Vásárhelyi, Miklós: Prison and after

From the end of internment in Romania to the trial

How did you take your arrest?

Our arrest itself came as a surprise, but we knew something was going to happen inevitably. We were playing cards in the garden in the afternoon–Újhelyi, Haraszti and me. The weather was nice and sunny for April and there was a small porch or something in the garden. We were playing cards there. We were struck by an unusual amount of movement–several cars coming and going. We thought it was going to be our turn to be moved that afternoon: they'd take us somewhere else. But it didn't happen like that. After supper, the Romanian colonel appeared and told us he wanted to speak to the heads of the families. Júlia Rajk and Szilárd Ujhelyi wanted to come as well as they were heads of families too, but they were ushered back politely and told they weren't needed. Before we could collect ourselves, we were told that the Hungarian comrades were here and wanted to speak to us. The next moment, four or five Hungarian ÁVH officers appeared, headed by Rajnai. They were the Hungarian comrades who wanted to speak to us. Rajnai was dressed very smartly in a white cuffed shirt, a tie and an elegant suit from the Red October Clothing Factory–even then he still behaved like a diplomat.

Haraszti told them to sit down and we could talk, but Rajnai retorted saying, 'There's no need for that; I'm taking you into custody on behalf of the Hungarian People's Republic.' He even read out something signed by Biszku, which said we were charged with the suspicion of conspiracy against the People's Republic. We were all dressed in casual clothes, tracksuits or sweaters. The next second, a bunch of their henchmen jumped out from behind the curtains and from the adjacent rooms where we'd never been allowed in, and took us off to the big black cars waiting outside. Each of us was bundled into a separate car and sat between two guards. As soon as we got out of the cars, which was in Bucharest, they covered our eyes with the kind of protective glasses that welders wear, so that we couldn't see anything, which was an old and tried Romanian habit. I was dragged blindly along until I found myself in a cell in a basement. It was the usual kind of prison cell with a camp bed, a table and a chair. I paced up and down for a while and then lay down and went to sleep.

Weren't you even allowed to say goodbye to the family?

After we'd been taken away, Rajnai went into the living room where our families had stayed and told them that we'd been arrested. Then they searched the premises and ransacked everything.

Is that the Rajnai who's Hungary's ambassador to Moscow now?

Yes. He was the head of the special unit in the Investigation Department entrusted with making all the preparations for Imre Nagy's trial.

What did you know about Gábor Tánczos, György Fazeka and József Szilágyi, who'd been taken away earlier? What did you suspect had happened to them?

We didn't suspect anything, but we kept on demanding to have contact with them. But when I found myself in the Romanian security service prison, I had no further doubts that they'd suffered the same fate. It was also clear that Szilárd [Ujhelyi], Lukács, Szántó and Vas had been separated from us because the script for the trial had assigned them a different fate.

That stay of three or four days in Bucharest was boring and uninteresting enough; I only felt a little excitement about what was coming next. I was interrogated very formally in the presence of Rajnai, but the interrogation was limited to taking down our personal information.

Who was the interrogator?

A big fat guy who used to be at MADISZ. Edit¹ and her friends knew him well. He later became a counsellor at the Hungarian Embassy in Rome, but he took a very active part in our investigation. I protested against everything at that first interrogation: the whole procedure, the inedible food, the cell–everything. They heard me out, but they didn't say a word.

This fat guy came into the cell on the third day and told us to relieve ourselves after lunch because there was going to be a 'transport'. Then came the usual show with the welder's glasses, but this time a pair of handcuffs was added to the props. I was flanked by two Romanian prison guards, who carried me to the car that took me to the airport. It was almost like playing that children's game we used to call Stork Carries the Baby. You know, when two boys catch each other's wrists to make a seat with their hands and carry someone on it. I was packed into the aeroplane still flanked by the two guards and flown to Budapest. I don't know where the plane landed, as the welder's glasses weren't removed until I reached the cells in the Fő utca prison.

Didn't you try to shout something like 'This is Vásárhelyi. Who's here?' while you were on the plane?

No, because we were much disciplined for that. At least I didn't hear anybody say a word. I recognized Imre Nagy; he must have been seated close to me, and I was sure it was him from his deep sighs as well.

Did you know you were being brought 'home' to Fő utca?

I didn't know where I was when I was put in the cell. I only realized it was Fő utca when they took me off for interrogation. I recognized it from what other people had told me.

When did they first take you for interrogation?

Almost immediately. The next day after we arrived. They led me into the office belonging to the major who was going to be my interrogator for many long months. He was a new guy; I'd never seen him before. He said his name was József Dömény, and he was the secretary of the party organization in the investigation department. I duly recited all the protests and complaints I'd made on the first occasion. He listened with an indifferent look on his face, not blinking or caring to take notes. Other than that, he was a fairly moderate, quiet man, not rude or rough, very business-like.

What was his real name?

I never found out. Later I asked other ÁVH officers later, but nobody knew him. He couldn't have been one of the old guard. He told me during the interrogations that he hadn't been on the show trials. He'd been working in another field and only taken part in rehabilitating the show-trial victims. He was young too, only a bit over thirty.

How were the interrogations held?

In a rather primitive way. He asked me questions and I'd answer. He kept the records in handwritten form. After each session, he'd listen to my corrections without a word and then I had to sign every page as usual. The interrogations went smoothly, without any hitch, except one. They'd known about our meetings and the times of them from documents they obtained and from other confessions, but they were far from knowing as much as I expected them to. But they weren't interested in more than they knew anyway. They didn't want to make me say anything that hadn't actually happened; we only disagreed on the interpretation of events. He used my words in the records, which were „party opposition”, but in his summary report he called us by a completely different name and I protested against that.

Did he call you the Imre Nagy–Losonczy group?

Worse. But then the records didn't matter either and we both knew that. They were just a formality...

What conflict did you have with this Dömény?

It was the end of May and the interrogation had started with a very terse statement: 'I caution you that in your earlier confessions you've said things that aren't true.' I protested and refused to agree to that. But he repeated it several times, until I learned that the question concerned the talk we'd had on the morning of 23 October, which I'd related to him as it really happened. That's to say, I'd told him we'd talked about who the prime minister should be, who should be first secretary of the party, and who should be members of the central committee, but I stressed these were only talks and these were conditions for us helping to resolve the situation. But at that point, this Dömény read out some statements about this talk, presenting it as something typical of a conspiracy to seize power. I mean these confessions didn't say we'd talked about such matters, but they said we'd decided to seize power there and then, and we'd even assigned roles to particular persons. He read more than one confession that said this, and he asked whether I stuck by my earlier confession. By then, I'd realized what they were up to; there was obviously not going to be any public trial–the die was cast. At that point, I decided I'd never do any harm to anybody, but I wouldn't put my head in the noose voluntarily either. It became absolutely clear that if I said this or that wasn't true and I kept to my own confession at the trial defiantly, I'd seal my own doom. And I didn't want to become a martyr; I saw no reason to. Basically, that was the only conflict during the interrogations, but when I realized what it was all about, I didn't insist on keeping my own version any longer.

You've referring to others' confessions. We know it wouldn't be ethical to say whose confessions were read out to you and whose confessions made you decide to do as you did, but we must ask the question.

I won't tell you. There were three confessions, but I won't tell you any names.

You're saying they knew everything. But did they know everything well?

No, not at all. There were quite a few minor issues that you simply couldn't agree with. Not only for myself. They fabricated stories that you couldn't agree with by any means. I considered them so idiotic I simply couldn't agree with them. But they weren't too keen on these, as they were irrelevant to the main line of the prosecution. Dömény said if I didn't agree to confess to them, they'd find someone else who'd talk about them in the way they wanted, because they weren't going to ask me about them at the trial. Indeed, when they wrote the script for my trial and the trials in which I was to be called as a witness, they made sure I wasn't asked any questions I'd answered during my interrogations in a way that didn't fit in with their concept.

