OSA / Guide / RIP / 1956 / RFE/RL Background Reports : Subjects | Browse | Search

The text below might contain errors as it was reproduced by OCR software from the digitized originals,
also available as Scanned original in PDF.

BOX-FOLDER-REPORT: 32-2-27
TITLE:             Reckoning
BY:                Tibor Dery
DATE:              1962-10-24
COUNTRY:           Hungary
ORIGINAL SUBJECT:  Special Translation
THEMATIC SUBJECTS: Hungary--1956-1965, Hungary--Literature, Personalities

--- Begin ---

"E" DISTRIBUTION - 600	24 OCTOBER 1962

RFE TARGET AREA RESEARCH AND ANALYSIS

Special Translation

RECKONING

by

Tibor Dery

The following is a full translation of "Reckoning"
by Tibor Dery which appeared in the August issue of the
Hungarian literary journal "Uj Iras". For a comment, with excerpts,
on this short story, together with a brief biography of Dery,
see Hungarian Target Area Research and Analysis Unit Background
Report "Tibor Dery Back in Print" 20 September 1962.

X X X

The student smuggled the submachine-gun into the
professor's flat under his plastic raincoat a little before curfew.
He felt no qualms of conscience. Nor was he particularly excited,
the only thing he was afraid of was that he might lose his temper
and offend the old gentleman. The huge, bare hall that he had
known only in its daylight variation with shadowy corners and
out-of-reach walls now assumed its latent geometrical shape in the
glare of the electric lights it was repulsively unambiguous and
dreary. He lowered his heads instead of watching the professor's
reproachful, surprised face he concentrated his attention on the
latter's feet which, in the clumsy, bigh black lace-up shoes,
seemed movingly old and helpless. The old man was a head taller
than he.

"I am disgusted with you, my young friend", the
professor said. "I should never have thought you were so sly. You
show up here one minute before curfew, counting on me not to chase
you out into the street after zero hour."

"You can chase me out if you want to, Professor", the
student said.

[page 2]

"Anyway, what right have you to assume that I share
your opinion"? the old man asked. "And, particularly, that our
understanding is so complete that it extends also to this horrible
skin-puncturing implement? Because what other reason could you
have, apart from this assumed understanding, for wanting to hide
it here of all places?"

"Your house won't be searched, Professor", the student
said.

"And yours will"?

"That's why I cleared out", the student said. "I Jumped
out of the window. "

The old man broke into mocking laughter. "On the
ground-floor, I suppose. Not the fifth floor!"

The student had no doubt of the final outcome of this
conversation, he feared only that in its tortuous course he might
lose his temper. Already he was aware of the rage mounting slowly
in his veins.

"So you flew straight to me from the ground--floor, or
the fifth floor, my young friend", said the professor. "It moves
me deeply that you wanted to share the danger with me as with a
brother."

"One word from you, Professor, and I disappear with
this skin-borer", the student said looking into the professor's
thin, beloved face.

"What outrages me most is the cool cunning with which
you've trapped me", the professor said. "You will go far in life.
What are you grinning at?"

The student repressed his laughter.

"As a matter of fact, you are only angry with me,
Professor, because I dirtied your floor", he said. The cushions
of snow on his shoulders had begun to melt and ran down the creases
of his raincoat onto the floor. A small, round pool reflecting
the light had formed around his feet. He knew that the old man
was a stickler for cleanliness; it was general knowledge at the
university that it was not advisable to ask for his signature on
one's class card, or sit in the front row at his lectures with
black nails or in a dirty shirt. Even now, late in the evening,
all alone in his bachelor flat, the professor had opened the door

[page 3]

to the student wearing a blindingly white collar and cuffs. His
trousers under the long silk dressing gown were perfectly creased.

"I'll wipe it up before I go, Professor", the student
said with a hint of mockery in his voice.

The old man stared at the submachine-gun protruding
from under the plastic coat.

"You disgust me, my young friend", he said. "Even
if for some reason I cannot fathom you have assumed that I am
in agreement with your turbulence, it requires a great deal of
impertinent tactlessness to compel me to acknowledge that
agreement. Not only do you extract such an admission from me against
my will and good taste, but you have the impudence to demand in
addition to my concurrence also my help, the involvement of my
person, you demand that I take a risk, that I trespass against the
law, go to prison and, ultimately, die a martyr's death... no,
I am wrong, you don't demand it, you impose it upon me invoking
some sort of ridiculous moral law ... you force me to march into
prison, probably to the scaffold, and all this one minute before
curfew, in my own flat, while you grin idiotically and drip slush
all over my parquet flooring which was waxed only yesterday...
and finally, to cap your immature arrogance, you have the insolence
to offer to wipe up the puddle. Well, of course, one has to mop
up if a child wets you! You would even wax the floor and polish
it if I asked you, wouldn't you?"

"I repeats it requires only a word from you. Professor,
and I get out along with my skin-borer."

"Have you no eye for nuances, my young friend"? the
professor asked. "Can't you distinguish between approval and
identification? Don't you. know that if a 62-year-old man agrees
with a 20-year-old the consequences are not the same for both?
That what suits you does not necessarily suit me as well? That
action belongs to the young, and the old are only fit to pass
judgment? Has your passion for gambling clouded your mind to a degree
where you can no longer distinguish between the duties of the young
and the privileges of the old? You must have a pretty distorted
image of the world if you calmly take it upon yourself to sacrifice.
or simply risk my life for your own tawdry, insignificant 20 years...
it's no use glaring at me like that... if you think you have the
right to exchange my well-earned present,, with a cheerful wink and
without compunction, for a handful of promises! What guarantee is
there that you will fulfill them? Show me one single day-dream
which matches in real weight a thrush's song? Until now I have liked

[page 4]

you for your honesty and your courage, I never thought much of
your brain, but now, my dear little embryo, I have to draw the
painful conclusion that you are sly and a coward."

I get it -- the student thought -- he intends to abuse
me until I get fed up and clear off with my gear. Keep calm!
Don't fall for his wiles! But his forehead and his ears flushed
red.

"A coward"? he asked.

The old man toyed with his old-fashioned silver pencil
with the same pale, dignified air he wore at his university lectures.
The wind had covered the glass panes of the front door with snow,
the gale belched repeatedly in the chimney and the huge, bare hall
become colder every minute.

"You are a coward because you refuse to face reality",
the old man said. "One doesn't sacrifice the mother for the
embryo."

"A sly embryo", the student said.

The professor pointed hiss thick, white index finger
at the bulge in the plastic coat.

"No jokes, if you please", he rebuffed the student.
"For that you have too little humility toward the world "Even
your choice of weapon bears evidence to your slyness. How
unmanly it is to use a weapon with which you can punch holes in the
skin of your fellow-men practically without risking your own! To
produce corpses on the assembly line-- is that the ideal of modern
youth? With an obscenity like that you can finish off as many as
50 men if the mood takes you without risking your own skin, for
of course, it doesn't matter to you at all that you lose your
male pride in the process. And you dare to bring this perforating
machine to my home with a grin on your face demanding that I
make it my own? I'd say that if you had brought me a sword, a
Toledo blade, which I could regard as an extension of your
person, I might even keep it as a souvenir, I might shed a tear
over it because it would remind me of my own youthful stupidity...
yes, my young friend, if you rode into the arena with a bare sword
and challenged a tank to a duel, you would perhaps deserve some
esteem because, though useless, the gesture would at least
constitute an intelligible caricature of the modern world. It
might even change my opinion of your mental, capacities. But what,
I beg you, am I to do with an ethical formula brandishing a sub-

[page 5]

machine-gun that will immediately betray its absurdity when it
comes up against something weaker?"

The student felt the blood rush to his head.

"What do you mean by that, Professor"? he asked
flushing to the roots of his hair.

