As I headed toward the garage at 36 Tüzoltó Street, the headquarters of István Angyal, I heard gunfire from that direction. So I approached the area from the back, through Mester and Viola Streets. As I turned into the strangely quiet and completely deserted Viola Street, I could see a Russian tank at the intersection with Üll_i Street.
I also noticed a strange sight: a self-propelled aluminum wastebasket on the corner of Viola and Tüzoltó Streets. It seemed to be moving by itself, slowly crossing Viola Street. I stared at it, hypnotized. Now the tank at the intersection started to fire at the rubbish bin, and at that very instant somebody pulled me into a doorway. "Are you out of your mind?" yelled a balding, bespectacled man. "Nobody walks on Viola Street, particularly not with a tricolored armband and a submachine gun!"
"OK, OK, but what made the garbage can move?" I asked.
"They are pulling it on a string. That is the only way to send things across the street!" he explained.
"So, how do I get to the garage on Tüzoltó Street?"
"They have knocked out the walls between the basements. That is the only safe way to get there. I'll show you." And without another word, he started moving. We descended into his basement. It was dark and dirty. I tried to be careful, protecting my once beautiful corduroy jacket, but that was hopeless. We were crawling through coal cellars and holes in basement walls. After a good half an hour, I could smell gasoline; we had to be in the basement of a garage.
As we climbed the stairs, I saw a number of parked cars, including the truck with the Red Cross flag, and a couple dozen young people, including some soldiers in uniform. Most of them were working on an ad hoc assembly line. They were converting milk bottles into Molotov cocktails. As they filled the flasks with gasoline, some of the fluid spilled out. This was why I smelled gas in the basement. Before putting the cork back, they inserted a thick piece of cloth into the jar. This wick soaked up gasoline and could be lit before the bottle was thrown.1
In the garage the radio was on. I heard the announcement: "A new national government has been formed, headed by Imre Nagy!" There was cheering on the assembly line. István Angyal was sitting in the corner. He was reading a leaflet.
"Must be very interesting!" I said to him.
"It's a poem—but what are you doing here?" He looked surprised but happy to see me.
"Oh, just checking to make sure you are taking your cough syrup. My secondary purpose is to buy the patent on your self-propelled garbage can."
He laughed and told me to sit down. The bespectacled bald fellow looked at us respectfully. István Angyal was a twenty-eight-year-old construction foreman; he was shorter than I, wore a white smock; his hair was brown and his teeth were a bit crooked.
"So what makes me interesting?" he asked.
"It must be the coffee! Anybody who braves tank fire to bring coffee to his men must be at least unique!"
"We also have women!" he corrected me, grinning, and asked, "Speaking of coffee, can I get you some?"
"Sure, and also some bread, if you have any. I am meeting our truck at the Pet_fi Bridge at four o'clock and came to this coffee house for lunch."
While sipping my coffee, I told Pista (the familiar form of István), that the chief of police, Sándor Kopácsi, thought that we looked alike.
"Now, that is an insult! I don't wire my sandals, like some people!" he said, looking at my disintegrating footgear.
"Kopácsi also told me that you were deported to Auschwitz," I continued.
"Yes. His wife got me onto the subject. I was sixteen at the time and the only one in my family who survived. So we had something in common with Kopácsi's wife."
"Why do you say that you have only something in common if both of your families were deported to Auschwitz?" I ask, as I detect a bit of sarcasm in his voice.
"You are too young to understand all that; besides, it's three o'clock and you will miss your truck!"
"Not if you walk with me. Then you can explain what you mean by that something while you are showing me the way."
"OK, I'll take you to Mester Street; the rest of the way is easy," he said, folding up his poem.
As we climbed down into the dark basement, he began: "You see, being a Hungarian Jew is not the same as being a Hungarian of Slavic, Germanic, or Latin origin. They blend in and assimilate much easier; we dress differently and we form ghettos. In short, we just stand out.
