Challenging Communism in Eastern Europe: 1956 and Its Legacy 0415449286, 9780415449281

Table of contents :
Cover......Page 1
Half Title......Page 2
Title Page......Page 4
Copyright Page......Page 5
Table of Contents......Page 7
1956—Discoveries, Legacies and Memory......Page 9
1956: the background......Page 10
1956 in Hungary—an outline......Page 17
1956—recovering the history and understanding its legacy......Page 27
1. 1956: The Mid-Twentieth Century Seen from the Vantage Point of the Beginning of the Next Century......Page 33
Hungary and the world......Page 35
The ‘vision’ of 1956......Page 38
Significance and memory—a nineteenth-century revolution in the twentieth century?......Page 43
References......Page 48
2. Memory and Discourse on the 1956 Hungarian Revolution......Page 54
References......Page 70
3. Antifascism, the 1956 Revolution and the Politics of Communist Autobiographies in Hungary 1944–2000......Page 75
1944 – 1956......Page 79
1956 – 1989......Page 99
After 1989......Page 117
Conclusion......Page 136
References......Page 138
The 1956 Revolution and photojournalism......Page 151
The Paris-Match photograph and the photographers......Page 153
Melcher’s journalistic work and how he took the picture......Page 155
The role and function of western magazines in shaping the image of the 1956 Revolution......Page 161
Interpretations of the Match photograph in Communist Hungary......Page 163
Western interpretations of the Match photograph......Page 170
Icon of photojournalism in France......Page 172
Conclusion......Page 174
References......Page 175
5. Dethroning Stalin: Poland 1956 and its Legacy......Page 187
De-Stalinism......Page 188
June......Page 197
Explanations......Page 202
October......Page 208
Hungary......Page 217
Aftermath......Page 223
Legacy......Page 229
References......Page 232
The thaw in Poland......Page 243
The visits of Khrushchev and Bulganin to Warsaw......Page 246
Public feeling......Page 247
Speeding-up......Page 250
Soviet delegation in Warsaw......Page 253
Soviet military intervention......Page 259
The Chinese veto......Page 264
Extricating from the crisis......Page 267
‘Rokossovskii go home!’......Page 282
References......Page 285
7. The Main Provincial Centres of the 1956 Revolution: Győr and Miskolc......Page 304
Győr and Miskolc: background to the revolution......Page 306
Miskolc......Page 315
Győr......Page 319
Miskolc: developments after 25 October......Page 323
Revolutionary power and local administration......Page 328
Soviet invasion, resistance and the end of the revolution......Page 333
References......Page 340
8. Re-emergence of Public Opinion in the Soviet Union: Khrushchev and Responses to the Secret Speech......Page 343
Public opinion in the Soviet Union......Page 346
Background......Page 350
The emergence of public opinion......Page 351
Conclusions......Page 369
References......Page 372
Hungary’s negotiated revolution and the presidency......Page 380
The long and winding road to the presidency......Page 386
The battlefield......Page 400
Initial skirmishes......Page 405
Stalemate and breakthrough......Page 412
Consensus of a kind......Page 415
Conclusion......Page 423
References......Page 426
Appendix 1: Dramatis Personae......Page 428
Appendix 2: Abbreviations used for negotiating sessions......Page 433
Index......Page 447

Citation preview

Challenging Communism in Eastern Europe Marking the 50th anniversary of events in 1956 that were a major turning point in the history of communist-ruled Eastern Europe, this book contains a selection of some of the most recent research on those momentous events and their memory and legacy. The book contains edited contributions from historians and social scientists from Hungary, Poland, the UK and the USA. Their contributions are the fruit of research which has only been possible since 1989. In the years since the fall of the communist regimes the state archives have been opened to researchers and it has been possible to collect the testimony of eye-witnesses without fear of repression and censorship. The outcome of 1956 led to Poland embarking on its own distinctive version of communist rule. Meanwhile, 1956 in Hungary saw the first society-wide attempt to overthrow a ruling communist regime – only to be put down by Soviet military intervention. In both countries the events of 1956 had lasting repercussions for society and its relationship with the communist regime. In retrospect they can be seen as paving the way for the eventual fall of the communist regimes in East Central Europe in 1989. This book was previously published as a special issue of Europe-Asia Studies. Terry Cox is Professor of Central and East European Studies at the University of Glasgow.

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Routledge Europe-Asia Studies Series A series edited by Terry Cox University of Glasgow Challenging Communism in Eastern Europe 1956 and its Legacy Edited by Terry Cox

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Challenging Communism in Eastern Europe 1956 and its Legacy Edited by Terry Cox

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First published 2008 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2008 Terry Cox All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN10: 0-415-44928-6 (hbk) 5

ISBN13: 978-0-415-44928-1 (hbk)

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Contents Terry Cox 1956—Discoveries, Legacies and Memory 1. János M. Rainer 1956: The Mid-Twentieth Century Seen from the Vantage Point of the Beginning of the Next Century 2. Gábor Gyáni Memory and Discourse on the 1956 Hungarian Revolution 3. James Mark Antifascism, the 1956 Revolution and the Politics of Communist Autobiographies in Hungary 1944–2000 4. Eszter Balázs & Phil Casoar An Emblematic Picture of the Hungarian 1956 Revolution: Photojournalism during the Hungarian Revolution 5. Tony Kemp-Welch Dethroning Stalin: Poland 1956 and its Legacy 6. Krzysztof Persak

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The Polish–Soviet Confrontation in 1956 and the Attempted Soviet Military Intervention in Poland 7. Attila Szakolczai The Main Provincial Centres of the 1956 Revolution: Győr and Miskolc 8. Karl E. Loewenstein Re-emergence of Public Opinion in the Soviet Union: Khrushchev and Responses to the Secret Speech 9. Nigel Swain The Fog of Hungary’s Negotiated Revolution Index

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1956—Discoveries, Legacies and Memory TERRY COX Since the end of the 1980s, a great deal of original and innovative research has been carried out on the events, meanings and memories of 1956 in Eastern Europe. After 1989 it became possible for researchers to explore previously closed archives and to freely interview participants in the events of 1956 without fear of repression or reprisals. As a result, the 1990s witnessed a steady stream of important new publications revealing new evidence of the diplomatic, political and social background, the events and motivations of political leaders, and the repercussions and legacies of 1956 in Eastern Europe. The period up to the fortieth anniversary year of 1996 saw a concentration of new published work reflecting the ongoing research on 1956, and further evidence and insights have continued to be produced in the years since then. The research produced in the early post-communist years was particularly fruitful in uncovering, or recovering, the detailed history of the events and developments of 1956, much of which had been suppressed, repressed or forgotten in the years of communist rule that followed. Important work of this kind has also continued during the past 10 years, but perhaps with the benefit of the perspective offered by a slightly longer time span, it has been complemented by a growing amount of work that develops a deeper understanding of the broader context and legacy of 1956.

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Some of the more recent research, exploring both the recovery of the history of 1956 and its legacy and memory, was presented at a conference on 1956 and its Legacy—Hungary and Poland on 29 – 30 March 2006 at the University of Glasgow. The papers reflected the current and recent work of scholars from Great Britain, Hungary and Poland. Two institutions represented at this conference—the Institute for the Study of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution in Budapest, and the Institute of National Remembrance in Warsaw—have played key roles in the making of the new history of 1956 and its legacy. This edited collection includes revised versions of nearly all the papers presented at the Glasgow conference, along with two extra papers, including one by a US scholar on Soviet aspects of 1956. In order to provide some background to the themes of the contributions collected here, the following sections of this introduction provide an outline account of the events and developments of 1956 in Eastern Europe. 1956: the background To some extent the events of 1956 can be seen as the outcome of the strains experienced by the societies of Eastern Europe following the imposition of the forms of political system and state managed economy that had been developed in the Soviet Union under Stalin. While the Soviet Union was gradually recovering from the social and economic devastation of World War II, the populations of Eastern Europe were subjected, mostly unwillingly, to occupation by Soviet forces and the rigid imposition of the Soviet system in its Stalinist form—a 10

system that was widely but mostly silently resented as an ill-suited framework for economic, social and cultural life in the societies of Eastern Europe. By the end of the 1940s opposition political parties in Eastern Europe had either been banned and their leaders arrested, or they had been co-opted into popular front movements under communist leadership, which effectively reduced them to mere puppet status. The East European communist governments proceeded to take most workplaces into public ownership, introduce a system of centralised state ‘planning’ of the economy, and collectivise agriculture. Strict censorship of the media was introduced and freedom of expression was severely limited. The ruling parties and secret police organisations took on similar roles to their Soviet counterparts. Furthermore, in the late 1940s and early 1950s, struggles within the national communist parties resulted in similar mass political arrests, show trials, and expansion of labour camps as had been experienced in the Soviet Union since the 1930s. Mirroring events in Stalin’s Soviet Union, the East European communist leaderships turned on their own party comrades, accusing them of treason, and staging show trials of the most prominent ‘revisionists’ such as, in the case of Hungary, the former underground resistance leader of the early 1940s, László Rajk. However, in the early 1950s, after the death of Stalin, questions of the problems and possible reform of the Soviet system became the subject of discussion as a result of the competition for overall leadership in the Soviet Union. Accompanying the struggle for influence between different politicians there were corresponding twists and turns concerning the ‘correct’ policy line. 11

These fluctuations caused considerable confusion in Eastern Europe as national communist leaderships attempted to judge how best to conform to the mixed messages on policy they were receiving from Moscow. The changes brought revivals in the fortunes of some ‘revisionist’ communists who had fallen from favour in the late 1940s, often followed by a further reversal as more conservative influences seemed to gain an upper hand in the Soviet Union. The shifting fortunes of Imre Nagy in Hungary and Władisław Gomułka in Poland stand as an example of the experiences of communist leaders during this period. However, with the ascendancy of Nikita Khrushchev to a dominant position in the Soviet leadership the conclusive message seemed to be that a relaxation of many of the harsher features of the Stalinist system could now be considered. Moreover, the message seemed to be confirmed as news spread about the contents of Khrushchev’s ‘secret speech’ at the Twentieth Congress of the CPSU, in February 1956. Although access to Khrushchev’s speech was intended to be restricted to a limited number of communist leaders and activists, its contents, including his denunciation of many aspects of Stalin’s leadership, soon became more widely known as it was read out to local Communist party branches and even works meetings in various parts of the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe. As its contents became known this gave a boost to the communist reformers and led to a period of intense jostling for power.

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The immediate result of Khrushchev’s speech however, was to cause confusion both among party leaderships and their rank and file members. The speech was neither accompanied by any clear policy directives, nor any indications of what promotions or demotions the Soviet leadership might desire among the East European leaderships. As ‘conservatives’ and ‘reformers’ struggled for power in the Soviet Union they encouraged their own followers among East European political leaders and the fortunes of each group rose and fell following Soviet developments. In Poland and in Hungary, supporters of reforming communist politicians, Gomułka in Poland and Nagy in Hungary, argued for the return of these politicians to leadership positions and the adoption of their reform policies, including measures to increase the production of food and consumer goods and a relaxation of the ‘collectivisation’ campaign in the countryside. In both the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, the ‘secret speech’ seemed to offer support for those hoping for a relaxation of the rigidity of the Stalinist system. A significant feature of the politics of 1956 therefore, was a continuation of the struggle between Stalinist and reformist wings of the various communist parties. At the same time, as news of the speech spread more widely in both the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, party members and communist intellectuals began to explore the implications of the denunciation of Stalin, and to test the waters as to what revisions in political interpretation might be allowed. Aspects of these discussions, and the background to them, are explored, among other themes, in this collection, especially in those by Karl E. Loewenstein on the Soviet Union, Anthony 13

Kemp-Welch on Poland, and Attila Szakolczai on Hungary. The political and intellectual debates took place in the context of societies that were suffering from severe tensions and strains. Following the Soviet model of economic management, priority was given to the needs of heavy industry while light industry and the supply of consumer goods and services were neglected. Industrial workers were put under severe pressure to meet unrealistic production targets. Small family farmers, who, in Eastern Europe, had only just benefited from land reform after the end of World War II, were required to give up their independent farming and join collective farms. The outcome was a severe disruption of the economy and a decline in living standards. In Hungary for example, real wages fell by 18% between 1949 and 1952, and passive resistance by farmers against collectivisation led to increasing food shortages. The introduction of the rationing of groceries in 1951 sparked a number of protest strikes in factories. Until 1953, despite a stagnating economy and rising discontent, the communist governments maintained their severely repressive hold on the countries of Eastern Europe in line with the requirements laid down by Stalin’s leadership in the Soviet Union. However, following Stalin’s death in 1953, communist leaderships across Eastern Europe were placed in a much more uncertain position, and in each country a debate began to spread from within the party leaderships to wider circles of party

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members, communist and leftist intellectuals, students and ordinary workers. The degree to which more radical ideas were introduced into the discussions, and the extent to which the debate spread through wider sections of society, varied considerably between the different countries. In the Soviet Union Lowenstein shows meetings took place throughout the Soviet Union and participants asked increasingly challenging questions and put forward increasingly forceful criticisms of the regime. By the end of 1956 however, the party leadership had re-established control over the media and over debates within the party. Alarmed by the reaction to his speech in Poland and Hungary, Khrushchev and his associates soon realised that allowing further criticisms of Stalinism would bring into question their authority and the leading role of the Communist party. In Poland, as is shown in different ways by both Kemp-Welch and Krzysztof Persak, the debate after Khrushchev’s speech soon began to move beyond the ‘thaw’ that was witnessed in the Soviet Union and showed signs of becoming a ‘spring’ in the sense this word would later take on in Czechoslovakia in 1968. Following an amnesty in April 1956 that resulted in the release of 9,000 political prisoners, and a series of personnel changes in the party leadership, more radical demands began to appear on the political agenda. Against the background of a split within the Polish party between the conservative pro-Soviet Natolinians and the more liberal and pro-reform Pulavians, sections of the Polish intelligentsia and students began to voice their support for social protest, and new forums for critical debate opened up, including a federation of ‘youth 15

discussion clubs’, and the Warsaw Club of Catholic Intelligentsia. Then, on 28 June 1956, a workers’ revolt broke out in Poznań, calling for greater democracy and a genuine influence for industrial workers, while also adopting anti-communist slogans against the ruling party. As Szakolczai shows, similar developments also took place at a local level across Hungary. Again, as in Poland, in the Hungarian cities of Győr and Miskolc, and across Hungary, a combination of intra-party divisions, increasingly critical debates among intellectuals and students, and the outbreak of increasingly radical worker protests created a crisis situation for the communist leadership. Part of the leadership’s solution to the crisis in both countries was the recall of the previously discarded ‘revisionist’ leader but from thereon, the outcomes of the crisis moved in quite different directions. In Poland, following the brutal suppression of the revolt in Poznań, the recall of Gomułka in Poland led initially to a confrontation with the Soviet leadership and the threat of Soviet military intervention. However, as described in detail by Persak, Khrushchev backed down from his first impulse to send in the Soviet army, and in the longer run, Gomułka accepted a compromise and oversaw much less radical reforms than had at first been expected. In contrast, in Hungary, in the context of the increasing radicalisation of workers, students and the population in general, Nagy found himself in a position where he needed to adopt more radical demands than Gomułka. The Soviet leadership found the direction of the Hungarian reforms increasingly unacceptable, leading to military intervention and the suppression of what had 16

moved from an uprising to the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. While Kemp-Welch and Persak offer detailed accounts below of the main developments of Poland’s 1956, and Szakolczai’s offers similar detail for provincial Hungary, the other contributions on Hungary below focus on other aspects and angles relating to Hungary’s 1956. For this reason, the next section offers a brief account of developments in Budapest and at the national level in Hungary in 1956. 1956 in Hungary—an outline What distinguished the Hungarian events of 1956 from those in Poland was the deep-rooted nature of the opposition movement that emerged rapidly in almost all sections of society, culminating in its posing a revolutionary challenge to communist rule. At the same time the Hungarian Revolution can be seen as a series of separate and intertwining revolutions with different groups pursuing their own interests and ambitions, ranging from reformist politicians within the Communist party, to intellectuals, students, industrial workers, and the young people who took to the streets of Budapest to fight the invading Soviet forces. The interests and outlooks of each group were distinctive, and as the revolution matured, different groups came to the fore, leading to an increasing radicalisation of the aims and scope of the revolution, and posing an increasingly serious challenge to the interests of the Soviet Union. First on the scene was the development of critical ideas among intellectuals and students. Reform ideas were 17

gaining ground among young people and students through the framework of the communist youth organisation, DISZ, during the 1950s but the first open sign of opposition to the Stalinist hard-line came in the autumn of 1955 when a group of writers and artists openly criticised the authorities by signing ‘The Writers’ Memorandum’. This took issue with official restrictions on the performance of plays and concerts by some leading writers and composers of the pre-communist period. By the spring of 1956, with rumours of Khrushchev’s ‘Secret Speech’ spreading beyond communist leadership circles, a group of intellectuals began meeting to hold independent and increasingly daring discussions on a range of issues in literature, history, ideology and economics. Known as the Petőfi Circle (after the nineteenth century poet Petőfi, a leading figure in Hungary’s 1848 revolution), their meetings attracted great public interest, culminating in their discussion on the press in June 1956, when a crowd of 7,000 gathered in the street outside the meeting hall and listened to the debate broadcast to them through loudspeakers. Following the Polish uprising in Poznań the following day, the Hungarian communist leadership ordered the suspension of Petőfi Circle meetings. By now however, a momentum for change was growing and proving increasingly difficult to suppress. By the autumn, university students, initially in Szeged, but quickly spreading elsewhere, decided to set up their own independent organisations outside party control. Soon independent student bodies in all cities were organising their own independent debates.

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Meanwhile, partly inspired by the Polish events described above, and partly developing according to their own momentum, the Hungarian student movement now began to make public demands for reform. Their goals incorporated some of the reforms advocated by Imre Nagy and his supporters, but also moved beyond them to call for civil rights, a multi-party parliamentary democracy, national independence and the withdrawal of Soviet troops. During October the student associations sent representatives to other universities and colleges and also to address workers’ meeting in factories. The movement culminated in a large demonstration on 22 October at the Budapest Technical University on the Buda side of the River Danube. Despite a ban on demonstrations an even bigger protest was held the next day, 23 October, with students from the Technical University joined by others from other faculties and universities on the Pest side of the city and meeting at the statue of General Bem, another hero of the 1848 rising. Joined by supporters of the Petőfi Circle and the Writers’ Union, the demonstrators repeated the demands issued the previous day and called for them to be broadcast on state radio. Moving on from Bem Square, around 200,000 protesters gathered outside the parliament building and called for Imre Nagy to speak, while others went to the statue of Stalin near the City Park, and others again to the Radio Headquarters to call for their demands to be broadcast. Nagy tried to calm the situation outside parliament by calling for the crowd to disperse so that a negotiated settlement could be reached within the party leadership. The demonstrators did respond to his call, but not without considerable disappointment and anger. Possibly 19

in response to this disappointment, the situation became much more radical at the other protest locations—while one crowd pulled down the Stalin statue (Figure 1) the other tried to storm the radio building.

Figure 1. THE FALL OF STALIN—DEMONSTRATORS PULL DOWN THE STALIN STATUE NEAR THE CITY PARK IN BUDAPEST. PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF THE INSTITUTE FOR THE HISTORY OF THE 1956 HUNGARIAN REVOLUTION The government were adamant that the protesters’ demands would not be broadcast and sent troops and secret police to defend the radio building. At this point someone fired from the building into the crowd and from a radical protest the situation turned into an armed uprising. Some of the demonstrators found guns, and they proceeded to storm the building. On 24 October the government declared a state of emergency and requested the intervention of Soviet troops. Over the next few days

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there was fierce fighting between Soviet forces and Hungarian secret police on one side and small groups of street fighters on the other side. During this period the main dynamic force of the revolution moved from the students and intellectuals to teenagers and young workers, male and female, many of them living in poor conditions in workers’ barracks in the city. Relatively few of the street fighters were older than 20 or had higher education (Figure 2). A few members of the Hungarian army fought alongside the street fighters but for the most part the soldiers stayed out of the fighting, as did the ordinary police. Although the street fighters only numbered a few thousand, they had the support of much wider sections of the population, many of whom helped to feed and sustain them.

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Figure 2. TEENAGE STREET FIGHTERS, READY TO TAKE ON THE SOVIET ARMY. PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF THE INSTITUTE FOR THE HISTORY OF THE 1956 HUNGARIAN REVOLUTION Inspired by events in Budapest, the revolution rapidly became a nationwide movement and encompassed a much wider cross-section of the population. Across the country, school and college students drew up their own lists of demands, demonstrations were held, and symbols of Soviet influence such as statues of Stalin were pulled down. As the authority of the communist local leaders crumbled, local communities elected delegates to negotiate with the authorities, or set up their own self-governing bodies to run local affairs. Many factories and workplaces formed workers’ councils to take over their workplaces from the communist managers. In the countryside revolutionary committees dissolved collective farms and organised food supplies for the cities. The spreading of the revolution had an impact in turn on the thinking of the communist leaders. Divisions grew sharper between old guard Stalinists who wanted to take a tough stand with the revolutionaries and others who wanted to broaden their appeal by bringing reform communists back into government. On the night of 24 October, shortly after the declaration of a state of emergency, Imre Nagy and two of his colleagues were invited back into the government, with Nagy taking the post of prime minister. As a loyal communist Nagy accepted, no doubt hoping that despite the continued

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presence of Stalinists in the government, he would be able to use his position to seek compromise with the revolutionaries and achieve a return to the reform agenda he had promoted earlier. However, opinion in the country had shifted radically since he was last in office and it soon became clear that a peaceful resolution would require government acceptance of many of the demands of the revolutionaries. The following days saw Nagy adopting ever more radical views. As a first step, following intensive debate within the Communist party leadership, he announced a cease-fire on 28 October. This was followed by negotiations with Soviet leaders for the return of Soviet troops to barracks. In following days Nagy succeeded in bringing more reform communists into government. He also secured agreement to dissolve the secret police organisation. On 30 October he announced the end of single-party rule and set up a new cabinet including representatives of many of the parties that had been banned by the communists in the late 1940s. Further, it was announced that the street fighters would be invited to join a new restructured police force and that negotiations would proceed to secure the removal of all Soviet troops from Hungary. On 1 November Nagy declared Hungary’s withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact, and appealed to the United Nations for international recognition of Hungary’s neutrality. By the beginning of November Nagy had brought a large section of the communists into line with popular opinion and had established a broad based popular national government to implement the demands of the revolution across the country. It seemed that, against the odds, a 23

popular grass roots movement, developing spontaneously without any centralised leadership, had overcome the repressive communist state and the military support of its Soviet backers. However, there were already signs of problems to come. Although the vast majority of Hungarian society was behind Nagy’s government, Western governments, distracted by the Suez crisis, showed no interest in offering support to a neutral Hungary. Furthermore, the initially sympathetic communist leaders in neighbouring countries, Gomułka in Poland and Tito in Yugoslavia, balked at the idea of multi-party democracy and declined to give their support. Within Hungary, despite the seeming willingness of Soviet representatives to discuss troop withdrawals, Soviet reinforcements were being sent to Hungary. A fatal split also emerged in the Hungarian communist leadership. On 1 November two members of the government, János Kádár and Ferenc Münnich, had flown to Russia for talks with Soviet leaders. In the early hours of 4 November Budapest was attacked by 16 Soviet divisions, the Hungarian army was disarmed, and Kádár was flown back to head a new Soviet-backed Hungarian communist government (Figure 3).

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Figure 3. A SOVIET TANK PATROLS THE STREETS OF PEST. PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF THE INSTITUTE FOR THE HISTORY OF THE 1956 HUNGARIAN REVOLUTION The Soviet army was met with fierce resistance from armed groups as it tried to take Budapest but, against overwhelming odds, the street fighters could do little to resist the Soviet advance. By 11 November the armed resistance was defeated, although many workers’ councils continued with tactics of passive resistance, strikes and non-cooperation until well into 1957 (Figure 4). The defeat led to a flood of refugees across the western border with Austria. In all, over 200,000 people, or 2% of the total population of Hungary, left the country. Following the installation of Kádár’s government there followed a period of severe repression. Initially, Nagy and several colleagues were given asylum in the Yugoslav Embassy in Budapest, but on 22 November they were tricked by promises of safe conduct

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into leaving the embassy. They were arrested and smuggled out of the country to Romania where they were held in prison. They were finally put on trial in the summer of 1958. Nagy and several colleagues were sentenced to death and executed, while others were given long prison sentences. Leaders of the street fighters were dealt with more rapidly—many were tried as ordinary criminals in early 1957 and sentenced to death. Death sentences were also used against several workers’ council leaders and some army officers who had joined the resistance. Other workers’ leaders and most politicians outside the group closest to Nagy were given life imprisonment or long prison sentences. In all, 35,000 people were arrested, 22,000 were sentenced, 13,000 of whom were sent to newly created internment camps. Some 350 people were executed, 75% of whom were young street fighters.

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Figure 4. ‘RUSSIANS GO HOME!’. PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF THE INSTITUTE FOR THE HISTORY OF THE 1956 HUNGARIAN REVOLUTION 1956—recovering the history and understanding its legacy After a period of severe repression that broke the back of resistance to the regime in Hungarian society, the Kádár government introduced its historic compromise with the Hungarian people. Based on the maxim ‘whoever is not against us is with us’, Hungarian citizens were allowed to live their lives without the levels of state intrusiveness that the Stalinist system had tried to impose. The introduction of limited market reforms in the New Economic Mechanism after 1968 helped improve standards of living. The price, in relation to the heritage of 1956, was that its memory was suppressed or distorted by official propaganda and Hungarian society entered a long period of ‘collective amnesia’ regarding 1956. Aspects of the manipulation of memory are discussed by Eszter Balázs and Phil Casoar in their study of the uses of photojournalism relating to 1956, and also by James Mark in relation to the way Hungarians dealt with their experiences of 1956 in rewriting their curricula vitae and securing their career prospects in the following decades. As both contributions also show, perceptions of 1956 were to change again in 1989—Hungarian publications could use the photojournalism of 1956 to recover and represent the lost history of the period, while people considering their career prospects were faced anew with

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the task of redefining themselves in relation to their experience of 1956. Recovering the details of that suppressed history and exploring interpretations of its legacy have been the key themes of research on 1956 and its memory since 1989. Much important research has now been published and a more detailed and accurate knowledge of what happened has been assembled. The opening up of political debate, increased access to official documents, and greater freedom of expression in Eastern Europe since 1989 have also enabled the emergence of a growing body of literature that seeks to explore the meaning of 1956 and its place in the wider history of communism, Eastern Europe, and indeed, Europe as a whole. The contributions to this collection provide recent contributions to research covering both these themes—the recovery of history and the exploration of legacy. The first two contributions are reflective essays on issues of the legacy and memory of 1956 in Hungary. János Rainer explores the revolution as part of two wider histories, one defined in terms of space and the other in terms of time periods. On the one hand, 1956 is seen in relation to international and European history, and on the other hand, in relation to different characterisations of the twentieth century. This is complemented by Gábor Gyáni’s essay on factors relating to the historical memory of the 1956 Revolution in Hungary and the variety of interpretations that constitute the discourse on it. He juxtaposes memories constructed to make sense of the personal experiences of participants with those of 28

different political interests seeking to present their programmes in terms of the legacy of 1956. Next come two places drawing on the authors’ research that also explore aspects of memory and legacy. James Mark explores the construction of autobiographies that had to come to terms with such a dramatic event as the 1956 Revolution with its far-reaching consequences for the lives of its participants. He traces how peoples’ accounts of themselves undergo changes as history is constructed and reconstructed in society around them. Eszter Balázs and Phil Casoar explore similar general issues in relation to different interpretations of a photograph of a young couple of Budapest street fighters that originally appeared in Paris-Match during the revolution in 1956. Again memory and interpretation are related to context as the same picture is used in the context of very different accounts of the revolution over time and between East and West. Questions of historical legacy also feature strongly in Anthony Kemp-Welch’s examination of the Polish experience of de-Stalinisation and its consequences. In tracing the main events and political developments in Poland during 1956, he argues that although the Polish communist leadership abandoned Stalinism in 1956 and selected the unorthodox Gomułka as leader, they soon accepted the ‘realpolitik’ of Soviet dominance in Eastern Europe and did not pursue any radical reform programme. Thus, 1956 in Poland left different legacies for the post-1956 period, reflecting both the authoritarian and liberalising aspects of developments during that year, and the return to a dialogue with wider Polish society was slow and uneven, and only completed in 29

1989. This is complemented by a study by Krzysztof Persak that contributes especially to the theme of the recovery of history. Based on a meticulous dissection of the archival evidence, Persak examines the sequence of events and the motivations of politicians that brought Poland to the brink of a Soviet armed intervention in October 1956, before being finally resolved through face-to-face discussions between Khrushchev and Gomułka, backed up by the behind-the-scenes influence of the Chinese communist leadership. Recovery and dissection of the details of events are also the main themes of Attila Szakolczai’s study of on the revolution in two important Hungarian provincial cities, Győr and Miskolc. Szakolczai provides a very useful condensation of some of the extensive research reported in his two-volume study in Hungarian of the revolution in the provinces in 1956. It provides fascinating insights to the parallels between events in the capital and the provinces and clearly shows the strongly interconnected nature of the revolution across Hungarian society as a whole. Although the last two contributions to in this collection were not presented at the Glasgow conference, they both represent very timely pieces that closely relate to the general themes explored at the conference. Karl Loewenstein examines the impact of Khrushchev’s secret speech in the Soviet Union and shows how the limited opening of debate among the communist leadership had repercussions through society in ways that were similar, although eventually more effectively suppressed, to those in Poland and Hungary. 30

Loewenstein also takes up themes explored in different ways by Rainer and Gyáni by examining the legacy of the limited opening up of debate in 1956. He shows how the Soviet debate alerted Soviet leaders to the significance and challenge of public opinion and comments on how this issue, once raised, could be suppressed but not removed in post-1956 politics, only to reappear the next time open debate was encouraged by Gorbachev in the late 1980s. Finally, Nigel Swain also explores the influence of the legacy of 1956 as it reappeared in the politics of the late 1980s. In a detailed examination of archival material of the 1989 roundtable talks in Hungary, that paved the way for the peaceful transition from communist rule, Swain explores themes raised in different ways by Gyáni, Rainer, and Balázs and Casaor, showing how contested interpretations of the meaning and memory of 1956 featured in the very specific debate in the roundtable talks on constitutional arrangements for the election of a president in the post-communist political system. He shows how, behind the appearance of a negotiated settlement, with all the connotations of a reasoned discussion that the phrase implies, the political contest between the different ‘sides’ in the roundtable discussions, drawing partly on their different claims on the legacy of 1956, resulted in something closer to the ‘fog of diplomacy’ (drawing on Clausewitz’s famous phrase, the ‘fog of war’). In all, the contributions to this collection represent some of the best recent research into the events of 1956 and examinations of their legacy and memory. It is also 31

important to note that much of the work on which these pieces are based is on-going research and we may confidently expect further discoveries and insights in the next few years. Moreover, as shown by the political events surrounding the commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of the Hungarian 1956 Revolution, questions of the historical memory of 1956 are still the subject of political conflicts and intense debate and this is likely to remain a salient feature of Hungarian politics (if not the politics of Eastern Europe more widely) for many years to come.

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1956: The Mid-Twentieth Century Seen from the Vantage Point of the Beginning of the Next Century JÁNOS M. RAINER IN CALENDAR TERMS, 1956

LIES NEAR THE HALFWAY MARK

OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.

That remains true even if one follows Eric Hobsbawm and others in taking as a historical period a short twentieth century lasting from 1914 until the collapse of the Soviet world empire in 1989 – 1990 (Hobsbawm 1994). Using that periodisation, the (short) twentieth century is embraced by the Soviet-type attempt to apply a radical system of ideas, intended to redeem the world and make Marxism – Leninism come true. That framework applies in some respects, but it might be more accurate to refer to a post-Great War age of totalitarian responses, of which the Soviet system proved the most durable, certainly for East-Central Europeans and Hungarians. For to us, the history of the Soviet system was the longest stretch of history in the short twentieth century. The 1956 Hungarian Revolution was actually part of that internal history, and seen in that light, its events deserve special attention in several respects. i. The 1956 Revolution was the biggest challenge to the Soviet Union from the peripheral (external) regions of its empire, or at least the biggest from Eastern Europe.1 ii. One cause of the outbreak of the revolution was the bankruptcy of the Stalinist version of the Soviet-type

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project [which János Kornai has called classical socialism (Kornai 1992)]. iii. As a result of 1956 there came into being one of the most viable reformed versions of the Soviet-type socialist system, for, to a significant extent, the Kádár system was a permanent reflection on 1956. iv. During the years of Kádár’s rule, the memory of 1956 remained with people even if they could not refer to it openly.2 The short twentieth century told a story of the failure of Marxism and Soviet communism. From another point of view, it marked a crisis in the world order circumscribed in the long nineteenth century, in the western half of the northern hemisphere, by freely competitive capitalism, liberal democracy, and the nation-state. It may also be possible to view the twentieth century as a period of struggle against the totalitarian3 responses to the crisis; as a period of efforts to create self-generating structures of market coordination, political and human rights and freedoms, social solidarity, and new types of supra-national political and cultural integration; or as an attempt to salvage through reforms the legacies of the Enlightenment and the nineteenth century. The question is whether these visions of the twentieth century are plausible ones and if so, how the 1956 Hungarian Revolution belongs in those constructions. This question is ultimately decided by the vantage point from which we view 1956 and the twentieth century, from the present-day horizon, the post-modern age of ceaseless doubt and constant relativisation. The previous century lends itself all too well to this. The 1956 34

Revolution cannot be expected to take such a place in collective memory as Hungary’s 1848 – 1849 has done. Although an anniversary is hardly the best moment to mention this, I consider that the deconstruction and erosion of the great history of 1956 will continue. I will try in what follows to outline from three angles how 1956 can be seen within the twentieth century, from the vantage point of the twenty-first. Hungary and the world ‘Fifty-six’ was a world event. News of the revolution reached all parts of the world at almost the same time. The Revolution had a strong influence on Hungary’s image in the twentieth century. If people’s associations with the word Hungarian were examined, the 1956 Revolution would be prominent among them. It is perhaps the best known event in the country’s twentieth-century history, for obvious reasons. First of all, this is the one internationally significant event with a Hungarian dimension that has taken place within living memory. In the West, 1956 took place in the modern media age, so that it was a decisive experience for many important figures in today’s political, cultural and literary life. It was also a positive experience, with appreciable significance, in contrast to the pre-revolutionary image of Hungary and the Hungarians, which had hardly been flattering. Indeed, Hungary’s image had tended to be unfavourable since the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (Jeszenszky 1986; Evans 2003; Molnár 2001); little occurred between the two world 35

wars to improve it; and Hungary’s wartime alliance with Hitler had done it further damage. Although the Soviet occupation had made the country a victim, that did not alter the image of the Hungarians very much (any more than the praiseworthy efforts of the Hungarian democratic émigré community did). What did result in a change to that image was the 1956 Hungarian Revolution. However, the picture was still one-sided: it now became quite positive but remained one of Hungary as perceived in 1956. The strongest signal that the subjugated societies of Eastern Europe were straining against the Soviet-type system had come from Budapest, but the kind of nationalism to breach the peace of the region did not emerge in 1956. (This had been a persistent, often unjust and exaggerated charge against the Hungarians in earlier decades.) Although the revolution failed, it brought clear victories later on: in the shape of a reformed, more human and liveable type of socialism. The detrimental side of the defeat, on the other hand, was soon forgotten, or remained concealed. The reprisals aroused widespread international outrage but this did not last long and was seldom mentioned after the amnesty of 1963. ‘Fifty-six’ made Hungary ‘different’ in the eyes of the West, distinguishing it from the seeming uniformity of ‘Eastern Europe’. Indeed, Hungary was different, but not as different as Poland, which revolted every 12 years. The 1956 Revolution was scored as a factor in favour of Hungarian society, even though there remained a nimbus around its post-1956 leader, János Kádár, who had defeated the revolution.4

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Meanwhile Hungary itself saw the world differently, and more realistically after 1956 than it had before. On the one hand, 1956 opened the eyes of some people in Hungarian society; it made them more disillusioned and ended their hopes for a miracle, based on the expectation that the Hungarians had only to rise up for the democratic West to free them, or at least give them effective support. On the other hand, 1956 opened Hungary up inasmuch as the other side of the Iron Curtain became visible. Two hundred thousand people from all strata and groups in society had left Hungary, and then integrated into another world, of which they sent regular reports. This had followed a decade in which the Hungarian public had heard little about the outside world—years in which it had been able to gather only a distorted, fragmented picture of life on the far side of the Iron Curtain. That isolation could not be sustained after the wave of emigration.5 Masses of people—relations, friends, acquaintances—were receiving regular information from the ‘other side’ on daily life there, initially in indirect, written reports, but from the mid-1960s onwards, often directly, in personal contacts. This information and experience usually told of success, due to various factors, including both the socio-psychological make-up of the émigrés and the exceptional supportiveness of the host populations, perhaps triggered by pangs of conscience. One thing was certain: thereafter, the socialist system in Hungary had little opportunity to claim it surpassed its capitalist adversary in all things.