"Are you a hypocrite into the bargain"? the old man
said reproachfully. "You gambled on a certainty, young man. Aware
of my irresoluteness you could be absolutely certain that I am too
unsure of myself not to take the part of even an evil embryo like
you against myself. Because this way I feel less responsible, do
you understand? You knew with absolute certainty that at the end
of your visit I would be defeated. Even your undeveloped mental
capacities sufficed for you to use me for a study in the psychology
of meditation. You took advantage of my liking for you."

The student turned on his heel and began to run toward
the front door.

"Feri"! the old man called after him.

The student stumbled but ran on. But before he could
reach the door the old man grabbed him unexpectedly by the shoulder,
tore the submachine-gun from under his coat and flung it into the
farthest corner of the hall. He opened the front door himself and
with the whole weight of his tall, bony frame, pushed out the
surprised and frightened boy for whom this, including the handshake,
was the first and last physical contact with the professor.

"Away with you"! the professor said behind him panting
a little. "And never darken my door again!"

From the porch the storm wafted a fan-shaped carpet of snow
into the hall, whose door banged shut a second later behind the
hesitant heels of the boy. The following week passed under the sign of
struggle between the professor and his daily charwoman. At the sight
of the submachine-gun lying in the corner the old woman clasped her
hands over her face and began to whimper, but nothing would persuade
the professor to remove the weapon from the flat or even try to hide
it. He would not even allow the charwoman to throw a rug over it
and when, one day, returning from his early morning walk he
discovered that she had hung it on the coat-rack under his spring coat,
he tore the coat down in his anger, threw it on the floor and
stamped out again. In his old age he could no longer bear even the
most tactful forms of untruthfulness, pretense, suppression, con-

[page 6]

cealment, and he had almost gone to pieces under the pressure of
the last few years. Now, picturing himself smuggling the
sub-machine-gun from the fiat -- in these days possession of a weapon
was punishable with 10 or 15 years imprisonment -- picturing
himself stealing out of the house after dark, the gun hidden under
his coat, after dark so as to meet the fewest possible passers-by,
but before curfew so that the janitor should not notice him, and
then carrying it through deserted back alleys to the Danube
embankment, looking furtively around, right and left, lest someone should
see him from behind a pile of stones or from a window -- when he
pictured himself thus, his head drawn in between his shoulders,
his eyelashes blinking, scurrying like a thief, he was taken with
such nausea that he began to retch and on one occasion vomited
the potato-soup his charwoman had made for his supper. Was it
his past or his future that he threw up? He undressed, took a
bath, put on Glean underwear and dressed again. Until midnight
he sat by the window of his cold room, staring at the caved-in
house opposite, one of whose dark window-cavities gaped straight
back at him. A single lamp burned in the whole street and even
that illuminated only the piles of rubble and refuse that had grown.
up around it.

"Aunt Mari", he said to the charwoman next morning
gazing at his coat lying on the ground, "if you try once more to
hide this weapon from my conscience you will never enter this
flat again".

"For God's sake, stop tormenting me, Professor"! the
old woman said. "If they find it they'll throw you in prison."

"Go and report me then, at least it will be over all
the sooner", replied the professor, then he turned round and walked
out of the flat.

In the light of day the long, narrow street seemed even
bleaker with the few passers-by stumbling along between the
snow-covered rubble and the balls of dust jumping like frogs that the
wind rolled out from the collapsed buildings. Close to the street
door stood a municipal dustbin with its lid cast aside; it was
rumored that an escaped prisoner had hidden in it for two days
until he was discovered, by chance, almost frozen to death, by a
police commando. A low, snow-covered mound next to the dustbin
indicated a temporary grave in which the inhabitants of the street
had buried some nameless corpse. A little further on a broken
lamp-post lay across the street.

By the time the old man reached Rakoczy Street a thick

[page 7]

fog had descended on the town. No trams or buses ran this way
yet, pedestrians flooded the roadway and rolled on, pressed to
each other, stumbling behind each other, in an endless, dense
stream toward the center of the town. Those going in the opposite
direction were carried away by the stream or pushed into
side-streets. The crowd moved hurriedly, here and there men broke
through the lines running, behind them the thin screams of
buffetted old women spiralled in the fog. People trod the mud in deep
silence, heads lowered, lips compressed, to meet the clouds of dust
blown into their faces by the icy wind off the Danube; gusts of
wind swept dust from between the ruins of the gutted houses,
whipped it into the air and flung it down on the ground. From the
direction of the Eastern Railway Station long fleets of lorries cut
through the crowds, people jumped out of their way without a sound,
rammed into those walking beside them, then pressed on without an
oath, silently.

The old man was crowded off the pavement; in front of
a shop with its door and windows shuttered an impenetrable,
compressed mass of people was standing in a constantly lengthening
queue that cruved away along the kerb.

"What are they falling here"? the old man asked.

"Does it matter, grandpa"... said a young woman in
slacks with a scarf on her head.

"Toilet paper, Professor", said a young man standing
beside her. The professor remembered the face, he had seen it
at his lectures, but he could not recall the name. The pressure
did not slacken even on the corner of Lenin Avenue. The Emke
Building was a burned-out shell, its roofless walls reaching toward the
winter sky; the National Theater opposite had been luckier, there
was just one hit on the side where the scenery-store was. The
Corvin Store had remained undamaged. By now the fog had lifted or
the wind had driven it toward Jozsef Borough, one could see all the
way down Rakoczi Street to the Urania picture house. The professor
threw a disgusted glance at his mud-bespattered trousers then walked
slowly on. At the Rokus chapel they had started to rebuild and
scaffolding was also up around a slightly damaged block of flats.

In spite of the wind and cold, Rakoczi Street was a
busy market from one end to the other. People were going on living
with commendable zeal, they were buying old clothes, false
jewellery, pots and pans, stockings, from the obliging pedlars camping
in doorways who also wanted to go on living. We are as
indestructible as bedbugs, the professor thought moodily, and how much

[page 8]

cleverer! Pressing his elbows to his side he fought his way
tactfully through the devotedly bargaining crowds round the
hucksters. With a view to the approaching holidays Christmas
tree decorations were on sale here and there at a somewhat higher
price because of the difficult times. The old man would
undoubtedly have bought some too, had he had anyone for whom to buy them.
He turned into Museum Street, there were fewer people here than in
Lajos Kossuth Street. The auction of any vacuum is always strong;
the old man crossed the deserted ruins of Calvin Square, where
a burned-out tank was still lying on its side in the snowy road
and set out toward the bridge. He decided to walk across the
bridge to Buda. He was unaware that the distant attraction of
silence had made him quicken his steps.

Under the arcades of the market-hall a man was selling
wine from a pot-bellied demijohn.

"Five and sixty", ha said.

"Five and sixty", the professor repeated after him.

The wine was muddy and slightly acid. A little further
on they were selling plum brandy at a little table, three forint
a nip. The old man drank a thimbleful of that too but it didn't
make him either more bitter or happier. A man offered him black
and white thread, 30 forint a spool, but the professor refused
the offer with a, hesitant gesture. From the conversation of the
passers-by he learned that they were already selling Christmas
trees on the first floor 01 the market hall.

"They are selling Christmas trees on the first floor of
the market hall", a white-haired woman with a kind face who had
also stopped for a nip of brandy at the open-air car. told the
professor. "If you have the money it's best to buy new, later you'll
only get the leftovers."

"On the first floor"? the professor asked.

