_March 29th._
Communists from Aszód have arrived in the village. The glass screen
between myself and reality has suddenly cracked. The agitators dragged a
table in front of the town hall, climbed on it and addressed the crowd.
When we asked the coachman what had happened, he looked down and gave an
embarrassed, evasive answer:
“They are going to stay till to-morrow....”
These Communists boasted that the workmen of the aeroplane works at
Aszód had got the town in their power and that the directorate had had
the lord of Iklad, Count Ráday, and his wife, arrested.
The news has only just reached us. When the Rádays heard of the
proclamation of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat they wanted to go to
Budapest with the manager of the aeroplane works. But the Communists of
Aszód were quicker than they. They closed the barriers, and the Lord
Lieutenant of the county and his wife, who had nursed the wounded in the
hospital of Aszód during the war, were escorted back by armed Red
soldiers, some of whom she had herself nursed back to life. They locked
the Countess up in the Reformatory, the Count and the manager they put
up against the wall. A firing squad was drawn up: a lieutenant enquired
if all was ready. At the last moment they let them go. It was all done
for amusement, to give them a good fright. One often hears of such
things nowadays; the novelty and strangeness of it are wearing off.
Countess Ráday did not know that her husband was still alive until he
returned to her.
But this villainy was relieved by a generous action. When the people of
Iklad heard what had been done to their landlord and benefactor, they
rose and armed themselves with scythes, and went to his rescue, but
before they reached Aszód the prisoners had been sent to Budapest. For a
long time this band of armed peasants threatened the Reformatory.
Unfortunately not every village is like Iklad and not all landlords like
Count Ráday.
Other news reached us too, uncertainly and stealthily, from castles and
towns. Then the first newspapers came from the capital: the great day
they had prepared and announced had at last dawned, and we shrank from
its contact. With what a voice was it proclaimed! Our language had never
yet been prostituted in this way, their alien press uses our tongue to
torture us. It spits on our past with grinning contempt and drags in the
mire everything that might still promise a better future. The triumph of
the revolution howls from its pages. Vulgar brutalities, foaming, abject
hatred, are enclosed in the wrappings of world-saving theories.
The only paper of the Counter-revolution has been suppressed: the
conservative _Budapesti Hirlap_ has been strangled and the subscribers
sent ‘The Red Newspaper.’ The newspapers which have been allowed to
continue their existence approve, fawn, incite and lend their old
reputation to facilitate the conquest of the groping, tottering
countryside. Unsuspecting people absorb the poison from the papers to
which they have been accustomed. Ideas become confused; even the honest
lose their bearings. The papers propagate their news as ordered by the
head of the Bolshevist press-directorate—a Jew.
If ever the time comes to call to account this soul-killing, defeatist,
alien press, which revelled over the revolution, over Károlyi, the
capitulation, the Republic, the foreign occupation, and now lauds Béla
Kun and Bolshevism; should ever that time come, I can imagine the
defence: ‘... the terror, ... brutal force....’ But why do the papers
carry on? Why do they not stop publication? The press-dictator
elucidates this point when he declares proudly, “the Free Union of
Journalists played an important rôle in the preparation and realisation
of the political revolution in October and the social upheaval of
to-day.” These mouthpieces of Hungarian public opinion have for the last
few decades been exclusively Jews.
Though I shudder with disgust yet I cannot resist the temptation of
taking the newspaper into my hand, and I read ‘The People’s Voice’ of
March 25th:
“The work has begun.... The courage to demolish, the relentlessness of
destruction and the unfaltering determination to rebuild, these are the
spiritual instruments by which the Proletarian State must be established
and its socialism must be realised.”
What can be their physical instruments when destruction is only a
spiritual aid? I read on: “Lenin predicts victory in the near future!...
The Russian Red army is victorious on the Galician frontier, and the
enemy is in flight. The victory surpasses all hopes.... The position of
the Imperialist Government in England is shaken. Hungarian events have
caused the downfall of Clemenceau.... Serbian imperialism is on the
verge of complete collapse. The southern counties have accepted the
principle of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat. There are signs of
disruption in Serbia. The Proletariat is preparing for the final
battle.”
The papers lie in a heap, and I pick them up at random: “The
Revolutionary Government has decided to raise a Red army. It has been
decided to change the names of the barracks from that of imperialist
kings and militarist generals. In future they will bear the names of
Lenin, Marx, Liebknecht, Rosa Luxemburg....”
A Red army instead of the national army. Instead of Francis Joseph and
Maria-Theresa barracks we shall have Lenin and Rosa Luxemburg barracks.
