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  I persevered to fix her car like a truthful repairman, and what do you know, but three hours later it was in tip-top form. But not before I did a little something to it …. I nullified every individual station on her radio settings and switched them all to Radio Free Europe.

  When she returned to her car, I turned up the volume to maximum height and “Love Me Do” came out of it. I could tell her innards jived to the music. That’s when it struck me that she could be my pristine Hedvig.

  She could be my Hedvig in real life, not the one in the past tense life, as is my mom. I could belch her name from the streets. Imagine me fixing myself at Nyugati Station with a guitar and singing “Hedvig,” “Hedvig,” “Hedvig!”

  I thought you would be proud of me. I speculate you are wondering what happened admist Hedvig and I. Perhaps I could inflate you with some pride. Well, I received her numbers and I called her but a short number of hours following.

  We convened later that night at a secret concert. My friend Andras has a fake band that plays all the songs from your radio program. If the police find our concerts, they always break them up, so I had to practice cautions. I told Hedvig to meet me somewhere special, but didn’t tell her what we were doing. When she immersed herself in the venue, I could tell she was pleased.

  We commenced our date with talking and drinking when the most miraculous occurrence happened. There we were, Uncle Lanci, suckling our alcohol, when the band commenced playing “Surfin’ Bird.” The entirety of the audience initiated singing. So we spurted upward and danced, caressing hands. Well, I thought, the forecast looks supreme for the rest of the evening, so I asked her if she would like to return to my home. She said, “Yes.” And it’s all because of you, Uncle Lanci! If it wasn’t for that song, I would be a lone man.

  For the rest of the night, we retreated to my apartment. I showed Hedvig a photo of John Lennon I bought on the black market. She couldn’t halt herself from staring at it, so I had to intervene. I placed my hand atop of her shoulder and queried if she would like to see my room. She instantly affirmed my congenial offer.

  Our kisses initiated slow, like when you truly think this is it, the excellence of this moment could surpass no other. Naturally, other parts of my body had more to say about the situation. I tenderously took off her shirt and was behold by the most tender but stable breasts I have ever faced off with. They were like petite moons settling and rising as I maneuvered them. They went for an arduous ride, and after about three minutes, I concluded I should give them a break.

  Hedvig asked me if I cared to explore more, ever so piously. I am a gentleman and heeded her gratuitous request, so I commenced to take off her clothes. Wow, her underwear was the type that deconstructs brains to shards. I knew that Hedvig donned it especially for yours truly—it came directly from Africa, she confessed. It was composed of velvet with the skin of a cheetah. I commenced to rub my cheek against this pleasurable offering, forgetting almost completely I had other work to complete.

  By this point, I was raging with pleasure, in all parts of my body, but I harnessed focus on the task at my fingertips. I peeled forth her underwear. Oh, how happy I am I did that. I have never spied anything of this nature in all my twenty-seven years.

  Hedvig, it turns around, had the most illustrious design sketched onto her nether region. Instead of the normal fluff, which I must profess, I do sincerely enjoy partaking in, Hedvig’s hair forged a peace sign!

  I will confess, I feared deconstructing the marvelous design Hedvig adorned. My potential animal nature would make me peruse her in absolute force, and who could guess what could possibly take place, what parts of her beautiful design could falter?

  We moved on to the momentary act, for a plethora of gluttonous moments. (I said momentary, Uncle Lanci, because that’s the length of time females last in my presence, if you grasp my meaning. Let me say something to you, though, this is one hundred percent normal.) After I ensured she was cared about, I braced myself against her, until I bowed down to pleasure. After, we dropped into a very serious sleep, gripping each other’s torsos with utmost affection.

  Tonight, I cannot grace Hedvig with my presence since I will be laboring away at my night job cleansing the Ministry of Interior. That is my second job next to being a car technician. I don’t receive much pleasure from this and dream of being a dentist. I applied for college, but they turned me down on account of my middle-class origins. They punish me because my family has too much (even though we don’t), so now I am a worker. As you sit cozy in the West, conducting your loose radio programs, it seems so impossible to achieve becoming as glorious as you.