The bridge was again crowded, most of the people were
coming from Buda to Pest. Still, the old man stopped in the middle
of the bridge and, as he was wont, leaned over the railing to
abandon himself for a moment to the attraction of death. This time
it gripped him so strongly that he grew dizzy and hurriedly pulled
himself back. He was meditative, irresolute by nature, but he
despised this sort of coquetry. Deep down the stream swirled
dark-grey, it had not frozen over yet but along the bank a thin film of
ice had formed. Small, transparent panes of ice swam toward him,

[page 9]

whirled on the back of a wave and disappeared under the bridge.
The strong westerly wind tore at the surface of the water with
its 10 sharp nails. People were walking to and fro across the
bridge; the professor continued on his way. When he noticed
that he was cold he stuck both hands -- temporarily -- into the
pockets of his winter coat. As the wind had blown his hat into
the Danube his head, too, began to feel cold under the fluttering,
thin grey hair. At the end of the bridge he hesitated for a
moment whether he should turn right or left, then, under the
protection of the wind-catching houses along Bela Bartok Street he set
out at a comfortable pace toward the Ring.

At Kelenfold Station he felt rather tired as he got
into a train that had just come in from the direction of the
Southern Railway Station. He acted hurriedly so as to avoid
making a decision. When, in answer to his question, one of the
passengers told him that the train was going to Gyor he nodded
approvingly. "Good", he said". "That's fine;" The train stood
in the station for a long time, he could have alighted to buy a
ticket but he was afraid he might have to wait at the booking
office. The train was crowded. In one of the compartments they
made room for the old man.

"Going toward Sopron", his neighbor asked when the
train moved out of the station.

"Yes", the professor said.

"For a pig-killing?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Are you going to relatives for the pig-killing?"

"I have no relatives there", answered the professor.

His interlocutor was an attractive young man with a
pleasant smile and above the smile a small, thick moustache.

"Pig-killing no longer works", he said. "They're
turning back 200 people a day who are all on their way to visit
relatives for the pig-killing."

There was laughter in the compartment. Apart from
the old man there were eight people in it who had apparently made
friends since leaving the Southern Railway Station. Most of them
looked like country people, their well-fed appearance supported
this assumption. The train advanced slowly but still too fast.

[page 10]

The old man looked out of the window watching Mount Gellert
receding in the distance.

"Do you have a frontier-zone pass", the young man
asked the professor.

"No."

"Never mind", the young man said. "You can get one
at Gyor. You can get everything for money. Once you have reached
Sopron ... although it is advisable to disappear at Balffurdo, or
even the station before that. Are you going toward Agfalva or
toward Magyarfalva?"

"I don't know yet", the professor said, "whether I
shall go toward Agfalva or Magyarfalva".

"Never mind", smiled the young man. "At Gyor they'll
give you addresses. The important thing is not to be caught
before we get to Gyor. They watch this line closely now. Do you
have anyone at Gyor?"

"No", said the old man.

"You don't know anyone? How is that possible", an
elderly fat woman with her head in a scarf asked in a surprised
voice. Don't you know anybody at all?"

"Well, it does sometimes happen that one doesn't
know anybody at Gyor", said a thin, sharp-faced man in a corner
seat. "The other day I met a chap in Debrecen who didn't know
anyone at Gyor either."

The people in the compartment laughed.

"Don't you even know the Steiners", the fat woman
asked unaware that they were laughing at her. "I mean the people
who used to have that big bicycle shop in Lajos Kossuth Street."

The professor turned his head away.

"No, I don't know the Steiners."

"That's a pity", the woman said. "Of course they did
a bunk to America still in November."

It was growing dark rapidly, the snow-fields turning

[page 11]

grey though their radiance still filled the compartment with a
slow, vague light. The train was not heated but the nine people
warmed each other in close understanding. A single electric
bulb glowed dimly in the corridor, its light fell on the young
couple sitting by the door; they were obviously from Budapest
and, drawing back into themselves, they excluded themselves from
the company, they spoke with exaggerated heartiness only when
directly addressed.

"In November", the old woman with the scarf said, "you
could go from our village to Vienna as if you were going to the
next village, Abda or Otteveny. You took a taxi to the border for
500 forint and once there, you lifted your hat and walked across.
That's how my nephew went with his wife and three children; a
week later he sent a radio message that with God's help they had
arrived safely".

"When the Budapest train got into Gyor", another woman
said, "the ticket collector used to get down and shouts 'A11
absconders change here to platform two'."

People laughed.

"And", added the smiling young man beside the
professor , "the driver used to stop the Hegyeshalom train out in the
fields between Level and Hegyeshalom and. the ticket collector
used to walk right along the train shouting: 'Absconders alight
here'."

"There's still a lot of people going", the old woman
with the scarf said. "I really don't know why, the paper says
that the theaters are open again in Budapest."

Someone opened the door from the outside, letting in a
whiff of cold, smoky air, then shut the door again.

"What are you laughing at"? the old woman with the
scarf asked the seedy, thin-faced man sitting at the window.
"Did I get it wrong? There's opera on too, but only in the
mornings."

"People are all mixed-up"... the other woman said.
"They can't make up their minds what to do ... should they go?...
should they stay? ... going is bad ... staying is bad.... There
is a famous sportsman living in my neighborhood, they sent him
to America to the Olympic Games..."

"To Australia"... the man with the bilious face

[page 12]

interrupted. "To Melbourne."

"Perhaps it was that"... the woman said. "There they
promised him 100,000 dollars if he would only stay there... but
no, he wouldn't, he had a wife, a child and an old mother in
Budapest, he just had to come home. Well, he did, but by the time
he got here his wife, his mother and his child had run away to
Austria. Now there he sits in the empty flat banging his head on
the wall."

People laughed again.

"There are quite a few good stories about", said the
smiling young man with the moustache sitting next to the
professor. "There's a young couple in the house where my brother-in-law
lives in Budapest. One morning the man goes out telling the little
woman to get ready, he'll find transport and in the afternoon
they'll be off to Vienna. And sure enough, that afternoon a big
Csepel lorry stops in front of the house loaded with people, the
driver gets out, enters the house, rings at the front door and tells
the woman to get a move on, her husband is waiting in the lorry.
Well, this bird runs down, the driver pushes her up in the rear of
the lorry, fastens down the canvas behind her and they don't stop
until they reach Wienerneustadt. Fine, only the driver had rung
the bell on the first floor instead of the second and so he had
picked up the wrong woman whose husband came horns from the office
in the evening and wondered for days where his wife had got to."

They laughed.

"Oh Lord"... the woman with the scarf said, "what are
the poor things doing now? The best idea for them would be to
marry with changed partners".

"The best idea for them would be to hang themselves",
said an elderly, grey-haired man who hadn't opened his mouth
until then. "The devil take all those rescals who have nothing
better to do than run away abroad. Why don't, they stay where
they are, damn them! Why don't they put right all the damage
they have caused?"

"There is something in what he says", said the other
woman.

The grey-haired man turned on her. "Something"? he
repeated irritably. "What do you mean there is something in what I
say? While every honest person in the country... you must forgive

[page 13]

me, comrades, if I say so... when every honest person works his
fingers to the bone to restore order in the country, you are
finding excuses for these damn-fool agitators? For the striking
workers who cause the country to lose millions every day? For
the ex-gendarmes and county lieutenants who want to saddle us again
with landed gentry and Jewish bankers? Why don't you rub your eyes
and wake up, for heaven's sake... can't you understand that it's
your lives that are at stake?"

Suddenly there was silence in the compartment. The
young man with the smiling moustache gazed out of the window:
his narrowed eyes watched the slowly darkening snowy landscape
with the rapidly receding telegraph poles which, flicking over in
quick succession acted on the retina like the beating of drums on
the ear. The others looked elsewhere. The hard clatter of the
wheels sounded deafening in the silence.

"I think we have met before, comrade..." the bilious
looking, thin-faced man said. "Don't we know each other? You've
worked at the police in Gyor, haven't you?... in 1952 or 1953.."

The grey-haired man didn't answer.

"Or was it before 1952? In 1950, or 1949?"

"Neither in 1949 nor since", the grey-haired man
replied. "Under Rakosi you could have met me mainly at Andrassy
Street or in the concentration prison, because that's where I
spent a round 62 months, comrade, not a day less. And I am not
getting out now although that experience cost me one lung and a
kidney."