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Finally, in 1989, ‘fifty-six’ gained a new and more permanent place in history; the Hungarian Revolution became the forerunner, even the harbinger of the great changes of 1989 – 1991, Central and Eastern Europe’s ‘velvet revolution’ (Az 1956-os magyar forradalom 1993; Tőkés 1997). It now came to be seen as an early, heroic attempt, doomed to failure, that paved the way for what was finally achieved in 1989; as a sacrifice that gained sense and significance three-and-a-half decades later. The Kádárite spin on 1956 and Kádár’s warm reception and good contacts in the West came to be seen as mere fleeting episodes in Hungary’s history. The ‘vision’ of 1956 The Hungarian Revolution of 1956 was a reaction to the attempted introduction of the classical, Stalinist type of Soviet system. It also harked back to the pre-war period, for the entrenched Soviet system failed to solve the underlying issues of the interwar period, or rather, offered only seemingly, short-term solutions to them (Romsics 1999). Its prescription for the problem of economic and political modernisation was forced industrialisation, a state command economy, and a high rate of mobility that levelled society downwards. As for the problems of the independence of the Hungarian nation-state and the revision of its international boundaries, it was claimed that these could be solved through the creation of a utopian Soviet-led internationalist community and the mutual harmony and agreement that this would create. In the longer term, rather than solving the issues, such ‘solutions’ only reproduced them in a graver form. 38

The aims and ideas of 1956 were a long time forming. Some were responses to challenges of the moment, but some—democratic transformation of the country and restoration of the independent nation-state—had preoccupied politically minded Hungarians for decades. The demands drawn up around 23 October showed a rare degree of unanimity over the common ground in Hungarian society.6 This included the negative programme of dismantling the communist political system; the achievement of national independence; the recovery and fostering of national traditions; respect for basic democratic rights and freedoms; the restoration of a multiparty system; and the holding of free elections. Most of the political programmes stated plainly that the new property relations that had developed since 1949 (land reform and the nationalisation of manufacturing, wholesale trade and the banking system) were not to be reversed: reprivatisation of the economy was firmly rejected. In other words, the revolutionary programme envisaged retaining state ownership and the state’s role of directing the economy, or as another, quite unclear solution, subjecting this to real socialisation (based on the collective ownership rights of the workers, exercised through the workers’ councils). The system of workers’ councils itself developed all over the country with astonishing speed, so that it was able to turn into an alternative base of power after 4 November.7 In this way the revolutionaries saw before them a kind of third-road ‘vision’: a political system based on representative democracy (with some direct, ‘self-managing’ forms as well) and a state-run welfare economy based on broad public ownership. Although 39

Soviet socialism had very few advocates in 1956, socialism, especially Hungarian socialism, seems to have had quite a lot, for reasons that need to be sought mainly in the antecedents to the revolution. The political experience of the participants had been obtained under the pre-war and wartime system and in the coalition period of 1945 – 1946. The Horthy regime had been quite discredited by its ignominious end and the painful memories of it. Everyone was anxious to dissociate themselves from any ‘restoration’, while the coalition period could serve only as a starting point. No one wanted to return to the conditions that had prepared the way for the communist takeover. The political programme of the revolution embraced the Western pattern of democracy, complete with its institutional and legal framework, but this Western democracy would have been peopled by Hungarians who seemed reluctant to make fundamental changes in the socio-economic arrangements typical of Stalinist socialism. Capitalism and the market economy were classed as a legacy of the past that was doomed to oblivion. Illusions about a state-run economy were also widespread in the West before the war and for decades afterwards. There were still, in 1956, very lively expectations of ‘socialism’, as a system that would approximate better than any before to the ideal of justice. It was as if people were thinking they could create their own Hungarian socialism once the country was independent again and not obliged to adopt Soviet patterns. The political and social programme of 1956 certainly seemed to have a third-road, democratic and left-wing character. 40

However, it is worth considering some special factors that can modify this picture. Political discourse and mass communications in the few short days when full freedom of speech applied were largely exercised by the Communist party opposition or its former members. The party opposition also had the best known politician: Imre Nagy (see Méray 1959; Molnár & Nagy 1959; Unwin 1991). The demands that gained publicity were so uniform because the new language of public discourse had been developed by the party intelligentsia and they, of course, were best at speaking it. The non-communist participants in political life had only just emerged from long years of oppression, or in many cases long prison sentences. They, understandably, spoke in a cautious or restrained tone if they said anything at all. The middle class of the interwar period had proved unable to rally after 1945. There was still an element of self-restraint and self-censorship in the revolution, on the grounds that an independent Hungary might be more acceptable to the Soviet Union if it was socialist at least, an idea probably influenced by the example of Tito’s Yugoslavia. The speed of events and short duration of the revolution left no time to work out demands in full, let alone thrash out opposing views. Everything that called for a longer period of elaboration was lacking. For instance, no detailed economic or economic-policy ideas were devised. Nor was there a foreign policy programme for 1956—withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact and the call for neutrality were just responses to preparations for the second Soviet invasion. As for the ideology of the populist writers—the last great, specifically Hungarian current of political ideas 41

(Borbándi 1976)—it had never shaped up into a coherent political programme. István Bibó, its most conscious representative, had tried to formulate a programme in 1945 – 1948, but the developing conditions of Stalinism had prevented him from completing it. However, Bibó’s political vision at the end of the 1940s was an anticipation of 1956 (Bibó 1991). A democrat with socialist features, closed to the right but open to the left, and with third-road ‘people’s’ ideas, he probably exerted the decisive influence on the most active, politically conscious actors and observers of 1956. There is probably some truth in the comment of two Hungarian authors, a historian and a political scientist, in 1989: the closest that the Utopia of the ‘people’s’ movement came to earth in the twentieth century was in 1956 (Csicskó & Körösényi 1989, pp. 118 – 183). By mid-century it had become apparent that totalitarian responses to the crisis of the previous century were unacceptable in their entirety, but certain elements of them still seemed in 1956 as if they might be adapted to a system that was essentially anti-authoritarian. Such elements were direct democracy, collective ownership, economic planning, and a paternalistic state; they might also be viewed as necessary correctives to the crisis-ridden market coordination and liberal democracy of the West. There is no knowing how much resemblance the political formula of 1956, if it had been applied, would have borne to that of 1945 or of 1947, or even to the political map of Hungary after 1989. It was a failed revolution, not a victorious one, that defined the political debates 42

that the revolution’s participants held in exile and then after the change of system. Their ideas did not derive from political debates of 1956 because no such debates were then held. Nor did any political thinking, party or school of thought survive that was specific to 1956. Yet 1956 did leave a positive political tradition that survives to this day. The democratic transformation of 1989 – 1990 drew not only political aims and ideas, but also moral strength from the memory of 1956 (Kis 1995, pp. 33 – 60; Rainer 2002, pp. 211 – 222). This spiritual relationship between the earlier and later changers of the system was especially strong in the first stage of the system-changing process, when the Kádár regime was being dismantled. To that extent, the new Hungarian democracy is a direct heir of the 1956 Revolution, a fact that later more recent disputes cannot alter. Significance and memory—a revolution in the twentieth century?

nineteenth-century

Fifty-six clearly influenced the subsequent history of the Soviet-type system in Hungary, but it did not make an immediate alteration to the fate of Hungarian society. The Soviet empire had the power to prevent Hungary from breaking away and thereby robbed Hungary of perhaps the most exciting experiment in its twentieth-century history. Péter Kende, writing in 1995, defined the international significance of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution as follows: firstly, he argued, the revolution shook the Soviet empire, hitherto thought to be immovable; secondly, it burst the political, even philosophical dogma 43

of Soviet socialism, attacking the myths about the Soviet system that existed widely among the Western intelligentsia, myths that had been nourished further by victory in the world war; thirdly, Hungary provided a model for a revolutionary popular movement that would end totalitarianism (Kende 1996, pp. 165 – 180). On Kende’s first point, it is certainly the case that the Hungarian Revolution caused real confusion and a mood of crisis in Moscow and among its loyal satellites, but its outcome appeared not to shake the Soviet Union at all. On the contrary, leaving aside the heavy Cold War rhetoric of the period, the crisis left it clear that the United States and the West were not going to question the post-war status quo. Revision of the system of interrelations between the Soviet Union and its allies was not caused simply by their perceptions of 1956, but by the whole complex of insights that came about after the death of Stalin. Indeed, according to some historians, 1956 tended to confuse and delay an evolutionary process that might have ended, they envisage, in some kind of positive scenario, as a gorbachevshchina taking place three decades earlier than it eventually did (Kende 1996, pp. 168 – 171; cf. Kissinger 1994, pp. 556 – 561). In fact, it can be suggested, the Hungarian Revolution slowed the de-Stalinisation process only for a short time. Only six months later, Khrushchev had settled scores with his political opponents and thereafter, the Soviet Union soon reached the ‘peak’ of its development (having gained a slight advantage in the arms race), and at the beginning of the 1960s, undertook an experiment in domestic modernisation through reforms.

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On Kende’s second point, the Hungarian Revolution did indeed strike a blow at the concepts of Marxist socialism, but it seems at most to have been one important stage in a process of disenchantment. Czechoslovakia’s spring of 1968 and the left-wing student movements of Western Europe and North America showed criticism of the bureaucratised, imperialist Soviet Union cohabiting well with various hopes of realising Marxism – Leninism. These hopes were even strengthened by some aspects of the Hungarian Revolution: the workers’ councils, the reform communist and socialist writers and politicians, and the communist Imre Nagy and his government. Finally, on the third point raised by Kende, as 1989 showed, and 1968 and 1980 – 1981 come to that, the Hungarian Revolution did not become a pattern for over-throwing the Soviet system, or of dismantling it, or of building it up again, for not one similar event occurred. Fifty-six was far more a deterrent example than a model. In that sense, 1956 was not a forerunner of 1989. However, despite these qualifications, Péter Kende’s theses are still true, although in an indirect way, as a long-term tendency, and not in a mechanical sense. Things could not continue after 1956 as they had done before. The phenomenon of the Hungarian Revolution had made everyone think: both those who had rebelled against the Soviet system, and those who had tried to sustain or even spread the system. The dreadful memory of the force of the subjugated society and the open clash

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with it—fear of 1956—remained in every subsequent decision.8 Fifty-six, for a good while, fuelled an invisible process whose results would appear later, at the end of the century. In that sense, the moral force and example of 1956 had world historical importance. The often dissonant domestic debates on the Hungarian Revolution led to a curiously self-contradictory situation in which this was all much clearer abroad than it was at home in Hungary. Although there is no way to analyse these debates, they cannot be left unmentioned. One of the many factors that could be cited is integrally connected with the line of argument in this text: the historical components of Hungarian identity developed under nineteenth-century romanticism, which is still a great influence on it. One basic element of it is a tableau of rebellion for freedom and independence, of struggle and heroic efforts that fail, and always for external reasons, due to indifference or even treachery. Self-reflection, many-sided analysis and a sense of one’s own responsibility form no integral part of this historical awareness and politics of reminiscence. Instead, the stress is on the shifting of responsibility and resolution through tragedy. It was on the clichés of this tableau of the great traumas of the twentieth century, the first and second world wars, that collective memory in Hungary was based. Through the prism of 1956, something similar happened to the memory of the Soviet system in Hungary as well. According to this view, 1956 seems like a delayed nineteenth-century revolution. That is what the repeated symbols of 1848 refer to, with the tableau erected at the 46

same time as the revolution showing heroism, idealism and clarity. Its amazingly short duration, its bloodshed, and the impossibility of digesting its memory saved the 1956 Revolution and its participants for a good while from the disintegration characteristic of the twentieth century. Even in 1989, it still seemed as though the romantic-hero characters were on the stage in 1956—the People, Good, Evil, the Worker, the Street, the Child of the Street, the Prime Minister, the Cardinal among others—characters who had vanished long ago elsewhere and would never appear in these roles again. Television hardly existed in Hungary in 1956, but the mid-twentieth century marked the prelude to today’s media age. Fifty-six never had and probably never will have its Victor Hugo or its Mór Jókai,9 able to create a literary tableau for it. The picture of the revolution can only remain nineteenth century in the unreflecting, tragic national collective memory. Seen more closely, it can ‘only’ be twentieth century and its memory diffuse, the subject of constant construction and deconstruction, which inevitably generates debate. Its evidential aspects, such as heroism, betrayal, failure or relative success, are constantly questioned, but the question marks in this discourse are provided by the post-modern twenty-first century. The development of the twentieth-century tradition, for which the nineteenth century provides no pattern, is still in progress. What place Hungary’s 1956 obtains in it depends also on us and our exchanges of opinion. The Institute for the History of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, Budapest

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References Arendt, H. (1963) On Revolution (New York, Viking). Az 1956-os magyar forradalom helye a szovjet kommunista rendszer összeomlaśában [The Place of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution in the Decline of Soviet Communist System] (1993) Minutes of an International Conference, Hungarian National Library, 13–15 June 1991 (Budapest, 1956-os Intézet). Békeś, C., Byrne, M. & Rainer, J.M. (eds) (2002) The 1956 Hungarian Revolution. A History in Documents (Budapest and New York, Central European University Press). Bibó, I. (1991) Democracy, Revolution, Self-Determination. Selected Writings (K. Nagy, ed.) (New York, Atlantic Research and Publications—Social Science Monographs). Borbándi, G. (1976) Die Ungarische Populismus, Schriften des Ungarischen Instituts München, No. 7 (Mainz and Munich, Studia Hungarica). Borbándi, G. (1989) A magyar emigráció eĺetrajza 1945–1985 [The Biography of the Hungarian Emigration] (Budapest, Európa Könyvkiadó). Congdon, L.W. & Király, B.K. (eds) (2002) The Ideas of the Hungarian Revolution, Suppressed and Victorious 1956–1999 (New York, Atlantic Research and Publications).

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Csepeli, G., Dessewffy, T., Dulovics, D. & Tóka, G. (1998) ‘Menekültek eś elmeĺetek (Az 1956-os forradalom után Nyugatra menekültek attitűdjeinek befejezetlen vizsgálata az Amerikai Egyesült államokban)’ [‘Refugees and Concepts: An Unfinished American Research on Attitudes of Those Left for West’], in Évkönyv [Yearbook] 1998 (Budapest, 1956-os Intézet). Csicskó, M. & Körösényi, A. (1989) ‘Egy harmadikutas szocializmus—utópia földközelben. A Petőfi Párt 1956–67-ben’ [‘A Third Road Socialism—Utopia Coming to Earth. The Petőfi Party in 1956–57’], Századvég, pp. 1 – 2. Evans, R.J.W. (2003) ‘Hungary in the Habsburg Monarchy in the 19th Century. The British Dimension’, The Hungarian Quarterly, XLIII, 171, Autumn. Fitzpatrick, S. (ed.) (2000) Stalinism: New Directions (London, Routledge). Heller, A. & Feheŕ, F. (1983) Hungary 1956 Revisited. A Message of a Revolution—a Quarter of a Century After (London, George Allen and Unwin). Hobsbawm, E. (1994) The Age of Extremes: The Short Twentieth Century, 1914–1991 (London, Penguin). Huszár, T. (2001–03) Kádaŕ János politikai eĺetrajza Vol. 1–2 (Budapest, Szabad Tér).

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Jeszenszky, G. (1986) Az elveszett presztiźs: Magyarország megíteĺeśeńek megváltozása Nagy-Britanniában, 1894–1918 [The Lost Prestige. The Changing Appraisal of Hungary in Great Britain] (Budapest, Magvető Kőnyvkiadó). Kende, P. (1996) ‘Afterword’, in Litván, G., Bak, J. & Legters, L. H. (eds) (1996). Kis, J. (1995) ‘Reform and Revolution: Three Hypotheses About the Nature of Regime Change’, in Király, B.K. & Bozóki, A. (eds) (1995) Lawful Revolution in Hungary, 1989–94 (Boulder and Highland Lakes, Atlantic Research and Publications). Kissinger, H. (1994) Diplomacy (New York, Simon & Schuster). Kornai, J. (1992) The Socialist System: The Political Economy of Communism (Oxford and Princeton, NJ, Oxford University Press and Princeton University Press). Litván, G., Bak, J. & Legters, L.H. (eds) (1996) The Hungarian Revolution of 1956. Reform, Revolt and Repression 1953–1963 (London, Longman). Lomax, B. (1976) Hungary 1956 (London, Allison & Busby). Méray, T. (1959) Thirteen Days that Shook the Kremlin (New York, Praeger).

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Molnár, M. (2001) A Concise History of Hungary (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press). Molnár, M. & Nagy, L. (1959) Imre Nagy, réformateur ou révolutionnaire? Publications de l’Institut Universitaire des Hautes Études Internationales, 3 (Geneva and Paris, Ambilly Presse). Rainer, J.M. (2002) ‘Regime Change and the Tradition of 1956’, in Bozóki, A. (ed.) (2002) The Roundtable Talks of 1989. The Genesis of Hungarian Democracy. Analysis and Documents (Budapest, Central European University Press). Rainer, J. (2005) ‘The Sixties in Hungary—Some Historical and Political Approaches’, in Rainer, J. M. & Péteri, G. (eds) (2005). Rainer, J.M. & Péteri, G. (eds) (2005) Muddling Through in the Long 1960s. Ideas and Everyday Life in High Politics and the Lower Classes of Communist Hungary, Trondheim Studies on East European Cultures and Societies, No. 16 (Budapest and Trondheim, 1956 Institute, Program on East European Cultures and Societies). Romsics, I. (1999) Hungary in the Twentieth Century (Budapest, Corvina-Osiris). Rupnik, J. (1988) ‘Totalitarianism Revisited’, in Keane, J. (ed.) (1988) Civil Society and the State (New York and London, Verso). 51

Shawcross, W. (1974) Crime and Compromise (Dutton, USA). Tőkés, R.L. (1997) Hungary’s Negotiated Revolution: Economic Reform, Social Change, and Political Succession, 1957–1990 (Pittsburgh, University of Pittsburgh Press). Unwin, P. (1991) Voice in the Wilderness: Imre Nagy and the Hungarian Revolution (London, Macdonald). 1

For general reading on the 1956 Hungarian Revolution see the following: Litván et al. (1996), Békeś et al. (2002), and Congdon and Király (2002). See also the website of the Institute for the History of the 1956 Revolution, http://www.rev.hu (English version). 2

On the Kádár system and the period of its establishment see Rainer and Péteri (2005). 3

Despite the acceptable arguments against the use of the term ‘totalitarianism’ within the analytical framework of the Soviet-type systems (see e.g. Fitzpatrick 2000, pp. 1 – 14) here I use the term because my viewpoint is mainly that of political history. On the new wave of totalitarian concepts in Eastern Europe see Rupnik (1988, pp. 263 – 289). 4

On János Kádár see Shawcross (1974) and Huszár (2001 – 2003). An English version of Huszár’s biography János Kádár—A Political Biography is currently in press.

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5

The Hungarian emigration after 1956 is still a relatively under-researched part of history. On its political character see Borbándi (1989). On the émigrés’ attitudes towards communism and the country they left behind see Csepeli et al. (1998, pp. 253 – 286). 6

Most famous of those programmes is the ‘16 Points of the Budapest Technical University Students’: see Békés et al. (2002, pp. 188 – 190). 7

On workers’ councils see Arendt (1963, pp. 270 – 271), Heller and Fehér (1983), and Lomax 1976). 8

For a discussion of the consequences of this fear of 1956 for Hungary in the 1960s and beyond, see Rainer (2005). 9

Mór Jókai (1825 – 1904) was a novelist and the greatest representative of nineteenth century romanticism in Hungary. He wrote significant works on the 1848 – 1849 Hungarian Revolution and the fight for freedom.

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Memory and Discourse on the 1956 Hungarian Revolution GÁBOR GYÁNI BOTH

PERSONAL RECOLLECTION AND COLLECTIVE MEMORY

of acute interest in scholarly discourse in many countries in recent years. This development probably reflects a new, or renewed need both for individual and group identity, caused by the obvious erosion of old, well-established group identities, such as national identities (Smith 1991), as well as class identities. The community identities that have been emerging recently also need the support of history, in the form of a vivid memory of a usable past that can lend legitimacy to their present-day existence. Moreover, the cult of memory as an underpinning of identity allows lively contact to be maintained with the past, for—as John R. Gillis puts it—‘a sense of sameness over time and space, is sustained by remembering; and what is remembered is defined by the assumed identity’ (Gillis 1996, p. 3). HAVE BECOME MATTERS

Memory and identity both relate to individual experience, but the necessarily social dimensions of historicity must extend beyond a phenomenological approach. Yet this requires a true appreciation of the role that the narrative form of the past can perform. Also significant in such an appreciation are analyses of the stories and story-telling, the temporal unfolding of events, and the relations existing ‘among the points of view on those events belonging to characters in the story,

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the teller of the story, and the audience to whom the story is told’ (Carr 1991, p. 5). It is worth emphasising in terms of the 1956 revolution that the memory was shaped first and foremost, and even determined, by the harsh terror that came as its aftermath, and not least by the permanent presence of the Soviet army in the country. These related circumstances stood behind both the forced amnesia—the attempt of the Kádárite authorities to contain the still vivid social memory of 1956—and the ultimate failure of that attempt.1 Although we cannot speak of public opinion as such, the public oblivion surrounding 1956 seemed to be deep and irreversible. However, the regime had to be careful not to take the public silence at face value, since official policy measures to eradicate the memory of the population could never be completely effective. Awareness of the origins—the original sin—of the regime was not going to be expunged, not even by the compromise that it made with the majority of society in the 1960s, when it relied on systematically depoliticising everyday life and creating a private sphere for economic and cultural activity (Feher 1979, p. 29). In particular it was impossible to forget entirely the role played in Hungary by the Soviet Union, or as the eloquent official phrase put it, by ‘the Soviet army temporarily stationed in our country’. This and several other hard facts were always there to remind people of how the Soviet army had moved in to suppress the revolution and impose the new Kádárite power system by force. Even the oft-heard boast that Hungary was ‘the merriest barracks in the bloc’ referred latently to 1956 as the historical event that alone had made that possible at all. 55

So as we try to assess the real weight and comprehend the precise meaning of 1956, in the past and in today’s collective memory in Hungary,2 one has to be ready to apply the notion of myth, as Jan Assmann and Paul Connerton have advocated. For example, Assmann (1992) makes a clear distinction between ‘cold’ and ‘hot’ memory, arguing that only the latter can invest the present with definite meaning. Hot memory renders the past worth remembering by suggesting it is still with us. Therefore, any account of the past influenced by hot memory immediately becomes a ‘grounding narrative’, a sort of myth embracing facts and fictions, history and mythology alike: the grounding narrative is a myth that is at once fictitious and factual. Let me emphasise at this point that the memory of the 1956 revolution has always been a myth of that kind. It became a grounding narrative as soon as the Kádár regime had established itself, and this seems to be confirmed by Kádárite memory politics itself. Propaganda during the so-called consolidation period, not long after the harsh terror of the late 1950s, referred regularly not to the revolution as such, but to the canonised interpretation of the revolution. The practice was to cite the main theses of the party resolution passed in December 1956, which had been designed to lay the foundations of the Kádárite political system. Even when the tenth anniversary came round, this party declaration was mainly evoked, along with the achievements that the regime claimed for itself in the decade since 1956 (Ripp 2002, p. 238). The revolution, for the Kádárite political elite, was much more a negative than a positive grounding 56

narrative or myth, and so the memory politics of the day tended more to obscure it than to reconstruct the actual story of a notable event. The commonest method applied was to impose silence about 1956 and rigorously restrict the knowledge available for any public discussion of it. Information included in the retaliatory documents, the propaganda material produced and manipulated by the Kádárite political police (the so-called White Book and similar texts) were the only permitted source for school curricula, historical textbooks or the mass media. This legacy of the Kádár era in terms of memory of the revolution came up for reversal with the political change of 1989, which transformed it into a positive grounding narrative. The way was opened for doing so by the ceremony before the reburial of Imre Nagy and his fellow martyrs, held in June 1989 in Heroes’ Square in Budapest. However, the initial great hopes of the process were not to be fulfilled.3 The reburial ceremony itself revealed the secret that there had not been a consensus on what 1956 was to mean for the present. It emerged again that modern memory too is born from what Gillis calls ‘an intense awareness of the conflicting representations of the past and the effort of each group to make its version the basis’ of commemoration (1996, p. 8). Does this mean that 1956 finally lost all of its mythic importance and meaning? Not at all, but in trying to obtain a nuanced picture, it is important to place it into a conceptual framework that assumes there has always been a big difference between the notions of ritual and myth. The mythic material contains a wide range of possible meanings and interpretations, so that selection among them derives from the function the myth 57

performs in a specific context, as a grounding narrative. As Paul Connerton has pointed out, ‘by comparison with myths, the structure of rituals has significantly less potential for variance’ (1989, p. 58). Because ritual is both performing language and formalised language, it is a series of speech acts that always takes canonical form. Myth, on the other hand, is often subject to continual reshaping until it eventually gains a relatively stable form and meaning. Those given to lamenting the increasing emptiness of the memory of the 1956 revolution often stress the many contradictory meanings attributed to it at recent public commemorations. The memory of 1956 is dead, they declare, because it no longer has a fixed, unambiguous sense, and this makes it deficient by comparison with a ritual. Yet several efforts have also been made to establish a canon for assessing the revolution and its main heroes. The point around which this revolved was disagreement on how to establish the canon, the single authentic pattern, for remembering Imre Nagy. One of the most striking attempts was made by Erzsébet Nagy, the daughter of Imre Nagy, when she seized the opportunity offered by the double anniversary that occurred in 1996. This was the year of first, the fortieth anniversary of the historic events of 1956 itself, and secondly the hundredth anniversary of Imre Nagy’s birth. Further special significance of the double anniversary lay in the fact that this was the first commemorative occasion to remember the 1956 revolution as freely as possible.

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The professional masters of creating such a collective memory thus soon appeared on the scene in 1996 to fulfil this duty. Accordingly, a TV production was ordered, and a film was envisaged and planned with the aid of some specialist historians. Moreover, a scholarly biography was promised—to be written by a young historian. Looking back now upon these developments, we might say that both of them have finally been accomplished.4 The 1956 revolution, however, was then far from being a distant or closed past, not least because of its live experience, and since many of its active participants, and even sufferers of the repression exercised in the aftermath, were still living. The personal remembrances of these people are always mobilised at an occasion like this; and, in addition, these live experiences pertaining to the remembered past have a central role in creating their own personal identity. This special image of the 1956 revolution has two important attributes: on the one hand it regularly deviates from a historian’s account of the past; and on the other hand, it shows a great internal variety. Since members of each of the rival remembering communities strive for canonising their own version of the historical account, there is no real chance left for compromise, or even peaceful coexistence among the diverse images of history. Consequently, an anniversary soon and necessarily results in sharp conflicts among the various memories appearing before the public. The clash of these demands, each struggling for exclusive primacy over the alternative forms of memory, even concerned the problem of how to interpret Imre Nagy’s personality and his role in the course of history. 59

The debate at that point became so acute that the resulting dispute even became the object of a judicial trial. First, the documentary film, ordered by the Hungarian State TV, and secondly a scholarly biography of Nagy, written by János M. Rainer, provided both the opportunity and the proper material for a suit to be filed by Erzsébet Nagy.5 Nagy’s daughter did her best to dictate what the family saw as the most desirable approach to the image-making process. First, she accused the authors of the TV screenplay of improperly selecting the facts and data describing his life story; some of the selected material, she said, touched on aspects which she judged not to be permissible for discussion at all. In her suit submitted to the court, she declared that Nagy’s alleged involvement in the killing of the Russian Tsar’s family in the early 1920s had to be considered taboo. She also insisted on excluding everybody who had been open enemies or persecutors of Nagy from recalling him in public. The major question emerging at that point was how such a dispute over the right way of remembering the past could become the object of a judicial trial? In this instance the legal basis was provided by an adaptation of the legal term, the protection of personal rights to a case that already belonged to the domain of history. According to the argument the claimant formulated in her suit, it was not exclusively the living, but also dead persons who had an inalienable right to protect their good name. She called the latter the right to reverence, which required to be defended before the court in a case where irreverence had occurred.

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With the passing of time, however, the judicial procedure lost all of its practical meaning, since the programme had been broadcast even before the court could ban it. This, however, led in turn to a second court trial also launched by Erzsébet Nagy. In this case she made repeated protests against certain passages and arguments in the scholarly biography of Nagy by Rainer, which was not yet published at that time. In particular she complained about the part of the book in which the author dealt with Nagy’s supposed role as an NKVD informer during the inter-war period. Although the biographer did not altogether support or justify the hypothesis that Nagy had been an informer, by simply raising the issue at all he seemed not to satisfy the requirements of historical memory advocated by Erzsébet Nagy. In defining the proper way to remember him, she drew a distinction between the documentary and the memory film as genres, which lay, she explained, in the fact that the latter needed no further explanation, interpretation or comment. The facts, properly selected and utilised, would suffice in themselves to convey the history and display the life path of an outstanding historical personality. Such an account, she proposed, would be wholly dedicated to the reverence of that public figure. Moreover, she argued, it was only right that Imre Nagy, who had inscribed his name forever in the memory of the Hungarian nation, should receive such reverence. In addition, she added, there were many tangible signs of his immortality in the West, too. Thus, in essence, the type of memorial work she advocated might simply be labelled hagiographic, an offshoot of a genre dating back to the Middle Ages. 61

This was not the first, and will probably not be the last occasion that the law and the cultivation of collective memory come into open collision with each other in contemporary Hungary. Today’s legal administration individual rights issues in Hungary, by rigorously restricting the scope of any public recalling of the recent past, quite frequently lead to conflicts, and usually result in the rigorous regulation both of research and the publication of archival sources and data. One of the devices adopted for that purpose is anonymisation of historical documents. Another frequently applied method was and has been denying free access to the documents produced by the Secret Police in the period of Communist rule. The result thus gained is a very specific notion of individual rights which holds the rights of historical subjects to enjoy primacy over everyone else’s rights to remember the past as freely as possible. The 1956 revolution raises a distinct problem in this context as it has been a peculiar event which carries very lively, and highly diffuse (plural) historical images of its own, filtered through many individual remembrances and personal historical relics. And this demands not only recording and presentation of the evidence, but some further comment and interpretation. The endeavours of Erzsébet Nagy described above ultimately failed, as the memory of 1956 was still connected more closely to a grounding-narrative type of myth rather than to the ritual form, and could not therefore imply or express a fixed and stable meaning. In instances, when ‘hot’ memory was still at work, any allusions to 1956 necessarily had a vital function in perpetuating some present-day political and ideological 62

ends. On the day of commemoration of the revolution (23 October) there are usually several separate political meetings (quasi-demonstrations) held, under the auspices of political parties, parliamentary and non-parliamentary, each intent on remembering the historical revolution in its own way and according to its own taste. The practice in this has always been to elaborate a historically based self-image for a new, quasi-democratic political power. But how can one explain discovery of the past becoming a way to gain or preserve mass political support or voter loyalty? What I would like to emphasise is that the political discourse arising after 1989 was soon confronted with the image of the once interrupted past that has been waiting for the restoration. As the past is so various and contradictory an entity, deciding what part of it is worth restoring and how to restore it, usually raises the problem of choosing between multiple forms of history. The result achieved depends closely upon the consciously chosen context into which this or that historical interpretation is placed. Amidst conditions in which a historically based political discourse tends to dictate how the past is read, the historical vision, constructed in a teleological fashion, has to shape or even determine how the story is told.6 A case in point was the mythical vision of 1956 devised in the late 1990s and early 2000s by the political party Fidesz, which was then in government. They had an image of a linear development in Hungary, beginning as early as 1956 and moving in the direction of the ostensibly bourgeois government they now embodied. So in this view, the specific sense and the real 63

significance of 1956 lay only in its anticipation of the day when Fidesz would eventually come to power. This view followed logically from their firm belief that they alone could continue and restore the legacy of 1956, which had been neglected even after 1989. By assuming the role of the present true mouthpiece of an exclusive historical truth about 1956, the storyteller (in this case a specific political actor) dubbed the 1956 revolution as distinctively bourgeois and turned an image of the past into a mere reflection of the future. Commemoration of this kind can easily be identified as a case of using history instrumentally, for present-day political aims. The importance of discovering a past that can be used for political purposes is shown by the permanent discourse entitled ‘return to history’ pursued since 1989. There are several questions that one must answer in discussing the ‘return to history’: what is the reason for the increased use of the past, and which kind of past is preferred or chosen to be revived? There is no room here for highlighting the problem in its entirety and only some aspects of it can be mentioned very briefly.7 The return to history is a restoration, if only symbolic, of the interrupted continuity and generally springs from two motives, depending on the analyst. Communist rule was unable to solve several fundamental problems of the Central and East European region, for instance, border disputes, and the lack of national sovereignty. In addition, it did not know how to incorporate itself into the normal historical process of the affected states. One might even dare to say that Communism was never able to forge for itself a credible historical image with which the people were able to identify unconditionally. 64

The disowning of the past in Hungary during the reign of the Communists is directly linked to the Kádár era. As already mentioned, the Kádár system, in sharp contrast to the Rákosi system of the 1950s representing true Stalinism in Hungary, began to forget that history even existed. There were two sources of this behaviour: the desire to stifle the remembrance of the 1956 revolution; and the desire to complete the full depoliticisation of society. The substantial political change in 1989 brought history back. The political apathy of the masses quickly gave way to an urge to create a ‘normal’ political culture. This new political culture could be constructed from both imported and domestic material. However, the adoption of the political ideas of Western political structures involves for very different reasons great difficulty. Thus, the only or at least a palpable practicable way is to make use of domestic material, the nation’s past, the intellectual material that can be extracted from history and handed down. That is one possible source of the desire to bring back history and place it at the centre of present-day politics which seems to be a ubiquitous phenomenon in the post-communist countries. Perhaps it also relates to the preservation or gain of vitally important mass political support or assurance of the passive loyalty of people, the voters, who are faced with the multiplying economic or social problems caused by the market system. Perhaps it is an emerging social sympathy in a situation where the former mechanisms of legitimacy have suddenly ceased to operate. These mechanisms included the fear of terror or of its remembrance, discrimination and the gentler 65

forms of suppression, political apathy, and, last but not least, the involvement of many in maintaining the old system, which also rewarded this active role. In the midst of such critical conditions, the conscious political use of a century-old or older ‘inventing of traditions’ technique is perfectly understandable. Within the matrix of the potential past to be revived and used for legitimating this or that present political authority, a specific ‘bourgeois’ heritage is also on offer. Accordingly, the historical roots of capitalist development, the forces that encouraged it, the phenomenon of ‘embourgeoisement’ are also subjects of this historicisation practice, a discourse began by the scholars (sociologists and social historians, in particular) even before 1989, and further pursued by the politicians in the aftermath of 1989. I am far from suggesting that there is a close connection between Iván Szelényi’s concept of the ‘interrupted embourgeoisement’ and the notion held by Fidesz that the 1956 revolution had been a failed bourgeois revolt (Szelényi 1988). Still, the assertion, made by that well-known Hungarian-American sociologist, even as early as the late 1980s, that the only way to link up the authentic past is a reliance on the entrepreneurial tradition, and the demand of the true ‘bourgeois’ political forces of the present (embodied by Fidesz) to pick up, continue and fulfil the bourgeois heritage of 1956, seem to follow the same inner logic. One question that remains is the role of historians: how do they contribute to the memory work under the rule of hot memory, or how can they so contribute? The 66

question of the authenticity of the various memories, whether they are true or not as historical accounts, seems a less relevant issue now when the basically constructive nature of any type of memory work has been identified. The logic of construction, as we have learned from narrative psychology, is always ensured by textual editing. Accordingly, remembering itself is an act of narration, systematisation and representation.8 Remembering, therefore, means that we tend to accommodate our memories to the framework of a coherent story. The ‘realistic’ nature and the mere credibility of the events recalled are thus provided not by their close reference to the actual events in the past, but rather by their relevance and specific meaning gained from the story itself. Since the act of remembering is plainly retrospective in its character, we actually express not our genuine experience of the past processed in a narrative mode, but the past revealed only from the perspective of the present (in the so-called hermeneutic circle). So the putative responsibility of historians also needs reformulating. One main consequence is that historians resign involuntarily their exclusive right to narrate the historical truth: the perspective from which the information has been produced by memory work presupposes that none can claim more than to have one possible narrative version of a world that is already lost. This is wholly consonant with the substantially hermeneutic nature of every kind of recognition, whether based on personal memory or on clearly scholarly pursuits.9 Yet historians attempting to integrate the millions of past narratives generated by memory work 67

are by no means compelled to follow one line of ordinary memory work or another. This derives from their responsibility for establishing and maintaining a discursive mode of representing the historical past. Yet not even historians are immune to ‘misjudgement’ or even serious ‘errors’ in interpreting the past. However, if this discourse meets scholarly standards, historians may hope they finally can succeed in adequately adapting the dialectic of memory and forgetting on a rational basis, and thereby maintain some distance between themselves and the subjective view entailed in personal memory work and the diverse myths of collective memory. This does not concern the well-established notion of historical objectivity, an idea coming from the nineteenth century. Due both to the hermeneutics and the theory of narrativity formulated primarily by Hayden White and his followers, who advocate the (much disputed) tropology theory of representation, the unambiguous division between absolute objectivity and the arbitrary subjective interpretation of past events looks no longer to be a feasible tenet (White 1973; Ankersmit 1983). It is time to look more closely at the post-1989 historiography of 1956. It might be argued that this has none too high or stable a status in the hierarchy of memory work. Despite every effort by a handful of high-level researchers, recruited mainly from the younger generations of historians, their contributions to the common historical knowledge and image of 1956 have gained limited credibility or prestige. This is partly because of the legacy of the revisionist communist interpretation of 1956, which was decisive for so long in shaping the historians’ discourse. Its more or less 68

continual intellectual presence began with the extensive researches of the Imre Nagy Institute in Brussels, in the aftermath of the revolution, and continued with many later publications by émigrés of that political persuasion (Litván 1992). As a reaction to this, there appeared soon after 1989 a right-wing, or at least conservative type of interpretation of 1956, presented by several previously obscure experts, including historians, jurists, political journalists, and even amateur researchers. The tension necessarily arising between the two sides also had political connotations, despite the intentions of some of those involved.10 This was no help to historians who sought earnestly to keep their distance from subjective points of views that resulted from obvious differences in the way the revolutionary events were experienced at the time. There are still rival, irreconcilable images of the 1956 revolution in currency even within the frames of memory work conducted on a scholarly basis under the aegis of institutionalised craftsmanship. This is due only in part to the natural divergences that mark discursive practice, and much more to the domination of the plural historical narratives based on personal recollection or other forms of collective memory. The case very briefly sketched here seems to suggest there is some validity in the post-modern belief that everyone can be his or her own historian, in line with the democratisation of the past, even if such a belief causes anxiety among the professionals who still hold a near-monopoly over the memory of the past.11 Institute of History of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and 69

Social Science Faculty of Eötvös Lóránd University, Budapest References Ankersmit, F.R. (1983) Narrative Logic. A Semantic Analysis of the Historian’s Language (The Hague, Martinus Nijhoff Philosophy Library). Assmann, J. (1992) Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (Munich, C. H. Beck). Carr, D. (1991) Time, Narrative, and (Bloomington, Indiana University Press). Connerton, P. (1989) How Societies (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press).

