Radio Underground Page 2

  “That’s enormous.” Ivan smiled, a rare occurrence.

  “What about you? Any new policies I need to know about?”

  Ivan leaned across the table toward his daughter. “Actually, that’s why I asked you here today. I have some exciting news for you.”

  Dora raised her eyebrows, inviting him to continue, as the waiter delivered two plates of paprikás csirke—apparently Ivan had ordered for her, like she was a little girl. She wished he would stop that.

  “Your department is about to get a very important assignment,” Ivan began, but paused to watch Dora.

  She examined her chicken, now settled under shiny pockets of fat. Ever since the revolution, eating felt like a chore. Dora found herself fighting nausea before she took her first bite of food, though she managed to finish most of her meals. Ivan had developed the habit of staring at her in the moments when she was mustering the strength to eat.

  Ivan waited until Dora lifted the first piece of chicken to her mouth. “This assignment requires us to make some changes. And they have to do with you.”

  Dora’s stomach lurched. She hated change and how it toyed with her, like a cat pawing at a perfectly wound ball of yarn. It always seemed like a fun game at first, until, string by string, she became unraveled.

  But before Ivan could continue, a barrage of radio static interrupted him. It pierced through the restaurant, surrounding them in a strident din. The shrill static churned Dora’s thoughts, thwarting their usual, linear pattern.

  She turned around to the window behind her. Outside, on top of the windowsill, sat three radios. A group of boys, probably university students, huddled over them. They prodded at the knobs, oblivious to the people sitting behind the glass.

  “Someone has to tell them to move. This is awful.” Dora began massaging her temples.

  Ivan leaned back in his chair and bent his arms behind his back.

  “I actually like it.”

  “What? You do?”

  “Yes. It’s sending a good message.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Of course.”

  Dora remembered herself, and who sat across from her. Obviously, Ivan preferred the static. This was better than the alternative.

  “Kids should know that they can’t just listen to rock ‘n’ roll whenever they want,” Ivan said. “It’s just capitalist propaganda.”

  “Well, at least you stopped them this time,” Dora said.

  As part of Ivan’s work at the Ministry of Cultural Affairs, he orchestrated a massive operation that blocked Radio Free Europe’s broadcasts and replaced them with a jarring racket.

  “This isn’t my doing,” Ivan said.

  “What do you mean? You didn’t jam the radio today?” Dora asked.

  “Nope. We’ve shifted our priorities elsewhere, at least temporarily. I’ll tell you about it when this ends.” Ivan nodded toward the window. “Anyway, it doesn’t even look like we need to jam. Look at them; they can’t find the station.”

  Dora smiled meekly at him. She could feel a migraine coming on. She pressed her fingers into her ears. Closing her eyes, she thought about something that would make her happy.

  The image of Boldiszar inched into her mind, as it often did. She thought about his black hair and how his curls overtook his dark eyes. She remembered the smile that pulled his entire face into it, like the eye of a hurricane. She remembered how, every birthday, she wished she could be old enough to date Boldiszar instead of being his first and longest babysitting job. When Dora’s thoughts inevitably collided with the terrible thing that happened to Boldiszar, she opened her eyes and ears, preferring the static over her wandering memories. But, it soon gave way to something much smoother. For a split second the noise tickled Dora, producing a lightness at the bottom of her stomach.

  Surrounding them were the undeniable notes of The Beatles’ “She Loves You.” The boys belted, “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah …” as they teetered back and forth like penguins, trying to dance in their stiff winter coats.

  After only a minute, the song faded, and a honeyed voice took over.

  “Our countdown continues on Radio Free Europe. We’re playing the top hits of 1964 for you today.” It was Laszlo Cseke, or Uncle Lanci, the Hungarian disc jokey who fled to Munich and became a Radio Free Europe icon.

