Communist Hungary had a good number of high days and holidays, some celebrated, some less so. November 7th – the anniversary of the great October revolution in Russia (hence the discrepancy in the dates) – was a national holiday, but there was little outward sign of any associated festivities. It was possibly a reflection of the Hungarians’ view of the extent to which this day merited any sort of celebration whatsoever: when I enquired of some students how the day was usually marked, I was informed that probably more people got drunk than usual.
April 4th was a little more ambivalent. It marked the day of the liberation of Budapest (from the Nazis) by the Soviets in 1945. The day was unlikely to be greeted by enthusaistic flag-waving Hungarians, but had nevertheless to be marked in official circles to appease the country’s ‘liberators’. This national holiday was used for military parades on Dózsa György út which were boadcast on the news, but few went to watch who had not been instructed to do so. As on all such days, the flags came out: Hungarian tricolours and the red communist flag with hammer and sickle. Every house, every public building, every bridge, every tram and bus sported one of each, while huge banners fluttered over Népköztársaság útja (Andrássy út) and Dózsa György út, suspended from wires stretching across the entire width of the broad avenues.
Leaving the city behind, we spent one such April 4th with our friend Miklós and his brother, János, in the village of Polgár not far from Debrecen. János was the leader of the State Farm, and April 4th was the day on which two duties fell to him to perform: the first was the distribution of bonuses to Outstanding Workers; the second was to lay wreaths on the graves of the three Russian soldiers who lay buried in the small local cemetery. Through dark and rain we bumped along muddy unmade roads in János’s Lada, parking beside the low building which was to host the celebration. There we joined the already-assembled state farm workers, and took our places in the throng.
We all shuffled along the muddy track – János, and one or two other dignitaries at the front – we at the rear. At an appropriately solemn pace we marched raggedly through the muddy rivulets to the small wicket gate of the cemetery which was only large enough for the first few to enter. There, more speeches were given and the wreaths placed alongside gravestones bearing Russian inscriptions.
Back at the building, rows of wooden chairs stood in a hall with a small stage at one end. Once the room was full the speeches began: quotas fulfilled, ambitious five-year plans; then followed the traipsing onto the stage of those workers who had been singled out for a reward: a certificate and a small bag containing cash.
The event would have been reminiscent of a school speech day – apart from the beer and pálinka, the pogácsa and the cakes; and the fact that we were being surveyed from every wall by pictures of Lenin and socialist-realist farm workers smilingly reaping corn, with the red star hanging above us all.
April 4th was a little more ambivalent. It marked the day of the liberation of Budapest (from the Nazis) by the Soviets in 1945. The day was unlikely to be greeted by enthusaistic flag-waving Hungarians, but had nevertheless to be marked in official circles to appease the country’s ‘liberators’. This national holiday was used for military parades on Dózsa György út which were boadcast on the news, but few went to watch who had not been instructed to do so. As on all such days, the flags came out: Hungarian tricolours and the red communist flag with hammer and sickle. Every house, every public building, every bridge, every tram and bus sported one of each, while huge banners fluttered over Népköztársaság útja (Andrássy út) and Dózsa György út, suspended from wires stretching across the entire width of the broad avenues.
Leaving the city behind, we spent one such April 4th with our friend Miklós and his brother, János, in the village of Polgár not far from Debrecen. János was the leader of the State Farm, and April 4th was the day on which two duties fell to him to perform: the first was the distribution of bonuses to Outstanding Workers; the second was to lay wreaths on the graves of the three Russian soldiers who lay buried in the small local cemetery. Through dark and rain we bumped along muddy unmade roads in János’s Lada, parking beside the low building which was to host the celebration. There we joined the already-assembled state farm workers, and took our places in the throng.
We all shuffled along the muddy track – János, and one or two other dignitaries at the front – we at the rear. At an appropriately solemn pace we marched raggedly through the muddy rivulets to the small wicket gate of the cemetery which was only large enough for the first few to enter. There, more speeches were given and the wreaths placed alongside gravestones bearing Russian inscriptions.
Back at the building, rows of wooden chairs stood in a hall with a small stage at one end. Once the room was full the speeches began: quotas fulfilled, ambitious five-year plans; then followed the traipsing onto the stage of those workers who had been singled out for a reward: a certificate and a small bag containing cash.
The event would have been reminiscent of a school speech day – apart from the beer and pálinka, the pogácsa and the cakes; and the fact that we were being surveyed from every wall by pictures of Lenin and socialist-realist farm workers smilingly reaping corn, with the red star hanging above us all.
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