History

Remember

Feher, F. (1979) ‘Kadarism as the Model State of Khrushchevism’, Telos, 40, Summer. Gillis, J.R. (1996) ‘Memory and Identity: The History of a Relationship’, in Gillis, J.R. (ed.) (1996) Commemorations. The Politics of National Identity (Princeton, Princeton University Press). Gyáni, G. (1993) ‘Political Uses of Tradition in Postcommunist East Central Europe’, Social Research, 60, 4, Winter.

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Gyáni, G. (2001) ‘1956 elfelejtésének régi-új mítosza’, Élet eś Irodalom, 9 February. Gyáni, G. (2002) ‘Emlékezeti kánonok—emlékező közösségek’, in Évkönyv X. Magyarország a jelenkorban (Budapest, 56-os Intézet). Gyáni, G. (2003) Posztmodern kánon (Budapest, Nemzeti Tankönyvkiadó). György, P. (2000) Néma hagyomańy. Kollektív felejtés és a kései muĺteŕtelmeześ 1956 1989-ben (a régmúlttoĺ az örökségig) (Budapest, Magvető). Horváth, K.Z. (2001) ‘Ami személyes és ami kollektív’, Élet eś Irodalom, 13 April. Horváth, S. (2002) ‘1956 történetírása a rendszerváltás óta’, in Évkönyv X. Magyarország a jelenkorban (Budapest, 56-os Intézet). Kende, P. (1993) ‘Megmarad-e 1956 nemzeti hagyománynak?’, in Évkönyv II (Budapest, 1956-os Inteźet). LaCapra, D. (1983) ‘Rethinking Intellectual History and Reading Texts’, in LaCapra, D. (1983) Rethinking Intellectual History. Texts, Contexts, Language (Ithaca, Cornell University Press). Litván, G. (1992) Az 1956-os magyar forradalom hagyomańya eś irodalma (Budapest, MTA Történettudományi Intézet).

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Litván, G. (2000) ‘Mítoszok eś legendák 1956-ról’, in Évkönyv VIII Magyarország a jelenkorban (Budapest, 1956-os Intézet). Litván, G. (2001) ‘Az elnémult hagyomány’, Élet és Irodalom, 13 April. Olafson, F.A. (1986) ‘Hermeneutics: ‘‘Analytical’’ and ‘‘Dialectical’’’, History and Theory, XXV, 4, Beiheft 25. Rainer, J.M. (1996) Nagy Imre. Politikai eĺetrajz. Első kötet 1896–1953 (Budapest, 1956-os Intézet). Rainer, J.M. (1999) Nagy Imre. Politikai eĺetrajz II. 1953–1958 (Budapest, 1956-os Intézet). Rainer, J.M. (2002) Nagy Imre (Budapest, Vince). Rainer, J.M. (2003) Ötvenhat utań (Budapest, 1956-os Inteźet). Ripp, Z. (2002) ‘1956 emlékezete eś az MSZMP’, in Évkönyv 2002. X Magyarország a jelenkorban (Budapest, 56-os Intézet). Samuel, R. (1994) Theatres of Memory. Vol. 1: Past and Present in Contemporary Culture (London & New York, Verso). Smith, A.D. (1991) National Identity (London, Penguin).

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Szelényi, I. (1988) Socialist Entrepreneurs: Embourgeoisement in Rural Hungary (Madison, Wisconsin University Press). White, H. (1973) Metahistory. The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore, The Johns Hopkins University). 1

On the notion of social memory see the following: ‘History is not the prerogative of the historian … rather, a social form of knowledge; the work in any given instance, of a thousand different hands’ (Samuel 1994, p. 8); see also Gyáni (2002, pp. 195 – 201). 2

On the debate revolving around this issue see Gyorgy (2000), Gyáni (2001), Litván (2001) and Horváth (2001). 3

Of the abundant literature on the failure to accord 1956 a true Hungarian lieux de mémoire, see Kende (1993, pp. 7 – 19) and Rainer (2003, especially pp. 223 – 249). 4

As far as the historical biography is concerned see Rainer (1996, 1999, 2002). 5

The material relating to the whole matter was made available to me by János M. Rainer, to whom I express my thanks. 6

For more on this, see Gyáni (2003).

7

For a fuller discussion of the problem see Gyáni (1993, pp. 893 – 915).

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8

We refer here to the studies of narrative psychologists like J. Bruner, D. P. Spence, K. J. Gergen and M. Gergen. And, of course, A. MacIntyre, P. Ricoeur and E. H. Erikson also support that line of argument. 9

Gadamer’s hermeneutics has been directly applied to history in LaCapra (1983, pp. 23 – 69) and Olafson (1986, pp. 28 – 43). 10

On more recent developments in historiography, see two opposing overviews and assessments: Litván (2000, pp. 205 – 219) and Horváth (2002, pp. 215 – 225). 11

This slogan, first voiced by Carl L. Becker several decades ago (in 1935) has been revived by several historians today; see Gillis (1996, p. 17).

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Antifascism, the 1956 Revolution and the Politics of Communist Autobiographies in Hungary 1944 – 2000 JAMES MARK I didn’t use this word ‘liberation’ (felszabadulaś), because in 1956 my life really changed. Everybody’s lives went through a great change, but mine especially…. I wasn’t disgusted with myself that I had called the arrival of the Red Army in 1945 a liberation, but [after 1956] I didn’t use it anymore.

THE ABOVE RESPONDENT CAME FROM A MIDDLE-CLASS JEWISH Budapest family. Members of his family had died in the Holocaust after the German occupation of the country in March 1944. He experienced the arrival of the Red Army as a ‘liberation’ from the threat of deportation, and joined the communist movement immediately after the war. Until 1956 he had seen the world in antifascist terms; fascism was considered to be the greatest evil, and communists the most effective protectors of Hungary from its return. In the uprising of 1956, he had supported the reformed communist forces fighting for a democratic socialism; following the suppression of the revolution by Soviet tanks, he vowed to reject his earlier antifascist history: he revised his notion that the Soviet army had liberated him in 1945 and now cast them as foreign occupiers. When faced with major political or social ruptures, individuals may be forced to rethink the meanings of their lives. Confronted with new political environments and public narratives about the past, they may be compelled to reconsider the stories they tell about themselves 75

(Ashplant et al. 2000, pp. 16 – 25; Portelli 2003, pp. 248 – 276; Mark 2005a; Dower 1996; Thomson 1998). Life stories that once seemed unproblematic might now become politically charged. Narratives that were at one time publicly taboo might be revived, and need to be reshaped, for public consumption. This article will address how one group—Communist party members who joined the movement immediately after World War Two and left after 1956—experienced and reacted to three different political systems, and how their private and public autobiographies were moulded in response. Immediately after the Second World War the Hungarian Communist Party, like many other communist parties in central-eastern Europe, was transformed from a politically marginal, into a mass, organisation. Between 1944 and 1948, its membership rose from an estimated 3,000 to 887,000 (Hanley 2003, p. 1076). Following the communist takeover and the imposition of the Soviet Stalinist form of communism, the liberal wing of the party became disillusioned and their sentiments eventually found political expression in the reformed National communism of Imre Nagy’s ‘New Course’. Many of those who had backed Nagy found themselves supporting, or involved in, the revolution of October 1956, which they viewed as a fight for democratic socialism against the Soviet-backed Stalinists in the party. Many of those who had identified with the uprising were either expelled or chose not to join the reconstituted party after 1956. Party membership collapsed after the uprising; it then recovered slowly but

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at no point before 1989 did it reach the levels of the early communist period. The post-war generation of party members found themselves living through three distinct political environments, in each of which different public narratives about the past were produced. These official histories in turn related to, and made political demands on, these individuals’ own lives. The early communist state before 1956 presented history in terms of the antifascist struggle; the recent past was the story of an ongoing and constant battle between communists and the forces of Fascism. After 1956, the Kádár state retained this antifascist historical narrative but added a new element: the 1956 uprising was understood as the latest clash with reactionary ‘counter-revolutionaries’ who were intent on restoring Fascism to Hungary. However, by the mid-1960s, as the Kádár regime attempted to stabilise and politically demobilise Hungarian society, so politicised versions of the past were increasingly replaced with historical taboos and public silences, particularly over the events of 1956. Since the collapse of communism, newly dominant voices have emerged, particularly from a nationalist conservative viewpoint. These have attempted to destroy the antifascist perspective on the past; Fascism and communism, rather than being regarded as polar opposites, now have their similarities emphasised; both are demonised as periods of totalitarian dictatorship and of foreign occupation. In each of these political periods, individuals from the post-war generation of party members have had to consider how to present their own pasts. In private, 77

individuals’ relationships with public narratives were determined both by their past experiences and their relationship with the new regime; where individuals supported communist power, they were often prepared to identify with its official histories in their descriptions of their own lives, regardless of their own actual past experiences. Yet when these party members were in opposition, even if their lives conformed to the descriptions of history propagated by the regime, they might choose to reject, or reshape, the telling of their own experiences to family or friends. In public too, they had to consider how far they wished to identify with public scripts; this was not merely determined by the level of support for the regime, but the extent to which the individual wished to be seen as politically acceptable in order to avoid discrimination or ensure social mobility (Mark 2005b; Koleva 2001; Niethammer 1995; Valtchinova 2000; Kotkin 1995; Hellbeck 2000, 2001; Halfin 2003). This was particularly the case in the communist period, where citizens had to produce curricula vitae which laid bare their class position, and relationship to previous regimes and political events; individuals had to decide how far they wanted to identify with politically appropriate communist histories in these exercises. For pre-1956 party members, Fascism, Red Army ‘liberation’ and the 1956 uprising have dominated their public and private autobiographical inventions and re-inventions; their understanding of each of these has altered significantly in different political contexts, and it is through the changing narration of these events that individuals revealed their complex and changing relationships with power. 78

The discussion below draws on personal testimony from a broader oral history project, in which interviews were conducted with 78 members of the Budapest intelligentsia and middle classes. Interviews covered a wide variety of topics such as attitudes towards the communist state, resistance, social mobility and family life. They were unstructured in the first half, but contained a series of set topics to be covered in the second. This technique was adopted in order both to give respondents the greatest space to frame their lives in their own subjective terms, but also to ensure that a sufficient body of comparable material would be produced. The following analysis will focus on the testimony of the 13 party members who joined before 1956, and two close supporters of the regime, included in the sample. However, it will also draw on the remainder of the material, in order to assess the image of the Communist party member amongst other social and political groupings.1 It will suggest that through the careful creation and analysis of oral history material, the multiple ways in which individuals have constructed their pasts can be uncovered. In some cases, interviewees self-consciously described how their understandings of their life histories had changed in response to political ruptures. In others, respondents gave different answers when asked the same question but in different historical contexts. In other instances again, a respondent’s contradictory stories suggested that an event had been recounted in various ways at different points in their life, but had not yet been fully integrated into a coherent narrative; analysing the points of inconsistency gave clear indications of the breaks in past interpretations of their lives. 79

1944 – 1956 Antifascism emerged as a concept across Europe in the mid-1930s in response to the emergence of Nazism. Many, who opposed the rise of Hitler, put aside other (seemingly less significant) political differences and defined themselves simply as antifascist. As such, antifascism became an ideology that was capable of uniting a wide swathe of the liberal-left (and some moderate conservatives); it became the ideological glue that held together disparate political movements in antifascist popular front democratic governments both before and after the Second World War (Eley 2002, pp. 261 – 298; Rabinbach 1996, pp. 3 – 4; Apor 2000). After 1948 in Hungary, as in the rest of the communist bloc, antifascism was used to justify the establishment of dictatorship. Hungarian communists conferred legitimacy on their regime by referring to (and in most cases, exaggerating) their role in the antifascist struggle—as partisans and in alliance with the Red Army—and bolstered their authority by claiming to be the best protectors of Hungary from the return of Fascism (Rév 2005, p. 249). The assertion that Fascism needed to be kept at bay was wielded repeatedly in defence of the increasingly violent excesses of the regime. Attacks on political opponents, show trials, deportations, and eventually the suppression of the supposed reactionary ‘counter-revolution’ of 1956 were all deemed necessary to protect Hungary from the return of Fascism. By 1989, therefore, antifascism was no longer remembered as a vibrant ideology that had unified the liberal-left against Fascism in defence of democracy, but rather as a worn-out rhetoric that had been used to 80

justify dictatorship. When asked about antifascism in interviews in post-communist Hungary, many had forgotten that it had had far more positive political connotations in the period before, during and immediately after the Second World War; antifascism was associated solely with the propaganda of the communist state. Narrators of antifascist stories were not viewed sympathetically as victims of fascist atrocities, but rather were charged with opportunistically having adopted the empty rhetoric of the communist state for personal political advancement. Ernö, a staunch anti-communist, did not believe the stories some individuals told about their liberation (felszabadulás) from Fascism; he refused to accept that they had genuinely suffered under Fascism or could possibly have welcomed the Red Army as liberators; rather this was the language of the self-interested grasping communist functionary: James: Did you say ‘liberation’ (‘felszabadulaś’)?

Ernö:

No (chuckles), for our acquaintances, whenever ‘liberation’ was mentioned, it was in inverted commas. We were ‘liberated’ from cars, we were ‘liberated’ from property, so this was the ‘liberation’.

James:

So did you ever meet anybody who honestly said, ‘liberation’?

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Ernö:

(long pause) Well, I must say no, I must say no. (pause) Because all those who spoke openly about ‘liberation’, in fact had expressed quite different opinions only a few months before. For instance a friend of mine, we were together at a consulting company and we went sailing together with our families, and he was a member of our closest circle, and we all had the same political views. But suddenly he decided that he had greater ambitions, so then he joined the party and he changed his tone [i.e. starting using the term ‘liberation’]. He kept complaining about his small flat and in no time he found himself in a home in Rószadomb2 and the same autumn his ‘peace bond’ was drawn and he got some 15,000 forints which at that time, to give you an impression, was some 15 times his monthly salary and it was worth over two Wartburg cars, so it was a lot of money at that time.

Yet some in post-communist Hungary, especially on the left, did not locate the roots of this antifascist ‘way of seeing’ in the experience of dictatorship but rather in their own ‘genuine’ experiences of Fascism and the Second World War. They emphasised that no matter how perverted this ideology had become, it once had an authentic core which predated the growth of the Communist party or the communist takeover, and lay in the real experience of either suffering under, or the struggle against, the forces of Fascism. Mátyás, for example, charted how the suffering of his family as Jews under both the German occupation of Hungary and then the subsequent indigenous fascist Arrow Cross regime

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had led a very apolitical family to see themselves in political terms, and eventually had led him to a career in the Communist party. Radicalised by Fascism, Mátyás, like many other Jews and those on the liberal-left, including non-communists, searched for a form of politics that would prevent the far right from returning. For some this meant support for the antifascist coalition of political parties (including moderate conservatives such as the Smallholders’ party) which took power in 1945. Mátyás himself was attracted by the antifascist claims of the Communist party; hence he joined its youth movement MADISz as soon as the war was over. He emphasised that his antifascism was not invented after 1948 to ally himself with communist ideology but was initially genuinely grounded in his personal experience of Fascism: Now it’s a terribly politicised society (rettenetesen átpolitizált társadalom), and in the last 40 – 50 years the community where I have lived … everything and everyone has been politicised. This is an abnormal society. Now in my childhood it wasn’t like this, the war brought it … in normal circumstances a family doesn’t talk about politics but about sport, food, where the boys are, women, Mátyás: cards … Now we were faced with a directly life threatening situation from 1943/4, and already, in this non-political and also non-politicised family, politics was becoming the main topic of conversation … so how the eastern front was moving … the family, as they were not communists, they were afraid of the Russians, but at the same time they hoped for their victory … I

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remember 19 March and then the Szálasi putsch [the fascist Arrow Cross takeover] on 15 October really well. I don’t just remember the events, I remember the psychological effects too … we were liberated on 12 – 13 February … I was already politicised and in the spring of 1945 I joined MADISz [the youth wing of the Communist party] of my own free will—nobody invited me. I wanted to, and that moment that I decided to join was based on a very simple experience. I read in a newspaper in Buda that MADISz were tearing down the signs from Hitler Square and Mussolini Square.3 And then I thought, that’s the place for me! And slowly life got back to normal, and I would have just become a normal student and I would have had a normal life, and I wouldn’t have got closer to the communist movement. Does a 15-year-old boy search for a political movement, if he lives in normal circumstances, if he doesn’t live through a war and if his father hasn’t died in that war?

It was not only communists who recalled seeing the world in antifascist terms in 1945. Here Márton, who supported the Smallholders’ party in the immediate post-war elections, remembered that a wide range of people who had suffered, or struggled, or had been in opposition under the Horthy system, the German occupation or the fascist Arrow Cross regime, had once seen the Red Army as liberators and had supported the post-war coalition as a defence against the return of Fascism or an ultra-conservative regime:

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It was a liberation not just for Jews, but for the military deserters, who didn’t want to fight alongside Hitler, for the illegal communists, and also for those who had suffered severely under Márton: Horthy’s gendarmes … it was a liberation for everyone, who had really suffered under Hitler, or hated it, or did not agree with it. It meant the end of Hitlerism, it was a liberation from Hitler.

In 1945, antifascism was central to the political beliefs of many in Hungary (Apor 2000); a wide swathe of political opinion considered the Horthy era a failure, Hungary’s wartime alliance with Germany as an error, and the German occupation and the Arrow Cross regime as deeply destructive. István Bibó, writing in 1945, hoped that the idea of antifascist liberation by the Red Army would remain in Hungary despite the fact that it occurred amongst the ‘miseries of a lost war’. He argued that the success of democratic Hungary in the long-term depended on the active and continued rejection of Fascism and reactionary social forces: One thing should be clear: It is crucial for Hungary that the fall of the old system remains or comes to be considered a liberation, and for the oppressive elements of the sick Hungarian social structure which disappeared with the arrival of the Red Army—the hunting aristocrats, the caste-bound officers and bureaucrats, the gendarmes, and the German-oriented ‘educators of nation’—to be prevented from returning. We must therefore make sure that, even if our memory forever connects liberation with the varied physical and human miseries of a lost war, the same liberation shall be made a pure and historical reality for our

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grandchildren because it ushered in a long series of developments with positive consequences. It is crucial for Hungary that the liberating achievement of the Soviet army not be forgotten but preserve [sic] its significance for Hungary’s democratic development (Bibó 1945 [1991], p. 93).

Yet, by the late 1940s, the antifascist way of viewing the world had become problematic. Many no longer saw the Red Army as liberators, but rather as an occupying force that had helped to establish communist dictatorship. Moreover, the use of antifascist rhetoric in communist propaganda to legitimate their new regime tainted antifascist sentiments and weakened their association with the popular enthusiasm for the Red Army liberation that had been felt immediately after the war. Csaba had supported ‘bourgeois parties’ such as the Smallholders’ after 1945. He had seen the Red Army initially as his liberators, celebrated an end to Fascism and the ‘reactionary’ elements of Hungarian society, but wanted a multi-party liberal democracy. With the beginnings of communist dictatorship, and the state’s instrumentalisation of antifascist rhetoric, he found himself rejecting his own, and his friends’ experiences of antifascism and the liberating Red Army: James:

Did you meet anybody who thought that 1945 was a liberation?

Loads of people used to say it … they used to call Csaba: these events a liberation … But in France there is an idea of liberation that remained after the war

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(háború utáni felszabadulás). Here there isn’t, because they [the communists] changed the street names to Liberation Boulevard and Liberation Square. They don’t say this word ‘liberation’ now, because now it is connected with the Russians.

Many Hungarians thus abandoned antifascism; some continued using its terminology in public in order to ensure their education or employment under the communist system, but from this point onwards most privately considered it to be an inauthentic way of seeing the world. Only those who supported the communist state stuck with their antifascist life stories in public and private, instrumentalising them in different ways to express a variety of responses to the communist rule. One form this took was to recite, parrot fashion, the state narratives of the ‘antifascist struggle’ and ‘liberation’ in order to succeed in the party; however this purpose, antifascist narratives were also wielded as tools to express genuine ideological support for the regime, or even resistance to its excesses. In the first instance, antifascist stories were retained because respondents had, at least in the first years of the regime, a faith in the ability of the Communist party to transform Hungary into a genuine antifascist democracy that would protect it from the return of reactionary politics. Here Jenő describes how he had joined the party at the point at which he felt post-war democracy was under threat from right-wing conspiracy:

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Jenő:

I sympathised with the communist movement as an anti-Nazi movement before 1945 because they were the most radical fighters against the war, against Nazi ambitions. But then immediately after 1945 I didn’t identify with the movement, as they employed artificial nationalistic propaganda, and there were still others in the popular independence front I liked. At the same time I could see that their literature and culture was rather unsophisticated from a political point of view. I didn’t like this, so I didn’t join immediately, in contrast to many of my comrades … then later in 1947 when on the one hand the Hungarian right wing began to organise themselves once again in the so called ‘conspiracy’,4 and on the other hand they had a very powerful voice in the 1947 election … so then in 1947 I decided to join the Communist party.

Ágota, who joined the party in 1951, continued to frame her world in antifascist terms after 1948, abandoning this outlook only in 1956 when she concluded that the communist state had betrayed its initial promise. Up until that point, she was happy to use antifascist vocabulary both at home and at work, as long as she believed that communists were protecting Hungary from Fascism and ensuring a progressive transformation of the country (even if she was disillusioned at certain points). She had internalised antifascism so completely that she did not recognise that many others did not call the Soviet occupation a liberation after 1948; she believed that it was only ‘comrades of Szálasi’ (i.e. fascists) who rejected this term:

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James: After 1948 did you use this word liberation? I used it, because everybody used it, and so really it became automatic. When I got my job, there we Ágota: used it … the word simply meant that the Germans were defeated and all was well … James: But many thought that this was not a liberation … They only changed their minds later—I could not believe that anyone, except for fascists, wouldn’t feel that it was a liberation … Everybody, even my acquaintances, friends and my relatives who were Ágota: sympathetic to Germany felt this. Only later in 1956 when things degenerated [did this change]. Then and there everybody was glad about the victory over the Germans, except for those comrades of Szálasi.

For some party members, enthusiastic support for the regime meant not only the continuation of antifascist stories but also their supplementation with new ones supplied by the communist state. Miklós, for example, had joined the party in the early 1950s. He continued to narrate his experiences of suffering under Fascism and his liberation by the Soviets, now weaving these experiences into a much more complex antifascist narrative that must also have been the product of his political experiences as a party member. His story echoed much more closely later communist versions of antifascism which not only celebrated the struggle against the Arrow Cross, Nazi Germany and the Horthy 89

system (a celebration which many non-communists had also joined in 1945), but demonised all the communists’ later enemies as fascists, intent on destroying the communist state, regardless of their actual ideology. Thus groups such as the Smallholders’ party (who were part of the antifascist coalition after the war) or the revolutionaries of 1956 were also now demonised as anti-Semitic fascists. The communist state’s institutionalisation of antifascism had clearly given his experiences a home after 1948, but it had also provided him with new material with which to construct a party loyalist’s antifascist account of his life. These ideas were still repeated in his post-communist testimony: James:

So what were communists?

your

attitudes

towards

the

Even if I had been in England, I would have been antifascist. And we thought that the Communist party were the best among the antifascists … The Russians were fighting the Germans, they killed the Germans and they liberated us … And of course … the Jews in ’56, the fascists in Hungary accused the Jews of all being communists … Because in the Miklós: villages there were lots of pogroms and they killed the Jews because they thought they were on the side of the communists … after the war I voted for the Smallholders’, but later they became fascist.5 It was a problem. The Smallholders’ … we felt that certain politicians in the past [who were fascist] … now they joined the Smallholders’ party…. as I told you, I worked for

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the Russian army [after the liberation in 1945] … and I had to write [signs] in Russian ‘this street is examined and there are no mines’. In Russian … And I got food there. Lots of food. Because I worked there. There were many intelligent Russian officers as well. So not every Russian had blood on his hands. They were humans. But as I told you, I saw one rape [i.e. by the Soviet troops in 1945], not a rape case, one girl came out, not even crying, [whispers in the girl’s voice] ‘Yes, yes, pardon me mummy, he made love to me. He was so young and ever so experienced’. She was an intelligent girl.

After 1948, an individual’s relationship to the antifascist contours of communist history was used to judge their access to education, the workplace and the party. To be on the right or wrong side of the antifascist struggle could determine one’s access to university, promotion or financial support, or the level of discrimination one might suffer. Producing politically appropriate curricula vitae was a vital skill for those wishing to escape marginalisation or fulfil their ambition. Party members, alongside all communist citizens, had to learn how to fit their life stories into required communist templates if they wished to be successful (Mark 2005b). This may explain some of the later polish of Communist party members’ antifascist life stories: Miklós’ insistence that he worked for the Red Army, and his explaining away of his Smallholders’ party membership, by claiming he left as soon they became ‘fascist’, may have been narrative echoes of the sort of stories he had to emphasise in order to construct a politically advantageous autobiography. Indeed, Miklós became the headmaster of a school at a 91

very young age, a position of sufficient influence to have required him to have learned to present his past in a politically acceptable fashion. Antifascist autobiographies might often have been maintained, or refined, in order to achieve ambitions in the early communist period. After 1948, the retention of antifascist ideas not only signified an individual’s support for, or ambition under, the communist state; this worldview also framed resistance to the excesses of Stalinism both before and during the 1956 revolution. Many party members, by the early 1950s, had become disillusioned with the practices of the Stalinist state under Rákosi following the show trials, excessive violence against the regime’s enemies, the rigidly imposed Stalinist economic model, and the subordination of Hungarian national interests to those of the Soviet Union. Alajos, who was a committed supporter of what would come to be known as ‘reform socialism’, charted this change in his life: James: So can you remember how your opinion changed? … between ’48 and let’s say ’50 – ’51, I still kept a kind of open and very positive attitude towards the regime, but already in ’51 I decided that I would never join the Communist Party because, well, we Alajos: went to a party meeting where an old social democrat was kicked out, and the circumstances were so humiliating and so disgusting and I thought, okay, that’s it, I mean … but it was still a period … if somebody asked me whether I was a

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socialist, I would say, I was a socialist, until about (pause) ’52 or ’53.

Despite growing dissatisfaction with, and horror at the practices of the state most, however, did not resist Stalinism until provided with a positive socialist alternative. Indeed, disillusionment with the Stalinist realities led many to withdraw from the political sphere. Many were galvanised into expressing resistance only when new hope for reform emerged after Stalin’s death, and a new leadership in Moscow insisted that Rákosi’s Stalinist clique be replaced by a less hard-line government. In July 1953, a reformist leadership under Imre Nagy began their ‘New Course’, a programme that advocated a more flexible approach to the agricultural and industrial sectors, an end to the arbitrariness of political persecution and an attempt to gain a limited popular legitimacy (Rainer 1999). This revitalised many socialists’ faith in the possibilities of communism: Alajos found his views crystallising into this Nagy-led ‘reform socialist mode’. Thus reinvigorated by the possibility of fighting for a more democratic form of communism, these respondents were now prepared to resist the attempted re-imposition of hard-line Stalinism when Rákosi mounted a political comeback in spring 1955: I almost had a split personality, until about mid-’53, when my views crystallised into a reform socialist Alajos: mode, a sort of critical reformist attitude within the terms of socialism … And then 1953, after Imre

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Nagy’s new programme, a lot of us, my generation, were quite enthusiastic about it, and when Rákosi and the Stalinists tried to come back in ’55, then we weren’t intimidated and spoke out in various ways against it and tried to do something.

Reformist respondents described how, from 1953, they were increasingly able to engage in open debates about Stalinism and its alternatives within the party. Alajos represented the clashes that occurred between reformists and Stalinists in his Marxist – Leninist seminars at university and illustrated his preparedness to criticise hardliners who used antifascism in an unquestioning fashion to demonise their enemies in the West: … So I was talking about these classes in Marxism – Leninism: there was this huge auditorium, and the man who spoke couldn’t see the back where we were playing cards. They were such primitive lectures … But one wouldn’t argue with them. Sometimes, it happened once in a Marxist – Leninist exam that the examiners weren’t quite sure whether I was right or not …. And the question was Alajos: whether—‘What do you think—is America becoming more fascist?’ … And I had just read in the party paper that the American high court actually ruled against segregation, and it was the first time they ruled against southern segregated states, and I said, no I don’t believe it’s getting more fascist, I mean, I’ve just read in the papers that there was a decision, in favour of blacks, so whoever says that, is ridiculous. Because you see,

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one of the Stalinist tenets was that the class war was getting sharper all the time, so if you had reformist thinking, you immediately challenged that view. And you’d say, ‘It can’t be true, because there would have been a war, if the class war had come, there would have been a revolution, there would be war, it can’t be true!’

Antifascism played a role in the articulation of differences between Stalinists and reform communists. Alajos highlighted how, in Marxist – Leninist seminars, Stalinists had appealed to an overly politicised unrealistic, ‘inauthentic’ antifascism. They always needed to invent new fascist enemies, or present the conflict between fascists and their opponents in ever sharper terms, regardless of present realities, in order to justify their own power. This perceived abuse of the memory of the antifascist struggle did not lead reformists to reject it as a world-view; rather they appealed to their own separate memory of it in order to attack Stalinism. Alajos remembered using antifascist rhetoric against the state in his protests in 1956. He had found himself involved in the demonstration which followed the reburial of Rajk on 6 October 1956. László Rajk, who had been a communist interior minister, was sentenced at a show trial on trumped-up charges of Trotskyism and espionage in the summer of 1949 and later executed; his death became a symbol of the perversions of Stalinism and his reburial thus became a magnet for reform communists. Alajos recalled transforming the meaning

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of old antifascist slogans, and a well-known antifascist poem, into attacks on Stalinists: On 6 October 1956 you had the Rajk Reburial … when I was coming out after the speeches … I saw a little group with a flag and they were sort of beckoning to me to join in. I joined in, and then I found somebody … a bloke I knew from the Szećheńyi library who said, ‘Somebody told me there’s going to be a demonstra-tion’. ‘Where are you going to?’ ‘Oh, we’re going to Hősök Tere [Heroes’ Square], and then to the Batthyány Örökmećses.’ This is a flame in memory of Lajós Batthyány who was the Prime Minister of Hungary in 1849, and was executed.6 This is a kind of place where people go, sort of a ‘Martyrs’ Corner’. All right, so I joined the group. It wasn’t particularly Alajos: political, but we started producing slogans together … between 1945 and 1948, the Communist party slogan was: ‘We’re not going to stop half-way. Let reaction perish!’ So we adapted this slogan, instead of saying ‘reaction’ saying ‘Stalinism’, so ‘We are not going to stop half-way. Let Stalinism perish!’ And then we shouted over and over, 200 people, as we marched with this flag, and people looked at us, and they didn’t understand what was going on … I read out a poem by Atilla József,7 which was antifascist, rather anti-German, and was a patriotic poem ending with the words, ‘So that we shouldn’t be a German colony’, but I read, ‘So we shouldn’t be a foreign colony’.

Alajos had seen himself as part of the antifascist tradition which had struggled against Nazism, and then

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‘reaction’ in the immediate post-war period; he believed that this gave him the right to resist Stalinism. Moreover, those who were still committed to antifascism could hold up its ideals against the perversions of Stalinist practice. Antifascist themes which had once been used to frame the battle against Nazism, such as fighting against occupation, political extremism and violent dictatorship, were now turned against the excesses of the Stalinist state. Most respondents viewed the 1956 uprising as part of their struggle against the Stalinists in the party, and as an attempt to replace a corrupted state with a democratic socialist system which held to antifascist ideals. Benedek produced revolutionary leaflets in Russian and distributed them to the first wave of Soviet tanks as they arrived in Budapest. Worried that the soldiers might view the insurgents as fascists intent on destroying communism, he sought to reclaim antifascism for the revolutionaries, by explaining to the Russians that they were sincere antifascists, who merely wanted a more humane form of socialism. His characterisation of other political traditions in 1956 was framed by antifascism too: those revolutionaries who wanted to put an end to communism, and restore capitalism, were not merely anti-communists, but demonised as fascists: The ’56 revolution was just about which of the left-wing options we take. There was no-one, Benedek: except for a few, unrealistic people, who were dreaming of restoring capitalism, but the revolution

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of all those who took part was always just about which of the various possibilities of socialism we take … We decided that we would try to explain to the Russian soldiers who we were; that we were not fascists trying to re-establish capitalism or Nazism or anything like that. So we wrote a one-page leaflet in Russian and took it to the university printing press, where I had a friend, a printer friend, and he printed it for me, and then with other friends in my circle, we went around the whole of Budapest and climbed up on the tanks and handed the soldiers these leaflets. It said that we wanted democratic socialism, not capitalism, and we want equality between nations, of friendship with the Russian nation on the basis of equality … this was the first day of the revolution … so the leaflet was quite a mild document if you like. We didn’t dream of leaving the Warsaw Pact.

Thus, the growth of the antifascist life story did not simply reflect, as it is frequently imagined in post-communist Hungary, the preparedness of communist functionaries to invent antifascist pasts in order to succeed within the political system. Ambition under communism was only one root of this story. For many, antifascism had genuine pre-communist roots in their experiences of Fascism during World War Two. After 1948, antifascist narratives were used by party members to express a range of relationships with the communist state; these included not only support and ambition, but also resistance. However, faced with the defeat of their attempt to reform socialism in the revolution of October 1956, and their alienation from the

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party and state which followed it, many respondents no longer wanted a politically engaged life. Neither wanting to express support or resistance towards the new post-1956 state, their antifascist life stories no longer had a reason to exist: new ways of seeing the world, and framing their lives, began to develop. 1956 – 1989 In the aftermath of the defeat of the 1956 revolution, the reconstituted state under Kádár pronounced the events of October to have been a ‘counter-revolution’ organised by fascists to undermine communist rule. They exaggerated and caricatured the presence of the radical right and conservative Catholic wings of the revolution in order to characterise the entire uprising as an attempt to restore Fascism to Hungary (Berecz 1986); the existence of other political tendencies—reformed socialist and national-democratic—was ignored. Thus those reformed communists who were involved in the revolution now found themselves demonised as counter-revolutionary fascists. This remained the official version of the 1956 Revolution until the late 1980s; the uprising was portrayed as the last in a long series of attempts by fascists to take power in Hungary (Rév 2000; Ripp 2002). Those respondents who rejoined, or supported, the reconstituted party after 1956 still produced ‘counter-revolutionary’ accounts even in a post-communist context.8 Judit came from a Jewish family and had joined the party in 1945 aged 13 (lying about her date of birth). 99

She had left in 1954, had wanted to re-join after 1956, but felt unable actively to contribute to the party, because of her domestic responsibilities. Her husband had rejoined after 1956 (and remained in the party until the 1980s). She wrote her own family experiences of the uprising into the Kádárist interpretation of the 1956 events. Her family had suffered anti-Semitic abuse during the revolution; she used this story in order to characterise those involved in the uprising as fascists, and to explain why she welcomed the arrival of Soviet tanks. The framing of her own experiences at the hands of so-called ‘counter-revolutionaries’ was a product of her support for the Kádár state: James: So before 1956, were you often afraid?