So you saw what was happening when you were confronted with three other confessions...

Yes, that was the turning point, because the basis, direction and concept of the whole investigation became clear to me in a second. I realized they were concerting their efforts on the revolution, on the events after 23 October, in which I'd played a rather secondary role, and they were only interested in this talk on 23 October. And they were also focusing on the fact that I'd met Imre Nagy regularly before, but they didn't expect me to talk about those meetings as if we'd been preparing for a counter-revolutionary takeover at them. But they were interested in the circulation of Imre Nagy's manuscripts as well. Actually, they didn't have many problems with me.

Didn't they charge you over the writers' memorandum and your Yugoslav contacts before the revolution?

They were on the charge sheet as things typical of the fact that, as they'd say, the conspiracy had already started in 1955, but they were used only as a prelude, a preamble to what came after. My Yugoslav contacts caused me a few hot moments. It was evident from their questions and my earlier experiences that they knew about the Yugoslav issues and they hadn't learnt about them from me. So when Dömény asked me, I didn't deny them. Even if I didn't tell him exactly what happened, I did talk to him about my contact with Georgijević, which I said I considered a contact between parties.

Weren't you a little naive? I mean, did you really think they'd believe that...

Look, I told them my story and they were free to make whatever they wanted of it. I didn't tell them I'd given several of Imre Nagy's writings to Georgijevic or his letter addressed to Tito. They didn't deal with that. Perhaps Rajk's trial was still too close in time and bringing in a spy story would remind them of that. What they knew was more than enough for them. Even so, the Yugoslav line of enquiry was very hot even in this 'simplified' version. But at the end of August or the beginning of September 1957, this Dömény came and said he had good news for me–the party'd decided to drop the whole Yugoslav issue from the investigation. It wouldn't be a part of the indictment and it wouldn't even be included in my file. I mean in the records he'd made of these interrogations. 'Do you know what that means for you?' Dömény asked, and gave an answer as well: 'It means life for you.' I also knew that I wouldn't have escaped the gallows if the Yugoslav issues had been included in my file.

Once, after I was released from jail, I ran into my interrogator by accident. We went out to drink a spritzer and he repeated what he'd said. He also suggested that I should stay out of politics, because he'd heard a few things about me that he wouldn't like to find were true. But he repeated then that if the Yugoslav issue had been left in my indictment, I couldn't have avoided the rope. I told him I was aware of that.

Let's try to find an interpretation of why the Yugoslav line of enquiry was avoided, anyway.

I don't know. Apparently it was a political decision not to raise the matter at the trial. And the Yugoslav issue was excluded outright. They didn't want it turning up in any documents at all. They didn't want to take that step regardless of how bad relations with the Yugoslav party had become.

What did they charge you with?

Active participation in conspiring to disrupt the order of the state of the Hungarian People's Republic, Bhö.1./2. of the Penal Code, if I quote that right.

Right.

And right-wing and anti-communist publications were mushrooming at the time when I was head of the press in Imre Nagy's government. That was a formal issue; they were just trying to include something about '56 as well.

What's your view of the defence strategy in Imre Nagy's trial and the related trials–Fazekas's, Haraszti's and Tánczos's?

They were very different. And the underlying reason for the difference was that we had no opportunity to communicate or decide how to behave if or when. But it was also different because the people were very different. Poor Losonczy, he saw his situation as if he was exactly the same as it had been a few years before and behaved exactly the same as he had earlier, saying the most horrible things about himself and the whole case. It was almost a caricature of the style of the trials in Stalin's time.

Do you see that as a result of mental disintegration?

Absolutely. They read me parts of his confessions. There were some quite absurd and irrational details in them. Losonczy would never have said things like those if he'd been mentally sound.

And did his interrogators recognize that?

I don't know whether they did or not, but they made substantial use of his confessions.

Losonczy was an extreme case.

Sanyi Haraszti was another extreme. He took the position that he had nothing to keep silent about. He saw this whole thing was part of the in-fighting in the party and he stated everything factually. He said everything he remembered and stood by what he said. I learnt that from the confessions as well. But I also asked him in prison and he confirmed that, saying it didn't matter at all. However, I do believe there were quite a few things he should have kept silent about and I told him so in prison.

How do you judge the behaviour of Imre Nagy?

I can only talk of what I saw or what I experienced. Imre Nagy behaved in court in the exact manner of an old communist with much experience behind him. He behaved as the party had taught him to behave in a court of the class enemy. He denied everything that could be denied and he didn't agree with anything unless there was no other way.

Were you confronted with Imre Nagy?

Yes, I was, at the trial, but only on the one question of circulating his manuscripts. He said he only gave us his manuscripts to read and to make comments on. He had no idea we were circulating them. It was our responsibility, not his.

And what about the intransigent attitude József Szilágyi took?

That was Jóska Szilágyi's nature. I'd talked to him when we were still in Romania and told him we'd have to be very careful about what we said if they put us on trial. I tried to suggest we should behave tactically. But he replied frankly that he was incapable of doing such a thing. Even in Horthy's courts, he'd always said what he thought, and he'd speak his mind at Kádár's court, too. It was useless me trying to persuade him it was futile to give his opinion to ÁVH officers. He said he just couldn't stop himself.

Were you all kept in solitary confinement?

Yes, entirely isolated. I spent a year and a half in solitary confinement, broken only once when Sándor Erdélyi was put in my cell for three weeks. But I was in very bad shape by then, physically and psychologically. It must have been around Christmas time in 1957. To give an example of how they treated us, I didn't get anything to read from April to the end of August–not even from the prison library. To tell you the truth, the first books I did get were ghastly. One was about a collective farm in Kyrghistan. I threw it in a corner after ten pages, called the guard and told him to take it back to where it came from. Next day I was asked what the trouble was. I told them I'd rather not read than read books like that. After that, they were surprisingly helpful, because I got books by Déry and Gimes. I could read loads of books by a 25-watt bulb that I'd never have had the chance to read outside. All of Proust, for example.

How did you stand solitary confinement?

After a time I could only sleep if I took a suppository, because sleeping pills weren't helping any more. I even had to be injected sometimes because I couldn't sleep otherwise. I could only empty my bowels with castor oil; laxatives weren't any use. In the end, I gave them a real fright because not even castor oil would help. I asked for a stronger laxative, but I collapsed from it. Losonczy had already died and they were really frightened. Another death wouldn't have served their case. There was a great crowd around me. I know that because there were a lot of people standing there when I recovered consciousness, including Rajnai and my interrogator. They were anxious I should regain consciousness and all relieved when I opened my eyes.

The interest had a beneficial effect. When I was back in the cell, they brought me a lemon and asked me what I wanted to eat. Of course, the situation didn't change, as I still couldn't sleep and I couldn't empty my bowels easily until I was taken to the Transit prison. There I decided I wouldn't take any more drugs. I wasn't able to sleep for a few nights, but nature triumphed at last and I never had to take sleeping pills again. My metabolism, however, had been ruined for good. Sometimes in the Fő utca, I had to wait for weeks before they took me down to exercise, saying they didn't have enough staff. But even when they did, they only took me for ten minutes late in the evening and they put me into a stinking box that was full of rats.

When were you first allowed to receive visitors and mail? Or weren't you allowed to at all?

