My sandals were completely soaked from the morning dew. To keep warmer I turned in the lapel of my corduroy jacket and turned up its collar. Around me the people on the train did not seem to know about the events of the previous night. They were mostly blue-collar workers, exhausted and half asleep. Today was only Tuesday, but they already appeared as if the whole work week were already behind them. There were no students on the train. It was too early for students. Supposedly, these poor, exhausted workers were the backbone of the "dictatorship of the proletariat," the backbone of Communism.
I arrived at the university at about seven o'clock. Jancsi Danner was already at gate four. I was six feet, two inches tall, and he must have been six-four or six-five. He was also older than I; he could have been as old as twenty-six or even twenty-seven. He slapped me on the shoulder and handed me a tricolored armband. I could not believe it: the national colors, the colors of our flag. He spoke quietly. "Go to gate number two and check the identity cards of all who enter. Only people who belong here, only students and professors can enter. No strangers should be allowed in. None!"
There was a faint smile on his lips. He had to stoop a bit as he turned to the much shorter Iván Szabó and asked, "Iván, could you get hold of a bullhorn? We might need one later."
As I headed for gate two, I was preoccupied with my armband. Throughout the Russian occupation the displaying of any national symbols, even the flag, had been carefully controlled. The average person could not even own one. And when an official flag was displayed, it had to be placed to the left of the red flag of the Communists. Any sign of patriotic feeling, any national symbol, was taken as an affront to the internationalist doctrine of the Communists. We had gotten used to it. So something like a tricolor armband was unthinkable. It was a provocation, a sign of open rebellion. And now, I had one!
I felt ten feet tall. As I walked to gate number two, near the chemistry building, I held my head high and kept peeking at my armband. I felt happy, elated, special, and honored. As I took my place at the gate, the first person to enter was Kati Sz_ke, the young chemistry professor who last night had helped us with the stencil copier. She stopped and stared at my armband. Her eyes were misty. When I explained that we were screening out strangers who might stir up trouble, she quietly handed me her identity card.
A little later, Gyuszi Perr arrived on his motorbike with Marika on the back seat. She reported, "We distributed the announcements at the factories of Csepel and Belojannisz and also took some to the miners of Dorog."1
"My brother is passing them out at the University of Gödöll_," I replied.
The traffic at the gate increased, so Gyuszi stayed to help me with the checking. The line got longer, but the people remained patient. There was a dignified pride in the air. I tried to be quick, so I did not even look up as I read one identity card after another. Then I read: Rector. I looked up, and there was László Gillemot, the president of the university, quietly waiting for his card. I was embarrassed and made something like a curtsy when I handed it back. But if I felt out of place checking the rector's card, his eyes reassured me. In them I saw respect, emotion, and warm reassurance. They seemed to be saying, "Don't worry. The young men of other ages were just as scared as you are. Yet they changed the world. You, too, will leave a mark; you, too, will do what the adults could not. You will mortally wound this barbaric system."
Almost an hour later there were four of us at the gate. There was no line anymore, so I felt I could leave for my mechanics class. My professor was Ádám Mutnyánszky, or Mutyi Bácsi, as we called him. It was unthinkable to miss his class. It was 7:59 A.M. He started exactly at 8:00, so I ran as fast as I could. A friend, Laci Zsindely, had kept a chair for me in one of the upper rows of the KA-51 lecture hall, which was filled to capacity with about three hundred students. I slumped down beside Laci, whom I knew from high school. He was a broad-shouldered fellow, always well dressed. He did not know it, but he was responsible for my selecting naval architecture as my major. I selected it because I wanted to be with Laci.
Professor Mutnyánszky was standing down in front. He had already started to draw the cross section of some machine element on one of the sliding blackboards. We looked down at him from the tiered, theaterlike gallery. Each chair had its own writing table, which lifted and slid aside to allow one to get in and out of the chair. The tables were carved with initials, with engravings of the names of loved ones and with less mentionable comments made by many generations of students.
Mutnyánszky was a remnant of the old pre-Communist school of professors, a born teacher, one who educated generations of engineers, inventors, and even some Nobel Prize winners. His knowledge and dedication was surpassed only by his love of teaching. He enjoyed opening young minds, passing on his own devotion to science and faith in the power of knowledge. You could hear the proverbial pin drop during his lectures; Mutyi Bácsi did not use a microphone, and we did not want to miss a single word he said.