“Austria has recognised the Hungarian Soviet Republic and has accredited
the envoys of Béla Kun.... Two new Soviet Republics: On the 28th a
Soviet Republic was proclaimed in Wiener Neustadt. In Chotin the
Bessarabian Soviet Republic has been proclaimed. At the elections for
the Workers’ Councils in Brunswick the Communists have gained a
victory.”
My nerves began to give way: though it might be all untrue, I could
stand it no longer. I fled, out of the room, out of the house, out of
the garden.... In the village the drum was beating. “The Revolutionary
Government has decreed....” I turned back. Is it impossible to get away
from it for a moment? I locked the garden door behind me so that I
should hear it no longer. A white dog was playing on the lawn and its
mistress followed; she was carrying a Viennese newspaper.
“At the request of Clemenceau allied troops under General Mangin are to
be sent against Béla Kun’s Soviet Republic. Balfour protests. The
British——”
“We are the prisoners of the Entente and what happens inside the prison
depends upon the gaolers.”
Suddenly the window panes rattled with the vibration of a distant, dull
boom.
“Guns!” we both exclaimed simultaneously. “From the direction of the
Ipoly river. Far away.... At last!...” Then we suddenly looked at each
other in amazement; what we felt seemed so incredible. It is to our
enemies that we must look for liberation, to France, to the country of
Franchet d’Espérey, Colonel Vyx, and to our little neighbours who for
months have been robbing and tearing our country. What has happened to
us?
Humanity has sometimes forgotten for centuries the plans and the power
of the Jews. The fate of Egypt, the conquest of Canaan, the dissolution
of Rome, the religious strife in Byzantium, the decline of Spain ...
these and many other things. And far away are the great persecutions of
the Jews, which were always the consequence of too much audacity, too
great activity, on the part of the chosen people. These persecutions,
the fruits of exasperation, were never of long duration, and after them
Jewry quickly sank back into obscurity, whence it threw sand into the
eyes of the peoples that they might be blind for a generation and
forget.
In the years before the war the suspicions of the Hungarian nation, so
often aroused before, had been lulled to sleep. We saw how the Jews,
coming from the East, took possession of the land after acquiring the
liquor shops of the villages. From the little draper’s shop in the town
they laid grasping hands on our whole economic life. We saw them during
the war withdrawing into safety and acquiring millions while our own
folk gained crutches. We heard that the Zionist Congress of Paris
carried the following resolution: “Jewry must try to get possession of
Budapest first, then Hungary, so as to have a base for the establishment
of its world-rule.” And many of us read in 1917, during the war, the
declaration of their leading spirit in Hungary, published in _Világ_,
the mouthpiece of Freemasonry: “We reserve our institutions, our means
and our men for a superhuman effort later on.” Now the _later on_ has
arrived, has emerged from obscurity. Twenty-four Jewish People’s
Commissaries lead the rest and pronounce judgment of life and death upon
Hungary.
The sound of an enemy gun is heard in the distance, and suffering
humanity breathes freer and thinks of liberation. Perhaps it will come
nearer and shoot down the walls of our prison.... But no: happier
nations would never be able to understand that that was needed.
* * * * *
_March 30th–31st._
Items of news arrive daily, but there is no sequence. Only a few days
ago it was announced that ‘the British Foreign Secretary protests.
London will not permit it.... Thirty thousand French troops have
embarked in Marseilles....’ Now the talk is of General Mangin’s
Anglo-French armies: he is on the way and has taken the field against
the Bolsheviks.
[Illustration:
THE JEWS CALL A MEETING AND DECIDE TO ORGANISE A JEWISH RED REGIMENT
TO FIGHT FOR BOLSHEVISM.
]
I put out my candle and sat alone in the dark. A vision of spectres rose
about me, shaking their heads, apathetic spectres of suppressed doubts
which extinguished all hope. What if nobody comes to our help, if the
nations allow us to perish miserably while they stand round and watch us
being eaten up by the worms which arise from our own decay? Surely we
cannot descend utterly into the depths unless the victorious Great
Powers permit it? Why do they not prevent it, if they do not want
Bolshevism? With Károlyi for ever cringing, Colonel Vyx, the head of the
Entente’s Military Mission has stopped at nothing. Taking advantage of
his position he has trodden for months on our self-respect. He has
treated the Eastern bulwark of Europe, a highly cultured people with a
lineage as ancient as his own nation’s, like the French officers treat
the savages in their own colonies. Why did this egotistical little Jew
of Alsatian origin, possessed of plenipotentiary powers, withdraw all
the French troops from Budapest on the eve of the proclamation of the
Dictatorship? Why did he permit the Posts and Telegraphs, over which he
had absolute censorial sway, to serve Béla Kun in the preparation of his
revolution?