I wasn't allowed. Nobody and nothing, ever. We were only allowed to write and receive letters right before the trial, but up to then we'd had nothing at all. And don't forget that Edit and the children were still in Romania. My first trial was held in February; then I was allowed a very brief letter from Edit, also signed by the children. The second time we were even allowed to receive photos and write back. Of course we weren't to know they'd been moved elsewhere in Romania; we didn't know where they were. Other than that, we were totally isolated from the world.

We're getting close to the trial. Did you choose your own defence counsel or was he assigned?

I was shown a list of appointed lawyers: there wasn't much choice. I discovered on the list the name of Laci Bajor, whom I'd known in Debrecen, where he'd been chief military prosecutor before becoming a private lawyer after '56. I chose him without hesitation because I knew who he was and what he was like. I had a few minutes' talk with him–in the presence of two ÁVH officers, of course. However, we were left alone together for a few seconds during the break in my trial in June, and then I asked him whether my parents were still alive. He said they were and in good health, too. That was all I could learn of the world outside prison.

Before we talk about the trial itself, perhaps you could say a little about why the whole proceedings were not in the style suited to the second half of the 20th century by any measure, although the regime was taking every opportunity to show that the inhuman procedures of the Stalin-era couldn't be repeated.

Don't forget we found ourselves in the hands of people who wanted to take revenge on us for the humiliation and insults they'd suffered during and before '56. Of course, they differed widely in approach. Virág or Dömény had different styles, and I've even heard of some of them behaving in a civilized manner. But they were the same in one thing: they shared a dreadful hatred for us. The maximum empathy they showed me was to ask how I could ever get into the company of these people... You who etc. They obviously said that to everybody, it was a trick, but sometimes they might have meant it. But all of them wanted us to feel really bad, and worse still, they wanted us to suffer even if we escaped with our lives. This was proved by what happened after my trial. I'd been given a prison sentence by then, but they still kept me in solitary confinement in the 'little jail'. Only later, in Vác, did we finally receive the same treatment as other prisoners did. That crooked bunch did all they could to torment, torture and humiliate us, and torment us as much as they could psychologically.

I accept that on that level. But why did politicians approve of the attitude this whole bunch took to you? And let's not be too specific here about what a bunch they were.

They didn't have too much choice either. I never heard anyone say that highly qualified intellectuals were turning up at the ÁVH to volunteer for service in large numbers after '56. These were the people available; the investigation was carried out by the old ÁVH officers with Szalma as their chief. And this Rajnai didn't exactly join the corps in '56 either, did he? The upper echelon of political leaders had very little chance to influence them and I assume quite a few of them were afraid as well. Some interrogators would gather information and confessions about leading politicians, Kádár or Kállai, or others still in power now.

I think it's natural for Imre Nagy to have built his defence round the position that if he was responsible, so were all the other members of the political committee: above all Kádár himself. I was fortunate; my case was different. My interrogator, who was absolutely pro-Kádár, didn't even try to provoke me in that respect. I think Rajnai was also a Kádárite, which is why Kádár had so much trust in him; he was there to make sure the investigation didn't turn unfavourable for Kádár.

Maybe that's why he's still around...

Not only is he still around, he's always been in highly confidential positions, compared with others, who've dropped out exhausted after a few years. In the meantime, Rajnai was moving higher and higher. He's been decorated incessantly.

In what respect would you call the trials of '57 and '58 show trials? By comparison with the 'classic' show trials based on framed charges?

Of course they were all show trials, from the moment they called the revolution a counter-revolution. The executions and long prison sentences were the outcome of that idea. However, of all the trials, ours was the classic example of one based on a frame-up. The essence of a show trial is not the fact that confessions are obtained by force: it was enough if a situation's created in which you know you have to confess if we want to stay alive. But that's only part of the answer. The other concerns the way they judged our actions. To regard our talks and meetings before '56 as conspiracy to overthrow the People's Republic was a classic feature of a framed trial. I mean, the legitimate prime minister was being charged with conspiracy to overthrow his own regime. Of course that was a show trial in the classic sense, just like the trials in the early 1950s. There was a difference, though: the scenarios didn't include the British or American secret services or Horthy's secret police any more. They didn't force us to confess to things that had never happened, but whatever had happened in the three years before the revolution was rearranged, edited and assessed in a manner that gave the same results as those obtained in the earlier framed trials.

The first trial took place in Fő utca in February 1958.

But the investigations had been completed in the summer of '57. They'd gathered everything they needed by that time.

Why did they wait then?

They were waiting for the signal from the political leadership. The politicians were responsible for setting the schedule. I wasn't interrogated for the record after the summer of '57. For the formality's sake, they'd ask a few quite irrelevant questions. I think Dömény only summoned me to turn up to his office once a week for humanitarian reasons. He didn't want me sitting by myself in my cell all the time. He wanted to bring a little change into my life, some action.

Did or could anyone know what the outcome would be when you were taken from Romania to Fő utca? I mean anybody, even in the uppermost echelon of the party leadership?

The ones who actually carried out the investigation didn't know what it would lead to, I'm sure. They had absolutely no idea what would be done with the confessions they made us to make. At least that was my impression. When Khrushchev got the upper hand in the Soviet communist party and expelled Molotov and his clique, accusing them of acting against the party, our interrogators thought for a while that there wouldn't even be an indictment. I was told this not by Dömény, but by another ÁVH captain or major, a certain Géza Cseh, who used to turn up occasionally. I knew him from the time I'd worked at the radio. He'd call in during the interrogations for a little chat on matters to do with people at the radio. He was a very stupid and evil-minded man, but on one occasion, he told me: 'Maybe you'll be able to go home in a few days.' He even asked me whether I'd behave as Szirmai did to him, refusing even to respond to his greetings. I assured him I didn't have too much reason to be angry with him, although Szirmai surely had some. I'm only telling you this to show how unsure of themselves they were–even the ÁVH officers.

Life after prison

I was released from prison under the amnesty of 1960. A bunch of other long-term inmates were set free at the same time. They were pardoned individually, as the amnesty didn't extend to them. Fifty-sixers such as Gyula Váradi, Tibor Déry, Ferenc Donáth, Ferenc Jánossy, Sándor Haraszti and Gyula Háy were discharged along with former state security officers of the ÁVH: Mihály Farkas and Gábor Péter. None of them apart from me were covered by the amnesty. We'd heard informal rumours about our release some days before and we were sure the news was true. It turned out later it had been announced on the radio at night. When István Timár heard that the amnesty would come into effect next morning, he rushed over to my wife Edith's and told her the news.

	Donáth, Ferenc

	Ujhelyi, Szilárd

	Haraszti, Sándor

We were informed about it in the morning; only then did it become certain. Someone called out the names of those who'd be released through the window of the cell. Haraszti, Donáth, Váradi and I were the ones to be discharged from our cell. István Kovács and András Márton weren't granted pardon, which was quite incomprehensible, as István Kovács had formerly been secretary-general of the Partisans' Association. We were sitting there in the cell waiting to be called. We weren't called in alphabetical order. I was called last with Déry. Our money was returned, we were given a letter of discharge, we had to hand over prison property, and we were given back our civilian clothes. It was already afternoon when this happened. Déry knew that his wife Böbe would be meeting him and he said they'd drive me home, too. I was very happy he said that.

Böbe'd been waiting for Déry in a taxicab since early morning. Zoltán Horváth was also sitting in the cab. Edit couldn't come to meet me because of the children. The Déry really gave me a lift, but mean as they always were, they told me to get out at the cogwheel railway terminal, saying Hankóczy utca was far too much out of their way. I walked home from there with a sack on my back.