"I don't know where Kopácsi's wife was born, but in Magyarbánhegyes, where I was born, we were the only Jews. I knew that I am a Sephardic Jew but knew nothing about Israel. I had never been to a synagogue. I danced the Csárdás and sang the Hungarian folk songs. My father made shoelaces, and before he got divorced from my mother he called me "the little Magyar" because I preferred boots to shoes and because I memorized all of Pet_fi's poems. And then, on a May morning in 1944, Eichmann and his SS came and deported the four of us: my mother, Tibor, Teréz, and me. They shot Tibor because he refused to get into the freight car, they hanged my mother because she tried to escape, and Teréz died in the gas chambers. Only I survived."2
We were in the middle of a coal cellar. Pista stopped, grabbed a shovel, and threw it furiously into the coal pile. "They not only killed my family, they also wanted to destroy my soul. According to the Germans, I was not a Hungarian! They did not want me to belong here! They did not want me to be who I am! Ever since, I have been trying to prove them wrong, to show that I am not any less a Hungarian patriot than the next guy. And I am not the only one who feels that way. Did you know that József Gáli, one of our leaders today, was also in Auschwitz?
"You see, Öcsi," he called me by my nickname for the first time, "some terrible things happened here when you were a child. First, the general population allowed the Germans to deport their Jewish compatriots. Then, when the Jewish survivors returned, a few of them wanted to take revenge and decided to work for the Russians. Therefore, the Jews in Rákosi's government, the Jews heading the ÁVH, the police, and the military, became the representatives of the regime. Because of these few traitors, the hatred for Stalinism fell on all the Jews."
We were now climbing out of a basement on Mester Street. Pista was still very excited. Every time he said something, he seemed dissatisfied with himself for not having said it clearer or for not having covered the topic more thoroughly. I could tell that he could go on for hours; He continued: "Mind you, I myself am a communist, not a party member, but still a communist. I don't blame anybody who wants to improve the lot of the poor and the underprivileged. What I hate is tyranny and foreign domination, not communism. And you should know that if instead of the Jews, the stamp collectors or the Unitarians decided to collaborate with the Russians, the result would have been the same. The same barbaric madness would have evolved, except that today the Unitarians and not the Jews would receive part of the blame for it."
"So when you said that you had something in common with Kopácsi's wife, you meant that you too survived Auschwitz—but that is all?"
Pista's eyes flashed like lightning: "Well, I don't know what her family did, nor do I know how her husband became the chief of police, or why, but I am positive that we, the overwhelming majority of Hungarian Jews, are not Russian collaborators but patriotic Hungarians. We probably differ from Kopácsi's wife because we feel the most ashamed that the Rákosis and the ÁVH murderers are Jewish, and one day, I hope, one day . . . " his lips were trembling, his eyes were moist, and I felt guilty and ashamed without knowing precisely why. So I put my arms on his shoulders and we walked silently, side by side, for a while before I said: "You know, there is another guy I really respect; he is a German-Hungarian, a blond giant; his name is Jancsi Danner. He fought a few blocks from you at the Corvin Theater. They knocked out four or five Russian tanks. He does not articulate things like you do, but he, too, is trying to prove the obvious: that he is Hungarian."
By then we had walked almost all the way to the Pet_fi Bridge. I could see Gyurka's truck waiting, so I hugged Pista and ran. This time both of our trucks were loaded with submachine guns. By six o'clock we had unloaded them, and by nine we had made another round and then returned for a last trip, with only one truck. It was midnight by the time everything was neatly stored in the gymnasium. Next to the pile of guns were piles of fresh food that had arrived from the villages during the day. So we all sat down and stuffed ourselves.
In the MEFESZ office Kati Sz_ke and Tibor Vígh were sitting in the corner. They seemed to be in a very serious mood; they must have been discussing the purpose of life or something. It was obvious that they did not need me. Colonel Marián was writing, and Sándor Varga was on the telephone, so I reported to Jancsi Danner: "We unloaded six truckloads of weapons into the gymnasium. I also met István Angyal, the leader at Tüzoltó Utca."
"Good job! I heard of Angyal's group when I was fighting with the group at the Corvin Cinema. They were the first ones with the Molotov cocktails. What is it like there?"