  So, I request you elevate me out of that desponded building on Adrássy út, because I’ll be there all week, as you like to say. Please don “Surfin’ Bird” on your radio. And when you do, say that it is from Mike a Korvinközből to Hedvig.

  Sincerely,

  Mike a Korvinközből

  Desire is fueled by all, but fulfillment. —Ernő Osvát

  Eszter Turján

  October 23, 1956—Morning

  I barely slept, except for a few hours in the morning. When I woke up, I discovered Ivan and Dora were both still home. They should have been at work and school. I should have been at the factory.

  I wandered, half-asleep, toward Ivan’s study, the only room in the house he spent time in. He slept there most nights unless he suspected I had snuck out. Then he waited for me in our bed, ready to question me and test my proficiency at lying.

  “What’s going on?” I leaned against the doorframe to steady my fatigued legs.

  “Demonstration.” Ivan sat next to the radio. We never moved it out of the kitchen, but now it sat on his desk, in silence. He had it turned off, knowing I would want to hear the news today.

  “Is it a big one?”

  “Not yet. But, I don’t trust it. I think it will get out of hand.”

  I reached for the radio, but Ivan moved it beyond my reach.

  “We’re also not listening to this today. Best to just keep a low profile.”

  I really had no idea what had happened since I’d fallen asleep, though I’m not sure why I expected Ivan to engage me in a conversation about it or let me use the radio. The fact that he was scared meant the students had made some sort of impact on party members. I wouldn’t, however, put it past Ivan to stay home just so he could make sure I didn’t do anything that would threaten his career ambitions.

  Dora sat next to Ivan on a tufted leather chair, pretending to read. When I rolled my eyes at Ivan, Dora caught me in the act and mouthed, “Listen to him.”

  If she only knew the horror her dad’s party inflicted on people like me. I didn’t want to punish her for siding with Ivan, nor did I want to tell her the truth: that one day, if things didn’t change, her friends and—God forbid—Dora herself would be the ones targeted by her dad’s government. It would be their phone calls, remarks, habits, and routines the secret police would be monitoring. It would be them who would be tortured with whips, limb crushers, and nail presses. I wasn’t sure Dora would be able to handle it, with Ivan’s constant sheltering and brainwashing.

  I never thought our family would turn out to be so divided. I always knew Ivan and I were different. I fell in love with him because he was different. He came from the country, smelling like earth and with eyes the color of the Danube. I came from the city, wearing sparkly necklaces and knowing the names of different cheeses. Ivan didn’t flood the conversation with words. He allowed me to talk about whatever I wanted, and he never missed one thing I said. He always responded with his own interpretation of my experiences, adding depth and color to my life.

  Every time Ivan saw me, he brought me a different colored rose. I didn’t even know purple roses existed until Ivan slid one into the empty vase on my parents’ table one night, got down on one knee, and proposed to me. The first time we made love, Dora was conceived, and for a few years we enjoyed the illusion of family life.

  When World War II happe
ned, Ivan fled the country, to the Soviet Union, with other government officials, and I moved in with my family. When he returned, he wouldn’t stop talking about communism. I found it endearing at first, clearly not understanding what it would mean for my family.

  My parents had been part of the nobility, reaching their peak at a time when only a small number of families owned a disproportionately greater amount of property compared to everyone else. Under the post-war Communist dictatorship, my parents were deemed kulaks and considered “enemies” of “socialist construction.” The government decided to liquidate them, sending families like mine to isolated villages or simply executing them altogether. Ivan, who was working for the regime at the time, participated in initiatives surrounding this extreme injustice. Because of my status as Ivan’s wife, I was protected, but my parents disappeared one afternoon, before I could even say goodbye.

  Ivan tried to explain that he couldn’t stop their deportation, but I wouldn’t listen to him. I’m sure he could have done something. It would have cost him his job. But he could have. Others did.