Judit:

I don’t remember [being afraid]. But on 23 October ’56, the first day, my mother was working near the Stalin statue and she came home by foot. On the first day she was attacked on the street as a Jew. There came a group and they spat on my mother, saying, ‘you ugly Jew!’ And after that we were glad we were living near the Russian embassy, on Bajza Utca and that Russian tanks were there, because an anti-Semitic movement was taking shape underground … We felt more secure with the Russians. But that is an absolutely Jewish point of view. Absolutely. I don’t know whether the others felt the same but … Hearsay. That the fascists are moving against the Jews again … But a lot of Jews left the country [in the emigration during and after the 1956 uprising], not only because of

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communism, but also because they were afraid that something could begin again.

James:

Most people say the opposite about the Russian tanks.

Judit:

Yes, I can imagine. I know. It is my personal view.

James:

So can you remember what you thought when the Russian tanks came in?

Judit:

It’s a difficult question to answer. My feeling was that we were more secure, but I don’t know how to explain it after so many years.

James: … What did you say about ’56 itself?

Judit:

You know, nowadays, people say that they were heroes in ’56, when I know for certain that they were nothing, they had nothing to do with ’56. It was the very same thing that after the war, in Hungary, loads of people claimed to be partisans. But during the war there weren’t really any. And it is the very same thing. Nowadays they are saying they are heroes of ’56, when there were not so many of them.

Judit’s experience of the uprising did not challenge the antifascist framing of her life story. Her family had been saved from the Holocaust by the Red Army in 1945 and Soviet tanks were rescuing her once again from a fascist

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attack in 1956. Her experience of the suppression of the revolution confirmed her belief in the communists as antifascists and the Russians as her liberators. 1956 was placed right at the centre of her life story in the Kádár period; her support for the new regime was based on her memory of being saved from renewed persecution. Many however, did not re-join the communist movement after 1956. Membership of the party, which had stood at 859,037 in January 1956 before the revolution (Rákosi 1974, pp. 224 – 225), fell to 151,000 in its immediate aftermath and had only risen to 416,646 by 1959 (Szenes 1976, pp. 249 – 250)9. It was only in the 1980s that party membership began to approach pre-1956 levels (Hanley 2003, p. 1076). Many respondents presented the debates which surrounded their decisions not to rejoin. Mátyás had been a reform communist. He had identified with Imre Nagy, had supported the revolution and was dismayed by its collapse. His decision not to re-enter was a moral one: he now saw the party as fake as it had crushed its own supporters. He caricatured the reconstituted party as a broken organisation with an ideologically inauthentic membership: James: Did you think of rejoining the party? After 1956, it wasn’t any kind of temptation at all, because by 4 November 1956 the situation had been resolved morally; we were only really Mátyás: thinking about whether to stay in Hungary or to emigrate. But not to join the party was, for my wife and my friends, a completely clear moral

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imperative. We had no doubts about it … there were many who joined and many who didn’t. Some joined because they thought it was a counter-revolution, or because they were true believers (meggyőződéses kommunisták). And some thought that they had to join the party because there was no other possibility of ensuring their survival … it really pulled apart our community where I lived, us young Budapest left-wing intellectuals. Still, there were those, who up until 1956 had not been party members, and in 1957 joined the party, because at that point the party had collapsed, and they thought that here was the opportunity to join and make their careers. There was a concrete example, a very unpleasant monk, who had never been in the party, and when they reconstituted the party he immediately joined, because no kind of conditions were set.

Respondents who supported the Kádár state, such as Judit, found their pre-1956 antifascist stories confirmed by the experience of the uprising. However, for respondents such as Mátyás above, who broke with the party after the defeat of the revolt, and viewed the Kádár state as a bastardised inauthentic communism, their antifascist life stories were thrown into crisis. They were faced with a state that called their attempt to reform socialism a counter-revolution, the suppression of the revolution the ‘second liberation of Hungary’ and found themselves demonised as fascists. This change in the public narrative struck a blow to Mátyás’ private understanding of antifascism; no longer able to support the state, seeing left-wing colleagues violently treated,

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and even executed, for fascist ‘counter-revolutionary’ activities, he began to question whether the antifascist framing of his life up until this point had been a sham. Despite having been saved from extermination as a Jew by the Red Army in early 1945, he started to wonder whether he had in fact been liberated by their arrival. The experience of a bastardised official antifascist narrative after 1956 therefore provoked many to question or abandon the antifascist stories through which they had made sense of their lives before 1956: James: Did you use this word ‘liberation’? Naturally, absolutely. It was an everyday saying, Mátyás: that 1945 was a liberation. There wasn’t another word other than liberation for it in 1944 – 1945. How have you used the word ‘liberation’ since the collapse of communism? Mátyás: … already [in 1956] it became a confusing word as the consequence of the so-called liberation was the destruction of the 1956 revolution … When the propaganda started on the 4 November 1956 that the destruction of the revolution was the ‘second James: Liberation of Hungary’—and I’m not exaggerating here—from that second onwards I didn’t consider 1945 a liberation anymore. Because in that second, in 1956, we woke up to the fact that the Soviets were attacking the city and we didn’t feel that they were liberating troops anymore. It is complicated. Or it is very simple. Probably both. At Christmas 1944 when the Russians came and saved my and

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my mother’s lives, was it not a liberation? What the hell was it, if it wasn’t a liberation? That’s all. I don’t have anything more to say about it.

Before 1956, antifascism had been used to express both support for, and resistance to, the state. As Mátyás’ testimony above suggests, ex-party members’ alienation from the state meant that they were not prepared to deploy their antifascist stories in order to identify with the system anymore. However, there were alternative readings of antifascism which might have been deployed in the service of resistance to the Kádár regime. During the revolution itself, reformist party members had seen themselves as the authentic antifascists who had once opposed Hitlerism in order to ensure a democratic political order, and were now fighting against the Stalinist perversion of antifascism in order to establish a reformed, more humane and democratic socialism. This alternative reading of antifascism had inspired resistance before and during the 1956 uprising; in the period immediately after the revolution some respondents still sought to recall an alternative version of socialism that could be fought for. Their memory of 1956 as a heroic struggle suggested the possibility of continued opposition against an inauthentic state: James:

Directly after the revolution, what was your opinion of Kádár?

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Jenő:

Bad … it was the worst possible, I hated the Kádár system, because they compromised socialist principles, because they forced a new socialist system onto people with tanks. We regarded it as a catastrophe. From that perspective we considered it to be the greatest misfortune, that socialist theories, principles, had been compromised.

However, as the opportunities and desire for resistance declined under the Kádár regime, so did the antifascist versions of history that had once framed and justified it. The retribution which followed the revolution convinced many that resistance was futile, and that the newly reconstituted communist state was incapable of being reformed. Between 1957 and 1963, around 350 revolutionaries were executed and 22,000 sentenced for their involvement in the uprising; overall, it is estimated that over 100,000 were affected to some degree by the post-1956 reprisals (Litván 1996, pp. 143 – 144). Alongside armed youths who fought in street battles, and members of workers’ councils set up during and after the revolution, the left-wing intelligentsia (who were the majority of those interviewed in this project) suffered disproportionately compared to the population as a whole (Litván 1996, pp. 144 – 146). For these ex-party members, 1956 increasingly represented the futility of resistance, the tragedy of the reprisals, and the end of their aspirations for reformed socialism. In this quote, Imre rejected the portrayal of the revolution as a heroic fight; rather, by the 1960s, he saw it as an ‘unwanted revolution’, which had radicalised the state into violence against the reformers,

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and had in fact destroyed the possibility of a reformed ideologically authentic communist state. For him, the memory of 1956 did not act as a call for resistance but rather was an illustration of the pointlessness of opposition. This new memory of 1956—as an unwanted destructive event—was increasingly being used to justify a withdrawal from active political engagement with, and resistance against, the Kádár state. He remembered that this attitude was particularly prevalent within his circle in 1968, when debates about the pointlessness of resistance were revived in the wake of the failures of Czech reformers in the Prague Spring: James:

A simple question. Why did you want to take part in the revolution?

Imre:

I didn’t want to take part in the revolution. The revolution came upon us, it was a spontaneous revolution. Even the devil wouldn’t have wanted a revolution; we wanted reform, but without an armed uprising. And on 23 October when the revolution spontaneously broke out, you had to decide, whether to stand with the revolution or not. And it was the opinion of my circle of friends that we had to stand with the revolutionaries, and in the course of the revolution we had to solve the economic problems of the country. So already then there was no going back.

James: How did this feeling develop?

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Imre:

Firstly, this feeling was a question of moral and political development: our knowledge of what had happened in the west, and of western democracy, got stronger, and at the same time our knowledge of the awful things that had happened in the Soviet Union also developed. And in 1968, there were the Czech reforms which didn’t lead to an armed uprising, but were put down in the same brutal way, as the Hungarians had been in 1956. So at that time we had debates with lots of people about why the Soviet bloc wasn’t able to manage to take another course. It was because reform had been strangled by the armed uprising, it had been strangled by the Köztársaság Square lynchings,10 and Imre Nagy taking Hungary out of the Warsaw Pact. The suppression of the Czech reforms confirmed my view of 1956.

The revolution and its aftermath had thus destroyed the antifascist framing of their lives. They could neither identify with the Kádár-era version of antifascism which had demonised them as ‘counter-revolutionary’ fascists, nor, after the experience of the post-revolutionary reprisals, did they wish to resist the state. Thus antifascism, which had previously been central to the dialogue between party member and state, no longer had relevance to their lives: they no longer wished to engage politically either as supporters or resistors. Other respondents also revealed how their withdrawal from political engagement developed through the 1960s. The very politicised accounts of their lives between 1944 and 1958 suddenly disappeared from their life narratives;

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stories of persecution under Fascism, revolution in 1956 and repression suddenly gave way to descriptions of career and family: James: What happened later [after the revolution]? I was arrested 10 – 12 days after I was initially set free. Then in 1957 they let me out again … when they took me and then released me, with a friend’s help I managed to get a one-room flat in Újpest which didn’t have a toilet or bathroom, had water only in the courtyard, but nevertheless was an Károly: apartment. We began to live there, there our fourth child was born, then slowly things settled down and I became a deputy director in 1965. That was the period of consolidation in Hungary, and in 1971 I became the director … then things were getting back to normal.

Respondents described the two processes that led them to withdraw politically. Firstly, the experience of retribution had convinced many that they could neither support the state nor was there any point resisting it; hence they decided to withdraw from a political life. Secondly, the policies of the Kádár state which followed the period of retribution from 1962 onwards—in the so-called ‘consolidation period’—offered individuals who had fought in 1956 the possibility of re-integration, if they were prepared to refrain from further political opposition. From 1962, the communist state ended the open persecution of so-called ‘counter-revolutionaries’ and in August of that year the party’s central committee

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resolved to terminate political trials for involvement in the uprising. Many of those sentenced in 1957 – 1958 were amnestied in 1963. Moreover, those who had initially opposed the Kádár state were now not merely tolerated on the social margins, but actively encouraged to re-integrate into society as long as they remained apolitical.11 In December 1961, Kádár famously declared that, ‘he who is not against us is with us and welcomed by us’ (Nyyssönen 1999, p. 120). After the ‘great amnesty’ of 1963, the children of ‘’56-ers’ were increasingly allowed back into education (although their exclusion from tertiary institutions declined much more slowly) (Kőrösi & Molnár 2003, pp. 64 – 65). Nearly all respondents accepted the offer to re-integrate on the condition that they withdrew from the political sphere. It was not considered a betrayal of their earlier political lives; rather, it paralleled their own attempts to depoliticise themselves after the defeat of the revolution.12 These respondents were now living politically withdrawn lives; the protection of their careers and the private sphere from outside interference replaced a political dialogue with the communist state as their central concern. Some decided to ‘tame’ their political pasts; they neither wanted to politicise their children through the memory of antifascism or resistance, nor did they want their former political pasts to impact on their careers.13 Kádár-era autobiographies were often designed in order to insulate the individual and their family from politics and to ensure a prosperous apolitical life. Indeed, any manipulation of their pasts was acceptable as long as

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it protected the private sphere. Some, for example, chose to keep quiet about their political posts in private, whilst continuing to use antifascist life stories in public, in order to safeguard their careers or avoid discrimination.14 For example Károly had set up a new reformed socialist party in his locality in October 1956 and had contact with Imre Nagy. As a result he had been faced with execution but had been spared. Thereafter, despite this earlier revolutionary life, he was silent about 1956 wherever this was possible: he claimed only to have talked about it once in the entire Kádár period. His children had been aware that their father had been under political surveillance but, not wanting to radicalise them, he refrained from telling them about what had happened to him until the late 1980s: James:

Did you talk later with your family or friends about 1956?

There was a classmate of mine whom I had graduated with and we were on especially good terms, and in 1963—by that time I was already 37—we went out for a two-day walking holiday, and there I told him everything. He listened with Károly: dismay—he was the first [I told] … Otherwise I never really brought it up. No, it was an interesting thing, at just about the time when the system changed [in 1989], my children reproached me, that they had never known

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anything about what had happened to me; it was not a subject we had discussed at home. When I was set free from the prison, for years a car stood outside my home every night … even with this going on we never talked about it, but they were small children. Even much later it wasn’t a subject for discussion—even when things settled down [in the 1970s]—my children always knew there was something, but it was not a subject for discussion. Then in 1987/88, when they were already adults, and had families, then they asked what was what.

When he could not avoid dealing with 1956, Károly devised strategies to minimise the impact that his past would have on his family. He formulated a twin policy of silence at home and openness at work; he would not use the term revolution at home for fear that his children would start using the word and incriminate themselves; at work, by contrast, he was open about his active revolutionary role in curricula vitae which he filled out for employment and promotion. By being honest about his past he hoped to appear to be demonstrating sufficient obedience to avoid further retribution: James:

What was your opinion ‘counter-revolution’?

of

this

phrase,

I never used it—it was a very delicate issue. When I spoke I always said the ‘October events’ (októberi Károly: esemeńyek), or the ‘events of 1956’. I didn’t use the term revolution, I wouldn’t have dared, because they kicked those sort of people out; but I never

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referred to it as a counter-revolution … It was a kind of compromise [to use this term, the ‘October events’], but it meant my past never affected my children. I never put them in the position where they could be provoked [i.e. into saying something politically problematic]. Officially I wrote about my role [in 1956] everywhere I had to, so they [the state] knew about me, because I wrote it in my autobiography, what had happened, because I didn’t want the facts coming out from elsewhere.

Similar pressures to protect one’s present from one’s history also shaped the new ways in which the tales of Red Army liberation were told. Before 1956 party members’ use of liberation stories in both private and public was illustrative of a person’s identification with the state. By the mid-1960s, however, some respondents were merely manipulating liberation stories wherever necessary in order to ensure that family and career were protected from outside intrusions. In private, most had abandoned the idea, following their political alienation from the regime. Despite this, they continued to use it in public to maintain their careers: James: When did the use of the word ‘liberation’ change? For me, after 1956 it slowly began to change, because my husband in 1955 had already been Ágota: chucked out [of the party] … Myself, I was already calling it an occupation (megszállaś).

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James: Did you use it after 1956? In teaching, absolutely, if I wanted to keep my job. It was that kind of word like ‘table’ or ‘drink’—it was one word that meant, that here the Russians Ágota: had defeated the Germans. But for me the word no longer had any political content—this is still true today.

After 1989, this preparedness to manipulate one’s life story in public was seen as a sign of being a collaborator. However, for these individuals, this issue was not discussed in moral terms; it was neither seen as a form of compromise, nor as a betrayal of their older political struggles. Respondents did not view these historical revisions as morally problematic both because they saw themselves as politically disengaged, and because the state itself did not force them over certain moral boundaries. Although they had to deploy liberation stories in public, despite rejecting them in private, this was not seen as a compromise. Rather, because the idea of the antifascist struggle and liberation had become meaningless, it could be publicly stated without implying that one was in league with the state or was accepting its version of the past. It was simply the banal iteration of politically empty terms. In the above quote, Ágota described how she now categorised the term ‘liberation’ (felszabadulás) to be a word of the same kind as ‘drink’ or ‘table’—it had no political content for her anymore. The fact that she could use it so easily and not find this morally problematic indicated, for her, the extent of the political distance she had put between herself and the 114

regime. The ease with which antifascist slogans could now be deployed without ethical qualms was taken by some to indicate resistance to, not compromise with, the regime. It signalled that they now inhabited an entirely different moral world and had completely rejected the antifascist universe in which the communist state operated. Many also recognised that the state, wanting to re-integrate them, had not pushed them into making some difficult or impossible moral compromises. The Kádár regime had made nuanced judgements about their citizens’ moral boundaries, and did not force them to step over them in their public biographies. Whilst requiring the use of terms such as ‘liberation’, more recent politically charged terms such as ‘counter-revolution’ did not need to be iterated in public. Indeed, from 1963 onwards, the Kádár regime used the term ‘counter-revolution’ less and less in public. Rather than refer to the events of the revolution itself, it demonised the uprising by referring back to its own condemnation of it; this tactic allowed the regime to propagate its official position on 1956 without publicly discussing the events themselves, which they feared might evoke a political reaction (Gyáni 2006).15 Only in the 1980s was the idea of counter-revolution aggressively re-asserted (Ripp 2002, pp. 240 – 245). Csaba recalled the everyday depoliticised terminology used to refer to 1956 which was both tolerated by the regime and often preferred in public by Kádár’s supporters too:

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James: Did you talk with your friends about 1956? Yes, we all expressed the same opinion. For example, the party had a concept after 1956 of ‘counter-revolution’, which meant that it was all the bourgeoisie, fascists, the West, reaction; then there was ‘revolution’, that meant the socialists. Now, I never uttered the word, ‘counter-revolution’, I didn’t say it once after 1956, but it was possible to use the term the ‘’56 events’ in everyday speech. Csaba: And all Hungarians understood what was meant. Nobody really ever said, ‘counter-revolution’, that was just the official term. Neither did they say, ‘revolution’, that was forbidden. They didn’t want to say revolution and they [the regime’s supporters] only said counter-revolution within their families, but not openly. They said ‘the events of ’56’ too. This was the politically cautious waffle (óvatos mellébeszeĺeś) that they used.

Before 1956, antifascist life stories had been central to respondents’ engagement with the state; by the mid-1960s, they had purged their lives of political meaning in order to sustain and justify a withdrawn existence. Not wanting to politically engage with a state that still employed antifascist rhetoric as its official discourse, many purged their private autobiographies of stories of the antifascist struggle and liberation. The reconstruction of their life stories after 1956 was not moulded by new political concerns, but rather the wish to live a privatised, withdrawn, apolitical life. With their gradual re-integration into communist society after 1963 respondents were prepared to manipulate their 116

autobiographies in any way that ensured the protection of the private sphere from political intervention, even if this meant sacrificing the memories of involvement in 1956 or repeating empty antifascist rhetoric in public where it was necessary to protect their careers. Many did not view these autobiographical manipulations as moral compromises or as a betrayal of the political struggles of their earlier lives, however. Indeed it was a symbol of the completeness of their personal depoliticisation and an indication of the extent of distance between themselves and the regime that they were so easily able to sacrifice the authenticity of their old political pasts in the empty spouting of state rhetoric. However, this was not how these manipulations were viewed after 1989; the stereotype of the careerist collaborating functionary who would reconfigure their own past for individual gain was to have a major impact on how ex-party members were viewed, and the ways they had to reshape their autobiographies, in the post-communist period. After 1989 The collapse of communism in 1989 provoked significant changes in the way in which ex-Communist party members related their life stories. Many presented themselves as finally being able to tell stories about their pasts which had until then been taboo both in the home and in public. Stories about 1956 which had been repressed by the Kádár state could finally be articulated; stories of liberation and suffering under Fascism that had been co-opted by the communist state could now be reclaimed, free from their previous associations with

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propaganda. Central to their new self-presentation was the idea of ‘truth-telling’ about a once suppressed past. Whilst it is certainly the case that many repressed stories did emerge, we should not take this claim to truth-telling at face value. On the one hand, the idea of truth-telling is frequently central to personal self-legitimation under any political system; to claim that one is recounting ‘historical realities’ which were previously unacceptable can add authenticity to one’s account of the past, and can often be used as a claim to social status in the present. This can be particularly powerful in post-dictatorial democratic systems, which claim to place a high value on ideals such as free speech. On the other hand, it was clear from respondents’ testimony that the revival of certain political stories did not represent a simple resurgence of past experiences, unmediated by contemporary context. Their re-telling occurred in a very politicised environment, and narratives were shaped by new debates about the nature of communism and the role of party members. Refashioning their life histories to deal with new approaches to the past was as important under post-communism (Fitzpatrick, 2005) as it had been before 1956 or under the Kádár state. In 1989, aspects of their older antifascist life stories returned. They presented themselves as idealists radicalised by their suffering, or the suffering of others, under Fascism, who had been attracted to the communist state out of sincere ideological conviction and the desire to contribute to the construction of a more progressive Hungary, who had been prepared to resist the power of the state when it betrayed its initial promise, and who 118

had suffered disproportionately after 1956 for their attempts to reform the communist state.16 They contrasted themselves with those who joined the party after 1956, whom they often considered to be non-ideological individualistic careerists. Many believed that their combination of experiences—their suffering under Fascism and communism, their idealism (rather than careerism) and their preparedness to resist a degraded dictatorship—would provide an acceptable account of their lives to a post-communist audience. They wanted to demonstrate that there was an alternative and genuine antifascism, distinct from the Stalinist and Kádárist corruptions of the movement, which they considered to contain moral and political legacies worth preserving in the post-communist period. However, they soon discovered that many did not accept the historical foundations upon which this supposedly moral account was based. Antifascism remained, after 1989, closely associated with the propagandistic rhetoric of the communist regime. Moreover, newly dominant conservative historical scripts were attacking the entire edifice of antifascism, destroying not only the communist state’s version of history but also the alternative antifascism through which respondents understood their lives and sought to be judged. The conservative historical accounts prevalent after 1989 demolished the historical context in which antifascism made sense. They both dislodged Fascism as the central defining evil of the twentieth century (replacing it with communism) and removed the binary opposition between Fascism and communism that was central to the antifascist framing of the world; rather, Fascism and 119

communism became viewed as very similar ideologies. Under the first conservative post-communist government (1990 – 1994), the memory of Fascism was sidelined in the celebration of the pre-communist period: the new administration idealised pre-1945 conservative bourgeois Hungary under Horthy for its social stability, its maintenance of national traditions and its anti-communism (Rév 2005, pp. 43 – 44).17 The Red Army and the Soviet Union were demonised for destroying it. This interpretation marginalised the memory of the indigenous fascist state which had come between the Horthy era and the arrival of the Soviet forces. It also ignored the antecedents of Fascism and the Holocaust, which lay earlier in the Horthy period; it preferred to present the aspects of Horthy’s rule which held the Holocaust at bay, rather than those which facilitated it.18 In downplaying the memory of Fascism and the Holocaust, this new historical narrative stripped the Red Army of any liberationist credentials, and divested the Communist party members’ political radicalisation of any meaning or ideological justification. These early post-communist interpretations of history were often reproduced in conservatives’ testimony: Fascism was of little consequence, and the Red Army were solely destroyers. Hence anyone who used the rhetoric of antifascism and liberation must have been a communist stooge who later invented a politically convenient history for themselves: James: Did you use this word liberation (felszabadulás)?

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Only when forced to do so. There was a word play, because ‘dúlás’ means ‘laying to waste’, and here we had the Tartar-dúlás (tatárduĺás), the Márton: Turkish-dúlás (törökdúlaś) and then the ‘felszaba-dúlás’. In this sense I used it quite a lot. But really, at home, I never used it. Did you meet anybody, in whose opinion, it was a liberation (felszabadulaś)? Márton: Loads. I met with lots of narrow-minded communists: these were abnormally exaggerated people. I knew these kinds of communists and I heard the speeches they made that would make your hair stand on end. Like when the leader of the local organisation of the Workers’ Party was winding up and he said now James: we must sing the ‘Imperialism’. He said it instead of the ‘Internationale’. The other, at a peace rally, there was a priest sitting in the front row in his cassock, and the workers’ leader said, we warmly greet our comrades here present and we also greet with great affection our dear representative of ‘clerical reaction’. Naturally it was very funny, they laughed in his face, but I knew these people, who got in with the party organisation.

Other interpretations did more than just sideline Fascism; they also attempted to replace communism for Fascism as the defining terror regime of the twentieth century. The Black Book of communism (Courtois et al. 1999) which some critics argue was written not only to establish the extent of communist terror, but also to establish that the victims of communism outnumbered those of Fascism (Kuromiya 2001, p. 195)19—was

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frequently mentioned by conservative respondents as their favourite work on communism. The downplaying of the evils of Fascism, and the new emphasis on the terrors of communism, served not only to remove the context in which party members’ political journeys could be understood, but also functioned to present them primarily as collaborators with a terror state. Asked about Fascism by a British interviewer, conservatives sometimes questioned western obsessions with Fascism, and suggested instead that communism and communists were the greater evil: It is interesting that people in the west think that they have to judge Fascism, but not communism. What sort of logic is this? communism had many more victims than Fascism … One hears all the time about the Holocaust now. It would have been possible to talk about it for 10 or 20 years after the war, but nobody talked about it. Now everybody Kálmán: talks about it. One has to ask, why? Why? Why is it necessary to drag all this up again? … For 40 years nobody was bothered about it … And Hungarian victims, who were victims of communism, are they worth nothing? They say there were 20 million victims of communism20 … Fascism did not produce as many victims as communism.

Whereas some conservative accounts demonised communism by presenting it as worse than Fascism, others stigmatised it through the direct equating of the two systems. Whereas antifascism had presented history as a struggle between Fascism and communism, some post-communist accounts presented these ideologies not 122

as binary opposites but rather philosophical twins. Drawing on totalitarian ideas that had developed in the western world since the 1950s (Gleason 1995, pp. 211 – 216), they rejected the opposing ideological aspirations of these two ideologies—such as their different ideas about race, class and nation—as unimportant in favour of a perspective which stressed their common tendency towards dictatorship and violence. The fascist and communist periods were also presented as an era of continuous occupation, from the arrival of the Germans in March 1944 until the departure of the Soviets in 1989 (Rév 2005, p. 44; Rainer 2003, p. 230). Rather than addressing the different respects in which these two systems affected the country, they were equated as belonging to an uninterrupted period during which the Hungarian nation was destroyed and her interests subordinated to wider empires. With the close association of these two systems established, and their ideological opposition erased, the decision of some to become fascists out of a fear of communism, or of others to convert to communism after their experience of Fascism, became less comprehensible. This direct equating of the two systems was manifested in the stories conservatives told about Arrow Cross members who became communists. Although such people existed after the war, it is more interesting in this context that conservatives found this story so appealing; it illustrated for them that there was a type of person who was attracted to revolutionary violent dictatorial movements, and hence suggested that communism and Fascism were in some ways ideological bedfellows.21 When János was asked about his experiences of the Arrow Cross in the autumn of 1944, he used the opportunity to draw links 123

between their membership, and behaviour, and that of the communist state security forces. In his account, communism was demonised by linking its party members with Fascism and the Holocaust:

János:

It was the darkest time [under the Arrow Cross], with unfortunate consequences. I was in Budapest and I only know this from hearing about it. Magyaróvár was under Arrow Cross rule, and they were terrorising and rounding up the Jews, and those who sympathised with the Jews, and those who weren’t sympathetic to the German occupation. These arrests, this harassment, went on day after day. Really it was rather like those times at the beginning of the 1950s, when the ÁVH22 did this kind of thing. The communists did it later, but at this point it was the Arrow Cross fascists. I can say that really lots of Arrow Cross members became communists, then later did exactly the same thing.

Faced with these stereotypes, ex-party members had to consider how to reconstruct a life story that would be believable, compelling, and morally acceptable to a post-communist audience. They therefore accentuated the authenticity of their antifascism as distinct from the negative associations of the corrupted version of the late communist state. They erased memories of how they had used antifascist stories in the achievement of ambitions, as this would make them appear to be ideologically inauthentic functionaries; rather, they concentrated on aspects of the antifascist story which demonstrated that their support for communism was born out of genuine

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suffering, and which emphasised that an antifascist tradition was as much about anti-regime resistance as it was about identification with the communist state. Respondents tried to make their attraction to communism comprehensible by re-establishing authentic personally grounded accounts of Fascism and liberation that were distinctive from the antifascist rhetoric of the communist state. One respondent was horrified that it was as socially unacceptable to call the arrival of the Red Army a liberation in post-communist society, as it had been politically unwise to deny the liberation during the communist period. He believed that this was in part because many Hungarians had not themselves suffered under Fascism, and that general ignorance of the experiences of Jews and left-wingers permitted the conclusion that liberation was only a myth promulgated by the communist state. He distanced his account of antifascism and liberation from that favoured during the communist period by acknowledging the validity of the alternative view of the Red Army as an occupying force. Through a story comparing his own genuine experience of liberation by the Soviets in 1944 with the suffering endured by peasants whose grain was requisitioned by Red Army soldiers, he sought to be seen as a balanced, unpoliticised and objective historical voice. In being prepared to acknowledge other people’s experience of occupation, he hoped his audience might in turn recognise the authenticity of his personal experience of liberation and permit public discussion of 1944 – 1945 as such:

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James:

Is it difficult to speak about a liberation (felszabadulás) today? Today is much more difficult, because society violently denies that it was a liberation and attacks the idea. I naturally approve of the fact that it is no longer obligatory to call 1945 a liberation, as it was under the communist regime. But saying liberation shouldn’t be forbidden, or made almost impossible to say. Here it is a real problem, because the Jews and the left wingers felt it was a felszabadulás as the arrival of the Russians and their driving out of the Germans made life much easier, because the danger to one’s life or the danger of losing one’s freedom ended. [But] a large part of the population didn’t experience it like that.

Jenő:

At the beginning of 1945 I went to Szeged with my brothers and sisters, because there was nothing to eat in Budapest and my parents had not come home, and we had relatives in Szeged, and we lived there for a few weeks at the beginning of 1945. We went there immediately after the liberation. There was food there, we went to school … my younger brother … wasn’t in Szeged anymore—he was in Hód-mezővásárhely and I went to visit him there. The Soviets had blown up the bridge and you had to travel by ferry and the ferrymen said, ‘davaj’ [Russian for ‘Give it Here’], and then a great number of the peasant women recited a verse, ‘davaj davaj, nem volt tavaly, jobb volt tavaly, nem volt davaj’ [‘Give it here, Give it here!’, we didn’t have this last year, it was better last year, we didn’t have ‘Give it here!’]. And at that time it strongly hit

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me, that then I understood, that for them it had been better the last year, when for me it had been a nightmare. The last year—1944—had been a terrible year [for me], but for them 1945 was the terrible year. Then I understood and I realised that although it was a liberation for the intelligentsia, it wasn’t really like this for the peasants.

To make these personal accounts believable, some respondents recognised the need for a new type of antifascist language that did not remind other Hungarians of communist propaganda, but rather evoked sympathy for the personal suffering of the left and Jews. In reviving the story of his ‘liberation’, which he had suppressed during the Kádár era for fear of confirming a degraded antifascist script, one respondent characterised Soviet troops no longer as ‘liberators’ but rather ‘life-savers’: James:

Do you remember when you heard that the Russian army was getting close to Budapest?

We were overjoyed. It’s absolutely clear. There wasn’t any type of ideology or political requirement [to say it]. The liberators came (jöttek a felszabadítók), but today this has become a worn-out phrase, so now one can say, ‘the Mátyás: lifesavers came’ (jöttek az életmentők). If somebody is drowning in water, if somebody throws them a life-ring, then you don’t think about the ideological basis on which they threw it to you; it’s that simple. The Arrow Cross wanted to wipe

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us out, they wanted to slaughter us, the Russians came, they saved our lives.

In addition, in order to make their story compelling, they had to challenge the post-communist downgrading of Fascism and wholesale demonisation of the Red Army. Zsolt placed Fascism at the centre of his wartime stories in order to counter the ‘younger generation’s’ ignorance of it, and, through stories of his own personal experience, tried to refute the prevalent idea that the Red Army was nothing more than a violent occupier that had committed atrocities (Mark 2005a). Only through re-establishing the importance of Fascism and their experience of the Red Army as liberators could respondents make their attraction to the Communist party comprehensible:

Zsolt:

Your generation can’t even imagine how these times were in fascist countries … They [war leaders] were fascists—simply fascists. There was here and there an exception like Endre Bajcsy-Zsilinszky and a large boulevard in Budapest is named after him … An Arrow Cross member was standing in an entrance in our street, out in front of the gate. I went out and he stopped me. I said, ‘yes?’ And he said, machine gun at the ready, at me, ‘papers!’ or ‘identification’ or something. And I said, ‘yes’. And then in the fraction of a second I thought how clever I am that I have this pistol here, in the jacket, instead of the usual place. And the second dreadful thought was that these Frommels, unlike some modern pistols

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where the first bullet is already in the tube, didn’t have a security lock. For the first bullet you have to pull back the catch which fires it, and this thing gives a very characteristic click, so I thought, ‘I am finished’. He will pull the trigger at once when he hears it. So I tried successfully to do the following thing. I did this—‘papers?’ ‘yes’ (coughs loudly) I coughed to suppress the click, and fired at once … that’s the story.

James:

So do you remember when you first heard the Russians were coming close to Budapest?

Zsolt:

… the canon fire was very audible all over Budapest for days and days … when the first Russian appeared at the gate of Szív utca we were very happy. And the innumerable stories about the Russian soldiers, who raped everybody … not a word is true. They behaved like soldiers behave after they take a town which was defended street by street, metre by metre, and they too had suffered heavy losses, so they were not in the best of moods. But, and, it was a matter of course in everybody eyes that sporadic cases of misbehaviour happened. Rapes too. But these cases were very few considering for instance what the other armies did in the Soviet Union or elsewhere. And they weren’t vandals. All they wanted was your wrist watch. Well, we all had wrist watches and nobody took it [from us]. But they had a taste for it, for asking for your wrist watch. But they didn’t behave brutally. Anyway, the Russians were all right …

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By finding new ways of describing the horrors of Fascism (distinct from those previously used by the communist state), and by rehabilitating the role of the Red Army in 1945 in a measured way, respondents hoped to garner sympathy for, and an understanding of, their radicalisation to left-wing politics. They wanted to make it clear that their experience of Fascism led to communism, and that their antifascist stories were not later inventions of the communist period. This required not only the recreation of the context of their political radicalisation, but also the repression of the memory of the politically correct versions of their antifascist histories that some created after 1948 in order to gain advantages under the communist system. This might expose them to the charge of being ideologically inauthentic careerists. It is striking that ex-Communist party members almost never referred to the process of polishing their antifascist biographies in order to achieve professional or political ambitions; yet these stories were often mentioned by non-communists as necessary inventions in order to get on in the system (Mark 2005b).23 Stories of resistance and, in particular, involvement in the 1956 uprising, were crucial in the construction of an authentic antifascism for the post-communist period. It was important for respondents to establish the idea that antifascist language might be used to express opposition to communist practice. They argued that antifascist ideas did not necessarily signify uncritical support or a preparedness to iterate unquestioningly the state’s politicised version of the past. In addition, some respondents used resistance stories to highlight the 130

validity of the tradition of reformed socialism distinct from the ‘degraded’ forms of Stalinism and Kádárism experienced by the Hungarian population. However, after 1989, many ex-party members were shocked to discover that the stories of revolutionary involvement they had repressed during the Kádár period, and felt able to articulate after 1989, were now violently attacked from a new direction: the post-communist right. James: Are there debates about 1956 today?

Jenő:

Of course, there are debates again. But now we are not primarily debating whether it was a counter-revolution, but now they [i.e. right-wingers] want to falsify other things. Before 1989, the Kádár system presented it as a counter-revolution—now the right describes the revolution in just about the same way, but for them this is not a negative but rather a positive sign. They say it was an anti-Bolshevik, anti-socialist revolution and everyone wanted to go back to before 1945 to the Horthy era … They say that we call ourselves reform communists, and they say that we weren’t really on the side of the revolution, we really remained true communists and we only wanted to change things just a bit in the interests of the communist system. According to them, we didn’t have a role in the revolution; only we believed that we had a leading role.

