Szügy, _May 11th_.
Since I left Szügy the almond trees have blossomed; so beauty came to
meet me, and my heart lost some of its wildness and I felt less lonely
and sad.
When I reached the bottom of the neglected garden I saw that someone was
sitting on the stone seat leaning his elbows on the table and staring
towards the sun. For an instant I was taken aback: who was this man?
Then I remembered: he must be one of the officers quartered on us.
Abject distress was depicted on his downcast face.
It was despair that drove many patriotic officers through hunger and
poverty into the Red army, and among the humiliated they are the worst;
trampled, threatened, insulted, hungry, shivering and watched; the
helpless prey of a typewriter-agent commander-in-chief, of the delegates
to the front, of scum.
So the pathless garden has appealed to another unfortunate. He too would
like to escape, but cannot; he too would like to hope, and there is
nothing to hope for. What is in store for us? Every attempt we have made
has broken down, our hopes from abroad, our hopes from our own efforts.
The Red press is howling for blood. “Death to the bandits of the
Counter-revolution!”
The greater part of Hungary’s aristocracy fled abroad in March: the
Hungarian peasantry keeps obstinately silent on its isolated farms,
in its sequestered villages. So there are none left for a
counter-revolution but those who for a thousand years have borne the
weight of our destinies. Once they were the electors of kings, when
they were known as the gentry, later as the educated classes, and
to-day as the middle classes. They have always been to the fore when
death or toil was demanded of them, and always in the background
when royal favours and grants were distributed; but never have they
been mediocre in fibre. This class will be for ever the trunk of the
oak, the power that supports the tree and stands up against the
blows of the axe, yet does not receive the rays of the sun. Now the
axe has fallen. Men were wanted who dared to die, and in Budapest
the first attempt at a counter-revolution flared up. But somebody
betrayed it, and those caught were sentenced to life-long
imprisonment and their leaders executed.
Then came the news that the ‘Cabinet’ had sent to the Hungarian Legation
in Vienna one hundred and forty million crowns to finance a revolution;
whereupon Hajób, the Secretary of the Legation, and the patriotic
Hungarian employees stormed the Communist Legation. The money fell into
the hands of the counter-revolutionaries.
‘The Red Newspaper’ foamed as it reported the matter. Our hopes rose. It
was said that over twenty thousand Hungarians, able to bear arms, were
in Vienna, and in our imagination the right bank of the Danube was
already aflame. People whispered: “the Hungarians of Vienna have
started, it is only a question of days and they will knock over the
Dictatorship.” Then one night about fifty officers crossed the
frontier—and were disarmed by the Austrian frontier guards.
Still there was hope. The ideals of the Budapest conspiracy survived its
martyrs. The thread was not dropped. Brave men began once more to
organise. It was decided that the aeroplane which was to give the signal
for the rising was to fly over Budapest on the 4th of May at three
o’clock in the morning. On the eve of the event a few officers,
confident of victory, appeared in a restaurant with white roses and with
restored decorations and insignia of rank, and made the gypsy band play
the national anthem. This stupid demonstration naturally aroused the
attention of spies, and the same night Colonel Dormándy, Captain Horváth
and several brave officers and officials were arrested.
When I reached the house a letter was waiting for me from Mrs. Huszár. A
clergyman of the reformed church is going to-morrow to his parents who
live on the other bank of the river, and he will take me with him. One
has only to ford the river and one is safe.
* * * * *
_May 12th._
I had a curious dream last night. I dreamt the moon was shining on the
manor-house. I had to escape, and was implored to hurry. Somebody
hastily pressed a bundle tied up in a handkerchief and a staff into my
hand. Then I found myself on the main road along the river, alone in the
silvery light of the moon. The water was visible between the trees and
sparkled brightly. Then I noticed that the bundle in my hand became
heavier and heavier. I looked at it and found that it was all covered
with blood; blood was streaming out of it and running down my staff till
it covered the road.
