Noémi Szécsi
Communist Monte Cristo
Excerpt from the novel
“Who was most excited about Father Christmas in 1956?”
“Comrade Stalin. He already put his boots out in October.”
Budapest joke, 1956
[...]
Should the protesting criminal masses gathered on Heroes’ Square on
October 23 have been warned, “Hungarians! Don’t stuff yourself with the
Christmas cake of freedom, or you’ll be sorry”? Anyone saying something like
this would have found themselves up shit street before they knew what had
hit them.
“For once I’m happy and you go spoil it,” Sanyika howled when Great-
Grandma told him that he could now consider Christmas over and that a
surgeon would have to stitch up his head.
In October, too, Great-Grandad knew that he’d be sorry, but he just couldn’t
curb that overstrung revolutionary instinct of his. After five a neighbour from the
building came back from Kossuth Square for a flag, which is how Great-
Grandad learnt that the people were headed for Heroes’ Square. Time was of the
essence. They cut the coat of arms out of the flag as they marched. Great-
Grandad chipped in. He stretched the material so the knife could slide through
it quicker. And once there, he ate roasted chestnuts out of his pocket. He stood
a bit off to the side, as if he were not part of the crowd. But there were too many people standing there for him to separate himself properly. It’s not such a great
big square as all that. Hungary has no big squares.
“Freedom for the people,” Great-Grandad shouted suddenly, absolutely
without thinking.
“What’re you shouting for, old man?” a man in a cloth cap turned on him.
“You’re splitting my eardrums.”
“Old people want democracy, too,” Great-Grandad said humbly as he
prodded a roasted chestnut free off the roof of his mouth with his tongue.
“So do we all. That’s why we’re here. But you’ve had your democracy, so
stop shouting.”
He’s a filthy provocateur, Great-Grandad thought, but turned to the young
man amicably just the same.
“Might you be referring to Horthy’s dictatorship? Don’t make me laugh!
That’s when I was young, when I got married, that’s when my children were born. I felt fine, all told, but we all knew that we were living in a regime that’s
rotten to the core. Now we’re facing more difficult times. But we can do so
freely and honourably.”
“What’re you talking about? We’re here to bring down Stalin’s statue, or
haven’t you heard?”
“Indeed? That’s good, then, because I’m here for the same thing,” Great-
Grandad said, then softly but clearly he shouted, “Abzug, Stalin!” and for a
moment he felt once again like a schoolboy during the Monarchy, and would have
liked nothing better than to head for Gizella Square to buy some Kugler pastry.
But just then the crowd around him started roaring again, urging on the men busy
with the statue. Great-Grandad’s head veritably whirled, for he could clearly see
Napoleon Bonaparte sticking his head out from behind the grey clouds.
“Hungarians!” he holds forth, his pronunciation impeccable as he surveys
the crowd. Great-Grandad looks back at him, his face beaming with
enthusiasm.
“Hungarians! The time is here for you to win back your lost freedom!”
Actually, that’s not how; he said it in a more old-fashioned way, like this:
“Hungarians! The time hath come for you to wrest back your long-lost
freedom!”
Then he added, “My troops are gathered for deployment just outside Gyõr.
I have a score to settle with the Russians.”
“This is a bloodless revolution. Still, long live Napoleon! If we need help,
we’ll let you know,” Great-Grandad said smiling affectionately at the Emperor.
They’d wound a rope around Stalin’s leg by then, but everybody knew that
this would not do the trick. They didn’t skimp on high-grade iron in those days.
Meanwhile, Great-Grandad panned the crowd for familiar faces, though not
like the others, so that when the froth had settled and it was denunciation
time, they’d have a story or two up their sleeve. No. He was simply curious to
know what people who had the red star stuck to their foreheads so fast you
couldn’t have removed them without ripping their heads off into the bargain
were now thinking.
[...]
Noémi Szécsi
is a writer and journalist with five books (three novels and two books on motherhood
based on her blog) to her name. She was awarded the European Prize for Literature in
2009 for Communist Monte Cristo, reviewed by Tibor Bárány on pp. 117–118 of this issue.
