Magyar News, 1993. szeptember-1994. augusztus (4. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)

1993-11-01 / 3. szám

(Continued from page X)

The rally in Budapest on the twenty-third of 1956 that touched of the Revolution.

A scene after the battle. A Soviet tank destroyed by the youth of Budapest.

The policeman also takes off his service cap, then gets embarrassed and changes the movement of his arm so as if he was only wiping the sweat from his forehead, but I see that his fist also rubs his eye. A humiliated and tormented nation is beginning to regain its self-respect. It is a good, a proud feeling to be Hungarian.

It is like a dream. We march arm in arm and feel that the spirit of our nation is marching with us. We feel that all who loved this nation during the centuries are here. Here walks with his starched collars and bowler hat Count Pal Teleki, there Endre Bajcsy-Zsilinszky, on the sidewalk march the tired, dusty Kuruts soldiers of Rákóczi and the ragged redcaps of Kossuth. Here marches a thousand years of Hungarian history, here marches the nation. My shoulder touches that of Gyurka Egry, he turns and whispers: “For this, it was worth living.”

November 2,1956, Friday at 6 a.m.

We decided that the bier will be in the assembly hall, the aula. Jancsi’s body was stiff, his face calm, 27 bullets penetrated his body. I was holding his feet as we carried him, Janos Danner, a fifth year student of architecture. As I am lifting him, the size 13, leaky and ragged shoe slips off his right foot. I try to put it back, but can’t. His foot is stiff. Now it is beginning to sink in that Jancsi is dead! I try frantically, deliriously to put the shoe back on his foot. I feel that if I succeed, if I can put it back, then perhaps

things are not irreversible, then perhaps Jancsi was only wounded not murdered by the secret police, then he is not gone forever, then he can still give us the message he was carrying from Imre Nagy, then there is still hope. But I could not put back the shoe and when we covered Jancsi on the bier with the gigantic Hungarian flag, his big toe kept pressing against it.

November 5,1956, Monday at 2 a.m.

This is more than panic. From the piercing explosions and sudden flashes my brain is short circuited, I am terrorized to the marrow. Yet I cannot show that. We are carrying a little blond girl, Marika, the fiancee of Gyuszi Perr. The tank fired just as she ran back into the room to get the bread, which they were planning to take with them to the mountains. Now we are on our way to the home office of doctor Bakay. The Russians have already occupied Bela Bartók street; we are carrying Marika through the gardens. She is white, her eyes are closed, she is still clasping the loaf of bread in her arms. We have covered her eyes, so that she would not be further frightened by the backfire of the tanks. She is light, much easier to carry than was the janitor a few minutes ago.

In Bakay’s office there is no room. We put Marika down in the hallway. She lost a lot of blood, her eyes are closed. Now I see a tiny movement of her mouth. I kneel down, put my ear to her mouth to hear her

whisper: “Öcsi, there is candy in my left pocket, take some.”

November 24,1956, Saturday at noon

We were within a mile of Austria, when we noticed the figures on the mountain side. They were running toward us, 25 possibly 50 running figures, getting larger by the minute. Now I can see, it is a running shepherd boy followed by his herd. Upon reaching us, he says, “You cannot use Hungarian money on the other side. Could I have your money.” It makes good sense. I reach in my pocket and give him the 20 Forints I have. When he leaves, I realize that I have not touched money for a month. I slept where darkness reached me, I was fed when I got hungry, I even received a pair of boots when my shoes fell apart, nobody ever asked anybody for any money. On the 22nd of October I received my monthly scholarship of 140 Forints. On the 25th of October I have put 120 of that into the collection box of the Writer’s Union on Kossuth Street and the remaining 20 is in the pocket of that shepherd boy.

I remember that scene so well. Right behind me was this sad woman. She did not put money into the collection box. She slowly counted out 900 Forints, looked at it, hesitated, then put back 100 Forints into the box. Then put the 800 Forints into her big, black handbag. She did not say a word, we did not disturb her. The 800 Forints were to pay for the coffin for her dead son.

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