  Only a year after they were sent away, I learned both my parents died, alone, in a village I had never even heard of. After that, the only thing I cared about was reversing the damage Ivan’s government inflicted upon my family.

  As Ivan sat in his chair, his back to me, I reflected on the fact that nearly a decade after my parents’ death, I was finally making headway on dismantling this repressive and abusive regime.

  I walked over to Dora and slid her book out of her hands. “Come on; let’s eat.” Maybe if I lured Dora away from the study, Ivan would emerge and I could access our radio he had on lockdown. Dora started scooting herself off the chair, when Ivan handed her a different book and asked her to read him something out of it. Dora readily obeyed.

  Giving up, I retreated to the kitchen and pried open the window, expecting to hear some commotion outside in the streets. I heard instead the fading murmur of a car puttering down the road.

  “Why do you look more tired than normal, Eszter?” Ivan bore his eyes into my profile as he followed me into the kitchen, trying to hold my attention.

  He knows, I thought. He knows what I’ve done.

  Then again, he always knew. But why did he insist on testing me? I thought he had found some comfort in pretending that I had renounced my allegiance to the underground. I promised Ivan a year ago that I would, after I realized how desperate he was to move on from the whole matter. He had gotten to the point where he accepted my excuses and lies—they were better than fighting me. I continued writing for Realitás. Ivan went on burying himself in his work. And so it went, we spent our days creating worlds bent on undoing one another.

  The phone rang, and Ivan’s eyes followed my hands as they brought the receiver to my ear.

  “Hello,” I answered it.

  “Eszter, this is Laszlo.”

  At the sound of his name, I stopped breathing. Laszlo never called me at home.

  Gripping the phone so tight that my knuckles turned white, I watched Ivan’s eyes snake their way up my arms to where my hands betrayed my anxiety. Ivan looked away and flipped open the newspaper, but I knew he was listening to me. I pretended it was my supervisor at the factory. Laszlo understood, but continued talking.

  “Something has happened, Eszter. We need you to come down to the office immediately. It has to do with your meeting with Antal last night.”

  “Oh, so it just stopped functioning? Without warning?” My voice trembled in rhythm with my legs, so shaky I had to sit.

  “I can’t say much over the phone, just that your work needs you so come as soon as you can.”

  “Well, listen. I can’t really be of much help over the phone, so let me come down there.”

  He hung up.

  “A machine stalled,” I stammered to Ivan, who scrutinized not my eyes, but my breasts and my arms, as if he could pull the truth out of my flesh. “I have to go to the factory right now. That was my boss. I am sorry, no breakfast today.”

  “Eszter, please, don’t go out there.”

  “Why?” I thought maybe I could glean some information from him about the demonstration, to know what I might face outside.

  “You know why,” he snarled.

  “Hmm, I really don’t.”

  Ivan placed his palm on my shoulder, an act of self-righteousness, I assumed, to prove he could remain kind and loving, even when faced with my deviousness.

  “Look, as I said earlier, it’s not safe out today. There might be a march. No, there will be one, and we don’t know how it will turn out.”

  “Well, all the more reason for me to be at the factory. I’ll need to secure the machines.”

  Grabbing my keys before Ivan could respond, I said, “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry!”

  Dora chimed goodbye without the slightest degree of suspicion, but Ivan remained silent. It didn’t matter much to me anyway.

  It could have been any morning, I convinced myself, except the streets were practically empty. Budapest still wore its fine necklace of dust and dog poop, but without the people and creatures responsible for the sidewalk’s usual adornments, the city just looked dirty and ordinary.

  When I finally reached the Realitás office—and Laszlo—he seemed more shook up than I expected. Barreling toward me, he slammed the door shut so hard the ceiling trembled.

  “Sorry,” Laszlo whispered. He studied my face. He touched my eyebrow, tracing his finger along my forehead until he got to my hair, which he pushed behind my ear. I leaned into him, hoping he’d let our foreheads meet, at the very least, but he pulled away immediately.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” I pretended like we didn’t just have that moment, as I had done so many times before.