Again the clatter of wheels filled the compartment.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, let's not talk politics..."
the old man with the scarf said. "One always burns one's tongue,
sooner or later."

"And what about those who run away, aren't they playing
at politics"? the grey-haired man said, his face suddenly red.
"Or should we leave politics to them altogether?"

He put his fur cap on his head, jumped up and pushed
out of the compartment. The young couple sitting by the door
drew their legs under them nervously and stared after him. The
glass-paned door flew open. In the smoke-filled corridor people
stood pressed together, and the grey-haired man elbowed his way
through them angrily. The two from Budapest turned their heads;

[page 14]

they stared in front of them with thin, shuttered faces.

"Where are you off to?" the moustachioed man turned
kindly to the young peasant lad who sat still, high thigh
muscles tense, his back rigid, gazing silently before him but,
under his protruding Tartar cheek-bones, smiled readily with the
others when he saw their lips open in laughter. He wore a broad
black ribbon on his sleeve and kept his little round hat on his
head.

"I am going to Sopron", he replied.

"And from there?"

"I'm just going there", the lad said.

"All right, all right..." the young man smiled, "you
can speak up here. We are all Hungarians, we stick together.
Are you from Sopron?"

"No."

"But...?"

"From Kiskunmajsa, County Bacs", said the lad with a
ready smile.

"What are you going to do in Sopron?"

"My mother died. I'm going to her funeral."

"In Sopron?"

"That's where she lived with her sister", the lad said
smiling, "ever since she was widowed."

"And she's being buried in Sopron?"

The lad raised his index finger and explained:

"It doesn't pay to have her brought home", he said.
"Including all expenses it costs less for me to come with the
wreath."

A small ever-green wreath was lying on the suitcase
above his head. Everybody looked up.

"You brought this all the way from Majsa?" the young
man with the pleasant smile asked. "You could have bought one
in Sopron!"

"Who knows?" the lad said smiling. "They may be out
of wreaths just now. Back home only two people were beaten to
death, so they still have plenty of wreaths in stock."

[page 15]

Outside darkness had fallen, the thick, yellow shafts
of sparks swimming backwards from the locomotive dispersed in
fan-shape above the fields until a strong gust of wind flung
them to the ground.

"Why do you keep your hat on your head, my friend"?
the young man with the smiling moustache asked wagging his head
disapprovingly. "We are not in a pub!"

"He's probably taking a sparrow to Sopron because they
may have run out of sparrows as well," said the bilious-looking,
thin-faced man. The smiling young man leaned forward and with a
quick movement lifted the little round hat from the lad's head.
There was a thin, frightened screams from the hat a piece of
bloody cotton-wool fell to the floor. On top of the lad's shaven
head rose a bloody, black swelling, as big as a fist, the skin
had split wide open in several places and the black, congealed
blood ran across the inflamed, blood-red scalp in every direction,
like a complicated network of canals. The old woman with the scarf
clapped her palm over her mouth in horror. Someone sighed heavily
in the strict silence that was now filled again with the loud
clatter of the wheels. The young woman from Budapest stared with wide,
horrified eyes at the lad who looked with a motionless, stiff face
at the obligingly smiling young man opposite him.

Well, quite a sparrow..." the latter said. "Where
did you get it?"

"At the pub", the peasant lad said smiling. "Give me
back my hat, please."

"Not in a skirmish with the armed forces?"

"No", the lad replied calmly. "In a pub brawl. Can
I have my hat?"

Someone had to get some water because the young woman
from Budapest had fainted. Her husband fought his way through
the corridor but there was no tap in the lavatory, or rather,
there was a tap but there was no water. In the meantime the old
woman with the scarf had revived the young woman with a few drops
of brandy and fortunately the lad had put back his hat on his
head.

"What I don't quite understand", the young man with the
thick moustache said, "is why this trip was so urgent that you. had
no time to see a doctor".

[page 16]

"Well, you see, my mother died..." said the lad smiling.

The train slowed down as if it wanted to have a good
look round before entering the station. Either the train or the
wind had changed course because the coils of smoke and showers of
sparks that had hitherto flown by outside the window disappeared
now to the opposite side, beyond the corridor. On the window-side
a few snow-muffled railway carriages stood motionless on a side
track, coupled to an old-fashioned locomotive with small wheels and
a ridiculously high chimney. Beyond it, the highway stretched
deserted to the dusky horizon, with high snow-banks here and there
between the poplars gesticulating in the wind.

"Bicske"? a voice asked.

"We're past that", the bilious-looking, thin-faced man
at the window replied.

"Tatabanya?"

But the train did not Stop, it gathered speed again.

"It cannot be denied..." the bilious-looking man said,
turning to the professor, "that people are mixed-up all over the
world. You must be from Budapest, so you've probably hoard the story
of Jozsef Cserzo, the famous Budapest actor".

"No, I haven't", the old man said.

"Let's hear it", the old woman with the scarf exclaimed
folding her arms over her abundant bosom filled with curiosity.

"Well, he turned up at Gyor too, on his way out", the
bilious-looking man said with a slightly acid smile, "he was to
meet a person who's promised to take him to Vienna in his car
at the Motel Restaurant".

"I can assure you", the young man with the pleasant
smile interrupted, "I can assure you that at the Motel you can
still get transport that will take you across with no headaches.
Of course there isn't a shuttle-service of lorries anymore, but
there are still private cars and some foreign journalists..."

"Thank you", the professor said. "How do you know
that I intend to leave the country?"

The young man laughed and waved his hand.
[page 17]

"I am honored", the professor said. "And why don't you
clear out, young man?"

"I'm all right in this little country of mine", the
young man replied smiling . "I don't have any trouble with anyone,
either above or below. But 1 hold that those who want to go should
go by all means."

"What is your occupation, if you don't mind my asking"?
said the professor.

"Now this, now that", the young man said smiling
agreeably. "I get along fine. One has to respect the authorities, but
you have to do that abroad as well. Still, seeing as how I've
learned to handle the top dogs here, what's the point in going
to a country where they don't even know how to prepare a decent
veal goulash?"

"My God, did you say veal?"

"Yes, that's what I'm having for dinner tonight.
brought three pounds of the best cut with me from Budapest"

"And I brought two lengths of strong, pink cotton", the
old woman with the scarf said, "though I had to queue up for it a
whole day".

"As I was saying", the bilious-looking man continued,
"the actor went into the Motel Restaurant and ordered half a liter
of hot wine. When his friend arrived in his car they ordered
another liter and later, toward evening, they found themselves
a gipsy musician, God knows where. The actor sang and cried all
night, he could hardly tear himself away from his beloved country.
Toward dawn the two of them stumbled out to their car with their
arms round each other. They gave the gipsy 1,000 forint thinking,
obviously, that this was the last gipsy in their lives. But half
an hour later they were seen driving straight back toward Budapest
at 80 miles an hour".

The peasant lad with the broken head laughed loudly and
the others, who had in the meantime recovered from their fright,
smiled with sympathy.

"On the other hand", the bilious-looking man continued,
"there are others who are so attached to the idea of this excursion,
often with nothing but the clothes they stand up in, without a
single piece of luggage or anything", -- it seemed to the old man
as if he were giving him a wink -- "I tell you, they are as set on

[page 18]

it as if their lives depended on it. I know one chap who was caught
at the frontier and sent back. He tried again, but once more he
was caught and returned. When he was caught for the third time,
the commander of the frontier police at Csorna, I know him, a
good Hungarian sort, told him? listen, if I lay eyes on you once
more I shall personally put you in irons and throw you across the
border"!

At Komarom the train stood in the station for a long
time. The peasant lad got off for a drink of water.

"We'll be in Gyor in an hour", said the smiling young
man with a yawn when they moved on. The train rolled slowly from
the station, in the sleepy compartment they could hear the storm
howling outside. When the armed patrol searching the train reached
their compartment, the train was going through the industrial
railway station two kilometers outside Gyor. The increased commotion
in the corridor and the husky, nervous snatches of talk warned them of
the arrival of the patrol. The bilious-looking man bent to the
professor's ear.