Edit had been waiting for me with the three children all day. They were terribly excited by then. It was already evening and Marcsi and Pisti, the two smaller ones, were so scared when they saw me that they ran away. They had to be coaxed into coming out of hiding. They hadn't seen me for three years and they didn't remember me at all. They didn't know who this stranger was, turning up in their home in rags with a dirty sack on his back.

	Földvári, Rudolf

My family was so badly off financially that one of the rooms had to be rented out. József Román lived in one of the back rooms for many long years. He'd prepared a magnificent supper and my parents and sister came too. That act commenced my civilian life again.

How did Jóska Román get there?

He was recommended by Júlia Rajk and Erzsi Köves. Jóska Román was also working at the Szabó Ervin Library. He'd just divorced his wife, and Panni, who later became his second wife, was living close to us in Radna utca. Józsika played very fair when I returned home; he offered to leave at once, if or when we wanted. But we were so beaten down financially we badly needed the rent he paid for a long time to come.

Your homecoming, then, didn't improve the family finances, did it? Actually, it made things harder.

Yes, indeed. For example, Edit lost the family allowance for single mothers, as the head of the family had returned. There was another problem, too. The children weren't covered by social security and health insurance for quite a long time.² When Marcsi broke her arm, we had a real problem getting her into the János Hospital to have plaster put on. Finally János Miklós, director-general or some high official in the social security, fixed it for me. He also helped me to get a paper saying my children and I were eligible for free health and medical services although I wasn't employed.

Free life wasn't too happy at first, was it?

Soon after my release from prison I met Déry's first wife, Paula Oravecz, on the stairs of our apartment block. She said she was so happy I was home and asked me, 'How was it? Was it fun?' As if I'd returned from a holiday. She's a very fine lady. She's very old and very silly now. She was as silly as that even then.

The Széll family were in the apartment above us. They were good neighbours. The Gondo family also lived there, and so did the Eckhardt family, the son of the Eckhardt who wrote the French dictionary. And there were some longstanding tenants on the ground floor, who were terribly afraid of us communists. As it turned out, we had more reason to be afraid than they did.

	Széll, Jenő

	Kállai, Gyula

How did your situation begin to consolidate in terms of work and earning money?

It was very hard to make a new start. Edit wasn't permitted to teach, wasn't allowed to be among children. They put her in a post at the Pedagogical Library. At least that took her a bit closer to her original profession. Actually, there's still to this day a note in her employment record about the two years she spent in Romania, saying she quit her job and cancelled her employment voluntarily. We've made several attempts to have this corrected, but we've always failed. She had to work hard at the library and the children were still small. It was typical of our financial situation that I had to sell the fur coat we'd been given in Romania and we also had to sell the desk that went with the Colonial furniture. Edit and I've shared the same desk ever since.

Meanwhile this is how our circumstances, our financial situation, looked to outsiders. However, it was remarkable that three, but only three of us, Donáth, Haraszti and me, were summoned to appear at the party headquarters. We were called there by Comrade Sándor, the head of Kádár's secretariat, who received us one by one in the company of György Aczél. The conversation started in a convivial old-buddy way; 'You're really looking good,' Aczél said. 'How does this compare to when we were in jail?' After these niceties, they told me not to turn to anyone else if I had a problem, only to the party and to Comrade Sándor in particular. This applied to employment, too. They set a limit of 2000 forints to what each of us could earn in a month. Donáth was placed in the Library of the Ministry of Agriculture, where the director was Lajos Dinnyés. He had to go into the office two days a week. Haraszti was given a civil-list pension by Budapest Municipal Council. In my case, the Európa Publishing House was assigned as employer, but I wouldn't actually be employed. They would simply give me 2000 forints' worth of translation work each month. In vain did I protest that this was no good for me, it was quite uncertain, casual work. They replied that the party had made that decision and it would be good for me. I was condemned to doing odd jobs. They refused to give me an editor's post, so that I could have a regular occupation. The meeting, having started in a jovial mood, ended coolly, all the more because I began to hold forth, saying that although we'd been released, there were still hundreds of young men, students and workers in prison. The amnesty wasn't too generous. They'd have to think about what was going to happen to those people too. They retorted rather sharply, telling me I was nobody's spokesman. To which I replied that in fact I was, as I'd been jailed with them for some years. The mood became pretty sour. I left them in disgust and called Lívia Bíró at the Európa Publishing House. I'd known Lívia Bíró since before 1945, but to my surprise, she received me very formally as if we'd never met before. She repeated that the limit was 2,000 forints; I could earn no more than that. And they made sure they kept their word to the letter.

The head of the editorial department where I worked as a reader was Gábor Gellért, who'd sometimes refrain from giving me any work for months, because he kept a meticulous record of my monthly limit of 2000 forints. For example, when I was translating Brecht, which was also played on television, I received a larger sum of money, but then I didn't get any work from them for months. They kept to the limit very strictly.

And didn't you work for others?

Not at first. The first man who didn't care about my situation although I told him about it was Juszuf Lukács, editor-in-chief of Világosság (Clarity). And Magda Palkó. They were both very generous and friendly towards me. I'd known Magda since the time she was a secretary, and Juszuf had attended my seminar in 1945, when he was still studying medicine. I didn't even try to find work on newspapers. Not to have a permanent occupation, not to have social security or a pension entitlement was simply not normal in Hungary at that time.

Couldn't you have done some work under Edit's name?

You have to know the situation to understand. People's attitudes were marked by two things. One was great indifference–everyone was busy minding his own business. The other was fear. I could really feel how effective the terror of 1957–8 had been.

Luckily, I got help in medical matters, as Erzsi Hermann gave me a medical check as soon as I came out of prison, and even later whenever help was needed. But there could have arisen a need for surgery or some problem with the children that called for treatment in hospital and I don't know what would have happened in that case. I sent several messages to Aczél through Szilárdka, asking him to change the situation, but nothing happened. Szirmai also sent messages several times saying he couldn't do anything and I should understand. There was a party decision about my situation, a decision by the secretariat prescribing exactly these measures in my case. Some time would have to elapse before this could be changed.

One night we were going out with Szilárdka and his wife. We were dining in the Hotel Gellért when Szirmai, who happened to be there, came over to our table and gave me a very friendly hug. He behaved as a friend in other respects, too. He was helpful and often informed me through Szilárdka of the reports on my behaviour, on what I was saying where and when. He even gave precise clues, so that I'd know who the informer was, telling me I'd better gaze at the beauties in the swimming pool instead of discussing politics there.

Good advice. And who was the informer?

I won't tell you that. Szirmai was fairly cynical, too. He said, 'If Miki's such a clever boy and knows this is a police state and he even says so publicly everywhere, then why is he behaving like this? Why isn't he shutting up?' That was the way we were.

And what about your friends? How did they behave?

Again it's typical of the time that one of my childhood friends, whom I'd known since we were ten and who was director-general of the Foreign Trade Bank by then, behaved very decently to my family while I was in jail. They helped Edit, brought clothes for the children and everything. But when I was released, and he came to see me, he parked his car at the corner of Hankóczy utca and walked up to our house. Naive as this was, it was characteristic of the mood at the time. It's telling a lot to say who came to see me at all. Iván Boldizsár, of course, who was very good to Edit all the time. Then there was Tibor Pethő, Endre Gömöri, Imre Csatár, not many more.

Didn't your family get help from Márta Sárközi?

Somehow we were left out of that, but I met Márta right after my release, as I had to deliver several messages from people still in prison. I took a message to Márta Sárközi and Boriska Bibó from Pisti [István Bibó]. I had to tell them where a certain manuscript had been hidden, because they didn't know. Then I saw Jancsi Márton and gave him his brother's message. András Márton had been the commander of the Zrinyi Military Academy. He'd written his message on the inside of a Harmónia cigarette packet and I had to deliver it. And another message to the wife of Árpád Göncz, who lived in one of the town houses in Óbuda, together with Ella Szilágyi.³

Did your prison friendships last?