  He fixed his eyes on the window and then backed slowly toward his chair, pointing me to the one next to his.

  He turned on the radio and pressed his fingers to my lips. “Listen.”

  “We are announcing that a demonstration will happen today,” a reporter began. “Students are gathering across the city to join a powerful march. We estimate thousands will participate. Please, join the thousands and stand up to Soviet repression. Send the Russians home!”

  The reporter began reading the list of meeting points, just as I had laid them out in my note to Antal.

  A web of chills spread across my back. We did it. Radio Free Europe reached almost every household in Budapest. And if people weren’t listening to that, they would be listening to the BBC, which surely would repeat Radio Free Europe’s message.

  “Thank God, Antal made it.” At the mention of Antal’s name, Laszlo leaned back in his chair and delivered a swift snort.

  “So I assumed correctly, then. They got this information from you? Last night?” Laszlo’s thick eyebrows converged on his forehead in a frown.

  Laszlo had no qualms about expressing his disdain for working with Antal. He thought that by lending Radio Free Europe information, we were part of America’s political agenda to persuade Hungary to become just like the West. Laszlo didn’t want to be wrapped up in someone else’s ploy.

  The radio repeated the message.

  “Yes, I visited Antal.” I checked on our printer as I tried to hide the redness creeping into my cheeks. “I was worried, and of course I wanted us to print this in our paper too, but ….”

  “But what?” Laszlo demanded, his voice teetering, ready to fall sharply toward anger.

  “I knew we couldn’t afford to print every day and that the paper wouldn’t go out for another week. I thought that the people should know what’s happening.”

  “Why do you make these decisions without me? We made this thing together.”

  “Why do you not trust me?”

  Laszlo did not answer. He waited a full minute. Then he made his case that we weren’t just a newspaper, we were leaders, and had we verified that thousands were really participating in the demonstration? Was our e
stimate actually correct? If it wasn’t, we would be responsible for instilling false hope in these kids, encouraging them to face off with a nasty and heartless regime.

  Of course, Laszlo made a valid point. I hadn’t verified my information with multiple sources by any means. But I saw those students talking last night, their determination fueled by an optimism far stronger than one Laszlo and I would ever feel at our age. If I hadn’t given Antal that intelligence, they would have gone through with it anyway. At least this way, maybe they would find some safety in numbers.

  That’s when Antal burst into our office, wearing a scarf, gloves, glasses, and a heavy coat. He peeled off his disguise, his skin glowing beneath a veneer of sweat. I hugged him as Laszlo looked away.

  “It’s not good,” Antal said. “Gerő’s going to take action. He’s planning an offensive.”

  “But they’re letting the demonstration take place,” I said. At this point, even the government’s radio station had announced the march.

  “Exactly,” Antal sighed. “So they can get all the rebels in the same place, and ….” None of us wanted Antal to finish that sentence.

  “As if you didn’t expect that.” Laszlo slammed his hand on the desk.

  Antal ignored him. He explained that when he got back to Budapest, he went directly to Gerő’s office, knowing he had already probably missed multiple calls from him. When he arrived, Gerő handed him a whiskey, straight, and asked Antal to sit down. Antal tried convincing Gerő to let the students march rather than fighting them. That would only escalate the protest and embarrass the regime, perhaps on the world stage. “We can’t,” Gerő had said—intelligence indicated the students were far more powerful than they let on. They had connections to Imre Nagy, the ousted former prime minister and the only one who stood a chance at opposing Gerő.

  Nagy had spent the last few months tiptoeing away from the political arena, terrified of anyone noticing his withdrawal. We all wanted him to put his heels down, turn around, and march back into the spotlight. Of course, it all made sense now, why wouldn’t he do that? The students started mobilizing because someone had tipped off their leadership that Imre Nagy wanted to return. Plus, if Imre Nagy was behind this, then there would certainly be force behind him. I congratulated myself for spreading news of a demonstration that, yes, actually did have a chance.