Some day these questions will be answered. The message signed by Colonel
Vyx, published in the papers of the 26th, although the provinces only
got the news to-day, throws some light upon one point. The Military
Mission of the Entente unexpectedly _appeals_ “in the name of
conciliation and justice” to the Revolutionary Government “to give
without delay every possible publicity to the following communication.”
It refers to the document in which Károlyi announces his resignation:
“In his proclamation to the Hungarian people the President of the
Republic said that the Mission of the Entente had stated that it would
in the future consider the lines of demarcation as political frontiers.
I formally declare that this is an erroneous interpretation of the words
used.... It has never been intended to suggest such political
frontiers.”
So it appears that once again Michael Károlyi has deceived the nation.
But is it not curious that Colonel Vyx’s mission has delayed this
explanation until now? Why did it not take action at once, when Károlyi
endeavoured to justify his resignation by the alleged finality of
frontiers fixed in the Entente’s note? Why did it allow him to use
nationalist arguments in order to throw Hungary into the arms of
Bolshevism? And why did Colonel Vyx permit Béla Kun to creep in under
the same nationalist flag which had covered Károlyi’s exit?
Who consented to play the game of these two abject creatures in the
fateful hour when the stakes were a country’s fate? The tardy
explanation of the Entente Mission inevitably creates the impression
that Colonel Vyx played into their hands, or, at the least, that he
showed considerable partisanship in their favour.
The exposure of Károlyi’s deception concerning the fixing of frontiers
shows the falsity of Béla Kun’s battle-cry: “For territorial integrity!”
Now that he wields both armed forces and finances, he sings another
tune. He has declared to a correspondent of the Viennese _Neue Freie
Presse_: “In Soviet Hungary we do not insist on territorial
integrity.... We do not recognise any economic frontiers.” These are the
men who have Hungary’s fate at their mercy! The very thought makes one’s
blood boil. Is all our ancient pride of race, all our glorious history,
to be thus trampled under foot by Jews? Why does the Entente delay? Why
does it give Bolshevism time to recruit an army for its own support?
_The Red Soldier_, a new daily paper, has just appeared in Budapest.
Propaganda is active: Pogány recruits, Számuelly directs. What a
nightmare it is! The cradle of the Red army is draped with low-class
comedy. Its advertisements take the shape of newspaper paragraphs and
vicious posters. From a world of brothels, of cheap upholstery, of
merry-go-rounds, of foul-mouthed agitators speaking from red stands, is
the Red army recruited.
It is proposed to hold Red soldiers’ gala performances at the theatres,
and the newspapers are devoting unending columns to rapturous approval
of the idea. “The temple of the Muses stands in festive attire!” Yes—and
to the sounds of the Internationale the crowd rushes the free seats. In
every theatre a different leader will address the audience: the Galician
Neros will mount the stage and play their parts. “There is no such thing
as one’s own country! Long live the country of all the Proletarians! An
army is the tool of nationalist society. Death to militarism! Long live
the Red army!”
Someone knocks at my window: it is Elisabeth Kállay in a fur coat
standing in the twilight. Yes, by all means let us go. The evening has
become heavy and unbearable indoors. Let us get some fresh air.
We walked along the river Galga, and frost from the hills came on the
breath of the icy wind. Coming home we crossed the courtyard. There was
a light in the stable and a pink-cheeked, fair little girl was sitting
on the threshold. Indoors a woman was sitting on a stool beside a cow
and one could hear the milk squirting regularly, sharply, into the pail.
The coachman doffed his hat and remained bareheaded, a farmer who was
leaning against the wall stood up and saluted us. I could not help
thinking of the war-cry of ‘The Red Newspaper’: “Class war must be
carried into the villages!”
They were talking of the agitators in Aszód.
“Let them bark,” said the farmer placidly; “first we’ll see what those
people in Budapest are up to.”
I could not distinguish his face but it seemed to me that it was not an
individual but the whole Hungarian peasantry, suspicious, cautious, who
had spoken. The Hungarian peasant speaks little and is not over-fond of
work. Now he leans on his plough and watches gravely who shall be the
owner of the soil.
“Michael Károlyi has promised it to us. It is true he did not redeem his
pledge, and what he gave of his own was, as it turned out later, no
longer his property.”
