The War was over! Peace had come again to Germany, France, England,
Italy, and the United States. Over these countries there was once
more contentment, the happiness of a quickly reviving industry. The
echoing boom of guns was no longer heard, air-raids were already but
a memory, telegraph boys ceased to be of heartrending significance.
Already war-scarred warriors were being demobilized; ex-soldiers were
returning to more peaceful employment; food, diverted from its
destination--headquarters--was becoming plentiful, of a better
quality.
War was over! Now only time was needed, and these countries would be
their old selves again. In Paris the statesmen were collecting to
discuss peace terms and reparations.
This was the position in March 1919 of the victors, and even of some
of the vanquished. Germany, beaten and cowed, was now putting its
house in order. Turkey, philosophically shrugging its shoulders, was
merely resuming life where it had been left off.
So busy were the victors celebrating victory, so engaged were the
vanquished making the best of their defeat, that the world overlooked
one country where peace had failed to find a harbour, where post-War
conditions were worse than during that awful period of war itself,
the country in which human jackals and vultures were already gathered
to disrupt and dissect an already breaking empire--Hungary.
Upon Hungary Lenin, from the fastnesses of Moscow, had already cast
his eyes, and so he sent out his lieutenants, schooled in fiendish
cruelty, inculcated with inhuman conceptions of government.
To Hungary came Bela Kun, the chief apostle of Lenin and Trotsky,
where, in an incredibly short time, he enrolled under his banner of
Communism criminals of all types, and elected leaders: Bohm, Pogany,
Agoston, Harcoq, and Szamuelly.
"Down with the _bourgeoisie_, long live the proletariat!" became the
cry, and to the echo of these hysterical screams poor Hungary
commenced the worst year throughout the pages of its history, during
which it was to live under a reign of terror worse even than the
French Revolution.
To Budapest, a seething hotbed of Communism, came Geoffrey Templeton
in search of the girl of whom he had dreamed during the long years of
war, the woman he had never forgotten.
Arriving at the East station, he was amazed by the dark, dismal
gloominess of the once glorious terminus. Where before had wandered
well-dressed travellers, rubbing shoulders with gaily uniformed
officers of the Hungarian army, now slouched slovenly men and
starving women, while deeper in the gloom lurked ominous shadows.
On all sides suspicious glances were levelled at him from wolf-like
faces. Here and there he espied men in leather uniforms, their caps
blazoning Red cockades, their belts an armoury in themselves. They
were the dreaded Lenin Boys, a troop of murderers and criminals,
under the command of Josef Cserni, ex-sailor and late prisoner of war
in Russia.
These Lenin Boys were guaranteed immunity from all punishment for
murder or any other crime so long as their activities were confined
to the hated _bourgeoisie_ and did not involve the death of notable
Bolsheviks.
Their very appearance was terrifying, for they were chosen for their
height and fiery appearance. As Geoffrey walked toward the entrance
one of these Boys pushed against him.
"_Bourgeois_," he hiccuped, and spat on the ground.
With blazing eyes Geoffrey turned round, and the soldier slunk away.
There was a hoarse laugh from one of the onlookers, but otherwise no
one took any notice of this incident.
It was in vain that Geoffrey searched for a vehicle to convey him to
an hotel. No public conveyances of any kind were to be seen, only
here and there a charging motor-car, occupied, so far as he could
see, by groups of soldiers, or Communists, distinguishable by their
criminal countenances, their scarlet decorations.
He realized that to get anywhere he would have to walk, and so,
picking up his bag, he began to traverse the darkened streets. Here
and there street-lights reflected upon advertisement hoardings,
blazing with Red posters, huge placards printed in red and black,
portraying immense and ghastly figures.
Geoffrey heard a sound of pattering footsteps behind him. Out of the
dim shadows came the running figure of a man, breathing hoarsely. He
passed in a flash, and then the Englishman heard other following
steps, and hoarse shouting.
"Long live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat!" some one cried, then
suddenly there roared the sound of a shot, and a street-light just
ahead flicked out as its encasing glass tinkled to the ground.
"Death to the _bourgeois_! Death!"
Geoffrey halted suddenly, startled. What had happened? Was this
Hungary, the Budapest he knew so well? From a distance he heard more
shouts, further shots, and then silence once again.
"Good Gad!" he muttered to himself. "I thought this was peace."
He had never dreamed, never imagined, when he had set out for
Budapest to go to his beloved, that he was to meet with this sort of
thing. An icy chill seemed to settle round his heart. What of Zita?
For the first time since his demobilization his spirits fell to zero.
For two weeks now he had been living in a Paradise of his own,
eagerly anticipating the moment when he should clasp the girl he
loved--woman, she would be now--once more in his arms.
He had had no reason to believe that this--this ghastly business was
taking place in Budapest. "Death to the _bourgeoisie_!" What did it
mean? Revolution! No, not even that, but worse.
With a white, set face he picked up his bag once more and commenced
to walk. Now and again the silence was disturbed by hurrying
motor-cars, shouts, or sometimes shots. The streets were practically
empty, and at this Geoffrey did not wonder any longer.
Later, he arrived at the Continental Hotel, a memory of its palatial
splendour still existing in his mind, but now it resembled nothing
more than a filthy building, its exterior no cleaner than its
interior, which was littered with dirt, and smelled evilly.
There were still guests--unkempt, unwashed men and women who lounged
about, spitting and smoking. He stared with amazement at the scene
before him, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes.
He was accosted presently by a clerk, who slouched up to him.
"What do you want?" the man growled.
Geoffrey eyed him silently. "A room," he said presently, and the
clerk, under the Englishman's fixed glance, stirred uneasily.
"Supposing we have not got one?" he said.
"Supposing you look," replied Geoffrey quietly.
The clerk gave ground. Entering his counter he banged a bell, and a
_pinczer_ approached.
"Take this man up to room 61," he ordered.
Without a word the waiter picked up Geoffrey's bag and led the way,
working the lift himself.
Room 61 was no cleaner than the vestibule. As the electric light
threw its white glare over the room Geoffrey saw dozens of
blackbeetles swarming into hidden crannies.
The waiter hesitated. Geoffrey put his hand in his pocket and pulled
out some coins. "Come inside and shut the door," he ordered, then
presently, when the other had complied, and received a tip which made
his eyes glisten, asked: "Now, what does all this mean? The War----"
"The War!" The man laughed bitterly. "Not the War, sir, but
revolution, Communism, Bolshevism." His face became suspicious, and
his lips closed tightly. "Why do you ask me? You know as well as I
do."
Geoffrey shook his head. "I do not. I have only just arrived from
England."