He lectured like a priest celebrating mass: he was the high priest of science. He had two assistants. One was an assistant professor, the other a school porter. Mutyi Bácsi did not refer to any notes and did not use a textbook. He did not use a ruler either, yet his lines were as straight as a bowstring. He never ran out of board space; he had a natural instinct for spacing and proportion, no matter what the project was. And he certainly never made a mistake. When he finished drawing, he would nod to his second-in-command, the old school porter, who would take a big sponge, dip it in a bucket of water, and wash and then dry that blackboard as Mutyi Bácsi moved on to the next board.
The porter kept those blackboards neat as a pin, even though they were already old when Theodor von Kármán's generation studied there at the turn of the century or when, after the dismemberment of the kingdom, John von Neumann's generation did the same in 1925.2 The boards were surely considered ancient by the time Edward Teller, Eugene Wigner, and Leo Szilárd (leaders in the American team that developed the atomic bomb) left this university to escape the Nazis. Yes, the boards were ancient, but they were still pitch black, so Mutnyánszky's white lines were sharp and clearly visible even from the back of that spacious hall. The professor and the porter were the same kind of people. They got along because they both took pride in what they did and because they respected each other.
But that morning Mutnyánszky was in bad form. He could not concentrate. He often lost his chain of thought and would stop, cough, look at us then back at the board, starting and stopping over and over again. Finally he put down the chalk, wiped his hands, turned away from the board, and slowly walked back to his desk. For a while he played with his glasses, then he lifted his eyes and looked at us for a long moment. His voice was choked. "Go my sons, go! This is not a day for mechanics. You have a higher duty today. Make this a proud day in the history of our much-suffering, poor nation."3
He left, and we stayed in the lecture hall to hold a brief meeting with the class. We told them about the meeting last night and about the demonstration planned for the afternoon. We also told them that we would march using the same formation we used during military training, which was part of our regular curriculum. That way we would all know the persons who were on our left and right, so no strangers could infiltrate our group and cause trouble. We did not want to give the secret police any opportunities or excuses to interfere. We decided to march silently, ten to a row, arm in arm. We would carry no signs. We agreed that Gyuri Egry (the Men_) would lead the class, and I would be the liaison with Colonel Marián.
At about nine o'clock the class left the lecture hall to practice the marching formation in front of the chemistry building, and I went to find Colonel Marián. As I walked toward the military department, I saw Iván Sándor, the editor of The Future Engineer. He had just arrived from the printer and was carrying a great pile of copies of the new edition. The ink was still wet. Our demands were printed on the front page. So I grabbed some, took half of them to my class, and then decided to take the rest over to the universities on the Pest side of the Danube.
All eyes turned toward me as I jumped on the streetcar with my tricolored armband and with the freshly printed newspapers under my arm. An older woman stood up from her seat, walked over, and stood next to me, as though she wanted to protect me. Then a mailman came over and whispered in my ear, "I heard it from my daughter. I know everything. Be careful!" Even as he spoke, he kept looking around to see if there would be any reprisal for his daring act of talking to me.
As I left the streetcar, it seemed that the rest of the capital was still oblivious to what was happening at the universities. I visited three colleges. In each, meetings were in progress. I passed out the paper with our demands and explained the plans for the afternoon march. At the Marxism-Leninism University, the DISZ penguins were still in control. At the Academy of Dramatic Arts, a stranger affixed a Polish emblem to my lapel. As I was rushing on to Eötvös University, a tall woman stopped me on the street, hugged me, kissed the Polish insignia, and started to speak to me in Polish.4 I smiled at her, pointed to my armband, and, since I had nothing else to offer, gave her a copy of The Future Engineer.
By eleven o'clock, as I reached Eötvös University, Radio Budapest was already announcing the news about our march of solidarity with the Poles. Now the whole city was aware of our plans. People stared at me. An old man even crossed himself, as though he were either seeking divine protection or witnessing a miracle. In the meeting hall of this university, the head table was covered with red felt. When I finished reading our demands, I pointed at that covering: "Don't you have a more appropriate cover?" On my way out, as I was still squeezing through the crowd, I saw the red felt being replaced by the Hungarian tricolor.
In the corridor I noticed a telephone. I dialed Ágnes. Judit answered again. Of course she had heard the news on the radio; she knew why I had missed my date with Ágnes. I asked, "So does she forgive me?" There was only silence. "Just remind her that we're doing important things. Very important! But, to me, not more important than her! Please tell her that."