“The Communists have promised even more,” said Elisabeth Kállay in the
cautious way which the times had taught us.
“They only promise the townsfolk that everything is to be theirs,” said
the farmer; “here they say that the land too, is common property.”
“Well, well,” said the coachman, “it is not easy to understand these
new-fangled laws.”
“That is why we first listened to the Communists,” continued the farmer
reflectively. “We wanted to see what was going to happen to the land.
But later on....” He remained silent for a time, as if debating with
himself if he ought to speak out or not. So the coachman continued:
“When they started to talk about the law abolishing religion, we did not
like it.”
“That’s so,” agreed the farmer; “nor did we like it when they made a law
that, if I may be excused mentioning such things, if people lived
together for a year in free love, that should make them a lawfully
wedded couple.” There was silence for a time. The men, ashamed to talk
to us of these matters, seemed to whisper among themselves.
“But what roused the women into white heat,” the farmer laughed, “was
the decision that even a married man could marry like this over and over
again, as his old marriage was automatically dissolved by any subsequent
union.”
The former gravity had disappeared.
“After that the Communists were in a hurry, I can tell you, to get on
their carts. They would not dare to come back here at any price.”
The woman had finished the milking some while ago and was standing in
the stable door beside the child. Now she spoke from her dark corner:
“They said they would make picture-shows of the churches, and that there
would be no more illegitimate children, nor any inheritance, and that
the State would take over our children.”
At these words the little girl clung crying to her mother’s skirts.
“Mummie dear,” she implored, “you won’t let the horrid State take me
away from you....” The woman shook her head. The coachman laughed and
said: “I don’t know, if you are really naughty....”
The child howled, so her mother picked her up in her arms and in that
one tender movement negatived all Communist ordinances. She disappeared,
carrying the weeping child and seeming to become one with it. I followed
them with my eyes: beyond them, set in a sea of darkness, were the soft
outlines of the sleeping village: the roofs of the cottages alone were
visible under the starry sky. And Lenin is to come here too!
Bled white, the villages sleep and offer no resistance. But in their
very dreams the villagers cling to the soil; and the soil is their
country, and their country is Great Hungary.
My heart went out to the villages. The village, the Hungarian village,
is selfish like a child, indifferent like a sign-post, and as strong as
wind and weather. Its sins are the wild revels derived from its
vineyards; the desire for fecundity in men, women and soil alike. Its
blessings are sowing and reaping.
There is here a ray of hope. Will the Hungarian village be our
salvation?
* * * * *
_April 1st–2nd._
Even a few days seems a long time when one is counting the hours. And
now the second week has gone and there is no sign of our distress coming
to an end.
Bolshevism is destroying with the impudence of ignorance and building
with the inexperience of barbarism. Lenin decreed that the old order
should be ruthlessly destroyed and the new order constructed without
delay. The Bolsheviks of Budapest hasten to obey. With such insatiable
zeal do they set to work that their topsy-turvy legislation is but a
disclosure and a legalisation of their previous arbitrary actions.
The papers give practically no other news. They aim blows at human
ethical conceptions and at Hungarian life. They provide a defence for
evil-doers and for brigands.
The Jewish Commissary for Justice has proscribed the administration of
justice, for he has suspended the sittings of the law-courts!
Never before have I realised to what an extent we are at these people’s
mercy. Károlyi set the criminals free; the criminals let crime loose to
supply their needs. Immorality and lawlessness require the freedom of
crime for their sway. To produce unlimited means for its rule Bolshevism
abolishes the private property of others, distributes it among its own
adherents, and uses it to pay its servants.
Anxiety is now perpetually with me: I feel like a person going late at
night through a dark abandoned street who hears moaning from behind a
closed window. It is impossible to enter: no policeman can be found.
What is happening? Dark speculations haunt one’s mind as long as night
endures.
Class hatred has established spies and watchers in all the houses of
Budapest: the secret agents of the new power are to be found in every
house; they watch, blackmail, and report. On their good-will depends the
distribution of food tickets within the house, and those whom they
suspect are deprived of bread. Their sanction is required to obtain
permits if one requires wood, soap, or boot laces, and Proletarians
alone receive the permits. There is a meatless week in Budapest. The
countryside is refusing to send supplies, and food is running short. Yet
they proclaim boisterously that Plenty is the outcome of social
production! It is the business of the ‘confidential man’ in every house
to see that the Proletarian should not notice the wolf at the door. But
it is the intellectual workers who are on short rations: the middle
classes are to be deprived of food tickets. Everything is for the
Proletarian. Such privileges have never before been known, but it is not
love for the Proletarian that inspires these privileges; it is the
hatred for the Hungarian Christian citizens, the delight in their
sufferings, that are the principles upon which the new rulers govern.