Gyuszi Váradi and I became very good friends in prison. It looked as if our friendship would last after we came out. Of course, he felt hurt because he wasn't summoned to the party headquarters, that is to say he wasn't taken care of. But his wife was a functionary in the party: She obviously forbade him to see me. After that, our relationship broke off for good. We only saw each other once in the next 30 years, and even then, I was the one who called on him.

And your old friends? What was your social life like, anyway?

We didn't have much of a social life after my release. Of course we'd meet people whose relatives were still in prison, Litván's family or Gyuri Losonczy's, but we seldom met any others. We were tired, too; we had a lot of work to do. The three children and our poor finances were an obstacle to too much social life as well.

What was your relationship with Imre Nagy's family like?

I'd rather not speak about that, because the relations between the women were very tense in Romania. Especially between Zsóka⁴ and Edit, Júlia [Rajk] and Marika [Losonczy], I mean the ones that I consider better kinds of people. They could put up with Maca⁵ a bit better, although she was arrogant and unpleasant too, but at least she was honest and straightforward. I wasn't keen on renewing our contacts with Zsóka and her family. Then there was Jánossy, who was utterly depressed. Edit and I sometimes went to see Aunt Maca, but I know that Donáth and Haraszti never visited her, because of what had gone on among the women locked up together in Romania.

And Péter Erdős?

He was different. It was impossible not to restore relations with him, because he switched into high gear immediately. He called and talked and made me talk, too, not unsuccessfully. So I met him fairly regularly until 1964, when I was reprimanded by the police and thrown out of my job. I met him despite strong objections from Edit and my friends.

Didn't you try to do something to consolidate your situation?

I did, but it was quite hopeless until 1962. Then Szilárd spoke to Szirmai, who called Aczél, and Aczél summoned me to his office. He was a deputy minister then–a very junior person. He said he'd received instructions from the party to find a place for me in his field. He asked me what I had in mind. He at once suggested the Picture Gallery and other impossible places. I asked him to place me as a reader at a publisher's. He scratched his head, saying there were few vacancies. He tried to talk me down, but I stuck to my idea. Finally, he reluctantly rang Béla Köpeczi, who was director-general of the Directorate of Publishing.

Aczél was feeling uneasy about the situation. He tried to be apologetic, saying there would surely be genuine socialism one day, but the current situation was tearing us all to shreds. He said we were like blobs of muck fertilizing the plant of true life that would grow out of it. I told him I didn't feel like muck at all. He didn't take my remark easily. Aczél was an extremely proud and touchy person.

We were talking about Köpeczi. Did you go to see him?

I did, but he passed me on to Nóra Aradi, who was the head of the fine arts department at the time. She was an extremely ambitious woman; everyone knew her all too well–bosses and employees alike. But she didn't stay long there, moving on to the department of military policy and finishing her art-history studies in the evening. Needless to say, she too addressed me formally and said what a big problem for her it was to find me a position. I told her they'd been able to find the only field I knew nothing about: I might be able to read or edit guidebooks, if nothing else. Even so, it was another three months before I started my job. When I reported to work, I was received by the late Comrade Nemes, who was the director of the Arts Publishing Office.

Which one of the many Nemeses was he?

A big, fat, stupid man. And Újvári, the party secretary there. They told me they hadn't asked for me, but if that was how the party had decided, they'd employ me. There was good company there: Éva Körner, Lujza Havas, Jancsi Végh, who was an art historian and medievalist with very deep Catholic feelings. These people all gave me a very friendly welcome, or at least accepted me as a colleague. Even Zsuzsa D. Fehér, head of the readers' department, was good to me. It was she who found out that although I couldn't be entrusted with serious, scholarly publications, I might edit artists' biographies, which they were beginning to publish at the time: Van Gogh, Michelangelo, and so on. These were really no problem at all. And they never hassled me, which was absolutely great. I had to go into the office two days a week. I spent a little more than a year there very peacefully.

In the meantime, Szilárd became director of the Institute of Cinematographic Studies and he employed me part time–with Szirmai's consent, of course. So our circumstances improved radically. A new magazine was started, called Tükör (Mirror). The editor-in-chief was an alcoholic named Károly Bodnár, but his was only a formal position. The actual editing was done by Oszkár Pelbárt and János Reismann. When the magazine was started, they had the idea of including a section called Mirror of the World and made a contract with me to edit it. It involved selecting pictures from the international press, and I was paid on a weekly basis. They didn't have to employ me formally. I didn't become a journalist again, I wasn't a member of the Hungarian Journalists' Association, but I gained access to plenty of foreign newspapers and magazines. I was able to do the work in a few hours a week. The section quickly became the most popular part of the magazine and it exists even today. Edit does it now. I couldn't do it any longer after I had a heart attack in 1977, and I handed the job over to her. Sanyi Fekete behaved like a good colleague and allowed her to take over. Anyway, I was receiving pay from three places now. My income increased considerably and our living standard improved in leaps and bounds.

What was your job at the Institute of Cinematography?

It was the time when Yvette Bíró took over at Filmkultúra. She knew about films and I knew how to make a journal. Our job was to turn this quite mediocre periodical into a readable, professional publication. Yvette Bíró was at the peak of her popularity, power and influence and she knew everyone in the film business. Through her contacts, I got acquainted with people in the film world too. Yvette was extremely friendly and a good colleague. This contented time lasted until I was called unexpectedly by a chap named Kocsis, whom I'd known before '56. He told me someone was leaving the offices of Élet és Tudomány (Life and Science) and I should take over from him. I didn't even want to hear such nonsense, but he said it wasn't his idea but Szirmai's, who'd called him. Szirmai also sent a message by another route saying he'd like to see me return gradually to the press. I sent a message back to Szirmai saying I'd be happy to talk to him, but if that wasn't possible, I'd use this way of communication to let him know I didn't want to return to the press, because there was no place for me there.

My name was actually put forward when the weekly paper Magyarország (Hungary) was started. Szirmai presented my name to the Political Committee, but he was left alone on that. I was turned down because I hadn't given evidence of my worthiness to return to that wonderful profession. I had presentiments and anxieties about Élet és Tudomány, I felt this wasn't going to be no good for me, but I wasn't cautious enough. I'd lost my sense of caution.

I'd learned in the '50s it was best not to be seen, not to be watched at all. Then they wouldn't know what you were doing, whether you were dead or alive. I often decided not to go to first night gala performances at the Opera or to receptions because I thought some guys might see me and remember. That was exactly what happened in this case. We came under the Newspaper Publishing Enterprise and we'd walk over to the premises of Népszabadság for lunch. The food was cheap and excellent there and I'd join the others for lunch. Later I found it had caused a sensation me turning up there. Várkonyi, president of the Information Agency at the time, asked at a meeting, 'They're not thinking of bringing Vásárhelyi in instead of me yet, are they?' It gave rise to all sorts of backbiting of the worst kind. I heard from several people that the policeman László Szabó and others disapproved of my presence there. Who was this guy Vásárhelyi after all? How had all this come about? In addition, there was a general freeze in the political atmosphere after Khrushchev's fall,⁶ and informers' reports on me were beginning to pile up. Szirmai was very honest once more, sending me a message that he was getting reports on my behaviour. He said he could throw them in the wastepaper basket for a time, but he couldn't do that forever.