"If you really don't know anybody in the town", he
whispered, refer them to my brother... Gyorgy Batesz, agricultural
secretary of the Council. I'll fix it with him".

As this was the last carriage, the detectives finished
with the identity check quickly: they threw a single glance at
the professor's identity card which he had fortunately not left
in his other coat this time, and returned it without a word.
Whistling long and loud the train rolled into Gyor station. Only
now did they notice that the peasant lad must have left the train
at Komarom; the wreath of ever-greens for his mother's grave
was still in the empty luggage rack.

+ + +

By evening the storm had still not abated. When, with
the helpful guidance of the local people the professor reached
the Motel Restaurant, snow had begun to fall throwing its thick,
sperm flakes into his face. The old man felt cold in the head.
Next day, he decided, he would buy a hat. Where? The small
restaurant was crowded but he didn't see a single hat that he liked
on the pegs. It is but a single step from absconding to stealing
a hat, but it was one he could not take.

"I will not accept your kind offer to smuggle me across
the border in the Belgian Red Cross ambulance", said the old man to

[page 19]

his acquaintance, a Budapest doctor who, catching sight of the
professor had, after a minute's deliberation, suddenly jumped
up from his place, left his friends and run over to the
professor to greet him with intimate, but for the sake of appearances,
delicately masked joy...

"I will not accept it because I am a wily old man and
I have no desire to contribute toward easing your conscience,
however little easing it may need, I will not accept it, furthermore,
because I do not share your belief that one should accept from all
and sundry without discrimination whatever they have to offer. Nor
do I wish to confirm you in your refreshing conviction or experience
that one can skin a cat seven times. In addition..."

The old man fell suddenly silent. "Let's leave it at
that"! he said moodily, "Let's say I gave no reason for my
decision."

The wind had piled up a mound of snow on the window under
which they were sittings so that one could no longer look out. No
new guests arrived in the worsening snow storm and none of those
inside dared go out into the somersaulting whistles and screams
that, gaining strength in the chimney and pushing smoke in front
of them, penetrated into the room through the ill-fitting door of
the stove. All around people were quietly smoking and drinking at
the tables. They switched the radio on and off.

"That's all right, Professor", the stout doctor from
Budapest said laughing, "let's pretend you gave me no reason for
refusing. I am happy to note, by the way, that you have lost none
of your intellectual alertness and youthful frankness since we last
met. However, you can safely travel in my ambulance, I shall not
present a bill".

"I shall not travel in it", the professor said.

"You will not travel in it", the doctor repeated. "Do
tell me, though, what is your objection to me? That once or twice
I made a mistake in the political evaluation of the situation and
openly admitted my mistakes"?

"That's it", the professor said, "why didn't you
stick to them"?

"Are you being funny, old chap", the doctor asked raising
his eyebrows to his low, pale forehead.

"Of course", the professor said, "I have nothing better
to do."

[page 20]

After a moment of surprised silence during which the
Budapest doctor pulled his tie and his presence of mind back into
place, he leaned in his excitement so close to the old man's face
that the latter smelt his sour breath. "Do you blame me for having
fallen for the Rakosi clique's devilish propaganda machine"? he asked
panting nervously. "But my dear Professor, the whole country was
in the same boat! Or do you blame me because my righteous
indignation led me to draw the obvious conclusions and go into opposition
for a short 'while? Or are you angry with me because I have accepted
a position in the Ministry of Health, convinced as I am that we must,
as last, create order in this country? Until now little people like
myself have only suffered history, but now the time has come when
we make it ourselves. I have outlined to you, Professor, the
reactions of a healthy soul!"

"The reactions of a healthy soul"? the professor repeated
"And why then do you wish to smuggle me out of the country? So that
you're covered also on the other side?"

"Because of my esteem for you..." the doctor smiled.
"My humanist esteem. You must have a reason for wanting to run
away."

"Of course I have", the old man said.

The fat, pale doctor laughed with annoyance. "I know,
You had 17 people executed and strangled two with your own hands.
Slow waters run deep!"

The old man touched his head, his hair was almost dry.
if he went out now and took a walk in the night, he might not even
catch a cold.

"Where would the world be, my dear fellow, it everyone
were a hero..." the fat doctor went on. "We murder enough as it is,
mainly cut of cowardice, of course, but the world would turn into
a permanent slaughter-house if everyone remained heroically true
to his convictions. I'll go furthers if people had convictions
at all, beyond the one that they have a right to live. Even this
one belief is at the bottom of a number of very fishy occurrences,
if you ask me! Let's not expect more from human nature than what
it has to offer, my dear Professor. In my eyes, anyone is an honest
man who can more or less reconcile his interests with the prevailing
rules, that is, who can arrange his life in a way not to suffer too
much damage from the greediness of others ... who tries, to the best
of his ability, to agree with those stronger than he and tries not
to do more harm than is unavoidable to those weaker than himself.

[page 21]

A modest little life, my dear Professor, under the aegis of
universal peace and disarmament. Let's not quarrel, please. Let's
face our own limitations. Let's whistle if we are scared in the
dark. In my experience, there are, at a modest estimate, 1,000
innocent victims to one here, 1,OOO innocent victims who had no
other desire than to be allowed to crow in peace on their own little
dung-hill. The murderous instincs of an average man like myself
can easily be satisfied within the family circle to which we may
perhaps add the co-tenants and good neighbors. Deep in one's
heart, everyone respects the strong, that is to say, the
authorities. It is said that the Lord spat out the luke-warm. It
isn't true, my dear fellow. The Lord exiled Lucifer and finds
pleasure on those who obey. for ever and ever, amen."

Have you finished"? the old man asked.

The Budapest doctor smiled all over his fat, pale,
spongy face. "They complain a bit, grumble a bit, voice their
griefs within the permitted limits, but reaching those limits
they raise their faces to heaven, overflow with gratitude and praise
the powers that be, This is the real vox humana, old chap!"

The suffocating mixture of tobacco smoke and coal reek
grew more and more unbearable. From time to time one or another
of the guests would lose patience and go to peer out at the door,
but the instant rush of snow along the floor and the gale tugging
at the tablecloth forced him to retreat.

"Of course it's more difficult to stay in the clear"
said the doctor with a deprecating wave of his hand. His flabby
jowl dropped. "History makes its tactical twists and turns so
subtly that you've got to be superhumanly flexible. It's not
surprising if you are sometimes caught with your pants down."

"I repeat my question", the old man said. "Why do you
wish to smuggle me across the border?"

The doctor leaned closer to the old man's ear.

"I'm not coming back either, for the time being", he
whispered. "It has come to my knowledge that my esteemed spouse
denounced me yesterday to the police because 1 identified myself in
October with the demands of the students. So you see, old chap,
you can safely entrust your life to me."

"Go to hell"! the old man said. He rose and moved to
another table. Next morning,, with the help of one of the waiters,
he found a place in one of the lorries which drove him for a l,000

[page 22]

forint to the Kapuvar bus station in the border region and there
he climbed into a bus which set off according to schedule along
the highway swept clean by the night's gale. However, less than
half an hour later, before reaching Hegyko, they got stuck at a bend
in the road. The bus mounted a drift of soft snow almost a yard
deep that had accumulated in this section of the road, they could
neither advance nor back out. It had also begun to snow again; the
snow came down so heavily that toward noon, when the driver who had
fought his way on foot to the nearest village returned with a few
men carrying shovels, the wheels were completely submerged in snow.