Reform communists were faced with the charge that they were, in essence, collaborators with the system and their acts of resistance were thus unimportant tinkerings at the

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margins. The post-communist right, who viewed communism per se (rather than just the Stalinist variant) as illegitimate, argued that only those who had attempted to end the communist regime for good were real revolutionaries. Thus the reform communists’ roles in the revolution were played down, and other political traditions’ involvement, particularly those on the right, were emphasised (Nyyssönen 1999, p. 248; Litván 2002, p. 263). In post-communist conservative accounts, reform communists cannot be vaunted without first being stripped of their political identity. Thus when conservatives celebrated the role of Imre Nagy after 1989, his communist past and political beliefs during the revolution were usually sidelined in favour of remembering his execution in 1958; he was transformed from the representative of reformed socialist resistance against Stalinism to a politically decontextualised symbol of the violence of communist dictatorship (Rév 2005, pp. 84 – 88).24 In the political transition in 1989, the memory of the revolution played a pivotal role; the renaming of 1956 from a ‘counter-revolution’ to a ‘popular uprising’ came to symbolise the decline in legitimacy of the Kádár regime and the beginning of a new political order. In the years which immediately followed, political debates over 1956 died down, and it became a relatively politically neutral topic (Rainer 2002, p. 257). In the mid-1990s, however, the memory of the revolution began to be instrumentalised by both left and right: particular interpretations of the uprising were foregrounded by different groups in order to validate their political programmes in the present. In 1994, the first leftist 132

post-communist government commemorated the role of reformed socialist Imre Nagy. This was on the one hand an attempt to embrace 1956 for the post-communist left, but was also interpreted as making amends for Prime Minister Gyula Horn’s role in opposing the revolution in 1956 itself.25 The post-communist right—in particular the party of Fidesz under Viktor Orbán—framed 1956 as a fight both for freedom and for a ‘bourgeois Hungary’; a struggle that only came to a close with the stewardship of the Fidesz government in the late 1990s (Rainer 2003, pp. 218 – 219). They stressed the role of bourgeois interests in the revolution, such as religious conservatives (Litván 2002, p. 261).26 Conservatives have also demonised alternative interpretations; in 1996, Fidesz’s party literature marginalised the reform socialists’ role when discussing the revolution; they were placed alongside Stalinists as merely two different types of ‘jailers’ (börtönőrök) (Litván 2002, p. 263; A Polgári Magyarországeŕt 1996). Whilst respondents felt themselves attacked over their role in the uprising, they also realised that the post-communist obsession with resistance and 1956 gave them space in the public sphere to explain the relationship between antifascism and opposition. These debates have not only given the respondents the opportunity to air their stories, but also have shaped their form. In the Kádár period, Károly had remained silent about his involvement in 1956. However, his revived revolutionary stories have now been moulded by the political divides and the tone of contemporary debates. Respondents often used their stories to present themselves, and their political tradition, as the true 133

representatives of the revolution, and to marginalise the role of other groups. Reacting against conservative characterisations of ex-party members as collaborators incapable of proper resistance, Károly framed the key participants in 1956 as antifascist reform socialists, and argued that the right had played a negative role in the revolution. Firstly, he accused conservatives such as Cardinal Mindszenty of sabotaging the uprising by expressing a desire to return to the traditions of pre-1945 Hungary in his speech of 3 November 1956, and thus almost being responsible for provoking the retribution of the state and Soviet tanks. By implication, the revolution was much safer in reformed socialist hands, whose aims—the creation of a more democratic socialism—were more limited, but might almost have been achieved without right-wing provocation. Secondly, he associated the right’s role in the uprising with extremism, and violence against Hungarian citizens; in a striking final twist to his story, he used his arrest by the new Soviet-backed regime on 4 November 1956 to demonise not communism but the far right whom he had expected were much more likely to arrest him: On 23 October, when the revolution broke out in Budapest, then with my friend and one other person we went to party headquarters … There was a very broad political palette on display—from Imre Nagy Károly: to the extreme right—but right to the end I was on the left of the revolution. I still believed in socialism, but it didn’t have to be done in the way it was being done, it could have been reformed. Ours

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was the biggest, more threatening form of resistance, and, interestingly, those who attacked [the system] from within were always the most dangerous. We got information about how to set up a new left-wing party, and in only an hour and a half we started our discussions. We were in a rather optimistic mood … in the afternoon we received a working-class delegation from Miskolc and we went and saw Imre Nagy with them. That meeting was alarming, because the old man was clearly uninformed and incapable of doing anything … It was 1 November when we went back to our town and set up a new party organisation. … We were shocked by Mindszenty’s speech.27 Even today I have a very poor opinion of him. Certainly his trial was illegal, but I considered him to be a habitual, consistent reactionary—much more than just a conservative—who hurt us [i.e. the revolutionaries] a lot in 1956. Of course even without him the revolution would have come to an end, but he really harmed the revolutionary movement … We were sharply anti-Soviet, and when suddenly the Soviets came back … on 4 November, at dawn, I was woken at my flat and there appeared some civilian police with sub-machine guns. At that time, I didn’t know that the Russians had come back; they came in and they took me away. I believed that extreme right-wing elements had come [to my flat], because the revolution had become divided, because there were those, who were strongly anti-communist. Because I stood on a socialist platform, they didn’t like it. Only when I was inside

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the police station did it turn out that this was not the case; rather the old regime had come back and they wanted to execute me. The leader of our county informed my wife that they would execute me, and then, after I had sat there for a bit, they transferred me to prison and there began my time inside.28

In the 1990s, ex-party members sought to make their life stories socially acceptable to a new post-communist audience. Shocked to find that the antifascist and revolutionary stories they had silenced during the Kádár era were now being attacked by the post-communist right, they searched for new ways to legitimise their pasts. Rejecting the stereotype of self-interested collaborator, they drew on earlier narratives from their pre-1956 political lives in order to refashion themselves as idealistic leftists whose antifascist beliefs had led them not just to support the communist state, but also to resist it. They used their personal stories to fend off the marginalisation of Fascism and their roles in the 1956 revolution which were central to sustaining this narrative. The revival of their stories thus meant not only the resurgence of memories lost during Kádárism, but also a significant remodelling of older life stories for a post-communist audience. Conclusion Post-war Communist party members lived through three distinct political environments, in each of which the content and form of their autobiographies changed and served different functions. In the early communist

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period, individuals’ political attitudes and practices determined the types of autobiographies they created. Respondents constructed antifascist life histories for a range of purposes: to show support and articulate their identification with public histories and the state that produced them; to express resistance where they felt the promise of antifascism to have been betrayed; but also to communicate their ambitions through the production of politically advantageous life narratives that would benefit them in education, career or party structures. After the defeat of the 1956 uprising and the reprisals that followed, many individuals decided to withdraw from a political life; they would neither support nor resist the Kádár state. Consequently their life stories altered and the antifascist narratives that had been central to their political identities were abandoned. When provided with the opportunity to reintegrate into communist society after 1962 individuals were concerned to protect their private and family worlds from their political pasts. When constructing their life stories, respondents were no longer concerned with issues of political or moral integrity and were prepared to manipulate the retelling of their experiences to safeguard their private, apolitical lives. After the collapse of communism, they were forced to think again. Confronted with conservative nationalist voices, which demonised them as careerist collaborators, ex-party members revived their antifascist stories. They did this now not to demonstrate their support for the communist state but rather to construct a principled story that they hoped would make their lives morally acceptable for a post-communist audience. The creation of autobiography has thus played three different 137

roles in their lives: to engage politically, to defend the private sphere against the state, and to reassert moral status in the face of an ideologically hostile society. Department of History, University of Exeter References A Polgaŕi Magyarorszá. ‘Két pogány közt egy hazáeŕt.’ A Fidesz Magyar Polgári Paŕt vitairata (1996) (Budapest, Fidesz Országos Elnöksége-Fidesz Központi Hivatal). Apor, P. (2000) ‘The Creative Fear: Fascism, Anti-Semitism, Democracy and the Foundation of the People’s Democracy in Hungary’, in Strath, B. (ed.) (2000) Myth and Memory in the Construction of Community (Brussels, Peter Lang). Ashplant, T.G., Dawson, G. & Roper, M. (eds) (2000) The Politics of War Memory and Commemoration (London & New York, Routledge). Berecz, J. (1986) Counter-revolution in Hungary. Words and Weapons (Budapest, Akadémiai Kiadó). Bibó, I. (1945) ‘The Crisis of Hungarian Democracy’, in Bibó, I. (1991) Democracy, Revolution, Self – Determination (Highland Lakes, Atlantic Research and Publications). Courtois, S. Werth, N., Panne, J.-L. & Paczkowski, A. (1999) The Black Book of communism: Crimes, Terror, Repression (Cambridge, MA & London, Harvard University Press).

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Crimes of War. Guilt and Denial in the Twentieth Century (New York, The New Press). 1

All respondents were promised anonymity; hence all names used are pseudonyms. Quotations in this article are taken from the following interviews: Ernö: interviews with author, April and May 2000; Mátyás: interview with author, April 2000; Márton: interview with author, May 2000; Csaba: interview with author, April 2000; Jenő: interview with author, May 2000; Ágota: interview with author, May 2000; Miklós: interview with author, December 1999; Alajos: interviews with author, November 1998 and February 1999; Benedek: interview with author, September 1998; Judit: interview with author, April 2000; Imre: interview with author, April 2000; Károly: interview with author, May 2000; Kálmán: interview with author, May 2000; János: interview with author, May 2000; Zsolt: interview with author, July 2000. 2

An exclusive suburb of Budapest.

3

This occurred on 21 January 1945.

4

This refers to fears on the left, which were exaggerated by the communists for political advantage, that the right were planning to undermine the fragile post-war democracy with an ‘anti-republican conspiracy’. It was used by the communists as a pretext to arrest the first secretary of the Smallholders’ party, Béla Kovács, in February 1947.

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5

This was an echo of communist propaganda in early 1947, when they accused the Smallholders’ party of helping to organise an ‘anti-republican conspiracy’ to undermine post-war democracy and impose a ‘reactionary’ social order. 6

An ‘eternal flame’ was constructed by Hungarian nationalists in 1926 to the memory of Lajós Batthyány, who was executed as prime minister of Hungary during the war for independence against Austria in 1848 – 1849. 7

A poet and journalist who joined the Communist party in 1930. He was soon expelled, committed suicide in 1937, but his work was later appropriated by the communist state. 8

On the social memory of the revolution, most research has been done on younger generations’ responses to the uprising; on the children of those executed and caught up in the reprisals (Kőrösi & Molnár 2003) and on ‘third-generation’ post-communist teenagers (Szalai & Gábor 1997, pp. 26 – 50). 9

Thanks to Mark Pittaway for providing me with these figures. 10

On 30 October 1956, an armed assault on the party’s headquarters on Köztársaság Square led to lynchings and the deaths of 24 people who were guarding the building. After 1956, the state presented the dead as communists martyred at the hands of fascists and this story became one of the main propaganda tools used to

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establish the idea of 1956 as a counter-revolution (Rév 2005, p. 215). 11

From this point many members of the intelligentsia and old middle classes (from whom this sample of party members is taken) began to recover the social position they had lost in the early communist period (Rainer 2005, pp. 66 – 67; Valuch 2001, p. 99; Gáti & Horváth 1992). 12

Some scholars of memory have explored social complicity in the process of official silencing (Passerini 2003, pp. 242 – 244; Young 2002). 13

For explorations of the collective silencing of 1956 see György (2000), Gyáni (2001), Ripp (2002), and Kőrösi and Molnár (2003, p. 2). 14

Silencing of the past was not a feature of all respondents’ testimony; however, nearly all interviewees took care to protect their social position from the intrusion of past political actions. 15

This practice of referring to the suppression of the ‘counter-revolution’ indirectly also explains the absence of a memorial to the ‘Soviet heroes’ of 1956 in the Kádár period. Commemorations of the suppression of ‘counter-revolution’ were held every 4 November at the World War Two monument that celebrated liberation from Fascism. This compromise allowed ‘counter-revolutionaries’ to be associated with Nazis, but ensured that the actual role of the Soviets in 1956 could be glossed over (Rév 2005, p. 194). 146

16

This does not mean that all had morally pure life stories; rather that they believed their experiences could acceptably be turned into such a story. 17

Different post-communist conservative leaders have utilised different aspects of the recent past. József Antall, the head of the first post-communist conservative government from 1990, could not—unlike other figures such as Wałęsa and Dubček—present himself as a resistance hero. His father had played a significant role in the Horthy regime (Rainer 2005), however, and it was to the sense of continuity between anti-communism of both the Horthy regime and post-communist Hungary that he appealed. Viktor Orbán, leader of the conservative Fidesz party and prime minister between 1998 and 2002, referred much more to the conservative legacy of 1956; this was in part because he had established his political credentials demanding that the Soviet army leave the country at Imre Nagy’s reburial in 1989; hence his political reputation had been built on the back of the memory of 1956 (Gyáni 2006). 18

Horthy’s regency saw the enactment of anti-Semitic legislation (from the early 1920s), the imposition of the Nuremberg Laws in Hungary, the creation of Jewish forced labour battalions, massacres of Jews following the annexation of Transylvania in 1941, and eventually the deportation of Jews to concentration camps after the occupation of Hungary by the German army; however, Hungary under Horthy also remained one of the safest countries in Europe for Jews fleeing deportation until March 1944. Rather than allude to a mixed legacy, conservatives tended to stress the latter point alone. 147

19

See, for example, Kuromiya, who argued that, ‘Courtois’ [one of the writers of the Black Book] attempt to present communism as a greater evil than Nazism by playing a numbers game is a pity because it threatens to dilute the horror of the actual killings’ (Kuromiya 2001, p. 195). 20

His interpretation is clearly moulded by the Black Book of communism’s focus on counting the number of victims in order to judge communism. This is the figure the Black Book gives for deaths attributable to communist rule in the Soviet Union, and includes not only state-sanctioned killings, but also deaths in the Gulag, through famine and those indirectly caused. It is interesting that he referred to a figure for deaths outside Hungary to make his point; despite lasting for approximately eight months (and communism just over four decades), fascist rule in Hungary led to a far greater loss of human life (including over 500,000 Hungarian Jews) than the communist regime did. 21

This interpretation is also present at the conservative ‘House of Terror’ museum in Budapest; the linking space between the exhibitions on the fascist and communist periods is called ‘Changing Clothes’. The room contains cloakroom lockers; two mannequins back to back, one dressed in the uniform of an Arrow Cross member and one in the garb of a communist, which spin around; and Rákosi’s statement, ‘Sometime unfortunately we admit fascists into our party’ printed in large text on the wall. Party members, it is suggested, can merely slip on a new uniform and turn from fascists into communists. 148

22

Az Államvédelmi Hatóság (literally, the State Protection Authority) existed from 1950 to 1956. 23

Ex-party members did admit to manipulating their antifascist biographies for personal gain, but only after 1956 when they no longer supported the party, led depoliticised lives, and had stopped being concerned about questions of integrity when instrumentalising their political pasts. 24

This is the approach used in the House of Terror museum. Imre Nagy features most prominently in the room on communist justice (as an illustration of the absence of it in his 1958 trial), but is not present in the exhibition room that deals with the uprising itself. Indeed, the museum sites 1956 and its aftermath not within the main two floors of the museum which provide a narrative of Hungarian history from 1944 to c. 1958, but in a dark basement room between the reconstructed prison cells of the secret police and the ‘Hall of Tears’ (which commemorates the victims of communism). This placement suggests that 1956 is not being remembered for its specific political aims but has become historically decontextualised to operate merely as a symbol for the communist victimisation of the nation. Such an approach makes it easier to write Imre Nagy’s politics, and the reform socialist tradition, out of the historical narrative. 25

It is striking that even though the left has mobilised Imre Nagy, the other significant leftist contribution to the revolution—the Workers’ Councils—have become unfashionable with the decline in leftist working-class culture and are now seldom mentioned. 149

26

According to Orbán, ‘October 23rd bequeathed to us the inheritance of national independence, freedom and bourgeois democracy; November 4th however gave us the traditions of treason, terror and dictatorship’ (Litván 2002, p. 261). 27

In his radio address of 3 November 1956, Cardinal Mindszenty, following his release from prison, refuted the idea that 1956 was a revolution, preferring to characterise it as a ‘fight for freedom’ to re-establish the historical traditions which had been broken by the arrival of the Red Army in 1945. This conservative platform rejected not just communism, but also the progressive, democratic system which had emerged between 1945 and 1948. 28

It was striking that respondents from a variety of political traditions reproduced, in the post-communist period, aspects of the Kádár-era conception of 1956 as a counter-revolution intent on restoring a bourgeois ‘reactionary’ state to Hungary. Conservative respondents used it positively to suggest that the revolution was intent on re-establishing a bourgeois Hungary, and that reformed socialists played only a minor role. Reformed socialists (such as Károly above) used the threat of the right-wing restoration in the revolution to suggest that the right had sabotaged the reform process by inviting the Stalinists to suppress the revolution. Supporters of the Kádár system still produce counter-revolutionary rhetoric in post-communist testimony.

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An Emblematic Picture of the Hungarian 1956 Revolution: Photojournalism during the Hungarian Revolution ESZTER BALÁZS & PHIL CASOAR THE

FOCUS

OF

OUR

DISCUSSION

IS

AN

EMBLEMATIC

in the 10 November issue of Paris-Match in 1956, showing in the foreground an armed young man and a young woman wearing a red-cross armband. The picture soon became an allegory of these turbulent times. It was widely used for journalistic documentation, both in the West, in a pro-revolutionary context, and in communist Hungary, but in the opposite manner, to discredit the freedom fighters and their cause. The multiplicity of interpretations of the Paris-Match photo shows that, on the one hand, the so-called ‘first world’ and ‘second world’ were both aware of ‘the almost immediate impact of photography on the construction of reality’ (Hardt & Brennen 1999, p. 2). On the other hand, more importantly, the very different interpretations demonstrate remarkably ‘that historical evidence offers a way of creating meanings from the cultural debris of society’ and how important a role the context plays in the various ways that photographs are used (Hardt & Brennen 1999, p. 7). PHOTOGRAPH THAT FIRST APPEARED

The 1956 Revolution and photojournalism It is only rather recently that the Hungarian events of 1956 have been treated as a historical object from the

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point of view of their pictorial reproduction.1 Still photographs are usually treated as illustrations and even if some importance is attributed to them, they are presented as visual testimony without any analysis, calling for only an emotional approach (Clément 1998, p. 4). Photographs of the Hungarian Revolution come from four different main sources: western professional reporters, Hungarian professional reporters, Hungarian amateur reporters and filmed images (Clément 1998, pp. 27 – 70). In the present essay, since we are interested in one specific photograph published by Paris-Match, we only deal with the working conditions and consciousness of western reporters, and more specifically, the one particular photographer who was connected with the picture published in Paris-Match.

Figure 1. ‘HEROES OF BUDAPEST’

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‘From the early 1900s, governments of Europe, the Soviet Union and America were actively involved in using photography to manipulate public opinion. They understood the power of photography and its ability to alter national sentiment’, so that news photographs became historical markers (Davenport 2000, p. 152). In 1956, television had not yet been widely used in the western world, and picture magazines, using more and more photographs, were still among the most popular forms of mass media. Immediately after the outbreak of the Hungarian Revolution, Life, Paris-Match and Epoca, among other picture magazines, sent quite a few journalists and photographers to the area to cover the events.2 To do their work, photographers had to take huge warlike risks. The 11 November 1956 issue of the Italian weekly Epoca included an astounding account by journalist Massimo Mauri of the way his colleague Mario De Biasi sneaked through bullets during the siege of the Communist Party headquarters at Köztársaság tér (Republic Square), to take some of the most impressive shots of the battle. De Biasi was slightly wounded in the shoulder during the action. The Paris-Match photograph and the photographers The photograph we are interested in was commonly attributed to Jean-Pierre Pedrazzini, a young French photographer, member of the Paris-Match team in Budapest, who, less lucky than his Italian colleague, was lethally wounded on the same day, 30 October 1956, during the shooting at Köztársaság teŕ (Republic Square). In memory of its renowned photographer ‘Pedra’, who died in such tragic circumstances,3 153

Paris-Match sought to create a legend around him4 and republished the photo on several occasions. The contact page for the Budapest photo report in Paris-Match’s archives lists two names, that of the deceased Pedrazzini and that of Franz Goèss, an Austrian photographer who worked with Paris-Match in those days. However, the real author of the picture, the American born Russ Melcher, working then as a freelancer, allowed Paris-Match to credit the late Pedra with the picture. As Melcher recalls, his gesture was an homage to the talented photographer: ‘He was my kind of photographer, he wanted to go to the real essence of what we are doing’. Also, last but not least, it served to increase the circulation of the picture, ‘because if a photographer has been killed in action and this is one of his last pictures, every paper wants to publish it’.5 In 1956, at the age of 26, Melcher6 had opened a small photography agency in Paris with two Dutch friends, Dominique Beretty and Otto Van Noppen. When they heard the news about the events in Hungary, he and Dominic Beretty decided to go to Austria with the intention of crossing into Czechoslovakia to witness what they thought would be a historic moment there. Melcher recalls the haphazard way they finally covered the revolution in Budapest: What is interesting to know is that we never wanted to take pictures in Budapest. What happened is that the Hungarian revolution had taken place and I decided with my partner Beretty to go into Czechoslovakia, because we felt that this was like a ‘castle made of cards’: first Poland, then here goes Hungary, the next place would be Prague. So we said OK,

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we’ll go to Czechoslovakia, because if it goes that way, we’ll be in when it happens. So we go to the frontier, and we negotiate for about three hours with the border guards who have to talk back to their superiors in Prague, and of course, no way, they were scared to death of Western journalists, they didn’t want us in.

So Melcher and Beretty left the border and went back into the Austrian countryside. From a local post office, they called their wives in Paris who told them that they had just heard on the radio that the frontier between Austria and Hungary was open. But they begged their husbands not to try their luck in Hungary: ‘And we say no way, we won’t come anyway near Hungary. So the first thing we do, we switch the car, we go all away down to the frontier’. There, about 80 cars packed with western journalists and photographs were waiting to cross the border. Melcher’s journalistic work and how he took the picture The next morning on the 30 October, around 8 am, Russ Melcher took his famous photograph of the couple on one of the main, busy roads of Budapest, Múzeum körút, in front of the National Museum. He had a very clear idea of what he wanted to see and how he would have wanted to picture the revolution in Budapest: ‘capturing the youth and spirit of freedom that had led to the revolution’.7 Being a freelancer, he was pushed for time, because he had to sell his pictures first, so he wanted to take ‘the’ picture as soon as possible. Also, the important photographic freedom he was enjoying, based on ‘the flexibility inherent in the

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Leica 35-mm camera’,8 helped him to take pictures swiftly. He remembers very precisely meeting the couple, during that glorious morning on the first day of the ceasefire; and this young couple—the boy with the machine gun too large for him and the girl with the wound on her face, a red-cross armband and the first aid bag—half bohemian, half proletarian, in shabby, worn clothes captivated him; ‘I knew I had found my faces, this was the symbolic picture I needed’. Melcher also recalled that, after 9 am in the morning the word started to spread among the insurgents that they should not let photographs be taken of their faces. At about the same time, Melcher’s Dutch partner, Dominique Beretty, took a picture of the same girl as a member of a fighting group on Múzeum körút.9 The Paris-Match picture shows its subject in a neutral, straightforward way, which helps to treat it primarily as social and historical evidence. However, thanks to the recollection of Russ Melcher, the picture can also be investigated ‘in relation to the intentions of the photographer and the particular context of its making’:10 one can reconstruct the process as well as his intention in taking the picture. Melcher remembers clearly his intention to take ‘the emblematic picture’ on the revolution, and when he came across the couple on Múzeum körút, he immediately knew that he had what he wanted. He was looking for youngsters who had come of age under the communist system, and who had risen against it at the first opportunity. He had on his mind the well-known headlines of revolutions, and the photographic stereotypes of youth, heroism, romance. Melcher’s intention emerged from the western cultural 156

experience: he wanted a universal symbol of revolution and freedom reflecting emotional empathy or, in other words ‘an ideological reproduction of reality … viewed as the realisation of objective truth’ (Hardt & Brennen 1999, p. 7). Both Melcher’s intention and later on, the circumstances of the publication of the picture, revealed ‘the ideological nature of photographic ‘‘evidence’’’ (Hardt & Brennen 1999, p. 8). In order to fulfil his own intention as well as his expectations concerning the representation of the revolution, Melcher wanted to have only the couple in his picture, without the third, rather frightening man. The photographer did not succeed however. Even though the man was asked by the young boy for his permission to allow Melcher to take a picture of the couple alone he refused to stand aside. Thanks to the obstinacy of this third, moustached man, who can be considered another fragment of reality beside the couple, Melcher’s picture becomes not only more dramatic, but, after all, it reveals more about the insurgents’ inner hierarchy and diversity inside a fighting group. Also, it can be observed that the third man is on the move in the picture—this is visible thanks to the three versions made by Melcher on the spot—on each one, he is coming closer to the photographer’s lens: this, like in the case of an accidentally blurred picture, can be considered ‘the best guarantee of the purity of the photographer’s intentions’,11 since it contributed to emphasising the honest intentions and genuineness of Melcher.

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Figure 2. JUTKA IN THE REFUGEE CAMP IN AUSTRIA

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Figures 3 & 4. HUNGARY 1989—KÉPES 7 IS FREE PUBLISH THE ORIGINAL PARIS-MATCH PHOTOGRAPHS

TO

By chance, the Italian photographer, Mario De Biasi, after completing his photo report in Budapest, photographed Jutka, the girl of Melcher’s picture, 10 days later, on the 9 November 1956, at a refugee home in Eisenstadt, Austria. In one of De Biasi’s pictures, she holds an issue of Epoca showing one of the photographs taken by Melcher. This opportunity to put Melcher’s Budapest picture in a wider perspective implicitly reinforces, by the visual evidence of the journalists’ work, the importance of photojournalism and the recognition of expert knowledge on the part of the audience. In the 11 November issue of Epoca an article-reportage, entitled Yutka la guerigliera di Budapest (Jutka, the Guerilla Fighter of Budapest), was attached to the photograph. The article mentioned her first name (Jutka) as well as that of the armed boy (Gyuri), and embedded their story in a detailed account of the life of a resistance group of 200 boys and girls fighting the second Soviet intervention within a

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Józsefváros block in the city. De Biasi’s pictures of her show that it was the first time she had seen her famous portrait made by Melcher.12 De Biasi could easily recognise Jutka in the refugee camp, since he had also taken several photographs of her and Gyuri in downtown Budapest—at Felszabadulás tér (Liberation Square, today Ferencziek Square)—on the same day as the Paris-Match picture was taken.13 All we know about the activity of the couple during the revolution is exclusively based on the photographs taken by Melcher and De Biasi. The news work of these photographs lets us reconstruct a part of the reality during the revolution when everything was on the move. Some 33 years later, in 1989, at the very beginning of the political transition, the Austrian Franz Goèss—who was part of the Paris-Match team during the revolution—launched an investigation via the Hungarian journal Képes 7 in order to search for ex-insurgents appearing in 1956 pictures taken by the Paris-Match reporters. He succeeded partly, but the identity of the couple in the Paris-Match photo remained unknown to him and his team. This investigation of Goëss, which he carried out as soon as the 1989 revolution took place and the frontiers were reopened, was motivated both by ethical concerns relating to the professional practice of photojournalism as well as by an effort to reconstruct press history; and, last but not least, it was a gesture for the reunification of Europe.

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Figure 5. PRESS PHOTOS ARE USED COUNTER-REVOLUTIONARIES

TO

IDENTIFY

THE

The role and function of western magazines in shaping the image of the 1956 Revolution The black and white picture series on the revolution, published by Paris-Match on 10 November 1956, and the colourful photographs of western celebrities and other political and social events in the same issue constitute a striking contrast. Although the events in Budapest are still in the focus among the main interests of the magazine, the cover page is devoted already to General Moshe Dayan, one of the figures of the Suez crisis, demonstrating a move away from Hungary in the balance of world politics and that of the readership. By selecting the photograph of the couple—Jutka and Gyuri—as the opening picture, on a double page, from a series depicting the street fighting in Budapest, Paris Match, along with showing approval of the insurgents,

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gave a very specific visual identity to the picture: young girls and boys made the revolution. Melcher’s picture assumes at the same time the function of an introduction and that of a synthesis to the series (Clément 1998, p. 79). ‘Heroes of Budapest’, chosen as the title of this series, with its romantic-pathetic connotation, was able to explain and synthesise all the following images in the series of pictures published by Paris-Match, by giving them coherence (Scott 1999, p. 47). Also this title became ‘an identifying tag’ (Scott 1999, p. 49) to the opening picture alone, completed by the caption: ‘In the eyes of this couple, our reporters on the street saw the soul of the uprising. He took his gun from an army depot. She, wounded, turned her schoolbag into a first-aid kit. Behind them, a passer-by with a pistol’. The priorities given to pictures demonstrate well that Paris-Match combined a visual form of knowledge and an emotional approach in order to influence western public opinion in its chosen way.14 The fact that Epoca reproduced the third version of the Paris-Match picture confirmed that Melcher’s picture had gained an outstanding documentary aesthetic and iconic status already in November 1956. Twenty years later, in 1976, taking a picture at the same location as the original 1956 picture (Múzeum körút), with a contemporary couple in it, emphasising the cult role of the picture, Paris-Match primarily had the intention to celebrate photojournalism itself. At the same time however, one can have the impression that Paris-Match also wanted to demonstrate how profoundly social, cultural and, in fact, political conditions had changed since the revolution: the young couple on the 162

picture of 1976 dressed in jeans, rather long-haired, cigarettes in hands, had a completely western look. As a result, a feeling of liberty and happiness was transmitted by the picture, as if it were implying that the fight for freedom by the previous couple had not been useless. The picture of 1976 can also be viewed—at least from the East—as an involuntary celebration of goulash-communism by observers in the West. Interpretations of the Match photograph in Communist Hungary During the repression after 1956, communist police used insurgents’ photographs, published in the world press15 as well as on confiscated films and amateur photographs, as part of their evidence in preparations preceding the trials and, on occasion, as conclusive evidence during the trials.16 The location of 1956 photographs in albums made up by the police immediately after the failure of the revolution reveals remarkably how strongly context can affect meanings: all the photographs were used for the purpose of identifying insurgents who were considered to be criminals.17 Each photograph was given its own filing reference number and, when they could, the police put further data including names on the margins of the pictures in order to identify persons more clearly. This happened to one of the four pictures of Jutka which repeatedly appeared in the ‘1956 Separate Collection’, on this occasion with the caption ‘Counter-revolutionary couple’. The photo of the third male figure was filed with a separate cutting, probably in order to facilitate and separate the investigation. The 163

police collection also contained the three other pictures carried in Epoca, one of these showing Jutka as a member of an insurgent group on Múzeum körút while the other two were taken of her in the refugee camp of Eisenstadt and have an added note in pencil describing her as ‘defected’.18 These photographs of Jutka were objects along with further pictures of other insurgents that were used in the process of describing and systematising evidence of the ‘Counter-revolution’. In Hungary any pictorial information about the 1956 Revolution was closely supervised by the police until the political transition started in 1989.19 As part of the manipulative work of the police (the pictorial part of which was based on the abovementioned albums) an exhibition was opened in June 1957 in order to construct and represent, immediately following the events, the ‘Counter-revolution of 1956’. Journalists and diplomats were invited to the opening of the exhibition, which shows the necessity for the communist leadership of the auto-legitimisation of the Kádár-regime through their own interpretation of the October events.20 The Paris-Match picture figured among the pictures exhibited, on one panel of the exhibition, titled ‘Among who were recruited the gangs of counter-revolutionaries?’. One caption reads: ‘[…] other counter-revolutionary elements put children forward to hide their black intentions. They tried to make believe that the counter-revolution, intended to overthrow the popular democracy, was ‘‘the youth revolution’’. Pictures taken by American reporters show well who was behind the children’. This clearly refers to Melcher’s photograph—the two children and the 164

menacing moustached man in the background. The fact that the exhibition organisers attributed this picture among others, to ‘American reporters’ was pure chance. They had no way of knowing that the true author of Gyuri and Jutka’s photograph was an American.

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Figure 6. SEEN IN A NEGATIVE LIGHT—THE HOLLóS BOOK

Figure 7. TIME MAGAZINE’S MAN OF THE YEAR

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Figure 8. BUDAPEST 1956 AS A MODEL FOR THE WESTERN NEW LEFT

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A decade later, in 1967, a further propaganda book was published in two successive editions under the name of Ervin Hollós who, after 1957, headed the Political Police Inner Reaction-Prevention Department (Ministry of Interior, II/5) (Hollós 1967a, 1967b).21 The Paris-Match photo featured in this book with the caption ‘The underworld in arms’,22 which can be considered as an example of ‘a step away from the image towards its assimilation by, and interpretation through, language’ (Scott 1999, p. 49). However, it was not only by means of this ‘direct-speech caption’ that ‘the innate candour of image is subjugated to the guile of language’ (Scott 1999, p. 52). The propaganda book by Hollós also attributed a new visual meaning to the Paris-Match photo by manipulating it in order to show the couple as somehow repulsive and frightening.23 The Paris Match picture also appeared in a third piece of propaganda portraying 1956 as a counter-revolution—this time without being retouched—in a series of images at the end of an untitled 15-minute film.24 The film was never released and it is highly likely to be an early version of the propaganda film, Igy történt … [It Happened Like This …], made by Ilona Kolonits in 1958.25

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Figure 9. THE PARIS-MATCH PHOTO PHOTOJOURNALISM

AS AN

ICON

OF

Concerning the reception of the Paris-Match photo by Hungarian audiences and readership however, one can note a big discrepancy between the three mediums: while the early version of the propaganda film remained unknown to almost everyone, and the exhibition reached only a relatively few people, the propaganda book by Hollós was widely circulated in the country (22,800 copies of the first edition were printed,

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followed by 15,000 copies of the second, improved edition, and the Paris-Match picture appeared in both of them).26 Situated in the ‘regime of truth’ of the communist system of power, the Paris-Match picture had become part of the material operation of the propaganda machine on the ‘Counter-revolution’ during the first period of the Kádár regime. Over time, however, the propaganda became less and less noisy so that a kind of silence about 1956 began to be imposed on society. In the same manner that the events of 1956 were gradually erased from the memory of Hungarian society, strongly encouraged by the communist power, the picture of Jutka and Gyuri disappeared as well. New, more historical propaganda books by Ervin Hollós and his wife on the revolution were published in the 1980s but they no longer included the Paris-Match picture.27 Western interpretations of the Match photograph In January 1957 Time magazine put on its cover, as a colour fictional illustration, an imaginary portrait of ‘the Hungarian insurgent’ and attributed to him the appellation of ‘The Man of the Year’. This construction of the Hungarian insurgent as the Hero of 1956 by Time couldn’t be done by using a specific photograph, hence the main character was a collective figure. Only a drawing could symbolize him, by amalgamating various types of insurgents into an iconic painting. So, the portrait used by Time is an artwork of Boris Chaliapine made after three emblematic photographs of 1956, including two photographs of Michael Rougier, and the 170

Paris-Match picture. It was meant to illustrate the concept developed in the cover story’s introduction: The Man of the Year had many faces, but he was not faceless; he had many names, but he was not nameless. History would know him by the face, intense, relentless, desperate and determined, that he had worn on the evening of Oct. 23 in the streets of Budapest; history would know him by the name he had chosen for himself during his dauntless contest with Soviet tanks: the Hungarian Freedom Fighter.28

At the same time, one of Russ Melcher’s pictures, the version already published in Epoca, was used as an inside illustration for the very first book to be published on the October – November events, The Hungarian Revolution, by Hungarian born British writer George Mikes, with that sober caption: ‘freedom fighters’ (Mikes 1957). In France the Paris-Match picture helped in shaping a specific kind of collective memory based on the interpretation of the Hungarian revolution notably by the left-wing American liberal thinker Hannah Arendt and emphasising the workers’ councils’ role as a possible alternative for the ‘bourgeois’ revolution.29 The Paris-Match picture was used in the 1970s, in the context created by the events of 1968, as a representation of workers’ councils and young workers’ rebellion. It illustrates the cover of the French translation of Andy Anderson’s Hungary ’56—Hongrie 1956: la Commune de Budapest, les conseils ouvriers, a book engaged in propagandising the workers’ councils in the 1956 Revolution (Anderson 1974).