Then I was summoned to Gyorskocsi utca. In the meantime, Kállai had become prime minister. I've already said everything about him, what a stupid, lazy, good-for-nothing, ignorant and so on man he was. He'd been the one who wanted most of all to see me ousted from my career as a journalist. At Gyorskocsi utca, I was received by Szilveszter Harangozó, who gave me an official police warning.

On what evidence?

On the evidence of what I was saying. They didn't go into detail. I pressed him to tell me what it really was about, but he refused to go into details, just saying I'd talked too much, I'd commented on events. People would listen to me and quote me as an authority. And of course, I was very dangerous for that reason.

We don't want to interrogate you here like police officers, but there must have been something else, too.

Of course, there was something else, too. We were meeting regularly with Dezső Futó, Kálmán Kéri and András Révész. Nothing special. We discussed this or that without restraint. But it turned out that Futó had invited along someone who was giving detailed reports on the meetings.

	Futó, Dezső

Still, legend has it that the whole thing had the character of a popular front, although not in the sense Comrade Harangozó was thinking of. These were politicians from different parties, anyhow, a series of discussions among coalition members. Indeed, we held regular discussions or rather talks, and nothing would have happened if Futó hadn't brought along this K. I asked him what the guy was doing there, but I never got a reasonable explanation. One night as we were going home, Kéri told me that this K had been at Recsk with him. Even there everyone knew he was an informer. It was common knowledge.

How often did you meet?

These were more like social occasions, once or twice a month. We met at our place or at Andris Révész's place, and our wives were usually there as well. Actually, that was my social life.

Could we say it was ex-politicians now on the sidelines coming together for a chat?

Yes, we could say that. We weren't far from one another. And a few days after the official notice from Comrade Harangozó, Kovács called me into his office and said he'd been instructed to dismiss me from my job. He was truly dismayed. After that, everything followed a routine. I was called to the personnel department, where I was informed that I'd been dismissed. The clause they cited as the cause of my dismissal was political unreliability.

Did they need to take a disciplinary action?

No disciplinary action was needed. There was none in my case. Apparently, the police warning amounted to disciplinary action. This left me in a difficult situation. It was evident that I wouldn't be able to find another job.

Were you also thrown out of the Cinematographic Institute?

No, because Szilárd pretended he didn't know anything. But the Institute could only employ me part time if I was employed full time somewhere else. I tried everywhere, but my attempts were futile. Feri Pikler tried to get me into the National Technical Development Commission, where there were plenty of papers written that had to be read and edited. Aczél let me know that I could be employed anywhere except in the cultural field, and so I thought why not? Feri Pikler could employ me and that's what he thought as well. He phoned Aczél while I was there, but Aczél told him he couldn't entrust the job to me. The chief executive of Compack⁷ wanted to employ me in the propaganda department, but they wouldn't let him do it, either. I was in a humiliating position. I couldn't even be employed by the Institute of Conveyance and Packaging, whose director, Tibor Déri, wanted to employ me. First he said, he didn't care, he wouldn't ask anything or anybody, and he'd employ me anyway. A week later, he said he was sorry but it wouldn't work. Then Endre Zsigmondi, the director of the State Advertising Enterprise, said everything was fixed, but then he too phoned a few days later to say he was sorry, it wouldn't do.

Was the Interior Ministry following you, so to speak, in all these cases? Because Aczél could hardly have had the energy or opportunity to do so.

I don't know because I never asked. But I obviously had the Interior Ministry to thank for the distinguished attention being paid to my person. Finally came help from Iván Kádár. He'd always been unbelievably friendly and helpful anyway since I'd been freed from prison. He talked to an old friend in the ironworkers' union who'd served in the Interior Ministry before and was president of the National Association of Small Industrial Cooperatives (KISOSZ) at the time. His name was Jóska Veres. Well, this man, this Veres said he didn't care, he'd placed hundreds of athletes in non-existing jobs, he'd surely find a place for me, too. And so he did. I was employed as a buyer by the Építőipari Ktsz, a construction cooperative in Leonardo da Vinci utca at a salary of 1800 forints. I could keep my part-time job at Szilárd's institute and no one had a word to say, just as Veres had foretold. That was in '64 or '65. Szirmai did me another favour, phoning Bognár, the editor-in-chief of Tükör, and telling him I could keep my job there, too. He also sent me a message saying it was silly of me to have become a purchasing agent for a construction firm. It was provocative, too. However, I let him know by the usual channel that there were no pension rights or health insurance attached to the work at Tükör, even if it was as nice as it was, and I wouldn't like to be left dangling with three children to look after.

In the meantime, the general amnesty of 1963 had come into effect. In what ways did that change your social connections?

It changed them in one respect, in respect of Bibó, who was released. Bibó wasn't known at all at the time, he wasn't fashionable, he wasn't appreciated as a great political scientist. Of course, I'd met Boriska regularly even while Pisti was in jail, but once he was set free, I met him very often. I don't think he really had any other contacts besides me, Illyés and Bandi Tóth, because Boriska was terribly afraid of any relationship. Pista and I were in contact quite regularly. They'd often come and see us, but they never invited anyone and they seldom visited anyone else.

But we didn't have guests and friends, either, as it wasn't advisable to be a friend of mine if you didn't want to compromise yourself. Of course it was different with Gyuri Litván. Our friendship was restored immediately, but it was exceptional. Some people were so frightened after I'd been dismissed from my job that they broke off relations with me.

	Bibó, István

You've said many good things about Szirmai. Why did he show so much goodwill towards you?

Previously, when I found myself at the Information Agency, many people turned to me for help, especially those who'd suffered some injustice in earlier years, been sacked, dismissed, proscribed and so on. I managed to help some of them, especially while Imre Nagy still had great authority, because everybody thought that if I asked a favour, it was as if Imre Nagy had asked for it, if they did me a favour, in fact they'd done it for Imre Nagy. In Szirmai's case, his girlfriend was working for Hungarian Radio, and when he was imprisoned, his 'whore' as they would say at that time, was sacked immediately. They even 'reached after her,' as the expression goes, so that she couldn't find another job anywhere else. She had to be content with menial work, washing up or cleaning, while her husband was still a journalist. For she had a husband, which was why it was an especially delicate, racy situation. The woman came to see me and asked me to have her case reviewed. I called Benke and asked her to take her back, but she protested sharply and did everything to prevent her being re-employed. So I called Feri Vadász, secretary-general of the Hungarian Journalists' Association, and the woman had a decent job within five minutes.

That was one reason why Szirmai was grateful to me. The other was that even when he was released from jail and rehabilitated, no one would talk to him, he wasn't readmitted into the party, people said he was a Zionist, a spy, a secret agent and such nonsense. They even said he'd been involved in a fraud. Not a word of this gossip was true. I called Hardy and asked him to give Szirmai a job at the Bizományi Áruház, the secondhand store, for the man had horrible financial problems, as his wife had also been sacked when he was imprisoned.

Then I did more. I told Karcsi Kiss not to play around with an honest cadre of the old guard. I told him to take him back. So Szirmai was received into the 'church' again after some minor rebuke and that was all. I even found him a job. Szirmai never forgot all that. On my part, this had nothing to do with politics. I never thought he'd ever count for anything in politics again. I simply took pity on him and helped him.

And he didn't forget, unlike so many others.

No, he went out of his way to help me, even exposing himself to political attack. I think when Aczél brought about his political downfall, he used Szirmai's liberal attitude towards me against him. I've heard that Aczél publicly rubbed it into him that he was supporting me, that obstinate fellow.

So you were at the construction cooperative. What did you do there? How did you get on?