Under the guise of philanthropy Galician Jews and Proletarian rabble are
planted among the hated bourgeoisie. The kitchen is common property and
the middle-class occupier is obliged to put his furniture at the
disposal of the intruders. Home is home no longer. Even in the
restricted area assigned to them the bourgeoisie is to have no peace.
The Jewish Dictator of the capital has decreed: “Baths for the
Proletarian children!” It sounds a very human provision, but is really
only a pretence for new provocation. A tendencious poster has appeared,
announcing that the bourgeoise women who “from their silken couches used
to step into their perfumed baths” shall make room for dear little
Proletarian children, who till now were deprived of the luxury of
cleanliness. The order runs:
“... We also requisition the bath-rooms of private dwellings once a
week, on Saturdays, for the whole day, for the gratuitous bathing of the
children sent by schools and nursery schools with their certificates.
The owners of the bath-rooms have to provide gratuitously the necessary
fuel, lighting, towels and soap.—Moritz Preuss.”
And the class they call bourgeois can buy neither fuel nor soap! They
want the bourgeoisie to perish, perhaps they revel in the idea that they
may thus introduce vermin and infection into clean homes. Abroad they
create the impression of being philanthropists, and at home they amuse
the rabble. For days the houses of Budapest have been terrified by the
rumour that Tibor Számuelly intends to allow the mob three hours’
plunder.
My own home was continually in my mind. I could see my mother sitting
alone among her household gods. I could see her walking through the
rooms, touching now one thing, now another, things that remind her of my
grandmother, of my great-grandmother, of old times, things that are part
of her life.... She cannot write to me, nor can I write to her. I long
to go to her for a day, or only for an hour....
As I said this Elisabeth Kállay looked at me:
“Do you know how many of us are already in prison? Do you want to go
there too?”
It seemed to me that my mother’s face was leaning over me and that she
repeated: “Don’t worry about me, and don’t come home till....”
A carriage drove through the gate, came slowly up the drive and stopped
in front of the house. A carriage in the village! The hospitable
generation which lived before us saw nothing terrifying in that. But now
I asked myself: “Have they come to requisition? Are they agitators,
Socialist delegates, or detectives? Are they on my track?”
My heart beat fast, and a plan occurred to me. I resolved that if they
came for me I would escape by the other side of the house, where there
is a little door under the walnut staircase, and that thence I should
make for the vineyards, and over the hillock on to the main road. I was
quite astonished to find how exactly I remembered every ditch, every
lane, as if from the very start I had observed the country with a view
to a possible escape.
Then came a sound of movement and of laughter, starting under the porch
and spreading all over the house. The newcomer was a friend, Baroness
Apor, lady-in-waiting to the Archduchess Augusta. She brought us
newspapers and news. A Vienna paper gave a long account of how Count
Louis Salm had boxed the ears of Michael Károlyi in the street—the
latter was in Vienna on behalf of the Revolutionary Cabinet. As he was
emerging from the door of a house of doubtful reputation Count Salm ran
up to him: “Take that for the Italian front, that for Hungary ...” and
as the blows fell each was similarly explained. A crowd gathered round
them and a cab was passing. Károlyi made desperate signs for it to stop.
Then Count Salm exclaimed: “Look at him, this is Michael Károlyi who has
betrayed Hungary!” The cabman swore a big oath, lashed out with his whip
at Károlyi, turned his horse and drove on, while the blows were still
falling hard. I wish it had been a Hungarian who had given them!
Baroness Apor told us that Archduke Joseph’s palace had been occupied by
the Red commander. The furniture had been carried off and ‘communised’
by the comrades.
The Archduke and the Archduchess had been compelled to flee on the
evening of the 21st. They escaped on foot in pouring rain, to the
accompaniment of a good deal of shooting in the town, and hid with some
faithful friends until next evening. Then they managed to escape in a
ramshackle old coach through the excise barriers of Buda and made off
for the hills. The Archduke travelled south with two aide-de-camps; the
Archduchess went to Alcsuth after having given all her jewels to her
husband for travelling expenses. He will attempt to get into
communication with the French commander in the hope of raising the
nation.
New hope!... The room seemed to brighten up and life ceased to seem a
burden. Perhaps after a week, or a few days.... No, neither after a few
days, nor hereafter—because when it came to crossing the frontier into
occupied territory the Archduke turned back: he could not bring himself
to leave that last bit of our country which is the only hope of our
resurrection.