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Also the Match picture appeared on a postcard among other photos of the revolution, as part of a montage, with the motto ‘Souvenir de Budapest’. On the back of the postcard, which was possibly produced by a French pro-situationist group in the 1970s, there is an excerpt from an article by Gabor Kocsis published in 1957 in Nemzetör and translated in the French review Socialisme ou barbarie: These days, the world was talking about the ‘Hungarian miracle’. Thus, in Hungary, at the same time, they participated already in a second miracle: after the bloody days, in the shaping of new ways of living for a people who have, in every aspect, found himself again—as he has found back the true meaning of these great words heard in the East as well as in the West.30

In France, Anarchists, Surrealists and later Situationists all highlighted the spontaneous and libertarian aspects of the events in Hungary in 1956. Finally, the first book edited in Hungary using the picture in a pro-revolution context came out after the transition of 1989 and indeed, it showed the Paris-Match photograph on its cover (Varga 1994). Icon of photojournalism in France In France, the Paris-Match picture also became an icon of photojournalism: namely it served the imagination of Jean-Luc Godard in his film The Little Soldier, about an army deserter, with ambiguous political feelings, who is hired to kill a Swiss journalist, a sympathiser of the Algerian cause. The movie was made in 1960 but only 172

premiered in 1963, after the end of the war in Algeria, due to censorship problems. In one scene where the main character, played by Michel Subor, is lying on the bed in his Geneva apartment, one can notice the Paris-Match picture on the wall in a mangled form: neither the third man, nor the word ‘heroes’ appears there anymore. The picture is pinned among other pages scrapped from Epoca and Paris-Match, and showing representative events and stars from 1956 and the late 1950s: the Budapest uprising, the military operation in Suez, the Olympic games in Melbourne, Brigitte Bardot, Jean Seberg, Stirling Moss and so on. The character played by Subor in the film is a photo-reporter himself. While the camera spans over the pictures, Michel Subor quotes a German song: Morgenrot, Morgenrot, Leuchtest mir zum frühen Tod Bald wird die Trompete blasen, Dann muß ich mein Leben lassen Red dawn, red dawn Light me to my early death Soon will the trumpets call Then shall I leave my life

Among the stills used for advertising the film, three shots also show Michel Subor holding a gun and embracing Anna Karina, his lover in the film, in front of 173

the Hungarian insurgent couple on the wall. The Paris-Match picture, reframed on the couple alone, is considered in Godard’s film and, at the same time, thanks to that film, as an icon of photojournalism. Also in 1999 the publishing-house of Paris-Match selected the photo for an exhibition celebrating the magazine’s fiftieth anniversary, as one of its 100 Best Pictures: it thus became one of the emblematic images of its own press history. On that occasion Melcher claimed the authorship, ‘because Pedrazzini had been gone for a long time, and the picture could come back to me. Now they say it’s mine forever—I hope so!’. Conclusion The Match photo, put in different contexts, is not a ‘purely visual image’: ‘its meanings are multiple, concrete and, most important, constructed’. It had an ‘ideological existence’ confirmed by the fact that it could be tailored to several points of view and distorted to suit different political camps (Tagg 1993, pp. 187, 188; Lemagny 1986, p. 126). The ‘western’ and the ‘eastern’ interpretations of 1956 pictures, however, revealed how radically different were the systems under which they were created and showed the difference between democratic societies and the communist regimes. While the means were much more subtle and the objective of publication much more honest than in communist Hungary, propaganda related to photographs on the revolution existed also in the West: ‘In a discrete way, the pictures of the Hungarian Revolution confirmed the consensus opposing democracy and capitalism to 174

communist organisation associated to totalitarian governments’ (Clément 1998, p. 101). Unlike many other 1956 photographs, the Paris-Match picture by Russ Melcher of Jutka and Gyuri avoided carrying such an interpretation, even in the context of its first publication. In the West it became rather the representation of the self-governed Utopia of workers’ councils (an alternative to both Stalinist and bourgeois society) and/or, in a context politically undefined, an icon of photojournalism. Institute of Political History, Budapest and École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, Paris, France References Anderson, A. (1974) Hongrie 1956: la Commune de Budapest, les conseils ouvriers (Paris, Spartacus). Arendt, H. (1990) On Revolution (London, Penguin Books, first published in 1963). Bergala, A. (1976) ‘Le pendule (la photo historique steŕéotypée)’, Cahiers du cinéma, Spécial ‘Images de marque’, July–August, pp. 268–269. Bourdieu, P. (1965) Un Art Moyen. Essai sur les usages sociaux de la photographie (Paris, Éditions de Minuit).

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Casoar, P. & Balázs, E. (2006) Les Heŕos de Budapest (Paris, éditions Les Arènes). Clément, A. (1998) Les photographies de la révolution hongroise. Photographie et histoire (Mémoire de maiˆtrise d’histoire (MA) Université Panthéon, Sorbonne Paris I, Faculté d’Histoire). Davenport, A. (2000) The History of Photography. An Overview (Albuquerque, University of New Mexico Press). Hardt, H. & Brennen, B. (1999) ‘Introduction’, in Hardt, H. & Brennan, B. (eds) (1999) Picturing the Past. Media, History and Photography (Urbana & Chicago, University of Illinois Press). Hollós, E. (1967a) Kik voltak, mit akartak? (first edition) (Budapest, Kossuth). Hollós, E. (1967b) Kik voltak, mit akartak? (second improved edition) (Budapest, Kossuth). Hollós, E. & Lajtai, V. (1974) Köztaŕsaság teŕ, 1956 (Budapest, Kossuth). Hollós, E. & Lajtai, V. (1982) Hidegháború Magyarország ellen [Cold War against Hungary] (Budapest, Kossuth). Hollós, E. & Lajtai, V. (1986) Drámai napok [Dramatic Days] (Budapest, Kossuth).

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Lemagny, J.C. (1986) A History of Photography (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press). Mikes, G. (1957) The Hungarian Revolution (London, Andre Deutsch). Scott, C. (1999) The Spoken Image. Photography and Language (London, Reaktion Books). Sümegi, G. (2004) ‘Fotók a Történeti Levéltárban’ [‘Photographs at the Historical Archives of the State Security Papers’], Trezor 3. Az átmenet évkönyve, 2003 (Budapest, Állambiztonsági Szolgálatok Történeti Levéltára). Tagg, J. (1993) The Burden of Representation. Essays on Photographies and Histories (Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press). The Counterrevolutionary forces… (1957) The Counterrevolutionary Forces in the October Events in Hungary, vols I–IV (Budapest, Hungarian National Library). Turbet-Delof, G. (1996) La Révolution Hongroise de 1956, Journal d’un témoin (Paris, Éd. Ibolya Virág). Varga, L. (1994) Az elhagyott tömeg. Tanulmańyok 1950–1956-roĺ (Budapest, Cserépfalvi Kiadó and Budapest, Főáros Levéltára).

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Wells, L. (ed). (2000) Photography: A Critical Introduction (second edition) (London & New York, Routledge). 1

For the first and until now the only historical analysis of the relationship between photographs and history related to the 1956 Revolution see Clément (1998). There also exists one important study in Hungarian that partly deals with how the communist police archived and used a large number of photographs on 1956; see Sümegi (2004, pp. 309 – 318). 2

The exact number of Western reporters covering the revolution is unknown. In his memoir, Guy Turbet-Delof, director of the French Institute in 1956, recalls 41 reporters registered at the French legation between the 5 and 9 November; see Turbet-Delof (1996) (quoted in Clément 1998, p. 28). 3

See the recollections of the journalist Paul Mathias, who accompanied Pedrazzini to Budapest in Paris-Match, 29 October 1966. 4

On the legend-making see Clément (1998, pp. 31 – 33).

5

Interview with Russ Melcher in May 2002 by Phil Casoar. 6

Thanks to the position of his mother at UNESCO in Paris, Melcher who was doing his military service in West Germany during the Korean War, decided to stay in France. Gradually he integrated himself into French

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photography: between 1950 and the beginning of the 1960s, he covered, as a freelancer, the earthquake at Agadir, Brigitte Bardot going to Saint Tropez with her new fiancé, the meetings of Robert Poujade, the French populist politician, the confrontations between Walloons and Flemish in Belgium as well as the visit of Khrushchev to the USA and that of Eisenhower to Nehru’s India (interview with Russ Melcher in May 2002 by Phil Casoar). 7

This and later quotations from Melcher are from the interview with Russ Melcher in May 2002 by Phil Casoar. 8

Leica ‘was easily portable, used long strips of gelatin roll film, which permitted repeated exposure, and had interchangeable lenses’ (Davenport 2000, pp. 152 – 153). 9

This photo was published by the Italian magazine Epoca (on 11 November 1956). Since several members of this fighting group appearing on the Beretty picture participated in the siege of the Communist Party headquarters in Köztársaság tér—they also appear on other pictures taken during the siege, for instance by John Sadovy who reported for Life—there is some chance that the couple of the Paris-Match picture was also there. 10

This is one of the differing approaches that may be used to analyse photographs and each of them reflects its own particular respects and priorities; see Wells (2000, p. 35). 179

11

See Bourdieu (1965) quoted by Clément (1998, p. 82).

12

She had conserved in her personal archives the pictures taken of her. 13

These photos come from the personal archives of Mario De Biasi and have never been developed until now. 14

In his first commentary for Paris-Match on the revolution, on 3 November 1956, Raymond Cartier used a typically anti-communist and pro-capitalist vocabulary which corresponded to what one can consider as the main line of the magazine too (although the pro-capitalist attitude did not prevent Paris-Match from being critical towards American policy): ‘The communists have never legally conquered Hungary … This noble Western and Christian nation has never given its support to totalitarianism and barbarism’ (quoted in Clément, 1998, p. 76). In a special issue devoted to the events in Hungary, the French communist weekly Regards was ironical about the fact that Paris-Match, owned by the big French industrial tycoon Jean Prouvost, had taken the side of the insurgents. However Paris-Match, as well as Life, remained silent about the role of the workers’ councils (see Clément 1998, p. 77), although this would become an important subject in the late 1960s and 1970s, discovered in the West after Hannah Arendt’s ideas on the Hungarian Revolution were published. But it is worth noticing that the American news magazine Time, in its 24 December 1956 issue, printed a full article about the workers’ councils and their resistance against the Kádár regime. 180

15

The Paris-Match issue bearing Melcher’s picture is dated 10 November. In the next issue, dated 17 November, on the cover and inside, the faces of the insurgents were covered with black masks. 16

Primarily those pictures became incriminating evidence that depicted men and women belonging to the insurgent groups with weapons in their hands: it is known from the trial of Mária Wittner and associates that the photograph taken of her and Katalin Havrilla Sticker was accepted as conclusive proof, although they insisted that they had taken the guns only to pose for the photograph. See the Historical Archives of the Hungarian State Security (hereafter HAHSS), ‘Trial of Mária Wittner and Associates’, V-14 2941. Both were sentenced to be hanged, finally Katalin Havrilla Sticker was executed and the sentence of Mária Wittner was commuted to life imprisonment. The latter was released only in 1970. As yet there is no exhaustive study of the role of photographs as incriminating evidence in the trials after 1956 but Amélie Clément notes some examples in her master’s thesis (Clément 1998, pp. 119 – 122). 17

The collection is now accessible in the Historical archives of the state security’s papers in Budapest under the name the ‘1956 Separate Collection’. According to György Sümegi (2004, p. 312) in the whole history of Hungary this ‘1956 Separate Collection’ represents the biggest abuse of peoples’ rights by means of photographs.

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18

The pictures copied from Match and Epoca carry the reference number: V-150 381/10 in the HAHSS 1956 Separate Collection. 19

On the control over pictures by political powers see the following: ‘If power makes use of images, it is always in fear of being denounced or betrayed by the power of the images, and is always tormented by a return of the original sense’ (Bergala 1976, p. 40, quoted by Clément 1998, p. 101). 20

At the same time as the repressions took place the Information Bureau of the Council of Ministers of the Hungarian People’s Republic published a so-called ‘White Book’ in five volumes, with the same counter-revolutionary interpretation of 1956 as expressed by the exhibition. Four volumes were published in 1957 on the counter-revolutionary forces and one in 1958 on Imre Nagy’s government; they were even translated into several western languages (including English, French and German) and contained many photographs of the revolution, but not the Paris-Match picture. For the English translation see The Counterrevolutionary forces … (1957). 21

The first edition was followed almost immediately by a second improved edition in the same year. As is usual with all (communist) propaganda books, it pretends to give an objective analysis in that case, based on ‘interviews’ and ‘documents’, about ‘the true background of 1956’. The main thesis of the book is that the counter-revolutionary activity was organised with the help of the West from 1948 on and it had been waiting 182

for the right moment when Hungary became the ‘battlefield of the international class fight’. The book focused on participants in order to point to their counter-revolutionary background and the imperialist and fascist character of their plot, with the help of photographs from the police 1956 collection. The Paris-Match photograph figures particularly among other photos of armed insurgents. 22

It is to be noted that the caption ‘The underworld in arms’ features also in the so-called White Book (relating to a different photograph) and can be seen as a typical caption in the service of the revisualisation of the 1956 pictures by the Kádár regime. 23

The Paris-Match photo as it appeared in the French magazine was first re-pictured, and then awkwardly retouched with a brush, perhaps in order to make the boy look more ‘hard-boiled’. Also the bad print quality transforms the original picture to its disadvantage. In the first edition of the 1967 book the picture looked overexposed, as opposed to the second edition, where it looked too dark. 24

Open Society Archives Home Affairs Film Studio, n 19, Budapest, Central European University. 25

Between 1958 and 1986, the thirtieth anniversary of the events, no new documentary film was made. Indeed in 1986, the October events were incorporated into a documentary on TV—still under strict State control—about the 40 years of Communism in the country (Clément 1998, p. 70). 183

26

The book was also widely distributed in the socialist bloc and was translated, at least, into Russian (1969), Polish (1970), Estonian (1972) and Czech (1972)—but without publishing the Paris Match picture. Jutka was aware of the publication of her picture in the Hollós book. She corresponded with her parents who—her husband claims—talked her out of returning home because they were frightened that the photograph of her would lead to her being recognised by the police who would then hold her to account [interview with Steven Toth (husband) in June 2002 by Phil Casoar; interview with Rózsa Solymosi (sister-in-law) in May 2003 by Eszter Balázs]. Both the fear of Jutka’s parents and her own fears seem well founded in the light of the dossier opened by the Hungarian Central Alien Control Office in 1976 (HAHSS, Central Alien Control Office on Juliana Sponga, Department III/2, later Department III/II-9). Police knew her name from testimonies in the Mária Wittner and Associates trial (see Trial of Mária Wittner and Associates, V-14 2941). However, it appears from the Ministry of the Interior registration that Jutka’s name and the photograph taken of her in 1956 were not successfully linked, either directly following the reprisals, or afterwards. The fact that she had emigrated to Australia was unknown to them as she was recorded as being ‘stateless’. According to the Central Alien Control Office material—it is not clear why dating from July 1978—she was included in the list of prohibited persons and her data were transferred to the combined computerised records (EGPR) of the state security organisations in 1985. Her inclusion in the list of prohibited persons was reconfirmed annually until 26 June 1989, which is the day that registration was 184

discontinued. It is a double tragedy that Jutka passed away less than a year after her name was removed from the records. A full account of Jutka’s destiny can be found in Casoar and Balázs (2006). 27

They produced two books on the events of 1956 in general (Hollós & Lajtai 1982, 1986). They had also produced an earlier book on the siege of the Communist Party headquarters at Köztársaság tér (Hollós & Lajtai 1974). 28

Time magazine also reported on the Hungarian events, but it had not put any photographs of the revolution on its cover until the drawing of Chaliapine (Time, XLX1X, 1). 29

‘No revolution has ever solved the ‘‘social question’’ and liberated men from the predicament of want, but all revolutions, with the exception of the Hungarian Revolution in 1956, have followed the example of the French Revolution and used and misused the mighty forces of misery and destitution in their struggle against tyranny and oppression’ (Arendt 1990, p. 112). On the role of the councils as spontaneous organs of action and of order emerging during the revolution itself, see Arendt (1990, p. 271). 30

On this postcard it is also written: Série ‘Les mauvais jours finiront’, n 4 (Bad days will be over), both an allusion to a song of the Paris Commune, and to an article published in L’Internationale Situationniste in 1962. For the editor of the postcard, a fictional name and

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location are given: Editions Négation de la Négation, Avenue de la Grande Perruque, Budapest.

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Dethroning Stalin: Poland 1956 and its Legacy TONY KEMP-WELCH STALINISM IMPOSED A MONOLOGUE BY CLOSING CHANNELS OF communication between the rulers and the ruled. Although Poland abandoned Stalinism in 1956 and asserted a degree of autonomy from Soviet hegemony, the return to dialogue was slow and uneven. It was not completed until 1989 when the Communist party agreed to talks with political forces grouped around the independent, but still illegal, trade union Solidarity. But the road to dialogue began in 1956. For any dialogue to become possible, several preconditions have to be met. The first is for people to come out of their sanctuaries, to approach each other and exchange opinions. Dialogue cannot be on the basis of ‘I am entirely right’. There has to be a reciprocal acceptance that the other partner is also right, to some extent. Another person’s notion of truth has to be acknowledged as a starting point for discussion (Tischner 1984, pp. 15 – 17). Secondly, the interlocutors have to find a language which allows for concept formation outside the official sphere of communication. For an interchange of views to become possible, words such as strike, election or party, have to have a meaning beyond those imposed by those in power. We see this collision of discourse most sharply in the Gdańsk negotiations between striking workers and the government commission that led to Solidarity in August 1980.

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Thirdly, dialogue has to be entered into without the result being known beforehand. This requires the recognition that political debate or demands cannot be won ‘100%’. To compromise on some issues is not a moral disgrace or defeat, but a way to progress. For many Poles, this challenged the romantic tradition under which a heroic defeat became a spiritual victory, since struggling for a just cause kept the national idea alive. Equally, political ‘realism’ was distrusted as mere rationalisation of moral surrender. Such maximalism left the field of politics open to others and enabled communists to claim a near monopoly of political realism in post-war Poland (Walicki 1990, pp. 28 – 39). A final precondition for dialogue is for society to regain its subjectivity. In spring 1956, Polish society became an historical actor once more, thereby ceasing to be simply the passive object of policies imposed ‘from above’. No longer merely moulded by communist power, it acted increasingly as an independent agent of change, moving Poland in directions condemned and resisted by the Communist party and other members of the Moscow-dominated ‘Soviet bloc’. De-Stalinism Stalinism was driven by a dynamic ideology, which varied in intensity but contained one constant feature: the ever expanding control by the authorities over the lives of society, social groups and private individuals. The main thrust of policy—the ‘ideological offensive’ on every front—was to accelerate the process of 188

subjugating Poland to the Soviet model. For many Poles, this process had begun much earlier. In September 1939, two weeks after the Nazi invasion, the Red Army arrived, bringing Stalinism from abroad (Gross 1988). After its second coming, in 1944, a Commission to combat ‘Corruption and Economic Sabotage’ spearheaded the infamous ‘battle for trade’. By eliminating the ‘third tier’ of co-operative associations, existing between the private sector and the state, it had firmly installed ‘socialist construction’ with Gomułka as its enthusiastic leader (Kowalik 1980). The notion of a democratically elected self-ruling society was removed and its replacement was a strongly centralised model. Soon afterwards, Gomułka was deposed for ‘rightist-nationalist deviation’. From December 1948, political monopoly was held by the Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR), purportedly ‘in coalition’ with allied parties. Since it allowed no independent parties to compete for office, or even to exist, we will call it hereafter ‘the Party’. This was by no means an inevitable outcome. Pre-war Poland had pluralist traditions. No less than 28 political parties had contested the 1928 elections (Polonsky 1972, pp. 234 – 251). However, Stalinism had its own constituencies. Those in their twenties were appointed to top jobs in the Party apparatus, state-run enterprises, engineering and journalism. Maria Hirszowicz notes, the state provided job security and personal reward: There was the feeling of belonging to the elite, the taste of power, the joy of participation in a chosen group that was arbitrarily reshaping society, the privilege of prying into

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other people’s lives, the exhilarating experience of acting beyond the law and beyond the social rules that limited the freedom of ordinary citizens (Hirszowicz 1980, p. 182).

The Party vetted key posts to ensure its ‘leading role’ in society and the state (Paczkowski 2003, pp. 115 – 139). Its nomenklatura system grew exponentially from modest beginnings. By 1988, it was secretly admitted by Jaruzelski to be 270,000 strong (Paczkowski 1994b, p. 43). Adding their dependents, this amounts to about one million persons, some 2 – 3% of the population. They were privileged, protected from shortages by special shops ‘behind the yellow curtains’ and had weekly packages delivered to their private apartments. Another privilege was political inclusion. The excluded public could see it meant ‘negative selection’: promotion for political loyalty rather than qualifications or ability. Most Poles proved ungrateful for compulsory inclusion in the most progressive portion of humanity. Even at state level, they were incurably ‘revisionist’, prone to deviations of their own, and reluctant to acknowledge the primacy of the Soviet experience, whose historical stages all allies must emulate. They would prefer to chart out their own ‘roads to socialism’. It took those abroad some time to appreciate the differences. In the early Cold War, the West regarded East European societies as emasculated and absorbed. Military strategists examined the expansionist intentions of the Soviet colossus, seen as a monolith merely biding its time before a final push into Western Europe. Social scientists analysed the ‘regime’, a term deliberately implying illegitimacy. Both focussed on ‘political

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control’ within communist states, whose unrestricted monopoly of power seemed to incarnate Orwell’s ideal type of totalitarianism. However, a ‘double-think’ soon developed in other government bodies—including both the US Congress and British Foreign Office—which came to see Soviet-type societies as more permeable entities, where cultural dissent was rife and fosterable (Coleman 1989). There was every opportunity to expose weaknesses on the ‘cultural front’. Broadcasting information from Munich that did not accord with communist wisdom (Nałęcz 1994) could challenge what Gramsci had called hegemony. So began the cultural Cold War. Poles soon heard the Radio Free Europe revelations of lieutenant-colonel ‘Józef Światło’ who had defected to the West. His lurid tales of routine torture of political prisoners, the high life of the communist elite, its links with Moscow and a ubiquitous system of police informing, began to be broadcast back to Poland from autumn 1954 (Błażyński 1986). Such adverse publicity extracted significant concessions from the political authorities: the Ministry of Public Security was abolished; and the Third Plenum of the ruling PZPR (January 1955) set an apparently new course (Paczkowski 1994a); but the initiative from politicians soon petered out. Nonetheless, as Krystyna Kersten notes, historical and cultural roots made Polish society more immune to forcible transformation than many of its neighbours. It was more able to retain the ‘green shoots of recovery’ (Kersten 1993). Above all, Poland retained an autonomous Church, the bulwark of national tradition for a millennium. 191

The Party always knew that the Church presented the greatest barrier to consolidation of its rule. Chief ideologist Berman had observed, in a secret note to Party leader Bierut: The Church is a great obstacle to us because in it are concentrated the philosophical bases of ideological reaction, which it ceaselessly relays to the masses. In the popular consciousness, it is the bulwark of Polish tradition and culture, the most complete expression of ‘Polishness’. This traditional understanding of patriotism is the greatest strength of the Church, even stronger and more powerful than the magic of ritual. The Church is the natural source of opposition, both ideological and philosophical.1

The Party used juridical and police methods in an effort to reduce its strength: 400 priests were imprisoned on various pretexts in September 1948 alone; the Catholic press was decimated and its charitable organisations shut down; church schools and hospitals were closed, as were convents and monasteries (Kersten 1999, p. 84). Repression intensified after the death of Stalin. In September 1953, a show trial was held of Bishop Kaczmarek of Kielce, who was accused of ‘weakening the defensive spirit of Polish society in the face of threatened Hitlerite aggression, disrupting the reconstruction of the country and planned economy, and of sabotage on Polish soil in the interests of American imperialism’. The ‘ring-leaders’ received 12-year sentences. Anticipating possible protests, the Ministry of Interior put all informants on immediate alert:

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They must report all inimical behaviour, intentions and events. Agents should give particular attention to the Bishop’s Curia, to priests known to have hostile attitudes, to clerical circles and meetings, to bandits, supporters of émigré groups, revisionist and all those who listen to imperialist broadcasts (Kersten 1999, p. 88).

The Primate of Poland was also detained. During three years of confinement, Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński chose modern martyrdom, ‘the road of work, not of blood’. It was better to be a ‘scorned priest’ than a ‘praised Caesar’. He saw Marxism as a Western product transplanted to Orthodox soil. No accommodation was possible without an alteration in its attitudes. Implacable atheism was producing merely sterile orthodoxy, alienating even the more enlightened communists. Whilst such a challenge continued, the Church had to defend national identity. It became the repository of Polish values, sustained over a millennium. Persecution could only strengthen its resolve. Overtures were made to Wyszyński in April 1956 (Paczkowski 1998, pp. 13 – 15), but he refused a deal that would allow his return to Warsaw while other bishops remained outside their dioceses: ‘I could return as the last but never as the first’ (A Freedom Within 1985, pp. 246 – 247). That required the repeal of a 1953 edict under which the government controlled Church appointments. His diaries for spring 1956 noted that those who had doubted the Stalin ‘cult’ and suffered for it were now vindicated: ‘Who should be going to prison today, when it turned out that non-communists were the

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better communists, who understood better the spirit of Marxism?’ Such was the fate of gods wrought by human hands, ‘a doctrine that condemns today what yesterday it raised to the altar’ (A Freedom Within 1985, pp. 234 – 245). Although Khrushchev’s ‘secret speech’ offered the CPSU a partial explanation for its decimation in the late 1930s, it gave a far from complete assessment of Stalinist crimes. Little or nothing was said about the wider sufferings, especially to recent returnees from the Gulag or surviving relatives of the millions who had perished there (van Goudoever 1986, pp. 37 – 49). Nor did it address Poland directly. However, uniquely amongst the bloc, Polish leaders decided to disseminate the text locally. Printers were instructed to exceed the official print run (3,000) five-fold and numerous private duplicates were made. Kuroń recalls that they changed hands on the black market for enormous sums (Kuroń 1990, p. 95). Over the ensuing weeks, a host of further questions issued from Khrushchev’s selective disclosures (Kemp-Welch 1996, pp. 181 – 206). The newly radicalised paper Po prostu rallied the young intelligentsia to social protest. It noted ‘students always played a gigantic role in Polish revolutionary movements’ and called for such a programme in the present day: Put briefly: to struggle together with the whole of our party, for restoration and development of communist norms of life in building socialism. Over the last decade, our organisation developed many sores and wounds. They will be hard to

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cure. The cult of the individual, the cult of Stalin deformed the system, introducing many elements alien to the ideology of Marxism – Leninism, such as the dictatorship of individuals, in varied spheres and varying degrees, the paralysis of democracy, jamming, contempt for the masses.2

The Club of the Crooked Circle complained to the Central Committee that its members were ‘unable to understand why British citizens can listen freely to programmes in English from Warsaw, while Poles may not listen to the Polish Service of the BBC’.3 One antidote was an agreement, signed on 15 April, to form a federation of ‘youth discussion clubs’. Groups from Kraków, Poznań, Rzeszów and elsewhere empowered the Warsaw Club of Catholic Intelligentsia (KIK) to act as Secretary: to organise and support existing groups and help new ones arise; to represent their interests to the authorities and institutions (particularly where local authorities were being obstructive); to further co-operation between clubs, exchanging experience and information.4 Discussion clubs mushroomed—for music (including jazz), sculpture and film appreciation. Student theatre and satirical reviews appeared in Gdańsk, Łódz, Kraków and elsewhere. Young people deserted the official Youth Union (ZMP) in droves, leading to an internal party investigation of what were now admitted to be ‘youth problems’.5 The fractured Party was divided between friends and foes of change (Paczkowski 1995, pp. 309 – 325). Thus the editor of the Party monthly declared ‘the Twentieth

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Congress stirred up the country, (caused) a healthy storm, a healthy ferment, our ferment’.6 The head of Agit-prop noted that ‘the creative intelligentsia, students etc.’ had become politically engaged. By contrast, ‘our side’ was becoming defensive. While some were speaking candidly, others were glossing over issues, or hiding behind dogma and schematic abstractions. This left the door open to those talking ‘obvious nonsense’ which had ‘nothing in common with the art of Marxism, its science, its method, with our ideology’.7 The Party leadership announced a widespread amnesty: 35,000 prisoners were released within a month, of whom 4,500 were political, including members of the former anti-communist underground, socialist and populist politicians. In all some 789,000 political prisoners were freed (Machcewicz 1993, p. 53). Verdicts in the Stalinist show trials of General Tatar and others were quashed and victims rehabilitated. Senior officials from the Stalinist era were dismissed, including the Minister of Culture, the Minister of Justice, Prosecutor-General, Military Prosecutor and last Minister of Public Security before its abolition, Stanisław Radkiewicz (demoted to become Minister of State Farms). Notorious interrogators and torturers—such as Roman Romkowski and Anatol Fejgin—were arrested and it was announced that the personnel of security, ‘bezpieka’, would be reduced by 22% (Piechuch 1990; Roszkowski 1992, p. 231). This marked the end of Stalinism in Poland. However, such harsh treatment and public condemnation was bound to demoralise the Party and security apparatus, as their

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near-paralysis in the face of the ‘June events’ would indicate. June Many Polish workers thought Khrushchev’s ‘secret speech’ would help restore freedom of expression. They wanted public life to be conducted in a new spirit of openness and sincerity, but there was no hope of progress through existing institutions. Under Stalinism, workers’ trade unions were amalgamated into a single Federation with the declared function of ‘transmitting directives to the masses’ (Kersten 1991, p. 382). New techniques of ‘shock-working’ and ‘socialist competition’ split the working class into an aristocracy of labour with well-publicised heroes—Wajda’s Men of Marble—and an amorphous and impoverished majority. Strikes were declared outmoded. Workers now owned the means of production and could not strike ‘against themselves’. Miners on strike were denounced as ‘Hitlerites and class enemies’ and crushed by the military (Kamiński 1999). A law on ‘socialist work’ imposed severe penalties for poor work discipline and absenteeism, in effect classifying recalcitrant or slack workers as enemies of the state. Workers going on strike were punished under this new legislation (Brzostek 2002, pp. 117 – 131). Forced labour camps were established in several regions (Kopka 2002). The result of such repression was a sharp fall in the number of reported strikes and a similar drop in their duration and support. Unlike neighbouring Czechoslovakia and East Germany, Stalin’s death did not change the picture. This 197

only followed from his second, political death, in spring 1956. Mass meetings called to hear and discuss the ‘secret speech’ concentrated on ‘cults’ at their own workplace. This inevitably meant attacks on the authorities. The Ursus tractor factory in Warsaw criticised officialdom at every level. Section chiefs were accused of dictatorial behaviour and administrative directors of aloofness. Executives and organisers, in post for years, had become torpid or sunk into routine. The factory directorate gave scant attention to carrying out proposals embodied in the five-year plan, ‘consigning them to their desk drawers’, keeping employees in ignorance of what was really going on. Beyond the gates, the Warsaw Party Committee did not concern itself with the factory’s problems and simply accepted everything it was told by management. The relevant ministry was failing to supply raw materials.8 The discontent was not mitigated by official talk of decentralising industrial decision-making. The first workers’ revolt did not take place at a newly established site, such as Nowa Huta outside Kraków, nor on territories ‘recovered’ from Germany, but in Wielkopolska, a region long noted for its tradition of efficient work. Perhaps this ethos inspired discontent. As the outstanding historian of 1956 suggests, ‘the economic absurdities of Stalinist planning—bureaucratisation, ‘‘organised chaos’’ and massive waste of resources—may have enraged inhabitants of Poznań to a greater extent than those of less-developed regions’ (Machcewicz 1993, p. 109).

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The seat of protest was the Stalin Factory (ZiSPO) making locomotives and other heavy machinery, one of the largest and oldest in Poland. Workers sent a delegation to Warsaw with their grievances: recent wage cuts; increased work norms; overlong working hours, especially for young women; lack of health and safety at work; food price increases; and inadequate supplies of domestic coal (Machowski 2001, p. 46). While the delegation was away, wage demands escalated. A handful of workers—about 20 workers in one section—felt that the path to negotiations had been blocked and that there was the need for direct action and they prepared to strike. However, their plans were relayed to Warsaw by the security police. The Provincial Party secretary, Leon Stasiak rang Ochab late that evening ‘having just returned from the Railway Repair Yard where voices made clear that there were now groups organising against People’s power’.9 Stasiak realised a crisis was imminent and Ochab agreed. He rang the head of State Security who was just on the point of departure to Moscow ‘to discuss the situation in Poznań’ (Ochab quoted in Torańska 1987, pp. 49 – 50). It transpired that the Russians, using radio-telegrams, were more informed than Polish leaders. On 28 June, the ZiSPO siren sounded at 6.30 am. Hearing this pre-arranged signal, several thousand workers (at least 80% of the work-force) formed up outside the gates and started marching towards the city centre. They were joined by many other employees, housewives and school children en route. As the column passed the cathedral, two priests appeared on the steps. Leaders of the demonstration knelt down to receive their 199

blessings. Banners were unfurled: ‘We are Hungry’, ‘We want Bread’, ‘Down with Exploitation of Workers’, and ‘Down with the Red Bourgeoisie’. A Polish Radio transmission van was commandeered and driven round the city summoning people to the demonstration in the central Stalin (later Adam Mickiewicz) Square. It called out for ‘fewer palaces, more apartments’ and ‘fewer Polish children to have tuberculosis and anaemia’; it complained that food products were being taken out of Poland, so that children did not have enough to eat; it proclaimed ‘We want Freedom’ and ‘We want UN-supervised elections’. Protestors tore down red flags. Patriotic anthems were sung. The atmosphere was cheerful and liberated. When the column reached the Europejskii Cafe, waiters ran out with drinks and snacks. The crowd in front of the Castle was estimated by some observers at 100,000. While they waited for the authorities, a delegation entered the local authority building and presented their demands. Top of the list was the immediate appearance of government officials to discuss their grievances—but no one came. Demonstrators then moved on to the Provincial Party committee. Red banners were thrown from the windows, busts of communist leaders (including Bierut’s) were smashed and other portraits defenestrated. Crowd momentum was now unstoppable. It stormed the prison, releasing surprised inmates and procuring rifles and grenades. It attacked the Polish Radio station, destroying equipment used to jam Western broadcasts and surged on to the courts and Procuracy. Only the State Security headquarters did not fall to the demonstrators. 200

As Machcewicz shows, the demonstration became an insurrection. The people who had begun the march now came to consider themselves ‘The Nation’. As various strands, economic and political, patriotic and religious, converged in a single stream, Poznan crowds came to assume they represented all True Poles from whom a national uprising was anticipated (Machcewicz 1993). It was rumoured that similar clashes were taking place in other major cities. Poznań’s Security Headquarters was held to be the ‘last bastion of communism’ in Poland. Thus the forces of law and order beginning to be deployed against them must be Soviet troops in Polish uniforms. Such sentiments, recurrent in later crises, had some credence in 1956. Soviet-trained Minister of Defence, Marshal 10 Rokossovsky, held an emergency interview with Party leader Ochab. Since local forces were incapable of handling such insurgency, he advocated a military response (Nalepa 1992). His demand for a free hand to deal with ‘adventurists who attack state institutions’ was accepted by the Politburo (Torańska 1987, p. 51). Deployment of 10,000 soldiers, 400 tanks and armoured vehicles, left 73 dead and many hundreds seriously wounded. The use of force led to many tragedies. Even when ordered to fire into the air, some shots proved fatal. Children who had climbed trees to escape tanks, or for a better view, fell down dead like birds. Seven soldiers were killed: Gierek and Cyrankiewicz spoke at their funeral. Since all communication between Poznań and the outside world was blocked, wild rumours abounded. It 201

was said that 30,000 farmers had travelled to Poznań to join the uprising; Łódź had sent 40,000 workers to assist Poznań. A train bringing Security officials had been blown up. Ochab had died during the disturbances. It was widely stated that had Poznań held out a few more days, Western military assistance would have been forthcoming and the emigration would have flown in to the rescue: ‘Anders would have brought in an entire armoured corps by air’.11 Other sources claimed that Polish and Soviet armies had fought pitched battles and that the Soviet consulate in Poznań was demolished. Some said the city had been bombed by Soviet aircraft and that ‘all arrested are being taken to Siberia’ (Machcewicz 1993, pp. 128 – 129). Explanations Polish communists always claimed that crises were untypical moments of ‘disorder’, after which normality was rapidly restored, but an opposite view sees crises as normal moments of truth in which the contesting parties come face to face, with no fac¸ade to obscure their differences. As Jan Gross suggests, they tear off the spurious mask of ‘unanimity’ to reveal the real conflicts of interest between the rulers and the ruled (Gross 1979, pp. 150 – 151). Thus the Poznań demonstrators were presented as ‘hooligans’ who vandalised public property, and mindless marauders with no civic intentions. The media displayed wrecked premises and sorry photographs of the guilty parties. Cinema newsreel showed four 202

repentant hooligans, now apparently regretting their isolated acts of vandalism against public property, whose looted or incinerated shells were the only evidence offered to the public.12 Looting does take place under the guise of peaceful demonstrations, and political authorities are capable of fomenting it to discredit protestors (as in 1976). They step forward afterwards as the saviours of public order. Senior Polish officials, dispatched to Poznań by plane, made no attempt to meet the demonstrators. Instead of addressing the cause of the protests, Premier Cyrankiewicz made a lurid threat: every provocateur or maniac who dares to raise his hand against People’s rule may be sure that, in the interest of the working class, the interest of the working peasantry and intelligentsia, in the interest of the struggle to raise the standard of living of the people, in the interest of the further democratisation of our life and in the interest of our Fatherland, the authorities will chop off his hand.13