Later I told Mrs. Beniczky my dream. “Don’t go,” said she; “a better
opportunity will come.” So I stayed.
In the afternoon the commander of the artillery in the village came to
take leave. The Czechs are retiring all along the line, the Reds in
pursuit. The Rumanians also have lost the initiative. In Germany the
awful conditions of peace have provoked an outburst of Spartacism. The
Germans are making an alliance with the Russians. France does not care;
she requires her troops for troubles at home. The domination (such as it
was) of the Entente in Hungary has come to an end. The gunner looked
down in despair: “The Soviet is going to rule the world,” said he.
If this is true I shall not escape; I shall go back to my mother and
report myself. One gets tired of being a fugitive.
There was a knock at the door and in came Mrs. Huszár. She too was pale
and spoke in whispers:
“Bad news. It is all over, and the town is full of detectives. You
mustn’t stay any longer; you must leave here immediately.”
“And your husband? Supposing it’s true that things are going to continue
like this for years?”
“I’ve just heard from him,” said Mrs. Huszár, “he’s hiding in the woods.
He’s having a bad time of it too, but then he is a man.” She had no
thought for herself, only for others. “There’s no need for you to stay
with us.”
So we agreed that I should be informed as soon as the clergyman returned
and get ready to start.
The moon was filtering through the trees and in the blue light on the
lawn the white fluffy dandelion clocks swayed like tiny Chinese lanterns
on the ends of miniature poles. The breeze swept across the grass and
extinguished the lanterns. The fluff floated in the moonlight: the image
of our torn hopes.
* * * * *
_May 13th._
This morning a soldier I had not seen before came in through the garden
gate, bringing the officer’s dinner in a canteen. He put down the
canteen on the steps of the terrace and went into the kitchen. The men
have ordered roast veal for their own dinner. When he came back he saw
that a dog was licking the officer’s food.
“What does it matter?” said he; “dogs can feed out of the same
trencher.”
* * * * *
_May 14th._
The last frost was shimmering on the grass, and machine-guns were
clattering away as if needles of steel were sewing a shroud in the air.
A cloud rose on the main road, as if raised by a whirlwind: a carriage
came racing along at a mad gallop. A young man was driving, giving the
horses their head, and as he leant forward I saw that he had a
gentlemanly appearance. That was all I could see through the dust; the
carriage passed in a flash.
Shots were fired at it. “Stop him!” howled a hoarse, thick voice from a
cottage.
They are going to arrest him; already a mounted trooper is galloping
after him. But his horse shied at the shooting, rose on its hind legs,
and then swerved with his rider into the fields. Meanwhile the carriage
had disappeared, and my heart followed it. The fate of the driver is
mine, his escape is my escape. I do not know who he was. I could not
even see his face clearly, but he is ‘wanted,’ so we are friends. It is
only thieves and malefactors who are not hounded in Hungary to-day. They
are free, they judge, rule, and speak in the name of the country. Those
who are hunted are my brethren.
* * * * *
_May 16th._
The garden has never attained such supreme beauty; it seems to open in
the morning as for an embrace. Its silence was interrupted this morning,
however, by a sound like a giant blue-bottle humming in the distance. It
flew fast, came nearer and nearer, its hum became a roar. A motor-car
was racing along, a grey, luxurious field car, like the one the King
used to have. I looked out between the shrubs. The car stopped near the
path, and the driver in his leather coat leant forward, adjusting
something near the steering wheel. There were three passengers in the
car, the one on the right, lolling back among the cushions, a fat,
high-shouldered, short-necked, broad Jew, whose very attitude was
unpleasant. Under his flat Soviet cap greasy black hair curled over his
neck. His clean-shaven face reminded one of a music-hall artist.
The car started and disappeared in a cloud of dust. I shrank back with
disgust. Why had that face come here? Where had I seen it before? I
shuddered. It was as though a soft slimy toad had suddenly appeared on
the surface of a clear sylvan pool. The garden closed over the vision
and the flowering lilacs effaced its impression. In the evening I was
told that the man in the princely motor, with his suite, was Joseph
Pogány.