"The Russian tanks are at the main intersections on Üll_i Street, some firing at anything that moves, others just sitting there, but in either case they don't make much difference. The district is ours. The ÁVH has disappeared. We are in full control. How was your day?"
"Met a bunch of generals at the Hungarian military headquarters and later some politicians in parliament. They wanted us to disarm, but I'm sure they will settle for integrating our forces with the police. We, in turn, demanded that they disband the ÁVH and remove the Russians at least from the capital. There will be more meetings tomorrow. I trust Imre Nagy, but he is naïve and isolated by the ÁVH. After the meetings I did a couple of patrol tours. The district is quiet, the stores are untouched, the people are glad to see our patrols, and Gabi is glad to see me, when on my rounds I get to her house."
"You are lucky with Gabi. I don't seem to be able to get in touch with Ágnes. I guess they left the city."
"Well, maybe it's all for the better. Your appearance is not exactly dashing at the moment, you know!" I looked at my dirty hands, my feet with the wired sandals, and my bloody corduroy jacket. They were pretty shocking. The jacket was so dirty that it could just about stand up on its own. It was also crumpled from sleeping in it and was covered by all kinds of dirt, including a recently acquired layer of coal dust. On its right side was a large blotch of blood; on the back, where my gun rested, was a big oil stain.
"Well, I see your point," I admitted, and I went to the men's room to try to improve my appearance. When I got back to the office, Jancsi was snoring on the sofa, so I quietly lay down on the rug, and in a moment his snoring solo was converted into a duet.
When I awoke, it was a beautiful Sunday morning, October 28. It was the ringing of the telephone that woke me. Attila Szigethy, the president of the Revolutionary Council of the city of Györ, was calling: "I just want you to know that the local Russian commander here has declared our cause to be a just one and has ordered his troops to cooperate with us." That was great news! In the MEFESZ office we were floating on air. It had been only five days since our march to the Bem statue, and now victory was in the air. The ÁVH had disintegrated, a formal cease-fire had been declared, and Imre Nagy was finally in the parliament. It was all too good to be true.
I was so happy! I wanted to share it with Ágnes. Her mother picked up the telephone: "No, she stayed down at Lake Balaton. . . . No, I'm leaving, too. . . . No, we have no phone there. . . . Yes, the Russians are still surrounding the city. . . . Yes, I will tell her." She gave her answers in her rapid-fire style. I did not think she was mad at me; she just hated talking on the phone.
Kati Sz_ke was watching me with sympathy. "No Ágnes?" she asked. I nodded while she handed me a typewritten permit that allowed me to enter the university at any time. Pista asked her to set up some entrance controls; our numbers had grown, and we already had about a hundred people milling around—thousands were expected. "So, don't feel down! Your permit number is three; that's not bad for a twenty-year-old! And Ágnes will come around too!"
This permit was just a slip of paper. A few days later we printed a more formal version of it. On that more formal listing my number slipped to forty-seven. Another change were the dozen or so officers of the ÁVH in the KA-51 lecture hall. Some got there by being picked up by our patrols; others came in on their own, seeking protection. We gave them food and let them play chess; eventually, when there was a functioning justice system, we planned to hand them over to the courts.
Pista's eyes were still bloodshot. He must have worked through most of the night. Now he was drinking his third coffee and was just as optimistic as the rest of us. He declared, "We have won! The Revolution is over, the ÁVH is beaten, and the power is in the hands of the Revolutionary Councils. In a few days we will take over the government, and if the Russians attack us, that will no longer be called a revolution, it will be a war between two socialist states. This is not just my view; I am quoting the commander of the Kilián Barracks, the next defense minister of Hungary, General Pál Maléter."
Next, Pista showed us the defense plans he had worked out the previous night. It detailed the defense strategy for our first national guard battalion, which we named after the poet Sándor Pet_fi. Our task was to defend the triangle between Móricz Square and the two bridges, Freedom and Pet_fi.
