Fáklyaláng, 1971. január-október (12. évfolyam, 1-10. szám)
1971-10-23 / 10. szám
FÁKLYALÁNG 7 V I C T I S HE HUNGARIANS of emancipation which is culture and which is born of freedom to create and of freedom to work. Those Hungarian workers and intellectuals, beside whom we stand today with such impotent sorrow, understood this and have made us the better understand it. That is why, if their distress is ours, their hope is ours also. In spite of their misery, their chains, their exile, they have left us a glorious heritage which we must deserve: freedom, which they not only chose, but which in one single day they gave back to us. FOR THE PEOPLE OF HUNGARY We do not speak of a Hungarian Revolution. We speak of the Hungarian agony. From the moment when the Communist regime in Budapest fired upon an unarmed crowd and turned its quarrel with the Hungarian people from a political quarrel which it could not win into an armed revolt which, with Soviet aid, it could not lose, the suppression of the Hungarian resistance was inevitable. The world seemed to feel that it had no choice, short of atomic war, but to sit back and watch, in horror and disgust, the brutal, methodical destruction of an angry people by overwhelming force and conscienceless treachery. It is understandable, certainly, that we in the United States should feel ashamed by our inability to act in this nightmare. Nevertheless, we should not forget, in all the suffering and pain, that we owe the people of Hungary more than our pity. We owe them also pride and praise. For their defeat has been itself a triumph. Those Hungarian students and workers and women and fighting children have done more to close the future to Communism than armies or diplomats had done before them. They have given more and done more. For what they have done has been to expose the brutal hypocrisy of Communism for all of Asia, all of Africa, all the world to see. So long as men live in any country who remember the murder of Hungary, Soviet Russia will never again be able to pose before the world as the benefactor of mankind. The Hungarian dead have torn that mask off. Their fingers hold its tatters in their graves. Archibald MacLeish Quoted from the Life’s; “Hungary’s Fight For Freedom’’ Edition. Red Blood on the Streets of Pest by Lajos Tamási We march and now our hearts are stirred and quickened by some mystic powers. Although our song may falter, now we know the streets of Pest are ours. Nothing is left for us but this, our only haven now is here: we know we are about to see a holy radiance appear. Our banners jubilantly rise, they float above like glowing flowers; the silken colours billow wide, the streets of Pest again are ours. Our brave song once again is heard, our free hearts follow their own star. To fire the guns we now confront, whom do you order, Commissar? The blood is on the streets of Pest, young men our brave defenders are. Their blood is on the streets of Pest— whom do you order, Commissar? Whom do you order now to fire, you, Ministers, who cringe with fear? No secret police can save you now, the hour of reckoning is near. And in the name of those you kill, where are you running in defeat? where will you hide your blood-stained hands, you murderers in full retreat? The streets of Pest are running red, until the storm sends down the rain and washes all the blood away, yet cannot wash away the stain. The streets of Pest are red with blood, on these the blood of youth is spilled.. Besied the tricolour on high hoist mourning banners for the killed. Beneath the tricolour above we make a solemn, threefold vow: first, we must sorrow for the dead and second, hate the tyrant now. And third, a pledge for this small land, let those who still with life are blessed, remember: freedom has been bought with blood upon the streets of Pest. Translated by: Pál Tábori