I suppose I ought to be amused. Here am I, outlawed, sentenced to death,
and sleuth-hounds have been let loose upon my tracks. The chauffeur is
probably our housekeeper’s fiancé, the same who was set to spy on our
home. And these people who have been searching for me for weeks were
standing just now a few paces from me; they, openly, free, while I was
hiding in the bushes. May the same fortune attend their search for
others.
* * * * *
_May 17th._
Yesterday a newspaper was thrown from the train. The old middle-class
newspapers have stopped publication even in their new Communist
disguise. Following the Russian example there are now only official
papers; ‘The People’s Voice,’ ‘The Red Newspaper,’ ‘The Red Soldier,’
‘The Young Proletarian’; _Világ_, the old newspaper of the Freemasons,
has remained, though it disguises its identity under the name of _The
Torch_ and serves as official mouthpiece of the Commissary for
Education; and there is the old capitalistic _Pester Lloyd_ used by the
revolutionary Cabinet as its semi-official, German mouthpiece.
The newspaper went from house to house through the village and at last
reached us. It proclaims in gigantic type: “Victories of the Proletarian
army. Lenin congratulates Béla Kun by wireless on his victories.” So
Lenin is speaking once more!
The sun is shining and yet the horizon appears dark and sad. Is it
really possible that they should triumph in the end? Suddenly I laughed:
Comrade Landler has published an article in ‘The People’s Voice,’
telling the story of how he visited a workmen’s battalion with Béla Kun
and Pogány. To quote him verbatim: “When they saw us they cheered. Then
a curious thing happened—our comrades asked for our autographs. We were
obliged to give our autographs, not to one, not to ten, but to half a
battalion. He who cannot interpret this incident must be afflicted with
blindness. An army which is on such a high level of culture that its
men, a few miles behind the front, ask for nothing but autographs, _an
army like that cannot fail to be victorious_!”
The paper was still in my hand when I came to a little plot of land
below the garden known by the name of ‘the parson’s green.’ It used to
be glebe land but Mrs. Beniczky has rented it for many years. She has
just been informed by the Directorate that this is to be her last year
of tenancy. However, they are graciously allowing her corn to grow
there. John Kispál, the gardener, a member of the Directorate, was
hoeing in it, and behind him a small girl was sowing corn in the
furrows. When Master Kispál perceived the newspaper in my hand, he leant
on his hoe and sucked at his pipe so violently that he drew his cheeks
in. Then he sent the girl for tobacco and looked round cautiously. That
is the way people have nowadays when they want to speak openly.
“Tell me, Miss,” said he, “what is going to happen?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, the gentle folks always know more than we do; they get it out of
their brains. Brains can’t be taught.” He gave a long pull at his pipe.
“Nowadays they put a man up against the wall if he says what he thinks.
Mistress Bakalár has been carried off in chains, because she could not
keep her mouth shut. She said that the Reds were greater enemies than
the enemy. It was no help to her that she was a first-class Proletarian,
rifle-butts played havoc with her head.” The gardener looked down
pensively. “Even that is not the worst of it. What’s worse is that they
are forsaking the country. How can any Hungarian do such a thing?”
“Those in power to-day are not Hungarian.”
“What? You don’t mean to say that Béla Kun is not a Hungarian?”
“Why, his real name is Cohen!”
Kispál’s mouth opened wide. “If that is so, the gentle folk have treated
us very unfairly. Why did they allow such a thing? Believe me, if he had
come here under his true name the people would have had none of him.”
[Illustration:
BÉLA KÚN (1) AND TIBOR SZÁMUELLY (2) IN THE MAY DAY PROCESSION.
]
When I reached the house the soldiers were making a great noise in the
kitchen. They told the maid that an army order had arrived: the 32nd
Artillery would have to leave this place. A small battery would come in
its place with a hundred and fifty men. But they were not quite sure
about obeying this order yet: Sergeant Isidor Grosz has a sweetheart
near by, and Katz, the political delegate, does not want a change
either. So they have sent to Budapest to ask Béla Kun to change the
gunners. They will stay on with the 8 c.m. guns, and if they do not get
their way they are going to blow up all the ammunition.