Meanwhile his son had been arrested and had been taken on a springless
cart to Kanizsa, his guards telling him all the way that Számuelly was
waiting there to settle his business. They asked him if he wanted a
‘black coat’ for his journey, and pointed to trees: “This one would do
nicely, or do you prefer that one?” Now he is imprisoned in Budapest.
So is the former Prime Minister, Alexander Wekerle, and Bishop Count
Mikes, and Count George Károlyi who hates the Communists. Countess
Raphael Zichy stayed at home, refusing to leave. Is she repeating her
famous saying: “There is no terror, there is only cowardice!”
“Under pretence of looking for arms,” Baroness Apor told us, “armed Red
soldiers invade houses at night. The safe deposits have been broken open
and pilfered by the Government. It is impossible to withdraw money from
the banks. All jewelry worth more than two thousand crowns becomes
‘public property.’ Mine has been taken too. A friend of mine preferred
to throw her pearls into the Danube. Anybody who still possesses
anything is hiding it if he can. There is a perfect exodus to the hills
of Buda. At first people only buried little jewel-cases. Then came the
rumour of a new order. The larders were going to be ransacked. Off to
the hills went the barrels of lard, the boxes of sugar and tea, the
household linen.”
One of us broke in:
“Yes, but what do people say, how long will this last?”
“Nobody knows. People are in despair. News is contradicted as soon as
published. Károlyi negotiates with the Missions of the Entente in the
name of the Bolshevik Government. The Italians, they say, are
sympathetic. It is even said that they are disposed to recognise the
Soviet Republic. The Italian delegate, Prince Borghese, is a great
friend of Béla Kun and the beautiful Jewesses of the Commune. It is also
rumoured that a Boer general called Smuts is to be sent here to force
the Bolshevik crowd to resign.” Baroness Apor glared rigidly before her
as if she saw something terrible. “Számuelly is getting more and more to
the fore,” she continued after a short pause. “The Government threatens
in his name whenever it wants to cause alarm. The others are busy
drawing up the new Constitution. They speak and issue orders as if
things were to remain like this for ever.”
None of us said anything. Our thoughts were so similar that speech was
superfluous.
* * * * *
_April 4th._
Sometimes nobody visits us for days; but it happens occasionally that
people come to see us. As soon as I hear their steps on the gravel I run
and hide in my room. The other day while I was sitting there Countess
Dessewffy was saying in the drawing-room that the police were after me,
but that she knew I had made good my escape to Switzerland. It seemed
quite amusing. With the exception of one friend nobody knows that I am
here or who I am. This is Baron Jeszenszky, whose property is near by,
at Kövesd. He often goes to Budapest. Then we wait impatiently for the
news he brings back. Anything that gives hope finds credence with us.
Baron Jeszenszky waves his hand in despair: “Mark my words, this will
never come to an end.”
The more we contradict him the more pessimistic he becomes. If, however,
we agree, he gets angry and becomes hopeful. “What lack of faith!”
I feel similarly inclined, and so does everybody else, for we express
our doubt only in the hope of being contradicted; we try hard to raise
some hope in ourselves and are angry when it is thrown over.
We went early to bed and I read Sir Thomas More. The book opened where
the conquering Utopys reaches his island where he is going to found the
realm of universal happiness:
“... But Kyng Utopys, whose name, as conqueror, the Iland beareth (for
before his tyme it was called Abraxa) which also brought the rude and
wild people to that excellent perfection in al good fassions, humanitye
and civile gentilnes, wherein they nowe goe beyond al the people of the
world: even at his firste arrivinge and enteringe upon the lande,
furthwith obteynyge the victory....”
Sir Thomas More, the forefather of Socialism, imagined it like that. He
wanted to found his land of universal happiness on a gentle, civilised
people. Will there ever be people like that on this earth? Until there
is, Socialism will remain the island of Utopia.
* * * * *
_April 5th._
The men of the village Directorate came up to the castle to-day. There
was some formality about their visit, and they wore their black Sunday
hats. Mrs. Benjamin Kállay received them herself. The bad man of the
village spoke the loudest among them, and whenever this occurred the
others cast their eyes down and nudged their neighbours: “Come, speak
up, now!” I thought of the little peacock-blue Sèvres vases up in the
drawing-room; the Persian dishes and the old hand-painted fans in the
glass-case. How were they going to describe them in their inventory?
One of them declared that no more wine must be brought up from the
cellar, for prohibition had been enforced. Nothing in the house must be
removed, for it all belongs henceforth to the State. The others nodded
as they looked around. “The people from the towns are going to come
soon.” And so they left without making an inventory.