The future Party leader Gierek placed the blame for the disturbances solely on mistakes of local officials. He reported to the Politburo (7 July) that the Poznań events had a diversionary character, got up by ‘enemies of the people’. Local Party activists had fallen for this provocation. Regional security services and militia had remained passive in the face of agitators in the factories, on the streets, on trains and in repair yards. The central authorities were thus absolved of all responsibility.14 The official explanation for Poznań was economic, caused by a tightening of shift-working. When protests 203

were being planned, shortcomings in the security service (UB) had prevented ringleaders from being identified and arrested. The militia was disoriented, particularly in the earlier stages: ‘it had become demoralised and demobilised by criticisms following the XX Congress’. Finally, Party organisations, both locally and nationally, had dwindled into passivity and disorientation. A good number had misunderstood democratisation, lawfulness and Leninist norms of party life to mean ‘full liberalism, rupturing of Party discipline and tolerating unlimited criticism’.15 [Belgrade however, noted that the workers’ demands were not purely economic. ‘It is obvious even to the most superficial observer, that a considerable majority of the (Poznań) workers are lending support to tendencies which aim at a democratisation of public life’.16] Party leader Ochab added an international dimension. ‘To go on strike against People’s power is to pave the way for imperialism’. ‘Alien elements’ had taken advantage of the Twenty-Fifth International Trade Fair in Poznań (17 – 31 June) to make their demonstration known abroad and to gain publicity for the ‘active underground against People’s power’. Such provocateurs were anti-Russian and envisaged peaceful co-operation with the capitalist world.17 A similar line was taken by the Hungarian Stalinist leader Rakosi: ‘A few days before the Poznań Fair, the Americans had sent many groups of parachuting, armed saboteurs’. It was ‘the most seriously organised attack against our peoples’ democratic order and against the 204

working class we have seen for some time’. ‘The enemy’ was ‘trying to sow confusion between the Party and the worker masses’ (Granville 2001, p. 1059). A Hungarian Party resolution declared that The Poznań provocation is a warning to every Hungarian worker and every honest patriot firmly to oppose attempts at trouble-making and to help the unfettered development of those forces which, on the basis of Marxism – Leninism and in the spirit of the Twentieth Congress, lead our People’s Democracy to new successes.18

When Rakosi resigned on 18 July, Mikoyan reported to Moscow that reformers in Budapest’s ‘Petofi Circle’ were ‘an ideological Poznan without gunshots’. Although they were mostly intellectuals and students, supporters of Imre Nagy, he warned ‘We should remember that in Poznań there were no direct counter-revolutionary attacks. Thus, the absence of counter-revolutionary slogans in the Petofi Circle should not reassure the Hungarian communists’ (Granville 2001, p. 1058). Moscow declared that ‘imperialist and reactionary Polish underground agents, taking advantage of certain economic difficulties (sic), had incited serious disturbances and street disorders’ in Poznań. This time, the Polish working class had expressed its ‘decisive indignation over the insolent imperialist attack’ and rebuffed this action against Peoples’ rule. But such foul provocations would continue to be fomented by American monopolists.19 Pravda stated:

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everyone now knows that this provocation was the work of enemy agents. The American press did not even consider it necessary to conceal the existence of a direct link between the Poznań events and the overseas centres which direct the ‘cold war’. The New York Journal-American stated on June 30 with cynical frankness ‘Senate has decided to allocate within the framework of aid to foreign states the sum of $25 million for financing secret activity behind the iron curtain like that which led to the riots in Poznań’.20

In fact, Washington itself seems to have been largely overtaken by the Poznań events. The State Department had concluded earlier in June 1956 that ‘ten years of Sovietisation has eliminated the main obstacles to Soviet domination’, such as social movements and local institutional variations. The outcome was considered to be the consolidation of Soviet control. Even the ‘New Course’ after Stalin’s death and denunciation of the late leader were tactical manoeuvres with the same aim as before: the complete Sovietisation of the satellite countries (Machcewicz 1997, p. 47). In Poland, at least, this was far from the case. In Moscow’s view, anti-Stalinism had gone too far and now threatened to undermine the foundations of Soviet socialism. Soviet leaders called a halt. They tried to draw a line between the original campaign, a necessary stage in which the CPSU had taken a bold lead, despite the obvious propaganda weapon this would give to the imperialists, and the ‘new stage’ in which the time for self-criticism was over.21 It was not easy to defend the distinction. The notion that the Stalin cult, predominant for 30 years, could be eliminated in three months was 206

implausible. The CPSU therefore relied on teleology: ‘No malicious or slanderous attacks can halt the irresistible course of the historic development of mankind towards Communism’.22 Soviet editorials sounded confident of communism’s bright future, but Polish events were pointing in the opposite direction. To those who wished for real change, Poznań sent a signal from which the rulers could learn. As Gomułka put it ‘the clumsy attempt to present the painful Poznań tragedy as the work of imperialist agents and provocateurs was very naïve politically’.23 Instead of provocation, there had been a genuine attempt by an authentic working-class to make its voice heard. The problem was that the political authorities did not listen. A more radical view saw that Stalinism left workers with no independent means of representation. For workers interested in self-management, there was a fleeting promise of a greater involvement in industrial decision-making. In June 1956, Jacek Kuroń and three academic colleagues met Leszek Goździk, the 25-year old First Secretary of the Factory Committee at the large ‘Zeran’ (FSO) factory in suburban Warsaw (Kuroń 1990, pp. 102 – 103). Their chosen venue was the staff coffee bar at Warsaw University. Goździk spoke of the ineffectiveness of the workers’ council at the factory and the need to introduce elements of democracy (Goździk 1996, pp. 22 – 45). The young lecturers talked rather of Yugoslav self-management, which was a current fascination (Bobrowski 1957; Brus & Jakubowicz 1957). But workers’ self-management had little substance and

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links between factory workers and intellectuals remained embryonic until the late 1970s. October After Poznań, the public mood hardened into resistance (Jankowiak & Rogulska 2002, pp. 16 – 17). Poles realised there might be more bloody defeats or an explosion on a national scale. Setbacks were inevitable but political change was possible. Once the barrier of fear lifted, the status quo seemed much less tolerable. But what forms of change were possible? The new academic year began with street protests. Security archives report a demonstration at Wrocław University after a power cut in a dormitory. Five-hundred students held a torch-light procession into town. They stopped official vehicles with the demand ‘We want light’ and challenged ‘those who aren’t giving us light’. When they reached the Provincial People’s Council (WRN), employees barricaded themselves in and turned out their lights (Machcewicz 1993, p. 150). The militia intervened before protestors could reach the town hall. Warsaw University students demanded a radical democratisation of the political system. Their open letter envisaged a ‘new, genuinely revolutionary, political organisation for young people’ and appealed for support. Complete openness (jawność) was needed in all spheres of political and economic life.24 While the Party elite hid its factional struggles behind a facade of unanimity, a stream of resolutions came up 208

from the rank-and-file members. The lower echelons now sought a real input into policy-making. Tired of talk about the Stalinist era of ‘errors and distortions’, they wanted open decisions, more openly arrived at. Many hoped the campaigns leading to the next Congress would provide such a context. Above all, they called for reinstatement of Gomułka. Gomułka’s release from detention, which had happened much earlier, was made public on 7 April 1956 (Andrzejewski 1986, pp. 76 – 7825). The Politburo responded to his various missives by dispatching a delegation to see him (Rykowski & Władyka 1989, pp. 132 – 134). On 5 August he was reinstated in the Party,26 and from this point onwards he held the ring between Party and society. Since he had been a victim of Stalinist repression, Gomułka’s anti-Soviet credentials were taken for granted. The more Soviet leaders piled on the pressure, the more patriotic he appeared to be. On 12 October, Gomułka addressed the Politburo. Claiming not to notice ‘groups and factions’ in the Party, he saw the main task as leading a million and a half Party members out of a tricky situation. The trust of the working class and the nation had been forfeited. Unless the Party was to rule by bayonets, trust must be regained. It was necessary to mobilise the aktyw in factories: democratisation would prevent a reversion to ‘old methods’. Central government should be cut: ‘there are too many Vice-Premiers’. The press announced his reinstatement to the Politburo and that the Central Committee was due to meet on 19 October (Andrzejewski 1986, pp. 96 – 109). A turning-point was imminent. 209

Hours before the Eighth Plenum was due to open, a Soviet plane arrived in Polish airspace requesting permission to land. A large ‘military – political delegation’ then disembarked, followed by an emotional Khrushchev. Snubbing the Polish Politburo and state officials, he made straight for the Russians assembled on the tarmac. These included 12 of the 28 Russian generals currently posted to the Polish army and Marshal Rokossovsky (Nalepa 1995, p. 86). Turning from ‘those on whom I depend’, he then bawled at the Poles: ‘the treacherous activity of Comrade Ochab is now evident: that number won’t pass here’.27 Shocked Polish leaders noted that Khrushchev’s harangue could even be heard by airport staff and drivers. Soviet tactics were none too subtle. An armoured column had reached the outskirts of Warsaw and others were heading towards the capital (Persak 1997, p. 29). Soviet warships entered the Bay of Gdańsk. Marshal Rokossovsky put soldiers on alert to seize strategic positions in Warsaw, without informing the Politburo. Since other Polish troops from the Internal Security Corps were also preparing to secure Warsaw buildings, including the radio station, a very tense standoff was in the making. Polish leaders moved to the Belvedere Palace to receive their uninvited guests. The first round of talks was tense. Khrushchev announced that the CPSU was ready to ‘intervene brutally’ in Polish affairs to defend Soviet interests. When Gomułka asked what these were, he received only the vaguest answer, based on West German revanchism. He stated that the Polish side was willing to listen to ‘the complaints of the Soviet comrades’, but could not discuss under duress. 210

The next round of talks was calmer. Khrushchev stated that Soviet troops in Poland were merely ‘on manoeuvres’. He would have a word with Marshals Rokossovsky and Koniev to bring them to an end. However, external relations were held to be critical. Mikoyan elaborated on the NATO threat, stating that the Americans sought to sunder the Polish – Soviet alliance. Khrushchev accused the Poles of wanting to ‘turn your faces to the west and your backs on us’ (Głuchowski 1995; Volkogonov 1994, pp. 480 – 482, and 509, note 13). Both stated that Polish instability would weaken the communications between East Germany, where a huge number of troops were stationed, and their command and control centres in the Soviet Union. Poland’s defection from the bloc would break the link completely. The Russians could never accept such an outcome. Gomułka complained about the tank movements and excessive numbers of Soviet ‘advisers’ within the Polish military and security apparatus,28 including Marshal Rokossovsky. But his tone was conciliatory. Poland was committed to the Warsaw Pact and to preserving ‘the bloc of socialist states’. Molotov retorted that, while the Poles merely had to take care of their own affairs, Soviet leaders had ‘to take responsibility for the wider issue of the socialist camp’. The visitors then turned to the question of Polish leadership. They favoured ‘old, trustworthy revolutionaries, loyal to the cause of socialism’. In the confused aftermath, the Soviet Presidium authorised preparation of a ‘provisional revolutionary committee’ to displace Gomułka (Paczkowski 1998, pp. 8 – 12; Kramer 1995, p. 2).

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At the meeting itself, though, they seemed to accept Gomułka. There are two main reasons for this decision. First, Soviet leaders made a shrewd assessment of Gomułka’s character and concluded correctly that he remained a loyal communist within the Polish limits of the possible. ‘We believed him when he said he realised we faced a common enemy: Western imperialism. We took his word as a promissory note from a man whose good faith we believed in’ (Khrushchev 1974, p. 205). Gomułka’s later orthodoxy in domestic politics, and international career as an elder statesman in the Soviet bloc, confirmed their judgement. Second, the very real fear of Polish resistance may have acted as a deterrent. Khrushchev later recalled that, despite Rokossovsky’s assurances that the Polish army would obey his orders, the number of regiments on whom they could rely was unclear. ‘Of course, our own armed strength far exceeded that of Poland, but we didn’t want to resort to the use of our own troops’ (Khrushchev 1974, p. 203). We may assume this calculation was logistic rather than humanitarian: Moscow invaded Hungary two weeks later. There is the intriguing third suggestion that the Chinese leadership put in a decisive word. Ochab gives a plausible account of his conversations with Chinese leaders in Beijing (in late September 1956). It was a mutual effort to break out of isolation. He saw no scope for this with his immediate neighbours: Czechoslovak and East German leaders Novotny and Ulbricht were ‘too limited’. Tito was ‘too remote’ (they did not meet until 1957). This left China as ‘something of an independent factor’. Ochab admitted that Beijing 212

perhaps overestimated Poland’s significance within the Soviet bloc. The same was probably true of Warsaw’s estimation of China. For Beijing, however, already distanced from Moscow during the anti-Stalin campaign, and perhaps aware that an eventual breach was inevitable, any other communist sympathy was welcome. But Poland also gave Beijing a good chance to complain to Moscow about ‘great-power chauvinism’.29 Chou-en-Li told Gomułka later that the Chinese Party had supported the Eighth Plenum and played a ‘stabilising role’. He had rung Moscow during the October crisis to suggest that Poland should find its own solutions and urged a peaceful resolution (Torańska 1987, pp. 55 – 60). He emphasised that fraternal Parties should base relations upon equality, which had been lacking in the Polish – Soviet case. Fraternity was between brothers: intra-bloc relations should not resemble those of father and sons. Sovereignty should be respected, but so too should the Soviet Union’s ‘leading role’.30 The Soviet delegation left Poland early on 20 October and the Eighth Plenum resumed with a keynote address by Gomułka. According to Gomułka the XX Congress had sent ‘an animating, sound current through the Party mass. As silent, enslaved minds began to shake off the poison of mendacity, falsehood and hypocrisy’, so working people demanded to know the truth, without omissions or embellishment. They waited patiently for answers to their petitions. Poznań workers had not taken to the street to protest against People’s Poland, but against ‘the evil which is widespread in our social 213

system’ and distortions of the basic principles of socialism. If the Party lost the confidence of the working class, ‘each of us could not in fact represent anything more than ourselves’.31 Agricultural co-operatives, Gomułka argued, should be voluntary. It was unacceptable to use psychological compulsion to join, or economic coercion through taxation and delivery quotas. Co-operatives should be genuinely self-governing and have access to state credits for purchasing the means of production. Collectives could only flourish within a spirit of community. Its broadest expression, which could be termed solidarity, was common labour. In an unexpected flourish he asked ‘should not the Catholic progressive movement compete with us in the search for forms of collective farms and their realisation? It is a poor idea to maintain that only Communists can build socialism, only people holding materialist social views’. Gomułka’s address concluded that the right of ‘each nation to a sovereign government in an independent country should be fully and mutually respected…. It was unfortunately not always like this in the relations between us and our great and friendly neighbour, the Soviet Union’. Power had been seized there by ‘a mediocre man, an obtuse executive and a rotten climber’. But the cult did not consist of Stalin alone. There was a ‘hierarchic ladder’, and each country had ‘a ladder of cults from top to bottom’.32 Following publication of his address, huge pro-Gomułka rallies took place on the Baltic Coast, Poznań, Lublin, Łódź, Kielce, Bydgoszcz and other cities. Such mass 214

mobilisation made alarming reading in Moscow. Meanwhile, Khrushchev convened a communist summit with the leaders of the DDR, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Bulgaria and China. Ulbricht and Novotny were ready for intervention to ‘restore order’ in Poland (Persak 1997, pp. 37 – 42), but Khrushchev wished to avoid ‘nervousness and haste’ (Kramer 1995, p. 53). A political solution looked much preferable: ‘Finding a reason for armed conflict (with Poland) would be very easy now, though finding a way to put an end to such a conflict later would be very hard’ (Kramer 1995, p. 54). He already knew the intelligence assessment that Polish troops could not be counted on in such a conflict. Some might fight invaders. Polish officials were said to have distributed firearms to the ‘workers’ militia’ who would defend the capital. Entry routes were being blocked off by Polish internal security. Though unconfirmed, such reports discouraged military action. Also, Gomułka revealed, there was also an economic aspect: Poland is in a catastrophic economic situation. There is a shortfall of 900,000 tons of grain. Coal mining is in a very bad shape too.33 After the Twentieth Congress, Poland adopted the same social measures as the USSR, but did not have the means to carry them out. That is why Comrade Ochab turned to the CPSU delegation for a loan.

When Khrushchev remarked that perhaps the USA would give them a loan, Ochab said he would ask but expected to be turned down. Khrushchev considered this reply had been off the cuff (Kramer 1995, p. 53). The

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final consideration was a personal one. Gomułka was himself willing to restore order, though on his own. The Moscow summit favourably received two reports of Gomułka’s actions earlier that day. The first was his published appeal to ‘Workers and Youth’ for ‘solidarity, support and trust’ in bringing Poland out of its current ‘difficulties’. If forthcoming, the Party promised ‘widening workers’ democracy, increased participation of workers in enterprise management, and a greater role for the working masses in running all sectors of national life’.34 Such soothing platitudes helped to tie over the immediate crisis. The other was his famous oration to hundreds of thousands of citizens outside Warsaw’s Palace of Culture and Science. His speech is mainly remembered for its sensational announcement about Soviet troops advancing on Warsaw from bases in the west of the country. Khrushchev had assured him they would return to barracks within 48 hours. This statement was edited out of Pravda’s text. Russian readers were also unable to learn that the Polish nation ‘can completely trust its army and the high command (ovation) which in our country, as everywhere in the world, is completely and entirely subordinated to the government’. They also could not read that those responsible for past mistakes would be removed from office. However, Moscow welcomed Gomułka’s statement that Soviet troops were needed in East Germany because of the existence of NATO in West Germany which was ‘rearming the new Wehrmacht and 216

fomenting chauvinism and revisionism aimed at our frontiers’.35 Gomułka’s peroration was a disappointment to the highly-charged crowd, and to the entire nation listening to the live broadcast. Instead of stirring them to further collective achievements, he declared: ‘Enough of meetings and demonstrations. It is time to go back to everyday work—full of faith and confidence that the Party united with the working class will lead Poland on a new road to socialism’. Some 10,000 at the rally refused to disperse. They headed for the Central Committee headquarters shouting pro-Gomułka slogans, ‘anti-Soviet epithets’ and ‘God save Poland’. Protestors demanded the release of Wyszyński, the removal of Rokossovsky and the closure of Soviet bases. Some assembled outside the Hungarian Embassy to express solidarity with Budapest; others congregated outside the Soviet Embassy before being removed. An impromptu gathering outside the Royal Castle site proclaimed ‘Warsaw – Budapest – Belgrade’ (Machcewicz 1993, p. 138). Hungary Gomułka’s speech was published in full by Szabad Nép, the daily of the Hungarian Workers’ Party. There was simultaneously a vast demonstration in Budapest—the onset of the Hungarian revolution. It supported the changes in Poland, expressed solidarity with the Polish nation and demanded a ‘Hungarian road to socialism’. Imre Nagy became prime minister on 24 October. After a few days’ hesitation, he started to fulfil the 217

demonstrators’ demands. Soviet troops were withdrawn from Budapest and the internal security service (AVH) was disbanded. A multi-party system was restored and the holding of free and secret parliamentary elections was announced. The new Polish leadership, seeking support for systemic change, looked for backing amongst other members of the Warsaw Pact, where the orthodox Stalinist line still seemed strong. The only possible ally seemed to be Hungary. The Hungarian uprising took the pressure off Poland at a time when relations with the Soviet Union were still strained, but there was also concern that the rising might end in tragedy. The Party Central Committee therefore issued an ‘Appeal to the Hungarian Nation’ on 28 October. Brother Hungarians! Stop the shedding of fraternal blood! We know the programme of the Hungarian Government of National Unity, the programme of socialist democracy, raising living standards, the creation of workers’ councils, full national sovereignty, the withdrawal of Soviet troops from Hungary, basing friendship with the Soviet Union on the Leninist principle of equality. We are far from interfering in your internal affairs. We judge, however, that this programme corresponds to the interests of the Hungarian people and the entire camp of peace (…) We are both on the same side: the side of freedom and socialism. We appeal to you: enough of blood, enough of

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destruction, enough of fratricidal struggle. May peace come to reign in Hungary, peace and unity in the nation, so indispensable for the realisation of the broad programme of democratisation, peace and socialism which has been put forward by your Government of National Unity (Tischler 1999, pp. 127 – 128).

This was signed by Gomułka and Premier Cyrankiewicz. The signatories (together with Ochab) met Khrushchev, Malenkov and Molotov at the Polish – Soviet border on 1 November. The Russians gave notice of their intention to re-invade Hungary. The Poles gave their view that no foreign power had the right to resolve internal crises—whether the current one in Hungary or that in Poland 12 days earlier—by armed force. They agreed that counter-revolution was at work in Hungary. In free elections the Communist Party would get some 8 – 10%. However, military intervention would lead to a protracted and bloody conflict. The meeting ended without agreement. The Russians then left for Yugoslavia to gain Tito’s acquiescence, which they obtained rather easily. Soviet re-intervention in Hungary, on 4 November, was facilitated by the international situation. Britain, France and Israel attacked Egypt to regain control of the Suez Canal, recently nationalised by Nasser. This ruptured the Western alliance and turned world attention away from Hungary. Eisenhower, mindful of the approaching presidential election, accepted the Soviet fait accompli. He declared that the United States would not interfere within the Soviet sphere of influence.

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Gomułka also accepted the fait accompli. When journalists protested that the Polish public would never forgive such a betrayal of Hungary, he replied calmly: You want me to risk Poland’s fate? You want me to declare myself for Imre Nagy even though I do not know him or his motives. The only thing I do know is that his government had no communists and that the mob was stringing up communists on lamp posts. And now you, defending such a government, want me to deliver us to the same fate (Werblan 1991).

Gomułka’s main fear was the Hungarian invasion might start a chain reaction in which Poland would be the next victim. Whilst therefore continuing to condemn such military intervention by foreign powers on principle, he accepted it in practice as a lesser evil. In contrast to Hungary, Poland’s October gave pause to the tragic history of Polish – Russian relations, but, amongst the public, anti-Soviet sentiment remained high. The most typical demands were ‘Rokossovsky to Siberia’ and the removal of ‘Soviet advisors’ from the Polish Army (including the 28 generals), the Security apparatus, Internal Affairs, and other ministries. On this issue at least, the public and new leader were at one. Gomułka had told the Soviet Politburo that their advisors should have been withdrawn long ago: What on earth is happening? These advisors are not needed. Every government must conduct its own affairs. We should go back to those providing the advisors and have them recalled.

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How can you have respect if you do nothing about this? It is not a matter for discussion—it must be done (Andrzejewski 1986, p. 95).

That required confronting the Soviet Union on this key issue. Doing so put Polish – Soviet relations on a new footing. Moscow withdrew its ‘advisors’ from the Ministry of Internal Security and the Polish Army.36 Rokossovsky went on immediate vacation and on 10 November was removed from his post. A curt resolution offered him thanks and a pension. The removal of other Russian advisors was completed by December. This was a significant public gesture to placate the Poles. However Moscow retained myriad other personnel links within Poland, not least through its swollen Warsaw Embassy. Another channel it kept was secure military communications with Polish representatives in the Warsaw Pact. Hence the changes were more symbolic than substantive: Poland moved towards somewhat greater equality in relations with its eastern neighbour. The concessions did not placate the public however. ‘Solidarity with the Eighth Plenum’ soon turned to indignation, especially in areas where Soviet troops were still stationed. People commonly demanded ‘a Polish army for Poland’, economic reparations for past Soviet exploitation and the return of eastern territories, including Wilno and Lwów. Some protestors did not want Gomułka to visit Moscow, where previous Polish heroes had perished, but he did head a Polish delegation for talks on 15 – 18 November 1956. The Soviet side

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consisted of Khrushchev, Prime Minister Bulganin, his Deputies Mikoyan and Saburov and Marshal Zhukov. Limited Polish sovereignty was restored. It was agreed that each country could find its own ‘methods, forms and paths for building socialism’ in accordance with their ‘particular historical conditions and national requirements’. The Soviet model was thus no longer obligatory. This was a major revision of principle, but it did not legitimate all ‘methods, forms and paths’ in practice. The fate of the Hungarian Revolution was an immediate minatory example. The very controversial matter of repatriations, concerning the millions of citizens deported to the east in the first Soviet occupation (1939 – 1941) or now living in former Polish territories, incorporated in the USSR during the period from 1944, was unresolved.37 Poland’s pact in Moscow made clear that many bonds remained. The Warsaw Pact would guarantee Polish territory bordered by the Oder-Niesse line. There would be an agreement governing the stationing of Soviet troops and transit rights through Polish territory.38 The status under which troops could be stationed on Polish soil was agreed in a later ‘top secret’ protocol which stated they were ‘stationed temporarily’.39 Forces that had marched towards Warsaw one month previously, were now ‘unable to infringe on the sovereignty of the Polish state in any way’. Four fifths of the remaining talks concerned economic relations. It was agreed that debts to the Soviet Union would be cancelled, further credits would be extended, 222

and backward Poland’s needs would be addressed in further discussions. This set the pattern for bilateral relations down to 1970. On such issues as the mining and export of coal, and other raw materials, Gomułka looked naturally towards the East for economic co-operation. Unlike his successor, Gierek, he showed no interest in any opening to the West, fearing that socialism’s entanglement with capitalism would lead to ‘counter-revolution of a new type’. He showed similar disinterest in further political modernisation, seeking solace rather in recognition of geopolitical ‘realities’. The radical ‘de-Staliniser’ of 1956 was soon transformed into a stalwart of the Soviet camp (Paczkowski 1998, pp. 1 – 4). Aftermath Faced with the need to curb the population, the Party leadership decided to review Church – State relations. Cardinal Wyszyński remained in detention. Half a million pilgrims to the Jasna Góra monastery in Częstochowa on 26 August saw his empty throne, bearing only a bouquet of flowers in patriotic colours. On 26 October, two senior officials, Kliszko and Bieńkowski, visited him at his place of internment. On behalf of ‘comrade Wiesław’ (Gomułka’s name from the underground), they stated that Wyszyński should return to Warsaw forthwith and resume his pastoral duties. This abrupt imperative—ending three years of confinement—was necessary to help pacify ‘the socio-economic and foreign political situations’.

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The Primate drove a hard bargain. He was positively disposed towards recent changes in the internal life of Poland, ‘designed to calm the situation and break with the errors of the past’. He also accepted that Gomułka’s speeches to the Eighth Plenum and at the 24 October mass rally were authoritative ‘within the framework of differences which may occur in philosophical outlook’. But he set preconditions for his return. First, the 1953 decree governing Church appointments (under which Wyszynski himself had been arrested) must be rescinded. There should be a reinstatement of senior clergy removed (by the government) from their posts, and an end to state vetting of appointments below the rank of Bishop. In particular, Bishop Kaczmarek of Kielce, who had been the victim of a show trial, should be allowed to return. Five new bishops should be appointed in the Western Territories. To formalise the dialogue, Gomułka should agree to reinstate a Joint Commission ‘as a permanent intermediary body between the Episcopate and the government’.40 Finally, to enable the Church to function normally, the Catholic press had to be restored ‘in the full sense of the word’ (A Freedom Within 1985, pp. 268 – 270). Once these conditions were accepted, Wyszyński returned to his palace on Miodowa Street. On 29 October, a number of lay-Catholic intellectuals were received by Gomułka. The Party leader noted with satisfaction that Soviet intervention had been averted, but added that meant they had responsibility for rebuilding Poland on their own. Echoing his 24 October speech, he declared: ‘Socialism should be built by everyone—the whole nation, including Catholics, not 224

just communists’. His visitors would be allowed their weekly newspaper, Tygodnik Powszechny. Gomułka was glad they did not wish to set up a Catholic party. He thought Church – State relations would flourish if there was good will on both sides (Friszke 1997, p. 40). One of the lay intellectuals, Tadeusz Mazowiecki, helped to construct an informal alliance between the Club of the Crooked Circle (KKK) and radical Party members working on Po prostu. Their common platform was support for Gomułka against any reversion to Stalinism and the rejection of national chauvinism and anti-Semitism in favour of toleration. This informal alliance grew into an All-Poland Club of Catholic Intellectuals which achieved legal status on 27 October. Some 600 Catholics from four cities attended its inaugural session on 5 November. They supported the Gomułka programme and endorsed the Soviet alliance as the basis for Polish sovereignty. At this point, there was no wish to play the role of a political party or to stand in elections: ‘Our activity is solely cultural and social’ (Friszke 1994, p. 188). Inspired by the example of Mounier’s Espirt, Mazowiecki sought permission to found a journal. This was eventually granted and the first issue of Więź (The Link) appeared in summer 1958. Under his editorship, the monthly advocated positive engagement with current Polish society and a willingness to engage in dialogue with Marxism. Such mediation was much needed. A wave of rallies and demonstrations swept Poland for the rest of 1956. The public did not simply express 225

support for Gomułka and relief at the peaceful outcome. They began to outline a democratic agenda far beyond the confines of official thinking. For the first time under communism, ordinary people felt free to give public expression to their personal beliefs and pent-up emotions. In factories, institutes and universities and even army barracks, ordinary people felt able to express their views. Many found relief simply from speaking out on issues they had been afraid to articulate before. (The same spontaneity would be recaptured during the heady 16 months of Solidarity.) For others, it was a settling of accounts, paying-off old scores. Perhaps little was said of lasting value and some claims were plainly false, such as that Rokossovsky was now commanding Soviet troops in Budapest, but Poles regained freedom of expression, an experience that can be abruptly terminated but cannot be so easily forgotten. Further impetus came from the Soviet re-invasion of Hungary on 4 November. There was a huge wave of public sympathy following reports of fatalities amongst Hungarian freedom-fighters. To the older generation their cause recalled the Warsaw Uprising. When Polish Radio called for blood donors to help the ‘Hungarian brothers’, there was an overwhelming response. The transfusion service had to conscript volunteers and work overnight to cope with the donors: students, workers, soldiers and even pensioners. There were numerous further collections of money, food and medicines (Tischler 1995). By February 1957, Poles had donated more than 80 wagon-loads of foodstuffs, thread and textiles, shoes and clothing (Granville 2001, p. 1062).

226

There was simultaneous revulsion against Soviet aggression. Security archives are replete with examples. In Bydgoszcz on 18 November, a crowd, following heavy-handed treatment by the militia, targeted the local ‘Soviet – Polish Friendship Society’. It also attacked and demolished radio-jamming equipment (which had been switched off for some weeks). A week later Warsaw announced its decision to stop jamming all foreign radio stations. A crowd in Szczecin on 10 December caused late-night uproar outside the Soviet Consulate, which was ransacked and vandalised, with files being destroyed (Machcewicz 1993, pp. 161 – 163). Warsaw’s Ministry of Interior affected surprise that Szczecin had a Soviet Consulate. There were widespread demands for the end to compulsory Russian language teaching in schools. Pupils would play truant or tear up their text-books. The teaching of Western languages, or religion, was demanded instead. The need for some confirmatory plebiscite was palpable. The Council of State had announced there would be fresh elections to the Sejm on 16 December. They were now postponed until 20 January 1957 to enable the Party to regroup and mobilise support from the population (Machcewicz 2000). The task was immensely simplified by the placing of all candidates under a single umbrella: the Front of National Unity (FNU). Since no other candidates could appear on the list, the most significant statistics were likely to be the numbers of spoiled ballot papers and abstentions.

227

The Press and Propaganda Department of the Central Committee addressed social groups in posters, running to 100,000 copies, carrying the following slogans: • Workers! The FNU will develop self-management. Take work-place management into your own hands. • Peasants! Develop and enrich your households with the FNU. • Scientists and Artists! For full freedom of creative work, support the FNU. • Young People! For the programme of independence and the Polish road to socialism vote for the FNU (Machcewicz 2000, pp. 63 – 64). In the early New Year, Gomułka made a melodramatic radio broadcast to voters. Only a socialist Poland can appear on the map of Europe as an independent and sovereign state. The Party is the primary guarantor of this independence, underwritten by the friendship between the Polish and Russian peoples, the guarantor of neighbourly, fraternal Polish – Soviet relations.

His advice to electors was stark: ‘to cross out PZPR (Party) candidates is not only to cross out socialism in Poland. It is crossing out our country’s sovereignty. It is crossing out Poland from the map of European states’ (Gomułka 1957, pp. 212 – 213). Cardinal Wyszyński was asked by Premier Cyrankiewicz to endorse the official list. He agreed. Four days before the poll, the press carried his appeal to ‘Catholic-Citizens’ concerning the following Sunday. He declared that religious and political responsibilities went 228

hand in hand. ‘Catholic citizens are to fulfil their conscience’s duty to vote. Catholic priests will conduct their Masses so as to enable the faithful to fulfil their religious duty and their electoral duty without any difficulties’ (Raina 1986, pp. 150 – 151). As Dudek points out, this marked the greatest political concession the Church had made to the powers that be. It was tantamount to acceptance of the communist political system (Dudek 1995, p. 50). Wyszyński himself came to this opinion and let it be known well ahead of every subsequent election that he would not be voting, but the 1957 results showed how effective a Church – State alliance could be: 94.1% of the electorate turned out and 98.4% voted for the official (FNU) candidates—naturally enough, since there were no other candidates—but there has been no suggestion that the result was falsified. Legacy 1956 offered an ‘October’ legacy: the Party’s willingness to take social aspirations more into account. In 1956, Polish communists first acknowledged that society could no longer be ruled without the Party listening to its voice. Its high point was Gomułka’s triumphant return to power and the reduction of dependence on the Soviet Union and its ‘model’ of socialism. Gomułka admitted that political campaigns against the Church and against private agriculture had failed and granted them a permanent place alongside the ‘socialist order’.

229

For farmers, October was a time of triumph. Spontaneous de-collectivisation took place. Within three weeks, 75% of state-run co-operatives had disbanded and most others dwindled away. Of almost 10,000 co-operatives that had existed at the end of 1955, only 1,534 remained by the end of 1957 (Jarosz 1997, pp. 169 – 177). Land and property was re-privatised. One letter to the Central Committee from Kutno district reports ‘the members are stealing all they can. They are pulling down stone walls, chopping down trees and even pulling up paving-stones on the former collective’. Co-operative machinery was driven away to private farms and state granaries were raided at night. Old scores were settled, often brutally. In Olsztyn province, a gang congregated at the Red Army monument, knocking down its star. They headed for the home of the local correspondent of Chłopska Droga and broke his windows, but he escaped (Machcewicz 1993, p. 169). For most workers however, October was a disappointment. The promised self-management soon evaporated. In retrospect, it seems the most significant workers’ self-organisation in 1956 took place on the coast. An independent trade union for seamen and deep-sea fishermen had been formed in October 1956. As the Red Fleet trained its guns on Gdynia, the port of Gdańsk, it was clear that protestors would be shelled if they made trouble. Despite such intimidation, the merchant seamen formed a union with 3,000 members. Its initial aim—as in the Gdańsk Shipyard in 1980—was to defend fellow workers who had been unjustly dismissed. To some extent this was successful: ‘every seaman who suffered an injustice was rehabilitated and 230

received a verification he could show his wife’. The longer term goal was a free trade union. Although this failed for a generation, the interviewee concluded that the initial effort had been an achievement (Zuzowski 1992, pp. 265 – 269). Whereas the Solidarity movement was born in the glare of world publicity, in 1956 they had been on their own. The intelligentsia’s hopes of October soon faded. The Writers’ Congress of 29 November – 2 December elected a new president, Słonimski, and a board of younger authors including Mro zek and Hłasko. It called for the abolition of all censorship and the restoration of full rights of authors and editors. Demands were also heard for a ‘return to Europe’ of Polish literature, particularly through restoring relations with writers in emigration, such as Gombrowicz and Miłosz, and in establishing normal contacts with the émigré press, above all the Paris-based Kultura. The restoration of links with the West became a permanent legacy of October but stringent censorship was restored at home and Po prostu was closed down. ‘October’ tends to be employed once the second legacy of 1956 has failed. We may call this ‘June’, following the use of force in Poznań. One lesson the authorities learned from Poznań was to form a motorised militia (ZOMO) armed with tear gas and long, loaded truncheons rather than live ammunition. This force was used against peaceful protests by students in 1968 and by workers in 1970 and 1976, and in the ‘state of war’ from 13 December 1981. ZOMO was still used against street demonstrations on 3 May 1989 (Dudek & 231

Marszałkowski 1999, pp. 395–395). However, ‘October’ resumes in the form of primitive dialogue between the new leader Gierek and shipyard workers on the coast in early 1971 (Wacowska 1971, pp. 224 – 227). A decade later, it achieves breakthrough status in the week-long negotiation between the government commission and the Interfactory Strike Committee in the Gdańsk Shipyard in August 1980. Its culmination was the 1989 Round Table, leading to the end of communism. University of East Anglia, Norwich References A Freedom Within. The Prison Notes of Stefan, Cardinal Wyszynśki (1985) (London, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich). Andrzejewski, J. [pseudonym Andrzej Paczkowski] (ed.) (1986) Gomułka i inni. Dokumenty z archiwum KC 1948–1982 (Warsaw, Krąg). Błażyński, Z. (1986) Mówi Joźef Światło. Za kulisami bezpieki i partii, 1940–1955, 3rd edition (London, Polska Fundacja Kulturalna). Bobrowski, (Warsaw).

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Jugosławia

Brus, W. & Jakubowicz, S. jugosłowianśki z bliska (Warsaw).

socjalistyczna (1957)

System

Brzostek, B. (2002) Robotnicy Warszawy. Konflikty codzienne (1950–1954) (Warsaw, Trio).