Comrade Pogány was in a temper when he left here. In the morning when he
rushed into the commander’s office he shouted and did not say “good
morning” to anybody. He asked an officer:
“How many recruits, and what stuff are they made of?”
“Eighty men, poor fellows, mostly flat-footed.”
“Why did they join up?”
“For pay, clothes and boots,” the officer answered.
“Not for the ideals of the Proletariat?” Pogány insisted.
“I can’t tell. The matter was never mentioned.”
The People’s Commissary turned his back on him furiously and ordered the
officers to parade in front of the men; then he asked the latter: “Are
you satisfied with the comrade officers?” After that, though the Red
press describes his indomitable courage at the head of storming troops
and gushes over his self-sacrificing heroism, he retired to a safe
distance behind the front.
And the gunners are going to remain another day because they want to
have a dance as a send-off. The men say that Isidor Grosz has come to an
arrangement with Béla Kun—he came back with his pockets bulging with
money, so now he does not mind leaving. It is to be hoped that none of
the others will take the thing amiss: there is a lot of ammunition in
the woodshed and on the terrace. The gate stands open, and there is
nobody to guard it. Even children steal in and break the boxes open,
stealing the cartridge cases and the cordite to make fireworks with.
The maid went to the dance to-night. There was a Gypsy band. The
soldiers danced and “the Proletarian army, as a sign of its great,
self-respecting discipline,” emptied several barrels of wine.
* * * * *
_May 19th._
The Red press is shrieking with sarcasm, mixed with hatred: “The parody
of a Government in Arad!” What is it, an opposition Government? Surely
not a Hungarian Government? But it is. It was formed in Arad on the 5th
of May, two weeks ago, and we, living in the same country, have received
the news only to-day! That is how The Terror deals with our news. At
last...! I read the manifesto of Arad over and over again. “The real
leaders of the nation being now in prison or banished, we assume the
leadership provisionally.”
A Hungarian voice, after a long silence. It does not boast, it has none
of the conceit of the distributors of autographs, it is manly and modest
like the man who is at the head of this provisional Government, though
for an instant his name repelled me. Károlyi! Awful memories are
connected with that name, and an irremovable curse. After Michael
Károlyi comes another Károlyi; but Count Julius Károlyi’s personality
stands high above the name, as if in expiation of the crimes which
another bearer of it has committed. The Foreign Secretary, Baron
Bornemissza, has been for years the leader of the Hungarians whom fate
has cast among the Rumanians. The Minister of War is not a
typewriter-agent or a second-rate journalist, but a real soldier. And
all the names are of this stamp but one: Varjassy has been Károlyi’s and
Jászi’s man. But that matters little now, and the more ‘The People’s
Voice’ fulminates, the greater is my joy. “Who are these nobodies?” the
Communist paper asks. “Hungarians!” replies the air, replies life,
replies morning and night. And hope made golden promises.
Dense masses of soldiers came from the village this afternoon, and the
gunners of the 32nd came to harvest in our garden. They are leaving this
evening and flowers are required for the train. So they made a dead set
at everything that blossomed in this quiet realm of green. Branches
cracked, the garden moaned. Within an hour the dreamy little shrubs were
changed into scarecrows, the grass was purple with the blossom of lilac.
Branches were twisted and cut down to stumps, wounded plants were
stripped of twigs and leaves. They have trampled Spring to death. I
raged inwardly; let them have the flowers, but why this mad destruction?
I went into the house: I could not bear the sight of it.
* * * * *
_May 20th–21st._
After the tepid rain in the night the sun has come out from among the
clouds, and the ill-treated shrubs look less hopeless, laden as they are
with glittering drops. The rain has made the grass raise its head and
some forgotten lilacs have opened their blossoms.
