decisions.
When the telephone rang, I turned down the Americans, who were calmly asking Russian soldiers to lay down their arms and disobey their officers in the interests of justice.
“Ferenc.”
“Emil?”
“Look, Ferenc, we’ve been talking.”
“Who?”
“Us. The guys. We’re not going in tomorrow. We’re calling in sick.”
He sounded like he’d been drinking, which was what I should have been doing. “All of you?”
“Stefan, Leonek, and I. And you, Ferenc.”
I paused before answering. “I guess it should be all of us.”
“Good.”
Magda was throwing something away; I could hear paper crunching. “Just tomorrow? There’s the rest of the week, Thursday and Friday.”
“No decisions yet. But we can discuss it tomorrow.”
I still wasn’t completely sure, but the thought of that office was more abhorrent than the fears for my own family. After I hung up, I raised the volume again and said to Magda, “I’m staying home tomorrow.”
“You’re—” she began, and looked closely at me for the first time since I’d gotten home.
“I’m calling in sick.”
Then a high squeal filled the apartment as the radio-jamming went into effect.
11
I called the Militia switchboard in the morning and coughed through my lie. The operator took it as easily as she’d taken all the other calls that morning, finishing with a knowing Take care of yourself that meant more than a warning about illness.
Ágnes and Magda left together, and I sat with Pavel and the newspaper. My coffee became cold. Although the fighting in Budapest would go on for a few more days, it was evident to The Spark that the battle was over. The Hungarian agitators of reaction are shrinking back into their bullet-riddled holes. They were defending from broken windows. And the Americans, despite their proud radio talk, were staying out of it.
There were only a few lines about the demonstration:
Yesterday, an unwelcome scene appeared on our streets. Hungarian and other foreign elements staged a counterrevolutionary riot that quickly exposed their violent intentions. Four brave members of the People’s Militia were injured restoring order.
I was preparing to take Pavel for a walk when the telephone rang. It was Moska. “How are you feeling?”
I hesitated. “Sick. I feel sick.”
“So do I, Ferenc, but I can’t do anything about it. Other than Brano and Kaminski, this place is deserted.”
“Oh.”
“Listen. Your disappeared woman has been found.”
“Svetla Woznica?”
“Third District. Central train station. Ferenc, they picked her up for prostitution.”
“For what?”
“When they brought her in, someone noticed the missing person’s report, so they called over here. Are you too sick to pick her up? I can’t leave the station.”
“Can’t they drive her over?”
“Too short-staffed. Seems half their men are out with the flu.”
The Third District Militia station had been moved when its previous home—the old royal police station on Bishop Albert Street, later Engels Street—caught fire in 1952. The cause of the fire was never fully proven, but five Party officials who had, before the Liberation, been high in the Peasant Party were blamed. The charge was subversion, and they were executed. The new station was a concrete slab built on the ruins of a bomb-damaged apartment building. Flat-faced, four floors. It stood out on a street of Habsburg homes. Above double doors, a blue sign told visitors in flat, unadorned letters: MILITIA, DISTRICT III .
The old desk veteran who took me to the basement cells muttered about all the young men who had called in sick. “Forty-three years, and not a day missed. What’s this? They don’t fool me. Not one minute. Lazy. ”
I wondered if he really believed that. “What about this girl?”
“She wasn’t even hooking for money,” he said as he turned on the corridor light.
“What?”
“Ticket. She was selling her goods for a train ticket. Can
When the telephone rang, I turned down the Americans, who were calmly asking Russian soldiers to lay down their arms and disobey their officers in the interests of justice.
“Ferenc.”
“Emil?”
“Look, Ferenc, we’ve been talking.”
“Who?”
“Us. The guys. We’re not going in tomorrow. We’re calling in sick.”
He sounded like he’d been drinking, which was what I should have been doing. “All of you?”
“Stefan, Leonek, and I. And you, Ferenc.”
I paused before answering. “I guess it should be all of us.”
“Good.”
Magda was throwing something away; I could hear paper crunching. “Just tomorrow? There’s the rest of the week, Thursday and Friday.”
“No decisions yet. But we can discuss it tomorrow.”
I still wasn’t completely sure, but the thought of that office was more abhorrent than the fears for my own family. After I hung up, I raised the volume again and said to Magda, “I’m staying home tomorrow.”
“You’re—” she began, and looked closely at me for the first time since I’d gotten home.
“I’m calling in sick.”
Then a high squeal filled the apartment as the radio-jamming went into effect.
11
I called the Militia switchboard in the morning and coughed through my lie. The operator took it as easily as she’d taken all the other calls that morning, finishing with a knowing Take care of yourself that meant more than a warning about illness.
Ágnes and Magda left together, and I sat with Pavel and the newspaper. My coffee became cold. Although the fighting in Budapest would go on for a few more days, it was evident to The Spark that the battle was over. The Hungarian agitators of reaction are shrinking back into their bullet-riddled holes. They were defending from broken windows. And the Americans, despite their proud radio talk, were staying out of it.
There were only a few lines about the demonstration:
Yesterday, an unwelcome scene appeared on our streets. Hungarian and other foreign elements staged a counterrevolutionary riot that quickly exposed their violent intentions. Four brave members of the People’s Militia were injured restoring order.
I was preparing to take Pavel for a walk when the telephone rang. It was Moska. “How are you feeling?”
I hesitated. “Sick. I feel sick.”
“So do I, Ferenc, but I can’t do anything about it. Other than Brano and Kaminski, this place is deserted.”
“Oh.”
“Listen. Your disappeared woman has been found.”
“Svetla Woznica?”
“Third District. Central train station. Ferenc, they picked her up for prostitution.”
“For what?”
“When they brought her in, someone noticed the missing person’s report, so they called over here. Are you too sick to pick her up? I can’t leave the station.”
“Can’t they drive her over?”
“Too short-staffed. Seems half their men are out with the flu.”
The Third District Militia station had been moved when its previous home—the old royal police station on Bishop Albert Street, later Engels Street—caught fire in 1952. The cause of the fire was never fully proven, but five Party officials who had, before the Liberation, been high in the Peasant Party were blamed. The charge was subversion, and they were executed. The new station was a concrete slab built on the ruins of a bomb-damaged apartment building. Flat-faced, four floors. It stood out on a street of Habsburg homes. Above double doors, a blue sign told visitors in flat, unadorned letters: MILITIA, DISTRICT III .
The old desk veteran who took me to the basement cells muttered about all the young men who had called in sick. “Forty-three years, and not a day missed. What’s this? They don’t fool me. Not one minute. Lazy. ”
I wondered if he really believed that. “What about this girl?”
“She wasn’t even hooking for money,” he said as he turned on the corridor light.
“What?”
“Ticket. She was selling her goods for a train ticket. Can
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