  “We’ve finally reached the top, so without further ado,” Uncle Lanci continued, “here’s the number one song of 1964, ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’”

  Forgetting herself, Dora wiped away the condensation accumulating on the window so she could see the boys better. Turning up the radio and shedding their coats, the boys belted out The Beatles lyrics, even trying to hold the hands of passersby, who shuffled to the other side of the sidewalk as if avoiding a massive sinkhole.

  Ivan sat there frowning and puckering his lips as if a lemon slice was wedged between his teeth. He summoned their server with a flick of his hand. “Excuse me, what is your name?”

  “Lajos.”

  “Lajos what?”

  They all knew why Ivan was asking. Ivan would hold this Lajos accountable for whatever he was about to ask him to do.

  “Adler.”

  “Do you like this music?”

  “No, not in the slightest.” Lajos vigorously shook his head.

  “Good, because Radio Free Europe is just trying to brainwash you. They think if you like The Beatles, you’ll like capitalism.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good. Then can you please tell those men to go elsewhere, Lajos Adler?”

  “Yes, right away, sir.”

  As he confronted the boys outside, Lajos pointed inside at Dora and Ivan. In unison, they craned their necks toward the window. They zeroed in on Dora, their eyes scaling her high cheekbones before descending to her lips, where they lingered far too long. She looked down, finally getting the motivation she needed to focus on eating her chicken.

  Dora heard a muted version of Ivan’s name percolate through the glass. They had recognized him. Soon the words “I want to …” met their end. By the time she looked up again, they had disappeared.

  “It’s actually good we just witnessed that,” Ivan said.

  “Oh, really? How come?”

  “Uncle Lanci, Radio Free Europe, The Beatles … they are all connected to these changes I was talking about.” Ivan smiled and lifted his coffee mug, the veins in his arms jutting out, abandoned long ago by their fatty cushions. “You see, we’re picking up some intelligence …. We’ve heard that some counterrevolutionaries are making plans.”

  Following protocol, Ivan referred to the Freedom Fighters who battled against the regime in the 1956 revolution not as revolutionaries, but as counterrevolutionaries.

  “What kind of plans?” Dora asked.

  “It looks like some of them are talking about leaving Hungary … illegally.”

  “But I thought people could go abroad now?”

  “Some people can, but others can’t. Especially counterrevolutionaries. We’ve installed extra security at the border, but we need to catch them before they get there.”

  Now Dora understood where this conversation was going.

  “That’s where you come in, Dora. I thought you could be extra vigilant with the Uncle Lanci letters.”

  Dora censored mail for a living, focusing specifically on letters written to Uncle Lanci. Using code names, his fans wrote to him to request their favorite rock ‘n’ roll songs and to relay messages over the air. But these requests weren’t as benign as they seemed. In their letters, young people attacked communism, recounted abuse by the state police, and now, apparently, discussed plans to illegally leave the country. The regime hired people like Dora to monitor the letters and black out any subversive content. They didn’t just throw out the letters altogether because they had to give people some freedom—and provide them with enough small victories—so they didn’t agitate for another deadly uprising.

  “Uncle Lanci has a huge influence over these young people, e
specially the counterrevolutionaries. We think they’ll use Uncle Lanci to escape,” Ivan continued.

  “And that’s why you don’t want to jam the radio ….” Dora was figuring it out. If they completely jammed Radio Free Europe, people would stop writing to Uncle Lanci. Any discussion of travel plans would be funneled elsewhere.

  “Exactly. Now they’ll write to him and ask for help, I’m sure. And we will be there to catch them.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “That’s for the police to decide,” Ivan said. “They might be put in jail or sent to a work camp.”

  “I’ll pay special attention to the letters.” Dora held her breath, hoping that was all her dad wanted. She didn’t tell Ivan that one of her favorite letter writers might have been a counterrevolutionary. He used a pseudonym, as so many letter writers did, calling himself Mike a Korvinközből. The name referred to a famous movie theater-turned rebel stronghold in the 1956 revolution. Mike may have fought there, but he never discussed it in his letters. Writing in English, or “the tongue of The Beatles,” as he called it, Mike described a love life that far surpassed anything Dora ever experienced. His broken English made him seem sincere and innocent, despite his womanizing tendencies. Mike reminded Dora of Boldiszar, in a way. They both had an easy sweetness about them, one that didn’t demand reciprocity and instead existed solely as an inherent, inescapable part of their personalities.