Ever since break of day the air has been humming above our heads. Steel
moles are mining the clouded sky. They are invisible till they fall with
a terrific crash and raise mole-hills on the ground.
The Reds have retaken Miskolcz from the Czechs. Eleven
counter-revolutionaries have been arrested in Budapest. In the ‘Frankel
Leo’ barracks a memorial tablet has been unveiled to the French
Communist leader of that name who was born in Old Buda.
In other countries there is peace, there is a future. They awake daily
without fear, their dreams are not nightmares; they have doors they can
close, cupboards that are not searched, a hearth which is not shared by
uncivilised, spiteful strangers. There one may sing and laugh. One may
even speak openly, happily. They have music, pictures, and books, and no
one comes to take them from them. Man is allowed to create, their minds
produce songs and sculptures and pictures, scholars pursue their
studies, and women have not forgotten to smile. And in the stifling
fetid atmosphere of ugliness, humiliation, reckless brutality,
restraint, slavery, and hatred, I am homesick for an hour’s beauty. Just
for an hour to have things as they used to be!
Mrs. Beniczky had a visitor to-day, an elderly lady who lived in the
village. I escaped quietly to my room, and although the visitor spoke in
whispers, now and then she forgot herself and then her voice reached me.
Suddenly she became aware that she was raising her voice and pulled
herself up.
“I understand that a poor relation of the Huszárs is staying with you,
where is she?” she asked anxiously. “In the next room? Goodness, then I
ought to....”
“Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Beniczky, laughing quietly, “she is hard of
hearing.”
Since I have been in hiding goodness knows how many things I have been.
First an escaped teacher, then a nurse, then a poor relation; now I am
deaf. Yet under false names, under all sorts of disguises, almost
invariably I have met with kindness. Of course some people naturally
tried to impress me with their own importance, and I shall be for ever
grateful to them, for they have taught me what it feels like to have to
put up with other people’s conceit. There was a ‘comrade’ officer of the
Reds who used to make me feel fearfully small—I was only a ‘poor
relation.’ He scarcely ever took any notice of me, and when I said
anything he looked ostentatiously bored. O poor relations, unwanted
superfluities, you have been my teachers, once I was one of you, and
when these times are over never shall I forget that I am of your kin.
When the visitor left I sat before the fire and read Petöfi’s poems to
my hostess. Slowly the day closed in and when the light failed we sat
talking quietly in the dusk.
“It was lucky that I did not let you go with the parson,” said Mrs.
Beniczky; “God has preserved you.”
The news had reached us in the afternoon. Although I had refused to go
with him, the Reverend Sebastian Kovács had started off to see his
parents, but while he was fording the river both the Czechs and the Reds
had fired on him from the banks. He threw himself into the water—a woman
who saw the whole thing recognised him and came to tell us. That was the
last that was heard of him.
“If you had been there, if they had arrested you, or.... Do you remember
your dream the previous night?”
I shuddered: once more I saw the white moonlit road and the little
bloody bundle of my dream. Again I felt the groping hand around me. For
two months it has reached out for me, missed me, come closer, missed me
again.
“There was no reason why you should go,” said Mrs. Beniczky, “this is a
sequestered place, and you are as safe here as if your mother were
watching over you.”
Then, all of a sudden, I saw my mother again. She was not visible, yet I
could see the poise of her head, her blue eyes, and the wonderful smile
on that delicate, narrow face.
Petöfi’s book was lying open on my knee: “Mother, our dreams do never
lie....”
And in the dark the smile was still present.
* * * * *
_May 22nd._
Last night two officers staying in the house came into the dining-room
bringing maps which they spread on the table. Their faces were the
picture of despair. Their position has daily become more insufferable
and orders from General Headquarters have now reached the political
agents at the front that all officers are to be watched by ‘reliable
individuals’—the said reliable individuals being Jews in every case.