I was about to find something to eat for breakfast in the gym when Pista turned to me: "Öcsi, would you take this plan to the freedom fighters on Széna Square and ask for their comments?" So, instead of eating breakfast, I rode with Gyurka to the headquarters of the already legendary János Szabó. I knew that he was from Transylvania, about fifty, a truck driver, and the husband of Margit Lipták, the director of the university's nursery.3
I also heard that he was a most clever guerilla leader. A couple of days before, he had taken a dozen dinner plates, spray-painted them black, and placed them in front of an advancing Russian tank column. Seeing the fake mines in front of them, the column turned right into a steep street where there were no plates. That street climbed up toward Castle Hill. After the first bend, the tanks came to a steep section, where Szabó Bácsi had poured oil on the cobblestones, but by then it was too late for the tanks to turn back. The caterpillar tracks of the tanks started to slip on the oil, they got stuck, and Molotov cocktails started to fly from the windows and rooftops. That was the end of that tank column.
The "headquarters" of Szabó Bácsi at Széna Square was at the workers' hostel of the construction firm that was building the subway. The place was swarming with armed youngsters, all working-class boys and girls. In the center of this commotion stood a tall, slightly graying man with a gigantic, dark mustache and a red beret pulled down to his eyes. I felt a little embarrassed, because while I was talking, my stomach decided to rumble. I tried to be very official, very military. I reported on the plans of our Pet_fi battalion and I talked about Colonel Marián and his defense triangle while Szabó Bácsi just looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes. So I redoubled my efforts to sound even more military. I told him which were his bridges and which were ours and how we were to alert each other if we saw advancing Russian troops and things like that.
He still had not said anything, but suddenly he placed his arm on my shoulder and walked with me into the kitchen. The smell of bacon and eggs was making me dizzy, but I bravely continued my speech about defense triangles and bridges. Finally, he interrupted: "Three or four?"
I repeated in desperation, "No, no! You defend only two bridges, yours are the Chain and the Margaret Bridges."
"I don't mean bridges, I mean eggs!" he said, still grinning, and then he turned to the lady at the stove: "Give this hungry warrior four eggs and a lot of bacon!"
He watched me while I ate. His eyes were warm; they reminded me of Aptyi's. He swallowed when I did and he nodded when I wiped the grease from my plate with the crust of the bread. Only when I was done did he look at Pista's plans. On the map he marked in the locations of his lookouts. He wrote down two telephone numbers at which he could be reached and also listed the firearms they had. He then turned to me: "At last count, I had about a hundred sons here, but if things get rough, I'm sure they will bring their brothers and sisters. So we can stage a decent welcoming party for the Russians!" He was constantly kidding and always referred to his fighters, including the girls, as his sons.
Uncle Szabó was the first authentic popular leader I had ever met. His aura was such that when he entered a room, all activity stopped and people spontaneously looked up. He was playful and close-tongued, merry and serene; he radiated confidence and displayed composure. In short, I was so impressed with him that if Pista had not needed me at the university, I would gladly have become one of Szabó Bácsi's "sons."
On our way back to the university, we watched the streets of Budapest. There was no fighting. People were in their Sunday best and were pouring out of the churches. In the stores, the goods were untouched behind the broken windows. On the corners, trucks and horse-drawn wagons distributed the produce brought in from the villages. We saw an unguarded collection box for the victims of the fighting. It was overflowing with paper money. The streets were patrolled by youngsters wearing tricolored armbands. The city was at peace. The Russian tanks were still at the main intersections, but they were passive; they were probably getting ready to leave. In short, it was a lovely noon on this Sunday when we arrived back at the Technical University.
Colonel Marián was happy with the information we brought. He planned to call up János Szabó, but before doing that, he gave me a new assignment: we had to go to the Völgy Street military laboratory and obtain a loudspeaker car and a short-wave radio transmitter from them. Pista's bloodshot eyes looked worried as he warned me that the laboratory had not yet been visited by freedom fighters and that it was full of very "reliable" officers who worked on military secrets. By "reliable," he meant loyal Communists, possibly even members of the ÁVH. Therefore, he felt that we should be prepared for armed resistance. "In other words, be very careful. If they fire, do not shoot back, just leave!" he said.
