Marianne’s story: Hungary 1956

From 23 October 1956 to 13 November was the time of the triumph of the Hungarian Revolution. My wife Marianne and I, newly married, had already drawn up plans for the following year: hitchhiking in Europe and working in America.

It was not to happen. Triumphant revolution turned quickly to failure. Hopes of freedom became engulfed by violence and tyranny. The Russian army, as in 1848, came in with an overwhelming force in order to suppress the revolution. “Sauve qui peux” became our mantra — a long way from the noble slogans of “liberty for all”. There were wild rumours circulating that all able-bodied men would be deported to Siberia.  A determined minority fought the aggressor. Between 2,000 and 3,000 Hungarians died that autumn. Around ten times that number — 200,000 — left Hungary for the West. We were among them.

I have already written up most of my experience in those times for TheArticle: (i)The first day of the revolution; (ii ) The cardigan and the revolution;, (iii) The journey to the border; (iv) The crossing into Austria;  (v) Arriving in London, (vi) Found a job (vii) A Christmas  Party in Barnet.

Daniel Johnson, the Editor of TheArticle, thought that since the pieces quoted above focussed mainly on my own experience, it would be of interest to describe in more detail my wife’s first few days of the revolution. She passed away  3 years ago but Daniel is right — her story deserves to be told. I hope I understood her feelings well enough to do them justice. Here is the story from her viewpoint:

We had been married for a year. Marianne was in her 3 rd year  of studying Chemistry at the Technical University of Budapest. Since January 1956, the date of the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Communism in Hungary had changed radically. Several of the hardliners had had to resign. The leadership was in the hands of the reformers. Some consumer goods which had not been seen for years made their way back onto the shelves. Articles about the horrors of the internment camps were allowed to be published. The truth started to trickle out of the vast Soviet machine.

The 23rd October started as any other  day, but concluded as a day to remember. When, late as usual, Marianne arrived at the lab of the Chemistry Department. There was already a fevered debate going on. Several of the young men were gung ho: “We can do it now, we should go out into the city and demonstrate. Imre Nagy needs our support. We are ready. Come on, Let’s go!”

Hardly anyone moved. Seven years of Communist rule had taken its toll. The safest thing was to do nothing. Most of the students continued their experiments, supposedly oblivious. But then suddenly the mood changed. This time a staff member rather than a student made the same suggestion. A staff member. A figure of authority. A leader. If he was in favour of demonstrating, surely it couldn’t be so dangerous. 

By a kind of diffusion more and more students accepted the radical version. By ten o’ clock, all those who wanted to demonstrate lined up at the grand front gate that looked at the Danube and was hardly ever opened. Even this small sign told Marianne it would be an extraordinary day. Everyone could choose a flag or a slogan to carry, which had been produced the night before by the hard core.  In the first half an hour or so it looked like a military march, but soon it turned into a gentle stroll where the only common point was that all walked in roughly the same direction along the Danube. First to the river and then to Pest across the Margaret Bridge. north of the Parliament Building. 

Imre Nagy, the Prime Minister, was in the Parliament. Sadly, he was not much of an orator and in any case he did not know what he should say, even less what he should do. To entertain the multitude, a well-known actor recited patriotic poems. By the time darkness descended, the tone had changed again. By then the crowd had swollen to half a million people, some of whom were more overtly angry than others. Some people started to burn newspapers. Fire frightened Marianne. She was a young chemistry student of 19, not a hardened political campaigner. This was utterly alien to her and by now she had lost all the colleagues she had come with. She wanted to get out of the crowd as fast as she could. But this seemed virtually impossible. Pushed by the rapidly flowing streams of people with their unexplained currents, it seemed her destiny would be determined by the crowd.

At this point a minor miracle happened. She managed to spot Kati, a fellow-chemistry student, in the throng. Both young women were similarly minded and together they opened a path through the inexorable flow. But this was not the end of danger. 

They were barely out of Parliament Square when an elegant car stopped in front of them. Two high ranking officers sat inside it. They and their driver wanted to persuade the girls that they should accept a lift from them. They must have thought that in such uncertain times the presence of two ordinary girls in the car would make them more secure. The girls politely but firmly refused the lift. 

They walked along the wider streets towards Kati’s home. The key turned in the lock (by then they were ready to believe anything could happen in this most surreal of situations). Just as they flopped down onto the bed, they heard the unmistakable sounds of a throng which by now was venting its anger more forcefully. The crowd congregated in front of the house. Their interest was in the shop opposite which happened to be the Russian Bookshop. Within moments and with little debate they broke into the shop, ransacked it, threw the books into the street and set them on fire. 

With the burning Soviet tomes as background, the girls saw a huge lorry drive by, carrying an enormous statue of Stalin sans boots. Those had been left behind on the pedestal when the heady excitement of the crowd had led it to topple the statue of the once omnipotent Soviet leader. “All that was left were the boots.” It struck Marianne that this was a powerful symbol, telling the world that tyranny was over — at least in this city.

The girls did not sleep. To have front row seats to the march of history was obviously irresistible.

However, what they did not yet know was that Soviet troops, already stationed in Hungary, were entering Budapest. They were not battle-ready. Their officers had no appetite to turn on the people. Nor did they want to take on the Hungarian Army that had by then also joined the revolution.

Thee next day, 24th October, did not start well, The hardliners in the government ordered a curfew. Marianne stayed with Kati for a few days. Even when she thought it was safe to return home, she could not know what would happen. As she made her way towards Keleti, the main railway station, once again she became enveloped in the crowd. This was a hardened group. They swept her into their midst as she realised with horror that they were heading for the headquarters of the Secret Police on Republic Square. The crowd was bent on revenge, eager to lynch members of the hated organisation. A dozen or so were dragged from their office and strung up on nearby trees. Those in powerful positions had long since fled. The unfortunate few who lost their lives were mere administrators, pen-pushers. But the crowd had sensed blood — and got it.

 The ancien régime disintegrated. Imre Nagy found his voice. His most radical proposal was to leave the Soviet-dominated Warsaw Pact. The Russians were not amused. On the 13 th November they entered Hungary as their ancestors had done in 1848. This time they came with 50,000 soldiers and 1,000 tanks. They were drawn from far flung corners of the Soviet empire and knew nothing of Hungary, her culture or her history. 

The only thing we, Marianne and myself, could realistically do, was to leave. Or try to leave. Sauve qui peut. It was not an easy decision. Stay or escape to the West. We had a pendulum that swung back and forth: whenever Marianne was in favour of trying our luck, I was against it, and vice versa. Our friends were equally hesitant. Only our mothers were resolute. Not knowing whether they’d ever see us again, but wanting a better life for their only children, they both urged us to leave: “Don’t hesitate! Go!”

We were lucky. We left on November 20. By the end of December, it was no longer possible to escape. All the borders were sealed. In three days we were in Vienna, in ten days we were in London. Marianne got a job at a prestigious Dutch perfumery firm with a laboratory in London. Every employee was carefully chosen. Marianne was a true asset to them and within a few weeks she spoke fluent English. 

I had the more dubious advantage of being able to quote Hamlet’s soliloquy in full. My interviewers in engineering were not impressed. Nonetheless, I managed to find a job within 3 weeks, just before the momentous year of 1956 had drawn to a close. 

Six years later we became subjects of Her Majesty.

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