  “There is something else,” Ivan started in that self-important tone, the one Dora knew her dad expected her to mirror. “We want you to work exclusively on these letters, as Joszef’s second in command.”

  “Joszef?”

  “Yes. This is a huge opportunity for you.”

  Dora resisted the urge to immediately decline the opportunity. Though she would finally get the recognition she deserved, the thought of sending Mike, or others, to jail tainted the moment. She believed in the party, and its goals, but she didn’t want to actually go after her letter writers.

  “That’s such a big role, and I would want to do it right. But, I already have so much to do. What about Tamás?”

  “We thought about that, but it wouldn’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are some English letters in this collection. And no one knows the language like you.”

  Ivan was right. Dora was the resident expert on English. She had studied the language in her free time in hopes of getting a promotion. She never thought she’d be terrified of it when the time finally came.

  “Here, you can take a peek at what you’d be dealing with.” Ivan slid over a tan envelope, heavy with papers inside.

  “Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.” Dora’s shoulders fell, though she tried to give Ivan a thin smile, hoping he would interpret her apprehension as nerves more than anything else.

  “I know you’ll give it your serious consideration, angyalkám.”

  Dora cringed when she heard the endearing namesake, my angel. Ivan used to call her that, and other love names, when she was little. He had stopped when she’d sprouted breasts and grew as tall as her mom. But, when Eszter was taken away after the revolution, Ivan began using the pet names again. They were like porcelain dolls yanked out of a dusty attic. Though brought back into the light, they seemed forever relegated to the dingy, lonely space from which they came.

  “I better get back to work.” Ivan kissed Dora on the forehead. “Good luck with these. We’re counting on you.”

  Before Dora could say goodbye, Ivan hurried out of the restaurant.

  She hadn’t seen her dad that eager in awhile. He usually exuded a stern confidence, supported by the conviction that people would do as he said. The last time she saw Ivan that persistent was a year before the revolution, when he was pleading with Eszter to stay loyal to the party.

  *

  Dora had come home early from school that day, expecting to be alone, when she noticed the walls faintly emitting her parents’ voices, which rose and fell at varying decibels. At age sixteen, Dora could detect a fight in an instant, even if it sounded like a mere whisper. She crept through the hallway, toward the voices. As she approached her parents’ bedroom, the voices grew louder. Dora knew if her mom and dad had retreated to their room, this was a bad fight. She pressed her ear against their door, convincing herself she was ready for whatever she might hear.

  Her dad said, “You can’t do this, Eszter. Writing a secret newspaper? I can’t believe it.”

  Eszter shot back, “I don’t care. I have to. I can’t be silent anymore. The conditions at the factory are insufferable.”

  “You don’t understand. If they find out, they will arrest you. And me.”

  “No one is ever going to find out. I’m being careful.”

  “Careful? It won’t take long for them to figure out who wrote this. This isn’t being careful. They’re killing people for this kind of stuff.”

  “I’m fighting for something bigger than myself.”

  “This isn’t just about you or your movement anymore,” Ivan said. “Apparently, she’s not even a consideration for you. If we’re gone, Dora could be sent to an orphanage. Or … worse.”

  “Dora will be fine. You know she always is.”

  Eszter’s tone changed, flattening until it sounded almost casual. It made Dora want to cry. She wanted to hear some concern—or would even settle for anger—in Eszter’s voice.

  “Dora would not be fine,” Ivan barked, with all the anger and fire Eszter lacked. “Stop pretending it would be okay.”

  “You’re the one who’s pretending. You’re living in a fantasy world supporting this party. You’re going to pay for that one day.”

  “You’ve gone too far, Eszter. You’re the one who is going to regret it.”