The day has not yet come, but what of the morrow? Incertitude is
increasing daily. Everything becomes transitory. In one’s plans one does
not even dare to make arrangements for the following day. Generally one
makes no plans at all. Days and hours become independent units, without
continuity or cohesion among them.
The Sunday hats of the Directorate were flocking back to the garden
gate. One of them lingered behind, then seized the opportunity of
turning back. He stood there before us, an old man, humble, hat in hand,
with sad eyes:
“Dear little lady,” he stuttered shamefacedly, “might I ask your
Excellency for a little wine? Nobody will know. I want it for an
invalid. A young woman who is dying.” A bottle was given to him and he
hid it furtively under his coat.
The Soviet Government threatens with its summary jurisdiction anyone
found drinking wine. Not even the sick are allowed any. But drunken
soldiers stagger unmolested in the gutter. The People’s Commissaries
have champagne orgies in their special trains and throw the empty
bottles from the windows. They have drinking bouts in the Soviet House
of Budapest, the former Hotel Hungaria, which they have requisitioned.
The occupants were expelled without notice and within a few hours the
Commissaries, some with their wives, others with their mistresses,
occupied the place.
[Illustration:
JULIUS HEVESI _alias_ HÖNIG.
VICE-COMMISSARY, MINISTRY FOR SOCIALISATION.
]
Everything I see, everything I hear, carries my thoughts to the guilty
town, bids them seek among its million people, for the sake of one!
To-day I received the first message from home. Charles Kiss, our
faithful friend, has escaped from among the accursed walls and brought
me a letter from my mother. She is well; she has already left for our
cottage among the hills of Buda. She was in want of nothing, nobody
interfered with her. They have not been looking for me. Thus Kiss
brought me nothing but good news.
While I listened to him I was filled with joy: “Then there is no longer
any reason why I should not go home!” At this his face changed suddenly.
No, not yet, better wait a little longer.... And as he argued the point
I suspected his former statements more and more. So they had only been
designed to re-assure me!
Hans Freitag, Councillor at the German Legation, had come to see my
mother and had warned her that I ought to escape if I were still there.
Now the removal of my mother to the hills had a different meaning to me:
my mother had to choose between her flat in town and her cottage in the
hills. Need for choice came suddenly and she had moved the previous day.
But I learnt that the flat was now occupied by very decent people; the
Red soldiers who brought them behaved quite nicely. They had put
altogether three families and a school into the flat; they were Jews and
Proletarians but it was all right, no harm had been done, everything had
gone smoothly. Only a little furniture and a few pictures were left
behind in the flat.
Slowly I began to visualise the whole thing. Red soldiers.... That meant
she had been expelled by force. All sorts of insignificant trifles swept
through my head. The tiny treasures of the old show-case.... The
snuff-box which had a tinkling little tune hidden within it.... The
yellow porcelain dame with her crinoline and her unnaturally slender
waist.... Where have they gone to, those friends of my childhood? And
the ash-tray which used to stand near the clock? Has it gone? And the
watercolours? And my mother’s work-basket, her patience cards? The
crucifix from Ravenna on my bookcase? Who has removed it? My
manuscripts, my books, my pictures?
The Jewish Commissary of Education had decreed that books left in houses
became the property of the Soviet Republic. All collections of books
have to be reported. Valuable pictures become common property.
Charles Kiss re-assured me: “Everything is still there,” but I could
believe his kind-hearted statements no longer. A torturing picture
haunted me incessantly: I saw a home pulled to pieces, strange people in
our rooms and the front door, through which my lonely mother had to
leave, wide open.
The subject had been changed a long while ago, but I had not noticed it.
I realised it only when I heard someone say: “It will last longer than
we had expected.”
I shuddered as a hopeless silence ensued. The ticking of the clock above
fell on our ears. One by one the minutes dropped into eternity seeming
to make time unbearable. Yet from the silence of despair victorious hope
dared to raise its head.
“The People’s Commissaries seem to be already quarrelling among
themselves,” said Charles Kiss. “They are even said to have come to
blows. Számuelly wanted to get the Red army into his own hands.”
“Yes, they may quarrel over a question of power, but when it comes to
oppressing us they hold together.”
“Yet it ended with the downfall of Pogány. The adherents of Számuelly
informed the Soldiers’ Council that he intended to abolish the system of
‘confidential men’ which had been so successful in poisoning the mind of
the remnant of our army. Now the Social-Communists require a
well-disciplined, serviceable army.
