nudged him. Gyula Pusztai was as tall as Isztvan Szolovits, and at least twice as wide through the shoulders. He was strong as a bull. Unfortunately, he was also about as smart as a bull. “Did the sergeant say we were going off to fight the Americans?” he whispered.
“That’s about the size of it,” Tibor whispered back. Sergeant Gergely gave them both a fishy stare. Most of the time, you’d catch hell for any unauthorized talk. But they were heading off to war. Chances were the whole Hungarian People’s Army was heading off to war, with its rickety trucks and secondhand rifles and men who were still figuring out how to be good Communists.
Gyula might not have been the brightest candle in the chandelier, but he knew what he thought about that. “Christ have mercy!” he yipped, something no good Communist was supposed to say. “They’ll slaughter us!” He was too horrified to remember to keep whispering.
Tibor waited for Sergeant Gergely to tear Gyula to pieces, either with his barbed tongue or with his knobby, hairy-backed hands. But the sergeant’s face…mellowed? Tibor wouldn’t have believed his eyes—didn’t dare believe them—till Gergely said, “Don’t worry about it more than you can help, sonny. I said the same thing when we got on a train to go fight the Russians. I was wet behind the ears then. You go into combat, you grow up in a hurry. And I’m still here, you’ll notice.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” By the way Gyula Pusztai said it, he also wondered why the sergeant wasn’t ripping into him.
Gergely made a small production of lighting a cigarette. Then he said, “The sorry bastards who went east in 1942, there aren’t a hell of a lot of us left. The Russians
did
slaughter us, in carload lots. And the Americans’ll do the same goddamn thing to us this time around. Gives you something to look forward to, you know?”
Gyula had nothing to say to that. What
could
you say? What went through Tibor’s head was
That’s what we get for being a small country.
The Nazis had aimed Hungary at the Soviet Union and fired it. If the Russians killed Magyars by carload lots, more of Hitler’s Germans stayed alive. Not enough more, as it turned out. Now the Communists in Moscow were firing Hungary at the United States. If the Americans killed piles of Hungarians, more Russians might survive.
Enough more? Tibor had trouble believing it. Not that Stalin would care. Like Hitler, Stalin cared less for a life than Sergeant Gergely cared for a smoke. He burned through lives faster than Gergely burned through cigarettes, too.
And if they really started throwing atomic bombs around, lives would go up in smoke faster than ever. How many cities had already got thrown into the incinerator? The front line might wind up the safest place of all.
—
Marian Staley listened to the news with shock and disbelief that grew every day. When President Truman announced that the United States had used atomic bombs against cities in Manchuria, they were cities she’d never heard of, cities with names the newsman had trouble pronouncing the same way twice, cities—not to put too fine a point on it—full of Chinamen. As with the Japs in the last war, who could work up any real sympathy for swarms of Chinamen blasted off the face of the earth? Especially when they, or the people who told them what to do, were Reds?
No, her main worry was that Bill was safe. She dreaded every unfamiliar car that stopped near the house. She stared from the front windows till the people who got out of the car proved not to be Air Force officers bringing her the worst news in the world.
But the Red Chinese had friends who’d taught them how to be Communists. And Joseph Stalin couldn’t let his friends and allies get bombed that way without doing anything about it, not if he wanted them to go on taking him seriously.
And so, four nights after American B-29s smashed the Manchurian cities, Russian Tu-4s, flying low so radar wouldn’t spot
“That’s about the size of it,” Tibor whispered back. Sergeant Gergely gave them both a fishy stare. Most of the time, you’d catch hell for any unauthorized talk. But they were heading off to war. Chances were the whole Hungarian People’s Army was heading off to war, with its rickety trucks and secondhand rifles and men who were still figuring out how to be good Communists.
Gyula might not have been the brightest candle in the chandelier, but he knew what he thought about that. “Christ have mercy!” he yipped, something no good Communist was supposed to say. “They’ll slaughter us!” He was too horrified to remember to keep whispering.
Tibor waited for Sergeant Gergely to tear Gyula to pieces, either with his barbed tongue or with his knobby, hairy-backed hands. But the sergeant’s face…mellowed? Tibor wouldn’t have believed his eyes—didn’t dare believe them—till Gergely said, “Don’t worry about it more than you can help, sonny. I said the same thing when we got on a train to go fight the Russians. I was wet behind the ears then. You go into combat, you grow up in a hurry. And I’m still here, you’ll notice.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” By the way Gyula Pusztai said it, he also wondered why the sergeant wasn’t ripping into him.
Gergely made a small production of lighting a cigarette. Then he said, “The sorry bastards who went east in 1942, there aren’t a hell of a lot of us left. The Russians
did
slaughter us, in carload lots. And the Americans’ll do the same goddamn thing to us this time around. Gives you something to look forward to, you know?”
Gyula had nothing to say to that. What
could
you say? What went through Tibor’s head was
That’s what we get for being a small country.
The Nazis had aimed Hungary at the Soviet Union and fired it. If the Russians killed Magyars by carload lots, more of Hitler’s Germans stayed alive. Not enough more, as it turned out. Now the Communists in Moscow were firing Hungary at the United States. If the Americans killed piles of Hungarians, more Russians might survive.
Enough more? Tibor had trouble believing it. Not that Stalin would care. Like Hitler, Stalin cared less for a life than Sergeant Gergely cared for a smoke. He burned through lives faster than Gergely burned through cigarettes, too.
And if they really started throwing atomic bombs around, lives would go up in smoke faster than ever. How many cities had already got thrown into the incinerator? The front line might wind up the safest place of all.
—
Marian Staley listened to the news with shock and disbelief that grew every day. When President Truman announced that the United States had used atomic bombs against cities in Manchuria, they were cities she’d never heard of, cities with names the newsman had trouble pronouncing the same way twice, cities—not to put too fine a point on it—full of Chinamen. As with the Japs in the last war, who could work up any real sympathy for swarms of Chinamen blasted off the face of the earth? Especially when they, or the people who told them what to do, were Reds?
No, her main worry was that Bill was safe. She dreaded every unfamiliar car that stopped near the house. She stared from the front windows till the people who got out of the car proved not to be Air Force officers bringing her the worst news in the world.
But the Red Chinese had friends who’d taught them how to be Communists. And Joseph Stalin couldn’t let his friends and allies get bombed that way without doing anything about it, not if he wanted them to go on taking him seriously.
And so, four nights after American B-29s smashed the Manchurian cities, Russian Tu-4s, flying low so radar wouldn’t spot
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