I became a buyer, but my situation was peculiar. It was common knowledge that I'd been placed there by Veres, who was president of okisz after all, but the personnel officer at the cooperative had been an ÁVH officer, dismissed from there specifically for brutality. And the party secretary was the wife of a workers' militiaman, not just any member, but Lajos Halas, former national commander of the Workers' Militia, who'd been a high ranking counter-intelligence officer before that. The managers were all people of that kind. The cooperative members, on the other hand, were mainly ethnic Swabians from Pomáz and Szentendre. And Veres was also chairman of the Vasas sports club, which means he was a very good cadre at that time. The head of the Construction Materials Department, where I worked, was a reserve officer in the army, a re-enlisted captain.

I had to manoeuvre delicately among them at first, as if I were walking a tightrope, but most of them soon realized that I was one of them. My boss, my immediate superior, was Ernő Wals, who told me he knew the job didn't suit me at all and he wanted me to feel as comfortable as possible, but the job had to be done anyway. I didn't have to turn up in the mornings as I'd have been given my assignments–what to buy, where to go–the previous day, so I was spared the trouble of starting work at 7 in the morning and spending my time in the office. I only went there when my job was done, which was about noon or even later. In return, I'd always stay until the trucks arrived with the materials. I would check and register the loads, which meant the bosses didn't have to stay after half past three in the afternoon. Before I got there, they'd have shared amongst themselves the job of inspecting the incoming transports, but it would all change when I arrived. I checked the goods and the truck drivers' and transport workers' working hours, then we'd all walk over to a pub in Práter utca for a spritzer before going home. I developed a strange dual life. In the morning, I was an intellectual–it was in the mornings that I wrote The Art of Power, and then I went in at half past twelve and became one of the transport workers there.

What did you have to do as a buyer? You didn't have any experience, did you?

Being a buyer meant buying and taking back five kilograms of nails or a couple of toilet brushes or whatever. The cooperative had several sites in the city and all sorts of things were needed. But I didn't care what I had to carry. It was more important for me to be able to buy it simply without special knowledge and with as little effort as possible. I'd buy the monthly rail and tram passes for the employees. Later I learned more and became as good as others.

How did you feel fraternizing with the manual workers, drinking spritzers with them and everything?

I felt good about it. Some of them were real boors, but being a truck driver was something. There were several excellent tradesmen among them, who'd been forced to join the cooperative.

Did they know that you were a Jew?

No, but they didn't care. These people weren't anti-Semites. When they cursed Veres, they didn't call him a fucking Jew, they'd call him a filthy communist instead. I became friends with the cooperative chairman after a few months as well. He was a workaholic and we'd often go home late together. That meant we'd walk together as far as the boulevard. Many years passed like that. I stayed at the co-op until '72. I had a really good time there. Good company, lots of talk, lots of gossip. We celebrated everyone's birthday and name day and I believe everyone made love to everyone. It was an easy-going life. Many pretty young girls, too, as Veres's favourite sport was handball and he found jobs for the Vasas SC women's handball team there.⁸ At that time, the girls actually had to turn up at work, too, not just on payday, as the case is today. They were very pretty and cheerful. I have no reason to complain. I had a good life there.

How much did you earn?

At first my salary was 1800 forints, but in '68 or '69 my boss, Ernő Wals, had a serious operation and I became head of the Transport and Materials Department temporarily. That was too bad, because I had to spend more time in the office.

About that time, a certain Baron Bezerédy came to work there. He was a very stupid man, a former guards officer. In fact, he was the stupidest and worst kind of man I ever met at the co-op. And on top of that, he embezzled fuel vouchers. We didn't want to turn him in. We talked to the chairman, by that time I already had a very good relationship with him. I told him we didn't want him jailed; let him collect the money within a week and we'd fix the case somehow. And there you had all these counts and barons, Konkoly-Theges, Ferdinándys, turning up with cash for the fund to save Bezerédy. In the end, we had all the money and the guy was saved from prison.

You didn't make a big deal about being an intellectual in the morning and a worker in the afternoon. But I should think you needed plenty of energy. How did you stand it?

I stood it because I was very fit. It wasn't a real effort. And don't forget Tükör. I usually did that in the evening at home. I had to pick up the foreign magazines from the Tükör offices every other day. But it made me even more popular with people at the co-op, because I took them Stern or Paris Match. The guys would gaze at the nudes and the girls looked at the smart clothes. They looked forward to the new magazines. Who was there in Pest to compete with my fund of photos at the time?

And when did you find time to write books?

I usually left home at 11 or 12 having worked up to then. I organized my day so I could get my job done in one or two hours. Wals only wanted me to arrive by three so that they could all go home. We still had time to talk matters over, such as which truck went where next morning, as trucks would leave before the office opened. I organized my time so well that I could often have lunch at home after my morning's work.

I made a very good deal with the truck drivers: the earlier they got back, the more working hours I'd write in for them. That suited everybody. They were paid overtime and I got home early. I was usually home by six or so, except if there was a party.

I feel something's not right here. I find it hard to believe such a restless man as you would be content with that life. It doesn't fit. Didn't you want to quit or move on to something else?

Of course I did, and I made plenty of attempts, too, but they failed. In the '70s, after Szirmai's political fall, by which time Aczél was already a member of the Political Committee, Szilárd and his friends tried hard to get me employed at the Institute of Literary Studies, but Aczél was determined to block it. I'd have gone elsewhere, too, but everything failed. Nobody dared to call Aczél and put my case. If there had been someone, I would obviously have managed to get a job. But Aczél used to say that no one could expect him to move a finger for Vásárhelyi. He said he didn't care where I went, but he wouldn't move a finger. And when Szilárd asked him why he had such animosity towards me, his answer was that Vásárhelyi thought he was an idiot.

How did he know that?

He knew it well, because back in 1949, when I got married, we went to Pécs for our honeymoon, to the Hotel Kikelet. At that time, Aczél was county party secretary. Géza Losonczy came down to see us with his wife and Aczél invited us all to supper. We all made a fool of him there. The food was good, but Aczél told us horrific stories about his rule of terror. Sure enough, he was no different from any other party secretary, but we didn't know that. At first, we just gaped at this idiot's horror stories, but then we made a fool of him. Aczél was trying to play at being a little Stalin in the county. He had his picture carried with Stalin's and Rákosi's on parades. Zsuzsa⁹ was ashamed as well. Apparently, he'd never been able to forgive me for that. He must have thought he'd show this chap a thing or two.

When I first applied for a passport, of course just a red one, for socialist countries, Aczél said clearly that Vásárhelyi wasn't to go abroad. If I wanted to emigrate, he'd be happy to help. He even sent me a message saying I could certainly be of use to the Italian Communist Party.¹⁰

	Aczél, György

How were you finally reconciled?

It was a very strange story. Aczél's younger daughter was one of Edit's students at the gymnasium¹¹ in Markó utca. Edit was a devoted educationalist, which actually turned many of my acquaintances against me, because she wouldn't make an exception for anyone, she'd treat all her students equally, and some people were badly offended. She refused to accept that the time when only a child's merits and no other considerations mattered was over. She carried on with her work in her own way and did the same thing with the Aczél girl, who was in her class for four years. She was a little girl of poor ability, full of inhibitions. Edit treated her as a child needing help. And she made big progress in four years. She herself said Edit played a decisive part in her maturing process. That's corroborated by the fact that both her father and her mother phoned Edit after the school-leaving exams to thank her for what she'd achieved with their daughter. And then, through Zsuzsa's influence, Aczél's attitude to me began to alter; he became friendlier. He told Szilárd what a nice, honest woman that Mrs Vásárhelyi was; what a pity she'd married a man like me. I've often pulled Edit's leg about that.

When did Edit return to teaching?