As I got into our car, I saw the tall figure of Jancsi Danner climbing out of an armored car. "Whose car is that, Jancsi?" I asked him.
"It belongs to the prime minister, Imre Nagy. I was meeting with him and he sent me back in it from a meeting because I guess he is worried about my safety or something." Jancsi was smiling; he could not conceive that anybody would want to harm him.
Völgy Street is up in the Buda Hills, the district where the wealthy used to have their graceful and luxurious bungalows before the Communist takeover. These villas were all nationalized and given to the new privileged class, the Communist bosses. The military laboratory was in a three-story, ornate palace ringed by a tall brick wall. The tops of the walls were covered with broken glass. Next to the iron door I saw a bell pull. The street was empty except for two little girls in front of the next villa who were playing with horse chestnuts. Gyurka stopped the car a few yards from the gate and pulled out his pistol, and I, too, took out my polished lady's pistol. When we reached the gate, I pulled the bell wire.
The pleasant sound of a real bell came from some distance. As we stood on the two sides of the gate, partially protected by the brick wall, my hand was shaking and my throat was dry. It seemed that a long time had passed when finally we heard footsteps, then the key turned and the door slowly opened.
With my pistol drawn, I stepped into the doorway and declared, "In the name of the Revolution, I seize this laboratory!"
The graying officer who had opened the door looked startled. He held out his hand for a handshake, and when I finally and rather clumsily managed to put my little pistol away, we shook hands. "Colonel Kovács," he said.
"Öcsi," I replied.
He also shook hands with Gyurka and then led us into a large conference room. The conference table was the size of two Ping-Pong tables, and a dozen officers were sitting around it. Colonel Kovács directed us to the head of the table, and when we were seated, he made a formal welcoming speech.
He explained that the laboratory had formed its own Revolutionary Council, had kicked out their Russian superiors and the ÁVH general who headed the laboratory, and for days had been waiting to make formal contact with us. He welcomed us as the representatives of all freedom fighters. He assured us that they, too, wanted a free and democratic Hungary and that both their skills and their equipment were at our disposal. While he talked, Gyurka's right hand was resting on his pistol. Mine had disappeared in the side pocket of my corduroy jacket.
I told them that we would like to borrow a short-wave radio transmitter in order to make direct contact with the Russian tank crews stationed on the streets of Budapest. I also asked for a loudspeaker van. They agreed to provide both. Because I did not know how to drive, they also gave us a driver who would take the van back to our garage. One of the officers handed me a slip of paper listing the short-wave frequencies used by the Russians. Another explained how to use the loudspeaker car, either by talking into the microphone or by switching to tapes or radio broadcasts. They also gave me an organization chart that listed their names, ranks, areas of competence, and telephone numbers.
We were ready to leave when Colonel Kovács asked if we needed anything else, such as clothing or boots. I did not understand what he was driving at. I told him that our Pet_fi battalion was only a temporary national guard unit, so we did not need uniforms. On our way out, he pointed at my wired sandals and said, "You cannot win a revolution if you get pneumonia!" So I finally got his point. Some officers ran to their supply storage and in a minute returned with a variety of shoes and boots and a pile of clothing.
The conference room was converted into a dressing room. I felt embarrassed, because these officers were twice my age and were now looking at my dirty feet and at the pathetic remains of my socks. They stood around and assisted while I tried on some of the soft leather beauties. I left the laboratory in black riding boots and in a rubberized trench coat over my jacket. My boots were so polished that a fly could not land on them without slipping and falling on its behind.
The change in my appearance must have been substantial, because the student guard in front of the MEFESZ office of the university stopped me and asked for my identification papers. This had never occurred before, so I decided to get rid of the officer's trench coat but keep the black riding boots.
Pista was very happy with the van and the radio equipment we got. He asked some electrical engineering students to help with the technical part of the radio broadcasts and asked Gyurka to get Igor Sík to direct the Russian-language broadcasts. Igor had grown up in Moscow when his father was Hungary's ambassador, so his Russian was perfect. Since Igor was Gyurka's brother-in-law, this was a natural assignment for him. While Gyurka was hunting for Igor, I joined Jancsi Danner for a patrol tour of our district.