But the old man had not waited for them; he had set out
on foot with his fellow-travelers from the train whom he had met
again in the bus: the silent young couple from Budapest. With them
was the woman's sister from Gyor and the latter's four year old son.
The husband, a Kozert employee from Budapest, was carrying two heavy
suitcases and the two women and the professor took turns in carrying
the little boy. The young man lent the professor his navy-blue
beret. It was one hour's walk to the farm whose owner was to guide
them across the border. The one hour stretched into three painful
hours. When they left the highway and turned into one of the roads
leading to the farms, they immediately lost their bearings. Under
the heavy snow-cover it was difficult to tell the road from the
surrounding fields, Now one, now another, sank knee-deep into the
fresh snow. The little boy cried, only in the arms of the old
gentleman did he become somewhat calmer. The young woman from
Budapest had to stop frequently, her heart protested against the
strenuous walk. The snow fell unceasingly. When the wind caught
them in the back walking became easier but when it blew in their
faces they had to lean into it like swimmers against a strong
current. On one occasion the young woman from Gyor sank to her
waist into the snow, luckily her son was just then sitting on the
professor's shoulder. Climbing out of the ditch they found
themselves back on the highway which they had left three hours earlier;
even in the dense snow-fall they could clearly distinguish the
snow--covered top of the bus a 100 yards away behind a snow-drift, and
the conversation of the shoveling men and the passengers.

"Now we've done it, children"! said the professor cheer-
fully.

On the highway one couldn't lose one's way; they set
out toward Hegyko where they would hire someone to guide them to
the farm. They knocked at the first house and rested for an hour.
The peasant wanted 100 forint a head for conducting them to the
farm.

It was a lonely farm lying to the north of Balf, among

[page 23]

the marshes of Lake Ferto, far from the highway, at the end of a
cart-track which was, of course, also deep in snow. But halfway
along it the old man and his companions overtook another group
consisting of three men and two women who were obviously heading
for the same place and appeared as exhausted as they; one of
the men was leaning on a stick and walking with a pronounced limp.
They caught sight of another, larger group in the distant avenue
of poplars running toward them obliquely! behind the orderly black
bars of the poplars, under the low ceiling of clouds, tiny human
figures marched behind each other, loosely scattered in the dirty
light of the snow, as in an endless cage. At the farm 15 or 20
people were sitting in the smoky kitchen and the room, squatting
on the bench next to the stove and on the bed. The newcomers found
room only on the floor.

The farmer asked 2,000 forint a head including the
children for the journey, to be paid in advance. He was a stocky,
broad--shouldered man with a stubbly face and deep trenches dug by
exhaustion under his eyes. He stood at the door in watertight
knee--high rubber boots with a rifle in his hand -- which he didn't put
down even later -- studying the newcomers, as they streamed into
the kitchen, one by one, with calm, searching eyes under grey brows.
His son stood on the other side of the door with a torch which he
shone into the faces of the new arrivals and behind him, also with
a rifle, stood another elderly peasant, his brother-in-law. No
bargaining, the farmer said, he had to pay out a large part of the
money and even Jesus Christ's grave hadn't been guarded for nothing.
It was uncertain whether they could set out during the night, it
hadn't been reported to him yet if the road was passable or not,
If they had to put it off until the following night, they would
have to spend the day in the stable but he couldn't provide food
for anyone. When asked whether the crossing would be safe he
shrugged his shoulders; if the crossing were without danger he
would not be asking 2,000 forint; three days before, the frontier
guards had shot dead one member of his group and wounded another,
but the rest got through. In this snow-storm, if they could start
at all, it might be safer than it had been of late as the frontier
guards were not particularly keen on frozen ears and feet.

In spite of his surliness the farmer seemed reliable;
contrary to the usually shifty attitude of the peasants he spoke
what was in his heart, or at least on his tongue. No sooner had he
finished speaking than the group from the direction of the avenue
of poplars arrived, another 14 persons, perhaps even more exhausted
than the rest; there were several women and children among them
and they had been walking since early morning often up to their
knees in snow. There wasn't an inch of place in the room, they
dropped down on the beaten floor of the kitchen leaning their

[page 24]

backs or heads against the brick oven. A mother of three, one of
whose sons had been lost, unnoticed, along the road, broke into
convulsive, uncontrollable sobs; at the sound of crying the
children in the room woke and began to whimper.

In the meantime the man, who had been sent out to study
the snow conditions, returned. The four men, joined by the farmer's
wife, a hefty, grey-haired peasant woman in boots, retired to a
corner of the kitchen and talked in low voices; their gestures and
the tone of their voices betrayed that they were in disagreement.
It was obvious that the woman wanted to get rid, as soon as possible,
of the swarm of wretched locusts that had overrun her house, she was
probably also afraid that the large number of absconders converging
on their farm during the day in several groups and from various
directions had attracted the attention of the frontier guards and
that, in spite of the weather, they might raid the house. The
three men, however, were obviously unwilling to face the risk of
the long walk; their hesitation was made intelligible by the
rising and falling wail of the storm and the ceaseless creaking of
the knobbly acacia tree in front of the house. The state of the
roads was not too good, the farmer finally announced in the sudden
silence broken only by the thin voice of a crying child, nor was
the bitter cold favorable. The excursion was not advisable for
women and children but if any of the single man felt strong enough
to set out immediately, they would leave in one or several groups,
depending on the number of volunteers. But only the strong and
healthy were to come, he added conscientiously, because the weak
held back the others and if anyone fell behind on the way, they
would be compelled to leave him to his fate. The 2,000 forint
per head were payable in advance.

Whoever lay down on the road tonight, the
brother-in-law added, would inevitably freeze to death. And if someone were
to slip and break, or only sprain, his ankle, he should not count
on others to carry him in the deep snow; they had better think
carefully because Christ is not everybody's friend.

Fifteen or 20 people came forward, among them a girl
in ski-trousers and a short fur-coat with a scarf on her head and
a rucksack on her back. She had almond shaped eyes, high
cheek--bones and her lips were pressed together stubbornly.

"I have 720 forint", she said to the peasant,
"that's all the money I possess. If it won't do for you then I
shall walk 100 yards behind you and cross the frontier for nothing".

The old peasant examined the young, stubborn face of
the girl thoughtfully.

"There's no bargaining", he said curtly. The girl made

[page 25]

a petulant face and shrugged.

"If you cross over alone, that won't cost you anything,
of course", the peasant said after a while turning his back on
the girl.

Those ready to go were divided into three groups of six
or seven; the professor set out with the last, an hour after the
departure of the first group. The farmer, obviously unwilling to
admit him into the departing group, glanced suspiciously at the
tall, thin, slightly stooping figure in the "black, urban overcoat
and the silk scarf, and above the scarf at the wrinkles ploughed by
six decades into the narrow, bony face.

"You'd do better to wait for another day", he said. The
old man made no answer, he counted the money into the peasant's
palm. Before leaving he said goodbye to the Kozert employee from
Budapest and his family who were staying at the farm, and gave the
young husband the 3,000 forint which he knew they needed to make
up their fare. He gave the farmer's wife 10 forint for half a pound
of bread for the road.

The cold bit into one only when one came face to face
with the wind. Fortunate it did not blow evenly all night but,
at times, stopped altogether for a quarter or half an hour allowing
the lungs to rest a bit so that one could bear the heavy slaps dealt
out by the whipping and whistling storm when it blew up again. At
times the gale was so fierce that one could breathe only if one
stopped -- legs spread so as not to be overthrown by the pressure
-- looked backwards, filled one's lungs with air, then turned again
carefully and set out, head down, like a charging bull. There was,
of course, no protection against the hard snow-flakes that stabbed
down with great force and at vertiginous speed, penetrating the
orifices of the bare face and driving under scarves and clothes,
however closely wrapped; one's mouth, nose, ears became clogged
with snow and at every gust of wind one noticed, surprised and
indignant, that one had broken into tears of annoyance. By the
time the tears rolling from one's eyes had frozen to one's face,
the new gust of wind drew fresh ones.