This routine was begun yesterday, and two soldiers with fixed bayonets
are posted in front of every officer’s quarters. They take it in turn to
follow their officer wherever he goes, they eat at his table, they sleep
in his room. This is in strict accordance with the Russian plan, only
Trotsky favours Chinese soldiers for the job.
Voices sounded at the door and the officers snatched up their maps. A
soldier with his bayonet fixed stood in the doorway. The shade of the
hanging lamp cast the light low on the table, so that the soldier’s face
remained in the dark; only his repulsive, protruding eyes shone as they
passed inquisitively round the room. Then he shouted to the officers:
“Come along, comrades!” So we were left alone once more, and only the
roar of guns broke the silence of the night.
At dawn the little village became a swarming camp. A.S.C. carts covered
with tarpaulins came clattering from the direction of Balassagyarmat.
The banks of the Ipoly are being evacuated and the soldiers are hastily
packing. Camp kitchens and mounted troops clatter along the main road.
Dust, clouds of dust. Buglers sounding the ‘fall-in’ and nobody paying
the slightest attention.
Mrs. Beniczky and I held a council this morning. If the Czechs are
really going to occupy Balassagyarmat, nobody would think of looking for
me there. What shall I do? Finally we decided that I could go, and we
took leave of each other; but it was with a heavy heart I left the old
house and the garden behind me.
John Kispál, the gardener, a member of the Directorate, proposed to help
me reach the town. As we came to the barrier at Szügy an armed soldier
barred our road and pointed his bayonet at me. “Where are you going?
Have you got a pass? No? Then back you go!”
“Steady, man, steady!” said John Kispál with an air of importance.
“Don’t you see she is with me? I am a member of the Directorate, and
don’t you forget it, my boy!”
The soldier looked at me. “Why are you going into the town? What have
you got in that parcel?” Then he growled: “Well, you can go to hell if
you like, so far as I am concerned.”
John Kispál stepped out proudly and his face showed clearly the
satisfaction he felt at being such an influential man that even Red
soldiers got out of his way. I couldn’t help chuckling: in Soviet
Hungary a member of the Directorate uses his influence to help me to
escape and carries my bundle on his back. Meanwhile the warrant for my
arrest lies on my writing table at home.
“What’s going on here?” John Kispál asked two passing farmers. The men
shrugged their shoulders contemptuously: “The Directorate of
Balassagyarmat is on the run,” said one of them. “They are afraid of
sharing the fate of their colleagues in Fülek.” He made a circle round
his neck with his finger and looked upwards.
We had been walking for some time when the gardener suddenly turned to
me:
“I should like to ask you, Miss, what you think about it all? Shall I
come to any harm when things come right? That is always on my mind,
because I don’t think a man ought to assume that things will always
remain as they are. They may, but they may change too. It is wise to
arrange matters so that whether things remain as they are or whether
they change one may always be nice and snug.”
Guns thundered from the vineyards and a shell shrieked across the Ipoly
and fell near the road, raising a cloud up to the sky. Not a single
carriage was visible on the road now: the motors of the
delegates-to-the-front, the members of the Directorate and the ‘reliable
individuals’ have all been swept from the landscape by the wind raised
by a single shell. In the distance behind us they were tearing along at
a wild gallop, off the road whenever possible. I began to feel safe.
There is less danger in shells than in Bolsheviks.
Bugle calls could still be heard in the direction of the town, and my
pulses began to throb. What if the barriers on the other side were to
close and I should have to stay on in my Red prison!
“I haven’t any papers,” the gardener said; “you’ll have to go on alone.
Go straight through the High Street.” He was pale and obviously afraid.
So presently I found myself alone. I jumped over the rails: people were
running towards the houses so nobody took any notice of me, and I
reached the Huszárs’ house in safety. Mrs. Huszár and the children
welcomed me with open arms.
A soldier was following me down the street, stopping at every corner to
sound the alarm. I noticed that his bugle was ornamented with a huge red
tassel which the rising wind blew against his mouth. And as I looked
back in the twilight it seemed to me that the bugler was calling blood.