As I returned to the Technical University, I could feel that the atmosphere of the city had changed. Now everyone knew what my armband meant. I felt an outpouring of love and encouragement. It was a strange experience. It was as if overnight I had become a very important person. Strangers looked up to me; they trusted me. I would have liked to remind them that I was only a kid and that they should not expect much from me. But my other self took over, and when people stopped me I made such speeches as: "Come with us to the Bem statue! This is our country! It is up to us to make it free!"5
As I handed out the copies of our paper, some started to read the demands out loud. Others were just staring at the floor. As the streetcar reached my university and I was jumping off, I saw an elderly woman crying quietly while the mustachioed conductor gave me a military salute.
The university was like a disturbed beehive. Thousands of students were assembling within the gates, and new groups were arriving. A loudspeaker had been placed on the roof of the machine laboratory building; Jancsi Danner and Iván Szabó were using it, identifying and greeting the new arrivals. They announced the arrival of the students from the Veterinary College, now from the School of Horticulture, the School of Agricultural Engineering, or from the Pet_fi Military Academy.
For hours, my class, the juniors of mechanical engineering, had been waiting in formation in front of gate number two near the chemistry building. They had obtained an immense national flag, which was to be carried by the six-foot, eight-inch Laci Gabányi, a member of the national basketball team. Because gate two was the closest to Saint Gellért Square, our class was to lead the march. Gabányi's gigantic flag would give the starting signal to the students on the other side of the Danube, who had gathered on the Pest side at the Pet_fi statue.6 In short, we were ready and waiting, waiting, waiting.
There must have been ten—maybe even fifteen—thousand people assembled on the university grounds. Several trench-coated figures had also appeared just outside the gates but did not enter. These people were taking photographs and were making periodic phone calls on the public phone at the street corner, reporting what they observed. We knew who they were. It was because of them that some of us had decided to use only our nicknames. Mine, of course, was Öcsi. Yet some people, such as Jancsi Danner, did not do that; he would not hide his identity.
At noon we were still waiting, and I was getting very hungry. Then again, I had been hungry for most of the past decade. It was my normal state. I had been hungry since the day of "liberation," as the Communists called the end of World War II, or since the day of the "collapse," as the Nazis called it. (For the average Hungarian it was neither. It was getting out of the frying pan and into the fire.) At any rate, the sandwich Memi prepared for me that morning was only a memory by now. As I searched my pockets for crumbs, I found my 140-forint stipend, so I vowed to get something at the very first food stand I came across. That turned out to be a long wait.
The minutes dragged on. In the front row Gyuri Egry, the Men_, was on my left, and another friend, Nándi Kiefer, on my right. Our patience was wearing thin. Finally, at 12:50 or so, came an announcement on the radio: "The minister of interior, László Piros, has forbidden the march!"
A few minutes later Colonel Marián appeared on the roof of the machine laboratory and using the loudspeaker asked, "Will you obey the minister's orders?" The answer was a thunderous "NO!" I was pushing myself through the crowd, but by the time I reached Colonel Marián, a delegation had already left for the ministry of the interior. Jancsi Danner headed the delegation. They went by car, a small Skoda, driven by Imre Majoross. The Skoda belonged to the university.7
When I got back to my class of junior mechanical engineers, I could tell that the number of trench-coated people outside the gates had multiplied. They were still taking their photographs, still making their phone calls. Now, for the first time, I felt tension in the air. It was Men_ who tried to break that tension by telling one of his typical jokes: "So what did the sadist say to the masochist when he begged for a kick?" Grinning, he waited a long time before finally revealing the answer: "He said no!"
Nobody laughed. He tried again. "Who is an absolute nun?" There was no answer. Nobody paid any attention to him. This never happened before, but he did not give up; he gave the answer anyway: "The nun whose mother was also a nun." Again, nobody laughed; nothing, not even a giggle. So Men_ gave up, and we waited in that tense silence. We just waited and waited.
Still more people were arriving. The university grounds were becoming very crowded. It was not until about 2:30 P.M. that we saw some commotion on the roof of the machine laboratory building. We saw the tall figure of Jancsi Danner with a short, dark-haired police officer. The officer grabbed the bullhorn and said: "I am Sándor Kopácsi, the police chief of Budapest. I bring you good news. Your march has been permitted!"