One good thing about the storm was that here and there
it swept the road clean, or rather the narrow tracks and paths
winding over the equally clean-swept plough-land and crackling
maize fields. At such times one didn't have to watch one's step
but could concentrate all one's energy on the systematic control
of one's breathing. Those who can swim under water get on better
in such conditions. On these sections of the tracks even the
hard-frozen, brittle soil showed up at times under the close-shaven layer

[page 26]

of snow and the feet clung happily to its clods.

There was no sky above the heads of the walkers; only
the snow furnished some light. The snow-flakes churning in the
low ceiling, soaring up in oblique pillars or sweeping down on
the ground like a swarm of butterflies, radiated some weak glimpses
toward the earth and the broad snow-blankets to right and left
emerged with their own strange light from the unquiet darkness.
The ceaseless roar of the wind was almost deafening.

"What's the matter"? said the professor, panting, to
a man stumbling along in front of him who had suddenly stopped
and looked about him hesitantly.

"I can't see", the man said.

"What do you mean you can't see?"

"I have broken my glasses."

"Now?"

"Soon after we started", the man said. "At first it
seemed all right, but now my eyes must be tired out. I can't see
anything at all.

"Don't worry", the old man said. "Take my arm, we'll
walk together."

On the clear sections they were doing quite well in
spite of the narrowness of the path, but when they had to wade
through a snow-drift in which they sank up to their knees or had
to step across a ditch, they fell back 50 or 100 yards behind the
group pushing on ahead of them.

"Put yourself in my hands", the old man panted. "Hold
fast to my arm, you can safely close your eyes."

The wind screamed across the plain with ice-age fury.

"What did you say"? cried the man turning his mouth
toward the professor's ear. "I couldn't hear for the wind what
you said."

On certain sections of the path the snow-drifts had
piled up to a height of two or three meters, they had to walk
around them and find their way back to the snow-covered path; it

[page 27]

was to be feared that should they lag too far behind and lose
sight of the main group they might lose their way altogether.
The snow-storm buried the foot-prints in a minute. Fortunately,
the six people walking in front of them -- among them the peasant's
son leading the group -- once stopped for a long time in one place;
it seemed from afar as if they were examining some object lying on
the ground. It was the body of an elderly man, frozen to death,
sitting with his back against a tree; when they moved him he rolled
onto his back with his legs in the air, like a wooden doll. The
body had already stiffened, it was impossible to straighten it out
from this immodest position and as the man was dead anyway, it wasn't
worth wasting too much time on him.

They had come across discarded scraps of the great
migration before this. A few hundred yards behind the farm a broken-down
car had stood bedded into the snow which reached up to its windows
and on the edge of a maize-field the shape of an abandoned
motorcycle, lying on its side, had been distinguishable under the snow;
it couldn't have been there more than an hour or two. They had
found an old, patched rucksack and a large, open pigskin suitcase
the contents of which had obviously been rifled by groups passing
that way before them, nothing but a bundle of papers and a
long-handled brush now protruded from the snow around it.

A few minutes after leaving the corpse, the professor
was relieved of his service to the sightless man. Seeing the
entwined couple a young man had accosted the old man and offered
him his arm.

"You are mistaken, young man", the professor said
irritably. "I am giving, not receiving support. But if you
wouldn't mind taking my place for a while..."

He was tired, he found it increasingly difficult to keep
pace with the group which consisted mainly of strong young men. It
must have been near midnight when they reached the marsh-land near
Lake Ferto where walking was even more painful because, in places,
there was a thin layer of ice beneath the snow-blanket and if one
sank into the snow and the ice broke, one's shoes submerged in
squelching, thick swamp-water that clung and pulled one even
deeper, The old man's thin city shoes submitted to these trials
with bad grace. The silk scarf wound around his neck had been
sticking to him for a long time like a cold water compress, and his
leather gloves were drenched from the snow penetrating under them;
he took off both and threw them away. His collar and the upper part
of his shirt were soaked in snow-water and lower down in his own
perspiration.

[page 28]

The closer they got to the immediate border region the
more populated the landscape, now lit dimly by the moon, became.
From time to time the reeds, whistling evenly in the wind, would
bend more wildly before a savage gust and behind them -- instead
of the expected, invisible blast of wind -- the denser outlines
of a bent human figure would emerge beyond the grating blades of
the man-high plant, bare, white faces would look back at them,

"If you know mercy", a tired female spoke in the
darkness close to the professor's ear, "take this little girl with
you. I can't go on".

A university student took the child on his arm but their
guide, brutal in his nervousness, insisted that they go on and
leave the child's mother and another woman, who had sat down on a
fallen tree trunk, to their fate.

"Go on, go on", the woman said, "there's nothing wrong
with me, we are only dead tired, both of us. If we can rest for
half an hour and won't have to carry the child, we'll be able to
go on alone".

"Where is the child's father"? someone asked.

"Go, just go"! the woman said weeping, "Take care of the
child, God Trill repay you. Her name is Etus Balint, don't forget
it! Write it down. We'll find you. You are decent people, you
won't leave her, will you? Round her neck, under her little shirt..."

The other woman must have pushed her for she fell silent.
"Why don't you go? Go on"! the other woman said,

"Where's the child's father"? the professor asked,

"Go, for heaven's sake", sobbed the other woman loudly.
"The child's name is Etus Balint. Please, go, don't worry about
us!"

As the guide threatened to turn back and go home if
they wasted any more time, the group got going again. The frontier
guards knew better than to venture into the marsh-land -- the young
peasant explained -- but when they patrolled the Fertorakos highway
they sometimes fired blindly into the reeds to scare people off.
The man he had told them about that evening, who'd been shot in his
group, got one of these stray bullets right between his eyes, and
a woman was wounded in the arm.

[page 9]

The snow, had stopped falling a while hack and now
even the wind was dropping. But the road was becoming more and more
difficult, the people weaker and weaker; every minute they sank
ankle-deep into the soft snow or even deeper, into the swamp hidden
underneath. To lift one's foot from this thick, cloying paste and
swing it forward again with one's shoe clogged in snow and mud
required, at every step, as much effort and resolution as if they
were getting ready to improve on the long jump record in a sports
arena. The muscles, drenched in lactic acid refused to obey.
There wasn't a palm-sized dry spot on anyone's body and the
perspiration dripping from their foreheads froze like a fiery mask into their
faces.

Unexpectedly it became lighter; the moon appeared
momentarily among the racing clouds and the guide, peering nervously
right and left, turned back and goaded the group to greater hurry.
In the moonlight the black figures advancing over the white snow
were visible from a long distance. Less than 15 minutes later
there was a loud barking of dogs somewhere to the left, probably
from the direction of the highway, followed by a few long-drawn-out
yells. In the snowy countryside sound carries far, probably it was
a police dog barking several kilometers away. The possibility that
it was following the grow that had left half an hour before them
could not be discounted but there was still a chance that it was
hunting other absconders hiding in the reeds. The moon came out
again. The guide strained his ears; there was no other human
sound. When the first shot rang out he. spat oaths; they wouldn't
let people be even on Christmas Eve! There wasn't another sound
from the dog. It is-possible the guide said that his uncle had
shot him; that's why they were all carrying rifles, not against
men. The moon emerged again. A second shot was heard, then a third,
and a few seconds later the dog started barking. When a police dog
picks up a scent he will follow it silently until he has found what
he is looking for and only then will he give voice. The moon
reappeared between the clouds. It seemed as if people were shouting,
but now in another direction.

While the guide was conferring with the men standing
around him, the old man, who had, in the meantime, fallen down
twice from exhaustion, caught up with the group again. Now he had
company: the young peasant lad with the black ribbon on his arm
and the little round hat on his bloody head who had suddenly emerged
from the reeds with a new evergreen wreath in his hand and had joined
the professor.

"Why are you carrying that werath"? asked the professor.

The lad remained silent.

