But Roza did turn round.
‘Hello, you must be his daughter.’ His familiarity towards Roza repulsed her.
She listened as his footsteps approached slowly, deliberately. He drew level but still she couldn’t bear to look at him. ‘What do you want?’ she said, her voice edged with guilt more than fear.
‘Your husband and me go back a long way, Mrs Beke.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘A long way.’ She wanted to deny him, to say she hadn’t seen him for weeks, but she couldn’t, not in front of Roza. ‘Guess he must be out of a job these days.’
‘Roza,’ she said, firmly. ‘Please, wait for me on the corner there.’
‘But why –’
‘Roza.’ Her daughter looked at her and at the stranger, opened her mouth but then decided to do as she was told.
‘What a considerate mother you are. So, tell me, how is he these days? Still alive? So many AVOs now taking their own lives, you never know.’
‘I said what do you want?’
‘I’d like to see your husband get the justice he deserves.’
‘He was only doing his job.’
‘His job cost me six years of my life and my fingernails.’ He fanned his fingers out in front of her face and, sure enough, a layer of skin had grown where his fingernails should have been. ‘Cost me half my cock too, want to see that as well? No? Can’t say I blame you, it’s not a nice sight but hey, it’s still functional in every way, if you know what I mean.’
‘I’m pleased for you.’ Immediately, she regretted the patronising tone.
He pushed his face into hers. ‘Oh, are you, Mrs Beke, you AVO whore?’ She twisted her head, the smell of tobacco and garlic filling her nostrils. ‘I followed him for months, got to know where he lived, got to know you, your daughter. But I didn’t have the nerve to do anything. Didn’t even have the means. Then all this shit takes off and someone puts a gun in my hand. I go to find him. But of course everyone’s gone. Imagine my delight in seeing you yesterday. Meet me tomorrow,’ he growled, thrusting a scrap of paper into her hand. It was an address but she didn’t read it, not wanting to know it. ‘After dusk. Don’t bring the kid. I’ll be waiting for you.’ He made to leave, throwing the cigarette on the road.
‘I won’t come.’ Her heartbeat stopped.
He laughed. ‘Your daughter – pretty little thing. It’s Roza, isn’t it?’ Lifting his voice, he shouted, ‘How old are you, Roza? Nine, ten?’
Roza nodded back, her eyes checking for her mother’s permission.
‘OK, OK,’ said Petra. ‘After dusk.’
‘I look forward to it.’ He tipped his beret. ‘Nice seeing you again, Mrs Beke. Goodbye, Roza.’
She watched him leave for a few moments, then glanced at her daughter, still waiting obediently on the corner of the street. She walked up to her, her feet heavy and awkward. ‘Shall we go home?’ she said.
‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ She wanted to kiss her, to hug her, but something held her back. She knew if she did, she’d never let go.
3.
The column of a dozen tanks rolled across the Hungarian countryside, Budapest already an hour behind them. Following in the rear came the motorcycles and trucks. The T-54 in front of them had placed a gruesome mascot on the back of their tank – a dead comrade, propped up and held in place by ropes. The dead soldier watched Budapest fade into the distance. Petrov had complained, saying it wasn’t right that they were being subjected to a dead man’s vacant gaze from here back to Moscow. A dead Hungarian he could have coped with, perhaps, but not one of their own, too close for comfort. But the team in front said they were taking him home in dignity; not for their colleague the trucks full of stiffs thrown in haphazardly without any respect.
The locals certainly lacked respect. The whole route seemed lined with peasants, silent and angry, wanting to see with their own eyes the departing Russians. Many jumped out to spit at the tanks and yell Russian obscenities at the soldiers. Vladimir, who spent most of his time leaning out of the turret, remarked that at least the Russian language lessons weren’t for nothing. At first, he yelled back at them but soon lost interest as the line seemed to stretch ahead continually.
How lovely it was to feel the cool air chasing away the nauseous smells of grime and diesel fumes inside the tank. Vladimir, still leaning out of the turret, started singing a bawdy song, too loudly for Valentin’s liking. He resisted the temptation to pull his friend down by the legs and tell him to shut the up. Why upset the locals even more? Part of him was impressed however, amazed how cheerful Vladimir could remain after living on their nerves for six days with very little sleep. But they were going home and that was excuse enough for Vladimir to sing his songs. The relief at leaving Hungary was tangible but Valentin felt too exhausted to appreciate it. Never had he been so tired, and so unable to sleep. But there was more to it than that. For the second time in his life, he was leaving Budapest with a knot in his stomach.
He remembered the first time. In some ways it wasn’t too dissimilar, together with a bunch of men, a team united in their objectives and by their experiences, relieved to be leaving and talking of what they’d do when they got back home. But last time, they were on a plane; last time they didn’t stink, nor salivate at the sight of a cow in the field. But at least this time he didn’t feel as if his heart was breaking.
He remembered the flight so well – the face he forced himself to adapt not to give himself away, the food he forced himself to eat, the jokes he forced himself to laugh at. And all the while he recalled every moment and detail of the previous day, wishing he could relive it a thousand times.
It’d been seven years. How many permutations can a person’s life take in seven years, even within a country with closed borders and limited choices? The more he thought about the woman in front of the bonfire, the more he realised it couldn’t have been Eva. All he had to go on was the red hair and a strange feeling that pricked his heart. She was too far away, too obscured by smoke and the chaos around her. But why had she remained so resolutely calm when a 100-millimetre tank canon bore down on her. His colleagues had dismissed her as a crazy woman but, at the time, he thought them wrong. Fanciful thoughts that defied logic and clouded reality. It wasn’t her; it was ridiculous to think it was. But in his tired, tired mind, he allowed his imagination to indulge the fantasy.