  Dora knew she should run to her room, but she still held out hope she could detect one, even minuscule, hint of love from her mom.

  “Just promise me one thing,” Ivan said.

  “What?”

  “You will stop involving Boldiszar in your schemes. You know he’s only twenty-one. He’s too young, and he’ll get caught up in this lethal crap.”

  Boldiszar? Did Dora hear that correctly? What was he doing with Eszter? She wanted to stay, but knew her parents’ fighting patterns all too well. Once her dad started bargaining, Eszter would see the opening and agree to his terms, though she rarely kept her word. Before Dora got caught eavesdropping, she tiptoed swiftly to her room.

  Dora curled up in her bed, clutching her knees to her chest, and cried. Her mom loved herself more than anyone else, and the constant reminders of that sickened Dora. She wanted Eszter to get caught. She deserved it. Someone needed to punish her for the pain she caused them. But Boldiszar didn’t deserve to be punished. Dora couldn’t afford to lose someone who actually loved her. Couldn’t her mom recognize that? Eszter should have never started messing with Boldiszar or even with this dissident stuff in the first place. There were real consequences, yet somehow she didn’t see them, or maybe she just didn’t care.

  Dora wanted to fix it all, but she didn’t know how. The best she could do was promise herself one thing: She would never be like her, like Eszter. She would care about other people. She would practice caution. She would follow the rules.

  *

  As Dora got up from the table, she remembered that long-ago promise. The new position Ivan offered her would be one more way for Dora to become anything other than Eszter.

  Back at her office, Dora opened the envelope her dad gave her. She sifted through the letters, which clung together as if protesting the unrightful disturbance. Some were handwritten and others were typed. She came upon one, scribbled in a messy collage of sentences. It was Mike’s. She dislodged it, took a deep breath, and began to read.

  Mike a Korvinközből

  Budapest, Hungary—January 14, 1965

  Dear Uncle Lanci,

  It was so glorious when you played “Surfin’ Bird” for me the night previous. So sweet, I am resigned to
even put it into words here, though I will try with my groovy English dictionary to convey all the meaning to you. You envision, when I heard “Surfin Bird,” it was better than even losing my virginity. Let me explain.

  It all commenced yesterday, when I had a great surprise from a beautiful woman entering my shop. This woman, you envision, is the most pristine woman imaginable. When she asked to get her radiator worked on, I said we should work on a bit more than that. Okay, okay, I refrained though. I interpreted she would not have minded so much. Anyway, I played Mr. Nice Man and started to fix her car.

  But, something disturbed me as I labored. Her radio was turned down. The height of its volume could reach but a wee whisper. I amended that problem right up front as best I could (they are shit speakers), and guess what came out? Radio Budapest! Just the name makes me grow bumps on my arm. Does it do that to you? I just couldn’t stand the government’s radio blaring from those minimal speakers, and if her maximal breasts listened to this, it would just make me mad.

  I transformed the radio to your station and inquired after her name.

  “Hedvig,” she said.

  My heart mostly desired to vomit. Her name was the same exact one as my mom. Her attractiveness dispersed. I turned up your program loud now. So here I am, fixing her radiator, and what song appears at that very moment? “Surfin’ Bird.” I berated myself with laughter. I mean, sincerely, it’s like you were sending me a sign with those lyrics, “bird, bird, bird, bird is the word.” I should be staring at unique regions on the woman before me, instead of being so sullen over her name.

  How do you know me so well, Uncle Lanci? Let me just say, with her, bird became one hundred percent the thing present in my forethoughts. It’s as if I could fit anything I wanted, but mostly all that I have lived through, under one major umbrella of music. It’s like The Blob, eating and overcoming all that I love.

  Swiftly, it all did not manifest as so serious anymore. I laughed and greeted her with my name too. (Which, of course, I will refrain from writing here!) I know Hedvig desired my attention by the way she eyed my caresses over her radio. She did pardon herself from my presence momentarily—it’s hard for women to be around me too long without touching me.