[page 30]

"I suppose they allowed you into the border-zone with
it", the old man said. "But it's not going to be much use to you
here".

The lad smiled. "I'm taking it to my mother's grave",
he said.

"You may as well throw it away", the old man said,
"They won't let you cross the border with it,"

The moon broke through the clouds again. In spite of
the biting cold the men complied with the guide's wishes and
stripped down to shirt and pants; in their white underclothes there
was less danger of their being noticed from a distance. Most of
them folded their clothes and carried them under their arm, but
some flung them away among the reeds; they'd be given new clothes
on the ether aide. The old man fell back again, he was unwilling
to cross the border in his underclothes. He did not like being
pitied and all his life he had successfully avoided undressing in
front of strangers. The young peasant stayed with him, from
modesty or because he wanted to keep his clothes; he had already
thrown away the wreath on the professor's advice. It seemed to
the old man that he was growing tired of people; he would have
liked to be alone at the solemn moment when he left his country
for good; when he rose from the grave. . . or was he stepping into
it? He sent the lad forward to join the group and sat down on a
snow-pile. The small group to which he belonged, -- the last,--
was no longer visible; in their white underclothes they had merged
into the snowy plain. The old man was cold. He rubbed hi a head
to increase the bleed circulation in his scalp and stamped the snow
with his numbed feet. He had thrown away the wet, borrowed beret
a long time ago. The moon emerged again and wafted its faint,
watery light over the dead landscape. All was silent.

Even in the middle of the night at a temperature of
10 degrees under one cannot remain alone in the Hansag marshes,
the old man thought with annoyance when he was startled to catch
sight of the ski-trousered, stubborn-mouthed young girl stepping
out from among the reeds still carrying her rucksack. She had
acted rear-guard to the last group, had followed them -- as she
said she would -- at a distance of 50 or 100 yards all the time --
without paying. She'll cross the border for nothing, too, thought
the old man.

"What do you want from me"? he asked in a whisper for
he was now so hoarse that he could hardly hear his own voice.
"What is the matter with you? Why are you standing there before me?"

[page 31]

"You mustn't sit down in this cold, Professor"! said
the girl wrinkling her young forehead, "It doesn't matter how
tired you are... Please, get up!"

"How is it that you know me"? the old man asked.

"Please, get up", the young girl repeated with her
impatient, stubborn mouth. "For heaven's sake, you haven't
even got a sweater on! Please, get up."

The old man. watched the girl's pale young face for
a while and his heart filled with infinite commiseration.

"How do you know me"? he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Please, get up", the girl said. "I'm a student...
I'm studying philosophy..."

"As far as I know I don't teach philosophy", said the
old man.

The girl shrugged impatiently. "Please get up", she
said. "I am the fiancée of Feri Kovacs, one of your students,
Professor,"

"Feri"? the old man repeated. "The one who presented
me with a skin-borer a few days ago?"

"Yes", the girl said.

"And where is that dear little soul these days"? the
old man asked. "Skiing in the Tyrol mountains? Or in the Engadin?
And are you running after him as fast as you can? Why did he leave
you behind?"

"For heaven's sake, Professor, why are you getting out"?
the girl asked lowering her voice involuntarily. He lips trembled.
"At your age! You haven't done anything!"

"Of course I have", the old man said. "I hid a 
skin-borer."

"Don't make fun of me"! the girl said. "It was Feri
who hid it in your flat."

"I should have reported it", the professor said.

The girl compressed her stubborn lips, her eyes flashed


[page 32]

with anger.

"Look here, young Miss", the professor said, "Feri
knew exactly why he brought that obscenity to my house, because our
Mr. Feri is neither blind nor deaf, nor is he soft in the head.
Why didn't he try to hide it under the roof of my colleague, the
Snarler, or my colleague Littlespy or my colleague Lie-low, why did
he come to me? Because he lives close by? Because he knows I like
him? Certainly not! His reason for acting as he did was his
justified and well-founded conviction that I agreed with him."

"But you..."

"Quiet"! the old man said severely. "You say that I
never used that skin-borer? It's exactly as if I had used it.
If I didn't, it is only because it doesn't befit my age, or because
I don't know how to use it, or because it is not my taste. Virtually
I have used it, do you understand? I used it with every one of my
concealed thoughts, my unspoken words, with every particle of my body.
They used it for me too, by right of an agreement never put into
words. And when they used it wrongly... I am responsible for that
too... just as Feri is... and you, Miss... and everybody in this
country we are all responsible for what happened, and for what
happened before it and for what will happen hereafter. The Bald One
is not solely responsible! And the responsibility has to be
shouldered, Miss. What was I to do? Was I to go to the police with that
ridiculous implement under my arm and report myself? To be forgiven
and sent home? I don't want to be forgiven!"

"But you really haven't done anything, Professor"! the
girl cried desperately.

The old man broke into mocking laughter. "I haven't done
anything"? he repeated. "That's exactly why I am clearing out."

"Do get up, Professor"! the girl cried. "Your face is
blue already!"

"Don't bother me, Miss, the old man said impatiently.
"Go on ahead? we shall meet in the Tyrol mountains."

The girl continued to stand in front of him. The moon
came out again. The wind stuck a finger among the reeds, they
rattled a bit, then all was silent again.

"Please, young lady, don't bother me"! the old man said.
"Have the kindness to leave me alone. What right have you to
interfere in my life? Decency, love of your fellow-men, you say? Are

[page 33]

you trying to make good in me, ridiculous specimen that I am,
what a whole country has failed to do in a century? No, Miss,
this nation hasn't atoned for its past and future yet. Do you
imagine that if you push your dirty frozen little hand under
my arm, carry me across the border and save my honorable life
you'll be setting anything right? Or that 1 can put anything
right on the other side of the border? Perhaps I don't even want
to! Nothing can be put right, young lady, nothing. The dead can
not be brought back to life and the wounds heal only by mimicry.
One should live decently, Miss, not redeem! Or do you think there
won't come a time when one can live decently here?... Now leave
me alone, please. Offer your good Samaritan services to someone
who will appreciate them. There must be men worthy of mercy here,
or on the other side, go and look for them. Please, go before I
slap your face!"

He waited until the girl's slight figure had disappeared
among the dark reeds, then he rose and set out slowly. He stumbled
on for an hour, or two hours. The turned-up collar of his coat
which had frozen hard after being drenched rubbed the skin of his
neck bloody. When he finally fell again he must have been very
close to the border, perhaps only 100 yards from it, because he
distinguished a yellow, vaporise brilliance above the snow which, after
long and absent-minded examination , he decided must be the lights
of a big Christmas tree. It was Christmas Eve, a white Christmas.
For a while he lay quietly. If he had forced himself he could have
crawled to the Christmas tree on his hands and knees but he didn't
feel like performing such a ridiculous feat Let's stay in this
little country! The sound of shots came again, from a great distance,
and from somewhere near by the receding chatter of a motorcycle.
The old man scrambled to his feet, turned his back on the border
and, as if symbolically, took a few steps toward the interior of
his country. On the edge of a snow-filled ditch he sat down. He
was very tired but he hardly felt the cold.

He closed his eyes, yawned, then yawned again several
times. Beginning decomposition, he diagnosed, counting his pulse.
He knew the process. Tiredness, sleepiness, one's breathing slows
down, becomes shallow. The muscles stiffen which makes breathing
even more difficult. There is a sudden increase of carbon dioxide
in the blood deprived of oxygen The metabolism is disturbed, the
heat-regulating center runs down. Then come the visual and auditory
delusions. The heart function becomes irregular with frequent
extra systoles. The anal temperature drops producing glycogen, the
blood sugar content sinks. The heart-beat is barely audible. The
pulse becomes intermittent, it can no longer be felt. When the
blood sugar feeding the organism reaches zero - it's exit.

End

  OSA / Guide / RIP / 1956 / RFE/RL Background Reports : Subjects | Browse | Search