In 1963, again with Szirmai's help. At first she taught at the Váci utca primary school for two years and then she went to the Markó utca gymnasium, where she stayed until 1977, when I had my heart attack.

The cooperative, three children, Tükör...what did you have time for? How did you stay an intellectual? How did you remain a politician?

There was no political life at the time. People after '56 were strikingly indifferent and uninterested. No one asked me how things had been. But I read Neue Zürcher and the International Herald Tribune every day, so I knew about everything I was interested in.

You were at the cooperative in '68 during the invasion of Prague. And there was the Maoist conspiracy, the Haraszti-Pór case.

I only heard remotely about the Maoist case, I had no direct information about it, but I sympathized with the kids, not for being Maoists, but for wanting to do something, for refusing to acquiesce in the status quo. I didn't know any of them personally and I only had very patchy information.

Didn't you have any informal social relations that kept you informed? I can't even understand.

My social relations were very superficial, even with Donáth and Haraszti, because I concluded from the police warning from Harangozó that the only way to protect myself was to isolate myself. For years, I never met anyone but Sándor Fekete and Gyuri Litván. Fekete was terribly keen to be friendly with me from the time I was released; he almost forced himself on me. We'd often visit each other and we were very enthusiastic about the Czechoslovak thing in '68. We had great expectations, only to be even more disappointed when the Dubcek era came to end.

	Fekete, Sándor

	Tánczos, Gábor

Didn't you even meet Tánczos?

Yes, I met Tánczos, but not very often. Vera and Edit became good friends in Romania, so they'd come and see us every now and then, but Tánczos was always very busy. To show how utterly cautious I was, I only went to Luppa when I knew there wasn't a party at Litván's cottage. Especially after Aczél's message. I was afraid they might create a situation in which I had no other choice but to leave the country. I didn't want to emigrate under any circumstances. There were family reasons and emotional reasons as well, and also my age. Although I was still young, not yet 55, I didn't want to go at all.

When did you first get a passport to go to the West?

In 1970. Then, of course, Edit and I went to Italy. After that, I received a passport just like any other Hungarian citizen.

How did you leave the cooperative in the end?

Laci Márkus played the main role in getting me a job at the Institute of Literary Studies. He was incredibly persevering and aggressive about forcing the idea on Aczél. He'd buttonhole him in the street, call him on the phone and go to his office. He was so forceful that Aczél eventually gave in and let me take the researcher's job in 1972. Meanwhile Szilárd became director-general of films at the ministry. But when Papp became director-general of the Institute of Cinematography, the first thing he did was give me the sack. But János Soproni, editor-in-chief of the Newsreel, had been making use of my work since 1970. When I ended the day at the cooperative, I'd go to where the newsreels were done and write texts on international policy. Soproni moved to the Film Factory in 1972. He was manager of Studio 1 for some time and when Papp threw me out, he took me on as a script editor at the Film Factory.

You were 55 in 1972, when everything changed again. Could we say your situation had stabilized at last after twenty years?

It was due to a combination of random events. I was now employed full time at the Institute of Literary Studies and I had a part-time job as a script editor. I began to feel accepted again, so to speak. People started phoning me and coming and see us. They'd stayed away up to then and hadn't been too friendly or intimate with us.

Didn't the two jobs feel like sinecures?

No way. I didn't consider them that at all. I began to work very seriously, do a lot of research, visit the archives. And I soon published a volume with Szinai and Márkus about the left-wing press between the two wars. Its merits were never acknowledged. It's a collection of documents on the committee of censorship. I wrote the preface and I edited it with Márkus.

When Dercsi fell fatally ill and died, Szabolcsi entrusted me with editing the history of the Hungarian press. He obviously enquired in the proper place whether he could entrust it to me and he was glad I was allowed to do it. The first volume came out after two or three years and I prepared the second for publication as well. I worked a lot on the book itself, but I also had to organize the publication of it, as there were several collaborators. And the editors-in-chief of the volumes were heavyweights like Domonkos Kosáry, Béla G. Németh, Feri Mucsi and Laci Márkus. It wasn't easy to get along with them. That job wasn't a sinecure at all. On the contrary, it took up more of my time than I liked.

And editing scripts at the film factory? After all, that's a profession in itself.

Yes, it is, but there's no need to make it sound more mysterious than it is. It has its professional sides, I mean technical sides, but essentially it's about content just the same. I was able to use the knowledge of literature, politics and history I'd built up in my years as an editor. And several directors were impressed by that. I soon became sought after, with more filmmakers asked me to edit their scripts than I could accept.

Which films did you work on?

I was the script editor for every Jancsó film for a long time. Then I was the one who put an end to the relationship. I've been the script editor of every film Károly Makk has made. I also worked with Márta Mészáros on three or four films. But I take most pride in helping to start the careers of film directors such as Frici András, Géza Bereményi and most talented of all, András Jeles. I have the scripts at home–it's hard to remember them all. I also edited scripts of films by Szomjas, Grunwalsky and Judit Ember. I enjoyed myself and even joined the artistic advisory body of the Köllő Studio. They tried to kick me out when I signed the first Charta in 1977,¹² they tried to kick me out, but Jancsó and Makk stood up for me so that I couldn't be banned from the film world. For a time, I was dropped from the artistic advisory body, but then taken back again. I also edited the scripts of some of Bacsó's films.

What did your quasi-professional editorial work entail?

I told everybody I was quite happy to help with everything, but they shouldn't pester me in the early hours of the day or at night. If what I could do, helping to write the script and analysing it in every detail when it was ready, was enough, they should choose me. If they wanted more, they'd better choose someone else. But I had a very peaceful time at the Institute of Literary Studies and at the Film Factory.

Which of the people in your old political vein did you meet informally?

Our relations with Donáth only revived at the end of the '70s, or I'd better say developed rather than revived. He'd been the big boss in the '30s. We only became close after we'd known each other for 40 years. But then I can say we met almost every week, at a café, or I'd call on him at his apartment, or he'd come and see us. We talked politics a lot and he was beginning to confide in me. He'd tell me about his meetings with Kádár, his reactivation had started at that time. You know he was very passive and reserved for a long time. Then he introduced me to these kids – Bence, János Kis and Kenedi. Aliz Halda also had a big hand in activating Donáth again. He and I soon came to the conclusion that we held identical views, or if they weren't identical, they were very close. This had consequences later. In effect, it was he who made active in politics not only the first time, but the second as well.

1 Wife of Miklós Vásárhelyi.

2 Those without a full-time job and their dependants were not covered.

3 Widow of the executed József Szilágyi.

4 The daughter of Imre Nagy.

5 The wife of Imre Nagy

6 Nikita Khrushchev was dismissed as first secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and All-Union prime minister on October 14, 1964.

7 A wholesale trading enterprise.

8 Sportsmen and women were technically amateurs and needed a full-time job to qualify for health care and pension rights and to avoid possible prosecution for vagrancy.

9 The wife of György Aczél.

10 The Italian party under Togliatti became strongly reformist after Khrushchev's anti-Stalin speech of 1956. Although it supported the suppression of the Hungarian Revolution, it became increasingly at odds with the Soviet communist party after 1968. The term Eurocommunism, for the popular-front policies espoused by the Italian, French and Spanish parties, became current in the mid-1970s.

11 An academically oriented secondary school.

12 The Czechoslovak civil rights movement known as Charta 77 was formed in December 1976 and soon spread to other countries, including Hungary, where signatories suffered reprisals such as dismissal from jobs in the media.

Interviewer: András Hegedűs B, Gyula Kozák. Date: 1985-1987.
Editor: Gyula Kozák.
Translator: Elemér Boreczky.