“Marxism only sticks to its principles, ends and catch-words as long as
they serve as weapons to attack society. The ‘confidential men’ would
not stand the plan. It happened yesterday. In the afternoon they drew up
the International Red Regiment, which is ready for any mischief.
Accompanied by an infuriated mob of dissatisfied workmen and hungry
good-for-nothings they went up to the Royal Castle. They invaded St.
George’s Square, clamouring for Pogány. The ‘confidential men’ of the
regiment broke into the Commissariat of War. From the balconies they
urged their men on. The system of ‘confidential men’ to which Pogány
owed his shameful power, by means of which he had removed Ministers of
War and terrorised the whole nation into submission, now became the
instrument of his own downfall.”
The dogs barked somewhere in the grounds. This alone broke the silence.
Then Charles Kiss went on:
“In a few minutes the news spread over the town. Many heard the howling
of the demonstrators who were cursing Pogány. People were already saying
that he had been hanged and that Béla Kun had been hanged at his side.
Later on it turned out that the news was false. All that had happened
was that the Cabinet had increased the number of its members and had
made certain changes. There are now more Jewish People’s Commissaries
than ever. Pogány and Számuelly have become Commissaries for Education.
Béla Kun controls the War Office. Then people found a new ray of hope.
We put all our confidence in General Smuts.”
“So the news was true after all?”
“We expected a lot of him,” Kiss went on. “Budapest was confident that a
British general, one of the Delegates of the Paris Peace Conference,
would not come to an agreement with Béla Kun and his company. The town
was full of hope. Everybody had some good news. Számuelly’s declaration
was attributed to the general’s coming.”
“What sort of declaration?”
He took a newspaper out of his pocket and spread it over the table.
There it was, in huge type, in a conspicuous place. It was
characteristic of the world we lived in that it was considered within
the province of the Minister of Education to make such a declaration.
“For several days unscrupulous elements have been spreading the news
that I intend giving permission for general plundering. This is a base
calumny and a disgraceful lie. I appeal to the Comrades to give me an
opportunity to face the scoundrels who spread this news and to make an
example of them. I ask them to help me to put those who spread this news
before a Revolutionary Tribunal and have summary justice meted out to
them. Tibor Számuelly, Assistant People’s Commissary for Education.”
“When it became known,” Kiss went on, “that General Smuts, though he had
ordered rooms in an hotel, had not even entered the town but had
summoned Béla Kun to the railway station, there was no limit to our
illusions. But it did not last. This morning the Communists informed us
triumphantly of their success; the Entente had entered into negotiations
with the Governments of Moscow and Budapest....”
My mind reverted to Brest-Litovsk. We did not know it at the time, but
it was there that we lost the war. Now even the victors may lose it in
Budapest and Moscow.
“General Smuts came here,” Kiss added sadly, “not to threaten but to
negotiate. The journalist friends of the People’s Commissaries told us
that General Smuts had offered the Government a favourable line of
demarcation. If Béla Kun will consent to come to some arrangement, the
Powers are prepared to compel the Roumanians to retire eastwards and to
form a neutral zone occupied by British, French and Italian troops. The
journalists also say that the General will recommend in Paris that the
interested States should hold a conference which would finally fix their
respective frontiers. He promised to use his influence to persuade the
Powers to invite Béla Kun’s Government to Paris. He will have the
blockade raised and provide fats and other articles of which we are in
need. All he required in compensation was the cessation of all attempts
to spread the idea of a world-revolution. The success made Béla Kun
dizzy. He would be satisfied with nothing. The attempt of the Entente to
compromise with him has strengthened his position incredibly, and now he
is proclaiming to the world that the Great Powers are afraid of him. He
wants no increase of territory, he wants free trade and free propaganda
in the neighbouring States.”
Last autumn, the great collapsing Monarchy appealed to Wilson and asked
for his intervention. Through Mr. Lansing, his Secretary of State, he
sent the following answer: “We will not negotiate with you.” And with
cruel irony he referred the peace-begging Power to its little
neighbours. Then he did not deign to speak to us, but he has no
hesitation in bargaining with Béla Kun. Are they really afraid of him?
Or do they think that he will surrender Hungarian nationality in
exchange for the freedom of Bolshevism? Is the national ideal of Hungary
more dangerous in the eyes of the Entente than the national ideal of the
Jews? The British General has gone. His steps die away in the distance.
He has knocked at our window and we could not move and appeal to him.
The villains have tied our hands and gagged us and we strain at our
bonds in helpless agony.