He tried to say something else, but our cheering drowned him out. When our shouts finally subsided, Colonel Marián took the loudspeaker. "Our silent solidarity march will start at gate number two. We will march north, up to General Bem's Square on the west bank of the Danube. There we will take part in a commemoration of Polish-Hungarian friendship directed by the Writers' Union. The march will start immediately."
Laci Gabányi raised the enormous national flag. Gate two opened, and, arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder, we burst out onto Saint Gellért's Square. We walked silently. It felt like a dream. My heart was in my mouth. A shiver ran down my spine. I had never experienced anything like the feeling I had then and there.
As we approached the square, all traffic came to a standstill. The streetcars and buses screeched to a halt. The pedestrians froze in place with wide-eyed, astonished faces. They were more than amazed; they were as if watching a miracle. The broom dropped from the hands of a sanitation worker; she crossed herself and started to kneel as our flag passed in front of her. A tall, mustachioed man took off his hat and stood at attention. A young traffic cop at first reached for his flat cap to remove it as a sign of respect—but he caught himself and pretended to be just wiping the nonexistant perspiration from his brow. As he did that, he was also wiping his eyes. A tormented and humiliated nation was stirring in front of my eyes. People were straightening their backs. They were regaining their self-respect. Some did it boldly; others secretively. It was a good, a proud, feeling to be Hungarian that day.
As we marched through the square, an ocean of people followed. And from across the Danube, at the Pet_fi statue on the Pest side, the students saw us and also started to march. They, too, marched silently. The effect of all these people marching was overpowering. The sidewalks were full. People were marching with us on both sides of our columns. It was more than just a demonstration; it was a dream, a miracle. An entire nation was marching with us. I walked in a state of hypnotic trance.
I imagined that in our solemn parade there marched Saint Stephen, the founder of our nation, with his heavy golden crown. And next to him walked our other great king, Matthias Corvinus, with his fabulous books. And there were the freedom fighters of the past: Prince Rákóczi with his rugged kuruc soldiers; Louis Kossuth with his bloodied but unbowed redcaps.8 And now I saw more-recently departed patriots: Imre Madách, the philosopher; Endre Ady, the poet; Béla Bartók, the composer; Ferenc Molnár, the playwright; and on and on. I felt that the collective soul of this nation was there marching with us. Then from my right I heard the voice of the Men_:9 "This moment made life worth living." I did not reply. I could not speak.
On our right, we first passed the Freedom Bridge, then the Elizabeth Bridge, and finally the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, the first chain bridge of its kind in all of Europe. People stared at us in open-mouthed wonder, with disbelief in their eyes, their hats in their hands, their teary eyes full of amazement. I saw a lady in a white smock in one of the windows on Döbrentei Square. She had cut the Communist crest out of our national flag and was waving this flag with the hole in its center. In that instant we all knew that that flag had to and would become the symbol of our revolution. For just a short moment we forgot that this was a silent march, and we cheered that lady waving the flag in the window.
Then I saw Professor Jankovits's little Topolino parked on the sidewalk. Jancsi Danner, Iván Szabó, and others were writing something, using the roof of the car as if it were a desk. The Men_ yelled out to them: "What are you doing?"
"We have just converted the fourteen points into sixteen!" came the answer.
As we arrived at the statue of the Polish general József Bem, its base was already covered with flowers and wreaths of laurels. The president of the Writers' Union, Péter Veres, was speaking. After that we heard Pet_fi's poem:
<EX> Up, Hungarians! Freedom forever!
Now's the moment, now or never!
Shall we be slaves? Shall we be free?
That is no choice: we must be free!
<TXT>The poem was followed by the reading of the newly born sixteen points. After the reading, a delegation once again left for the radio station, hoping to broadcast our demands, while another delegation, with Sándor Széll, left to deliver our demands to Imre Nagy.
At the end of the commemoration, some of the classes returned to the university. We, the junior class of mechanical engineering, decided to march on to the parliament. We felt that our work was incomplete, that we could not go home like that. We had to obtain some concrete result; we had to obtain a response from the government. Our march was still silent and dignified. We were maintaining our arm-in-arm formation and our mood was happy, optimistic, as we reached the Bridge of Saint Margaret, which would take us to the Pest side, where the parliament was.

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