It was getting late. The streetlights were dark, and no buses or streetcars were running. The people felt safer if they saw our regular patrols. I felt funny walking next to Jancsi, because at six foot two I still felt like a midget. We started out, just the two of us, on the embankment of the Danube, walking toward Pet_fi Bridge. The city was quiet; there was practically no traffic. We met no one as we walked toward the bridge. Jancsi was the quiet type. He would probably cover this three-mile triangular loop without saying a word. Therefore I had to get him started. "So what do you think of my new boots? "
"Nice, really nice," he said, but I could tell that he was totally uninterested in my boots.
"Did I tell you about Pista Angyal?" I tried again.
"Only that you met him. What kind of a guy is he?"
"Well, he is a six-foot midget with crooked teeth. He is brave and smart, about your age, but already divorced. So watch out with Gabi!" Jancsi did not laugh. He did not appreciate my kind of humor at all.
"I am not interested in his teeth or height," he said. "Tell me what he stands for, what kind of a man is he on the inside."
"Well, he is a Hungarian patriot if I ever saw one. He is a selfless idealist; he thinks that he is a communist, but to him that word simply means justice and the protection of the weak. He also hates dictatorship. He told me that in his toilet, he hung Stalin's portrait upside down. His family was killed in Auschwitz. I told him that you seem to be his German equivalent."
"What do you mean?" Jancsi blurted, startled.
"Oh, nothing much. My Father told me once that the first-generation Hungarians are the most patriotic," I replied.
"I'm not first—or second—generation; the Danner store of Szeged is over a hundred years old!" said Jancsi, with his voice raised.
"OK, OK, so I am wrong. I just had that feeling that you both are trying to prove something. Sorry if I said something wrong. So why did you leave Szeged?"
"Well, my parents were divorced," he started, but I interrupted.
"So were Angyal's!"
"Stop this comparison foolishness! I stayed with my father in Szeged. Got in trouble with the police in 1948 when the Communists outlawed religious education in the schools. Did Angyal do that too?"
"No. Actually, I don't think he is religious at all."
"Good, because I am. I know that there is a Creator, I know that our lives have a purpose. I do not know what that purpose is. It might be to protect the survival of life on this planet or it might be to test whether free will makes the human soul improve or degenerate? All I know is that the atheists are wrong, that there is more to life than seventy or eighty years of selfishness, comfort, security, and animal functions. I also know that what is occurring in Hungary today is much more than an attempt by a small nation to gain her freedom. What we are demonstrating is the power of the human spirit. The human spirit itself is being reborn in Hungary. Our fight is a confrontation between ideals and tanks."
I had never seen Jancsi this electrified, this carried away. He was saying things that he probably had never articulated, not even to himself. So I kept quiet, and he went on.
"I feel it in my bones that our sun, the sun of liberty and freedom, the sun of human dignity is rising throughout the world. I feel that a new renaissance, a spiritual renewal, is coming. I feel that mankind will find its higher purpose. It might take some time and some sacrifice, but it will occur. We will be saved. Mankind will not commit physical or spiritual suicide. Our role in this revival is to take the first step. We can not escape it. We are showing a cynical and faithless world what the human spirit can do. Some might laugh at us for facing tanks unarmed, but they are wrong. Tanks cannot kill ideals; they cannot conquer the human spirit. Even if we fail, our ideals will outlast their tanks. Our ideals will be reborn. So don't worry. What has to come will come anyway. It is our destiny to show the way, to take that first step."
It was close to midnight when we got back to the university. I hugged Jancsi before going down to the emergency room to sleep on my narrow and uncomfortable bed-on-wheels. Jancsi looked a bit embarrassed for having opened up, for having allowed me to see into his heart, to take a peek under his veil of discipline and self-control. I was grateful; he had articulated some of my own feelings. It took a long time for me to go to sleep. I felt as the fishermen must have felt at the Sea of Galilee when they began to understand their roles and responsibilities. It must have been both frightening and uplifting.

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