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Coleman, P. (1989) The Liberal Conspiracy: the Congress for Cultural Freedom and the Struggle for the Mind of Postwar Europe (New York, The Free Press). Drozdowski, M. (ed.) (1998) 1956. Polska emigracja a Kraj (Warsaw, Typografika). Dudek, A. (1995) Państwo i Kosćiółw Polsce, 1945–1970 (Kraków, PiT). Dudek, A. & Marszałkowski, T. (1999) Walki uliczne w PRL, 1956–1989 (Kraków, Wydaw, GEO)) Friszke, A. (1994) Opozycja polityczna w PRL, 1945–1980 (London, Aneks). Friszke, A. (1997) Oaza na Kopernika. Klub Inteligencji Katolickiej 1956–1989 (Warsaw, Biblioteka ‘Więzi’). Głuchowski, L. (1995) ‘Poland, 1956: Khrushchev, Gomułka and the ‘‘Polish October’’’, Cold War International History Project (CWIHP) Bulletin, No 5, Spring. Gomułka, W. (1957) Przemówienia (Warsaw). van Goudoever, A. (1986) The Limits of de-Stalinization in the Soviet Union: Political Rehabilitations in the Soviet Union since Stalin (London, Croom Helm). Goździk, L. (1996) ‘Byliśmy u siebie w domu’, in Bratkowski, S. (ed.) (1996) Październik 1956. Pierwszy wyłom w systemie (Warsaw, Prószyński i S-ka).

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Granville, J. (2001) ‘Hungarian and Polish Reactions to the Events of 1956: New Archival Evidence’, Europe-Asia Studies, 53, 7, November. Gross, J. (1979) ‘Thirty Years of Crisis-Management in Poland’, in Rakowska-Harmstone, T. (ed.) (1979) Perspectives for Change in Communist Societies (Boulder, CO, Westview Press). Gross, J. (1988) Revolution from Abroad. The Soviet Conquest of Poland’s Western Ukraine and Western Byelorussia (Princeton, NJ, Guilford). Hirszowicz, M. (1980) The Bureaucratic Leviathan: A Study in the Sociology of Communism (Oxford, Martin Robertson). Jankowiak, S. & Rogulska, A. (eds) (2002) Poznański Czerwiec 1956 (Warsaw, IPN). Jarosz, D. (1997) ‘Wieś Polska w 1956 Roku’, in Kersten, K. (ed.) (1997). Jedlicki, W. (1963) Klub Krzywego Kola (Paris, Kultura). Kamiński, L. (1999) Strajki robotnicze w Polsce, w latach 1945–1948 (Wrocław, GAJT wydaw). Kemp-Welch, A. (1992) The Birth of Solidarity, 2nd edition (London, Macmillan).

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Kemp-Welch, A. (1996) ‘Khrushchev’s ‘‘Secret Speech’’ and Polish Politics: The Spring of 1956’, Europe-Asia Studies, 48, 2, March. Kemp-Welch, A. (ed.) (1999) Stalinism in Poland, 1944–1956 (London & New York, Macmillan & St Martin’s Press). Kersten, K. (1991) The Establishment of Communist Rule in Poland, 1943–1948 (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press). Kersten, K. (1993) ‘1956-Punkt zwrotny’, Krytyka, 40. Kersten, K. (ed.) (1997) Polska 1956—próba nowego spojrzenia (Warsaw, Instytut Historii PAN). Kersten, K. (1999) ‘The Terror, 1949–1954’, in Kemp-Welch, A. (ed.) (1999). Khrushchev, N.S. (1974) Khrushchev Remembers: The Last Testament (London, Deutsch). Kopka, B. (2002) Obozy pracy w Polsce 1944–1950 (Warsaw, Karta). Kowalik, T. (1980) Spory o ustrój społeczno-gospodarczy Polski 1944–48 (Warsaw, Zeszyty TKN-NOWA). Kramer, M. (1995) ‘Hungary and Poland in 1956’, CWIHP Bulletin, 5, Spring.

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Kuroń, J. (1990) Wiara i Wina. Do i od komunizmu (Warsaw, NOWA). Machcewicz, P. (1993) Polski Rok 1956 (Warsaw, Mówįa Wieki). Machcewicz, P. (1997) ‘Stany Zjednoczone wobec Polskiego Października 1956 roku’, in Kersten, K. (ed.) (1997). Machcewicz, P. (2000) Kampania wyborcza i wybory do Sejmu 20 stycznia 1957 (Warsaw, Wydaw Sejmowe). Machowski, E. (2001) Poznański Czerwiec 1956. Pierwszy bunt społeczeństwa w PRL (Poznań, Wydaw, Poznańskie). Nalepa, E. (1992) Pacyfikacja Zbuntowanego Miasta. Wojsko Polskie w Czerwcu 1956 r. w Poznaniu (Warsaw, Bellona). Nalepa, E. (1995) Oficerowie Armii Radzieckiej w Wojsku Polskim 1943–1948 (Warsaw, Wojskowy Instytut Historyczny). Nałęcz, D. (ed.) (1994) Główny urząd kontroli prasy, 1945–1956 (Warsaw, Biblioteka Narodowa). Paczkowski, A. (1994a) Aparat bezpieczeństwa w latach 1945–1956 2 Vols (Warsaw, ISP-PAN).

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Paczkowski, A. (ed.) (1994b) Tajne dokumenty Biura Politycznego i Sekretariatu KC. Ostatni rok władzy 1988–1989 (London, Aneks). Paczkowski, A. (1995) Pół wieku dziejów Polski, 1939–1989 (Warsaw, Wydaw. Naukowe PAN). Paczkowski, A. (ed.) (1998) Tajne dokumenty Biura Politycznego PRL-ZSRR 1956–1970 (London). Paczkowski, A. (2003) ‘System nomenklatury’, in Paczkowski, A. (ed.) (2003) Centrum władzy w Polsce, 1948–1970 (Warsaw, ISP-PAN). Persak, K. (1997) ‘Kryzys stosunków Polsko-Radzieckich w 1956 roku’, in Kersten, K. (ed.) (1997). Piechuch, H. (1990) Spotkania z Fejginem: (zza kulis bezpieki) (Warsaw, Wydaw, Lodowego). Polonsky, A. (1972) Politics in Independent Poland 1921–1939. The Crisis of Constitutional Government (Oxford, Oxford University Press). Raina, P. (1986) Stefan Kardynał Wyszyński Vol. 2 (London, Oficyna Poetów i Malarzy). Roszkowski, W. (1992) Historia Polski, 1914–1991 (Warsaw, PWN). Rykowski, Z. & Władyka, W. (1989) Polska próba. Październik‘ 56 (Kraków, Wydaw. Literackie).

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Sto sorok besed s Molotovym. Iz dnevnika F Chueva (1991) (Moscow, Terra). Tischler, J. (1995) Rewolucja węgierska 1956 w polskich dokumentach (Warsaw, ISP-PAN). Tischler, T. (1999) ‘Polish Leaders and the Hungarian Revolution’, in Kemp-Welch, A. (ed.) (1999). Tischner, J. (1984) Etyka Solidarnosći, 2nd edition (Paris). Torańska, T. (1987) Oni. Stalin’s Polish Puppets (London, Collins Harvill). Volkogonov, D. (1994) Lenin: A New Biography (New York, The Free Press). Wacowska, E. (1971) Rewolta Szczecińska i jej znaczenie (Paris, Kultura). Walicki, A. (1990) ‘Three Traditions in Polish Patriotism’, in Gomułka, S. & Polonsky, A. (eds) (1990) Polish Paradoxes (London, Routledge). Werblan, A. (1991) ‘Czy los Imre Nagy’a przeraził Gomułkę?’, Prawo i Zycie, 43. Zinner, P. (ed.) (1956) National Communism and Popular Revolt in Eastern Europe. A Selection of Documents (New York, Columbia University Press).

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Zuzowski, R. (1992) ‘An Interview with Włodzimierz Schilling-Siengalewicz (April 1986)’, in Zuzowski, R. (ed.) (1992) The Workers’ Defense Committee KOR (Westport, CT, Praeger). 1

Archiwum Akt Nowych (AAN) Oddzial VI (PZPR) p. 112 t. 26, pp. 213 – 220. 2

‘Co robić?’, Po prostu, 8 April 1956.

3

AAN 237/XVIII/161 (Klub Krzywego Koła); Jedlicki (1963). 4

AAN 237/XVIII/161, p. 24.

5

AAN 237/V/204, pp. 90 – 93 (29 March 1956) and special report AAN 237/VII/3859, Meldunki, 43, 28 May 1956. 6

AAN 237/V/231 (Roman Werfel).

7

AAN 237/V/231 (Stefan Żółkiewski).

8

AAN 236/VII/3859, Meldunki, 33, 24 April 1956.

9

Stasiak interviewed in Polityka, 13 June 1981.

10

Marshal of the Soviet Union and Poland, Minister of Defence (from November 1949), and Politburo member (from 1950). On his original appointment see Sto sorok besed s Molotovym (1991, pp. 55 – 59).

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11

For General Anders’ statement on the ‘events’ in Poznań (29 June 1956) see Drozdowski (1998, pp. 166 – 167). 12

‘Poznań po wypadkach’, Polska Kronika Filmowa, 28/56, 3 July 1956. 13

‘Proclamation to the People of Poznań’, 29 June 1956, in Zinner (1956, p. 135). 14

AAN 237/V/237, pp. 5 – 29.

15

AAN 237/V/274, pp. 122 – 133.

16

Borba, 1 July 1956.

17

AAN 237/V/237, p. 87.

18

Central Committee Statement, 30 June 1956. National Communism and Popular Revolt: A Selection of Documents (New York, 1956), p. 331. 19

Pravda, 1 July 1956.

20

Editorial, Pravda, 16 July 1956.

21

Pravda, 2 July 1956.

22

Editorial, Pravda, 3 July 1956.

23

Trybuna Ludu, 21 October 1956.

24

Po Prostu, 21 October 1956.

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25

Jakub Andrzejewski is a pseudonym used by Andrzej Paczkowski. 26

Trybuna Ludu, 5 August 1956.

27

AAN VI, p. 12, t. 46a, pp. 66 – 68.

28

Numbers in CWIHP Virtual Archive: ‘Khrushchev to Gomułka (22 October1956)’, note 1. 29

‘The Emerging Dispute between Beijing and Moscow, 1956 – 1958’, CWIHP Bulletin, No 6/7, 1995 – 1996. 30

AAN VI, p.107 t. 5, pp. 85 – 88.

31

Trybuna Ludu, 20 October 1956.

32

Trybuna Ludu, 20 October 1956.

33

Trybuna Ludu, 20 October 1956. Coal was a major export to the USSR—at very low prices. 34

Trybuna Ludu, 25 October 1956.

35

Trybuna Ludu, 25 October 1956.

36

AAN PZPR p.112 t.26, pp. 176 – 177 (22 October 1956). 37

Report by Gomułka (22 November 1956) in Paczkowski (1998, pp. 19 – 30). 38

Gomułka’s notes in Paczkowski (1998, pp. 13 – 15).

241

39

AAN VI, p.112 t. 26, pp. 213 – 220.

40

This had been part of the programme of Mutual Understandings with which he had become Primate. It convened in November 1956.

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The Polish – Soviet Confrontation in 1956 and the Attempted Soviet Military Intervention in Poland KRZYSZTOF PERSAK FOR POLISH – SOVIET RELATIONS THE YEAR 1956 STARTED WITH TWO far-reaching events. The first event—of worldwide importance—was the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), at which Nikita Khrushchev delivered the secret speech denouncing Stalin’s crimes. Soon after the first secretary of the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers’ Party (PUWP), Bolesław Bierut, died of a heart attack during a stay in Moscow. The thaw in Poland Khrushchev’s speech, broadly publicised in Poland, was a shock to communists, but raised hope for a rapid change among wide circles of society. Contrary to the author’s intentions, the report condemning Stalin’s ‘personality cult’ struck at the heart of the ruling system. The political situation after the CPSU Twentieth Congress could not remain intact. Under the circumstances, the death of Bierut, the head of the state and head of the party during the worst period of Stalinism, was a factor facilitating the process of destalinisation. As a result the ‘thaw’ began transforming into a real ‘spring’. The tide of discussion and critique became more and more diffuse, and the press played a very important role in it. The slogans of the day were ‘democratisation’,

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‘abiding by the law’, and struggles against ‘bureaucracy’ and ‘distortions’. ‘Truth’ and ‘morality’ were becoming the values of public life (Kemp-Welch 1996, pp. 181 – 208).1 As part of the relaxation, an amnesty pronounced in April 1956 resulted in the release of 35,000 prisoners (including 9,000 political prisoners). Nine officers who had been accused of ‘a plot in the Army’ were rehabilitated, whereas Roman Romkowski, former deputy minister of public security, and Anatol Fejgin, former director of the tenth department of the ministry,2 were put under arrest. Minister of justice Henryk Świątkowski, prosecutor-general Stefan Kalinowski and chief military prosecutor Stanisław Zarakowski were dismissed from their posts. At the beginning of May, Jakub Berman, who in previous years had been considered the second most important person in the party’s leadership after Bierut, resigned from the Politburo. However, neither these personnel changes nor the restitution of wrongs resulting from the lawlessness of the Stalinist period could be a substitute for necessary radical reforms of the system. The workers’ revolt in Poznań on 28 June 1956, when anti-communist slogans were used, was manifest proof of the increasing social and political crisis. During the Seventh Plenum of the Central Committee of the PUWP held in July 1956, a deep split was revealed inside the elite of the communist authorities. The basic difference between the emerging party factions was in their ways of responding to the crisis of the system. According to the dogmatic conservative faction called 244

the Natolinians the way to alleviate the increasing social tensions was primarily by personnel changes and holding individual officials responsible for mistakes that resulted from the ‘personality cult’, as well as by satisfying the most urgent financial needs of the population. The essence of the system, however, was to remain intact. The Natolinians were in favour of tough methods of rule; they demanded the re-establishment of strict control over the press and the limitation of the freedom of expression. Among the most prominent Natolinians were Politburo members Zenon Nowak, Franciszek Joźwiak and Franciszek Mazur, as well as the trade union chief Wiktor Kłosiewicz and Kazimierz Witaszewski, chief of the main political administration of the Polish Armed Forces. Among Politburo members, Aleksander Zawadzki was also close to the Natolinians. This faction enjoyed strong support from regional mid-level party apparatus activists. Another faction, the Pulavians, was characterised by a more liberal approach and a pro-reform attitude. They supported giving up terror as an instrument of exercising power and they recognised the need for authentic changes to the system. They were also distinctive by demonstrating a greater sensitivity to public feeling and recognised the need to obtain support in broader circles of society. The political base for the Pulavians was a large part of the central party apparatus, and they also exercised influence among the intelligentsia, especially among journalists. Politburo member Roman Zambrowski was considered to be a leader of the Pulavians. The reform-minded secretaries of the Central Committee were also linked with this group, including 245

Jerzy Morawski, Władysław Matwin and Jerzy Albrecht. Members of the Politburo close to this orientation included Adam Rapacki, Stefan Jędrychowski and Roman Nowak, and in a later phase, also Józef Cyrankiewicz, the prime minister. Another basic line of division between the Natolinians and the Pulavians stemmed from differing opinions on the issue of Polish – Soviet relations. Natolinians were in favour of maintaining the hitherto existing tight link and full submission to the USSR. They maintained very close contacts with the Soviet embassy. They had an intimate relationship with the minister of defence of the Polish People’s Republic, Soviet Marshal Konstantin Rokossovskii, and the public generally perceived them to be Moscow’s people. On the other hand, the Pulavians recognised the need to change the existing model of dependency and to establish a mutual relationship based on the principles of partnership and autonomy in home policy. The visits of Khrushchev and Bulganin to Warsaw In Moscow, after the Twentieth Congress of the CPSU, a lot of attention was paid to developments in Poland. It is enough to mention, as proof of Soviet interest in the situation in Poland, the visits to Poland of Nikita Khrushchev in March and Nikolai Bulganin in July 1956. Khrushchev, who came to Warsaw on 15 March to attend the funeral of Bierut, stayed for five days in order to participate in the debates of the Sixth Plenum of the 246

Central Committee of the PUWP and at that time he also had talks with the Polish Politburo. Their content is not known. One may assume that he participated in the decision to propose Edward Ochab as a candidate for the post of the first secretary of the PUWP. On 20 March Khrushchev met the leading activists of the PUWP, and then participated in the debates of the Plenum of the Central Committee, which was an unprecedented event in the history of Polish – Soviet relations. Taking the floor during the debate at the Plenum, he indirectly supported those opposing the election of Roman Zambrowski as secretary of the Central Committee (Brzeziński 1989, pp. 126 – 135; Gluchowski 1998, pp. 44 – 49). Prime Minister Nikolai Bulganin’s July 1956 visit to Warsaw (officially in connection with the celebration of the national holiday in Poland) was held during the stormy Seventh Plenum of the Central Committee of the PUWP. His speech during the festive celebration took up themes close to the ideas of the Natolinians at the Plenum. Bulganin warned against the ‘attempts to weaken the internationalist ties of the socialist bloc under the banner of so called national specialties’ and against ‘attempts to undermine the power of people’s democratic states under a mask of spurious diffusion of democracy’; he also criticised the revisionist tendencies in the Polish press.3 Public feeling Profound antagonisms and differences of opinion within the leadership of the PUWP made it impossible for them 247

to develop a unanimous approach to the deepening social and political crisis and after the July Seventh Plenum the authorities were paralysed. At the same time, the party leaders were exposed to more and more pressure from party members. The demand for democracy was generally expressed by the party, as well as society as a whole. However, the themes developed within the emerging mass movement went far beyond what even the most reformist activists of the PUWP understood to fall within the idea of democratisation. Generally one could differentiate four main streams in the ideas of the popular movement, stressing the need for reforms of an economic, religious, democratic liberal and nationalist nature. Very often they were expressed in the language of anti-Soviet phraseology. Widespread anti-Soviet resentments that had been suppressed for a long time started manifesting themselves soon after the Twentieth Congress of the CPSU. Khrushchev’s criticisms of Stalin’s crimes prompted the Poles to recall all the wrongs inflicted on them by the Soviet Union in the past. In private conversations as well as at meetings convened to discuss Khrushchev’s speech, statements were made and questions were asked about the Soviet aggression of 17 September 1939, the slaughter of Polish officers in Katyń in 1940, the lack of Soviet support for the Warsaw uprising in 1944, the post-war deportation of soldiers of the Home Army to Siberia, and the Moscow trial of the 16 leaders of the Polish underground state in 1945. In social consciousness, the forced supplies of coal at ‘special prices’ became a symbol of the economic exploitation of Poland, and the presence of Soviet 248

officers and advisers including Marshal Konstantin Rokossovskii (the minister of national defence) was a symbol of the political domination of the USSR. The slogan ‘Down with the Soviets!’ was used alongside the demand ‘Freedom and bread!’ during the Poznań workers’ revolt.4 At the meetings on 8 and 10 October 1956, dedicated to discussion of the crisis situation in the country, the Politburo noted, among other developments, that an intensification of an anti-Soviet atmosphere was being promoted, beside the hostile propaganda, by the inadequate structure of mutual relations between the Polish People’s Republic and the USSR (e.g. the issue of coal prices, that high rank officers in the military could not speak Polish and were not Polish citizens, and the Soviet ambassador’s interference in the internal affairs of the country) (Dudek et al. 2000, p. 188).5

At this point one should mention that preparations to deal with some of these issues had already been made. On 7 September 1956 the Politburo discussed the issue of settling accounts with the Soviet Union in connection with war damages that Germany owed Poland, as well as the issue of supplies of Polish coal at reduced prices. It was also decided to talk to the USSR about the withdrawal of Soviet advisers from provincial offices for public security and from the Committee for Public Security (Dudek et al. 2000, pp. 183 – 184). These issues were really the topic of the talks held by Edward Ochab in Moscow in mid-September, when he stayed there on his way to Beijing for the Eighth Congress of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). Subsequently, on 10 249

October, the decision was taken ‘to approach the USSR as well as the relevant [Soviet] generals, holding posts with the military forces, offering them Polish citizenship. Those Soviet officers, who do not speak Polish, should become advisers and should be replaced by the promoted Polish officers’ (Dudek et al. 2000, p. 188).6 Speeding-up The course of events was dramatically speeded up at the beginning of October. On 12 October the Politburo took the decision to convene a Plenum of the Central Committee. Władysław Gomułka participated in the meeting of the Politburo for the first time since he had been ousted from it in 1948. In his speech he assumed a very critical tone towards the party leadership, who had not been able to undertake any reform measures for several months. Gomułka said: All the process of our life must at present originate from the foundations of the new, from the principles of democratisation; any turn back towards the old may bring worse results. One may rule the nation having lost its confidence with the help of bayonets, but the one who orients himself to such possibility, orients himself towards total destruction. We cannot get back to the old methods.

simultaneously indicating that he was ready to take responsibility for the fate of the country (Andrzejewski 1987, p. 95).7 Where Polish – Soviet relations were concerned, Gomułka was speaking for almost all of Polish society. He raised the issues of coal and of the dismantling of 250

industrial plants in the regained territories by the Russians in 1945: war reparations for Regained Territories were taken both in the form of coal and in the form of dismantling [industrial plants]. True, we gave in under the circumstances of a certain pressure. I am of the opinion, that the Soviet comrades should understand that and bring back what they owe us (Andrzejewski 1987, pp. 93 – 94).

Gomułka also criticised the Politburo for a lack of resoluteness concerning the issue of Soviet officers and advisers in the military forces: we had the advisers, they are not needed, so it is obvious that any government should itself solve the issues which are of concern. We approach those who gave us these advisers and we tell them that we dismiss them. We don’t co-ordinate anything with them. Nobody will respect you if you act like that. You have got to solve big issues, not just the small ones, so what are you debating about? (Andrzejewski 1987, pp. 94 – 95).

Two subsequent meetings of the Politburo (on 15 and 17 October) were devoted to preparations for the Central Committee Plenum. Beside a substantive dispute over the draft resolution of the Plenum, there was also a dispute over changes to the party leadership. It was already decided that Gomułka would be proposed for the position of first secretary, but the Natolinians (Zenon Nowak, Franciszek Jóźwiak and Konstantin Rokossovskii) were against the idea that the Politburo as a whole should resign and a new one be elected at the Plenum. However, they constituted a minority at the

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combined meeting of the Politburo and the Secretariat together. A resolution was adopted on decreasing the number of members of the Politburo to nine. The following were put forward as new Politburo members: Władysław Gomułka, Aleksander Zawadzki, Józef Cyrankiewicz, Ignacy Loga-Sowiński, Roman Zambrowski, Adam Rapacki, Jerzy Morawski, Stefan Jędrychowski and Edward Ochab. They were—with the exception of Zawadzki, Ochab and Loga-Sowiński—of the Pulavian orientation, on whom Gomułka finally decided to rely on his way to power. Zawadzki was considered a moderate Natolinian, Ochab—the current first secretary—assumed a centre position, while Loga-Sowiński was Gomułka’s man. The following were also put forward as candidates for the Secretariat: Gomułka, Ochab, Zambrowski, Edward Gierek, Jerzy Albrecht, Władysław Matwin and Witold Jarosiński.8 In the proposed composition of the new party leadership there was no room for the leading Natolinians: Zenon Nowak, Franciszek Jóźwiak, Franciszek Mazur, Hilary Chełchowski and Władysław Dworakowski. There was also no room for the Marshal of Poland and the USSR, Konstantin Rokossovskii. The mood in society was becoming increasingly tense. The official announcement published by the press on Gomułka’s participation in the meeting of the Politburo and on the decision to convene the Eighth Plenum of the Central Committee clearly indicated a political breakthrough.9 The proposed composition of the Politburo, on the recommendation of Ochab, was distributed to the members of the Central Committee and therefore soon ceased to be a secret. Rumours 252

arose—which have still not been explained to this day—about a coup d’etat by the Natolinians. Soviet delegation in Warsaw On 18 October 1956 the Soviet ambassador Pantaleimon Ponomarenko notified Ochab that the following day, on the opening day of the Plenum, the Soviet leadership intended to send a delegation to Warsaw to discuss the current situation in Poland.10 It was tantamount to a demand to postpone the Plenum. The Politburo convened on the spot (Gomułka did not participate in that meeting) and it was decided to suggest that the Soviet delegation should come a day or two later. From amongst the Politburo members only Rokossovskii spoke in favour of receiving the Soviet delegation before the opening of the Plenum (Dudek et al. 2000, p. 215). However, in spite of the Polish response, in the early morning of 19 October the delegation of the Central Committee of the CPSU landed at the military airfield in Warsaw. The delegation was composed of Nikita Khrushchev, Lazar Kaganovich, Anastas Mikoyan and Vyacheslav Molotov, and was accompanied by the Chief Commander of the Warsaw Pact, Marshal Ivan Konev and a dozen or so other generals.11 What was the opinion of CPSU leaders regarding the situation in Poland? Undoubtedly, their understanding of the course of the crisis was shaped by reports sent from the Soviet embassy in Warsaw. Their content has not been released to researchers so far. However, the information must have been alarmist and at the same time extremely one-sided, because the reports were 253

influenced mainly by only one party to the internal political conflict—by the Natolinians.12 In one of his speeches delivered later, Gomułka described the motives behind the Soviet delegation’s arrival as follows: they thought (as they apparently were thus informed), that what is done in Poland, the preparations connected with the Eighth Plenum and the changes planned at the Eighth Plenum lead towards the breach of the Warsaw Pact, lead to the breach of the Polish – Soviet relations, well, shortly, they are directed against vital interests of the whole socialist camp, including the specially vital interests of the Soviet Union.13

Having taken the decision to send a delegation to Warsaw, the Presidium of Central Committee of the CPSU informed central committees of ‘fraternal parties’. A telegram sent on 18 October stated recently within the authorities of the Polish United Workers’ Party sharp differences of opinions arose pertaining to issues of evaluation of the situation in the Polish United Workers’ Party and in the country, as well as further steps to be taken in this connection. Differences of opinion involve key issues of foreign and internal policy of the party and the state as well as the composition of the party leadership. We are seriously concerned about the situation created within the leadership of the Polish United Workers’ Party because of the special importance of the Polish position for the camp of socialism, and especially for the Soviet Union.14

It seems that indeed the Soviet leadership were genuinely afraid that the course of events in Poland might lead to its detachment from the Soviet bloc; this was also indicated by the course of talks in the Belvedere 254

Palace in Warsaw. The refusal to receive the CPSU delegation before the opening of the Eighth Plenum was not only perceived as insulting, but seemed to confirm the worst misgivings of Soviet leaders (Khrushchev 1999, p. 235; Talbott 1976, p. 227). The visit of the Soviet delegation started with an expression of hostility by Khrushchev. As Gomułka reported it, ‘Khrushchev first greeted, above all, comrade Rokossovskii and the generals [the Soviet generals from the Northern Group of the Troops of the Soviet Army located in Poland—KP], underlining—‘‘these are the people on whom I rely’’. Turning to us, he said [in Russian]: ‘‘the treacherous activity of comrade Ochab has become evident, this number won’t pass here!’’’ (Dudek et al. 2000, p. 216; Korzon 1996, p. 130; Gluchowski 1995, p. 40). The basic demand of the Soviet leadership was to postpone the Plenum; they also objected to the plan to remove ‘a number of comrades who are supporters of a Polish – Soviet union, namely comrades Rokossovskii, [Zenon] Nowak, Mazur, Jóźwiak’ from the Politburo’ (Dudek et al. 2000, p. 216; Korzon 1996, p. 130; Gluchowski 1995, p. 40). Khrushchev reportedly threatened an active (in other accounts—brutal) intervention in Polish affairs. After dramatic discussions, the majority of Politburo members proclaimed themselves against making concessions to satisfy the Soviet demands (Dudek et al. 2000, pp. 67 – 68).15 At 10 o’clock when the Plenum was opened, Gomułka and a few of his close collaborators from the period before 1948 (Marian Spychalski, Zenon Kliszko and Ignacy Loga-Sowiński) 255

were included in the composition of the Central Committee, and only after that were talks continued with the delegation of the Presidium of the CC of the CPSU. However, Ochab, who was opening the Plenum, did not allow elections to the new Politburo to take place before negotiations with the Russians started, as had been demanded by Pulavians, Helena Jaworska and Michalina Tatarkówna. It would have been a flagrant challenge to the Kremlin leaders. In the absence of any minutes or shorthand report on the Polish – Soviet talks at the Belvedere Palace it is not possible to reconstruct their course in detail. However, fragmentary notes taken by Gomułka and Zawadzki as well as later accounts render it possible to make an attempt to present standpoints taken by both parties.16 In the light of these sources it seems that Zbigniew Brzeziński was right when he drew up the hypothesis ‘that the Soviet delegation didn’t go to Warsaw with a clear recognition of the situation or a ready program that they intended to impose on the Poles, but only with a bunch of certain claims’ (Brzeziński 1960, 1964, p. 218). The talks were held in a tone of brutal sincerity. Gomułka said later diplomats have not arrived here. Here arrived the leaders of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union to talk with the leaders of the Polish United Workers’ Party. And we told each other the truth, face to face: what they think of us and what we think about their moves.17

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Khrushchev recalled that ‘from our side we made comments which were not of a conciliatory nature: we were pouring oil on the flames’ (Talbott 1976, p. 228; Khrushchev 1999, p. 236). Russian grievances pertained first of all to the fact that the planned political and personal changes were not agreed upon with them and that they were not informed by the Polish leaders about the situation in Poland (and apparently that was the essence of Ochab’s ‘betrayal’). They accused the Polish leaders of tolerating anti-Soviet propaganda, and during the talks they submitted evidence in the form of cuttings from the Polish press. They were of the opinion that there was a threat of a loss of power by the Polish communists, which constituted a danger for the military interests of the Soviet Union because of the strategic location of Poland between the USSR and GDR. Among Soviet claims the top priority had been given to the issue of the planned dismissal from the Polish leadership of comrades who ‘in the eyes of the [Polish] nation, are considered supporters of the friendship with the Soviet Union’ (Werblan 1995, pp. 105 – 111; Gluchowski 1995, p. 42). They demanded that no changes be made to the composition of the Politburo, with the exception of including Gomułka. The issue of leaving Rokossovskii within the Polish leadership was acutely emphasised. The plans to remove him were perceived as an attack against the Polish – Soviet alliance. The Polish delegation members justified personal changes in the leadership of the party by the necessity of reaching a unified political line, which had not been possible with the existing personal composition for a long time. Gomułka argued that the existing 257

Politburo was not in a position to control the crisis situation, and that the comrades who had not been reappointed had lost confidence of the party masses. The basic line of Gomułka’s argument was founded on a statement that ‘the assessment of the situation in the country is only our business, that we have a better sense of the public feelings and can evaluate them better than an outsider. […] This is why we said: we assume responsibility for the situation’.18 Assuring the Soviet delegation that the planned political changes would strengthen the ties between Poland and the Soviet Union and socialist bloc rather than weaken them, Gomułka emphasised that Poland was not less but more keen on the alliance and good relations with the Soviet Union than the Soviet Union was keen on good relations with Poland. In his memoirs Khrushchev admitted that this argument, and the earnestness with which it was presented, impressed him greatly (Khrushchev 1999, p. 239; Talbott 1976, pp. 233 – 234). Explaining the background of the crisis, Gomułka also presented Polish grievances concerning problems in Polish – Soviet relations in the past. He raised the issue of the necessity to prosecute Soviet advisers in public security organs and withdrawing Soviet officers from Polish military forces. He also mentioned the issue of war reparations, compensation for coal delivered to the USSR at discounted prices and the outstanding payments for Soviet transport transit through the territory of Poland. However, the most important demand of the Polish side was the request to stop Soviet military forces marching towards Warsaw.

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Soviet military intervention The talks at the Belvedere Palace were held ‘with a gun on the table’. Before noon messages started arriving about movements towards Warsaw of units of the Northern Group of the Soviet military forces stationed in Poland. Polish negotiators in the Belvedere were informed about the situation on an on-going basis by Colonel Zbigniew Paszkowski, a liaison officer of the Internal Security Corps, who was on site. In response to the request for explanations, the Soviet leaders persistently claimed that the manoeuvres were planned well in advance. Gomułka later recorded that we told the Soviet comrades that irrespective of whether that was true or not, in the eyes of Polish society these ‘manoeuvres’ will be perceived as a pressure on the [Polish] government and the party, and we categorically demanded cessation of the military forces’ movements and withdrawal of armoured units to their bases. Then comrade Khrushchev instructed Marshal Rokossovskii who participated in the talks to convey an order to Marshal Konev to cease these manoeuvres, which however did not happen (Werblan 1997, p. 126; Gluchowski 1995, p. 44).19

Faced with no response from the Soviet side there were subsequently a few more firm interventions by the Polish delegation pertaining to the march of troops. According to Zawadzki’s notes, as late as at 9 pm Gomułka was still vigorously protesting against the movements of the Soviet armoured columns. Two Soviet army divisions stationed in Poland participated in the march on Warsaw—the armoured and 259

the mechanised divisions. They started from their bases in Borne-Sulinowo in Pomerania and near Zagań and Bolesławiec in Lower Silesia. Based on the register of road damage caused by the troops, prepared later by local authorities, one may roughly reconstruct the routes of their march.20 The main Soviet forces arrived in the vicinity of Łódź and of Włocławek, where probably late in the evening on 19 October they were instructed to stop their march (some troops went even further—to Lowicz and Sochaczew). It means that troops from Silesia marched 300 km, and from Pomerania about 250 km in a period of 12 – 15 hours. When they stopped, they were located no more than 150 km from the capital of Poland. Early on 20 October a stray Soviet communications battalion was seen in a suburb of Warsaw.21

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Figure 1. SOVIET TROOPS’ MARCH OCTOBER 1956

TO

WARSAW

IN

It is known that ships from the Soviet Baltic Fleet arrived near the Bay of Gdańsk. Also ships of the fleet from the Świnoujście base, under the command of Soviet forces in the GDR, were put in readiness. Soviet aircraft patrolled the Polish coast from air-force divisions located in Poland (Poksiński 1992). According to General Tadeusz Pióro, the then Polish representative in the Combined Command of Warsaw Pact’s Military Forces, a state of increased readiness was introduced in the Belarusian, Kiev 261

and Carpathian Military Districts (Pióro 1994, p. 247).22 Probably the same held true for the Soviet military forces in the GDR: Soviet armoured units were moved towards the Polish – German border (Kozik 1998, pp. 58 – 61; Anderson 2000, p. 123). In Słubice a Soviet tank squad even tried to cross the bridge over the Oder.23 An obvious question is whether the Kremlin leaders were really ready to solve the Polish crisis by armed intervention. The scale of Soviet military preparations indicates that this option was at least seriously considered. However, before asking such a question perhaps one needs first to ascertain that the intervention was already on course when the Soviet armoured columns marched to Warsaw. However, as long as the Soviet tanks did not enter the capital of Poland, anything was yet possible. Before their flight to Warsaw, the Soviet leaders probably notified the Czechoslovak, East German and Chinese communist parties about their intended intervention in Poland.24 It seems however, that the final decision was not taken about that issue. The fact that the Soviet delegation arrived in itself only leads to the conclusion that they considered the possibility of attaining their goals by way of persuasion, pressure or brutal threat and without resorting to the force of arms. At least they wanted to examine the situation on site. It seems that most probably the Soviet leaders had different opinions on what solution should be implemented for the Polish issue. Probably it was not only by mere chance that the delegation consisted of the rigid Stalinists Molotov and Kaganovich as well as the more flexible Khrushchev and Mikoyan. In the light of 262

what is known about the Kremlin decision-making process during the Hungarian crisis which took place a few days later, it seems possible that they tried to trigger both options simultaneously: that their commencement of the armed intervention was accompanied by an attempt to find a political solution (Rainer 1996; Kramer 1996/1997b; Granville 2004; Orekhova et al. 1998). In Hungary the plan to potentially ‘restore order’ in the country by Special Soviet Army Corps stationed there was devised as early as July 1956. Thanks to that it was possible to bring the Soviet troops to Budapest on 24 October 1956, several hours after the orders were given. Similar plans—especially after the experience of the June 1956 Poznań workers’ revolt—could have been made pertaining to Poland. However, it is not known what decisions were taken, and when they were taken in Moscow, and what orders were given to the Soviet units marching to Warsaw.25 The sources currently available do not make it possible to ascertain for sure what intentions accompanied the decision of taking the Soviet troops out of the barracks: whether it was ‘only’ a form of brutal pressure, as Edward Ochab indicated in his interview with Teresa Torańska, or whether a full scale intervention had already started and was—fortunately—called off (Torańska 1985, p. 62; 1987). The borderline between these two options is unclear. Demonstration of power could easily transform into intervention, and the intervention could be stopped at the last minute. Considering these issues, one should also remember the instability, incoherence and unpredictability of Soviet policy at that time. Decisions were probably taken 263

hastily and based on incomplete information, and even based on false premises. Because of all of that, even consistent conclusions based on an analysis of facts may prove to be misleading without a full knowledge of the course of the decision-making process in the Kremlin during the days before the Eighth Plenum of the Central Committee of the PUWP. The Chinese veto The Soviet leaders probably postponed their final decision to use armed forces in Poland, while waiting for a response from ‘fraternal parties’. Prague and Berlin approved the Soviet proposal but an unexpected objection was raised by Beijing. A week later Mao Zedong informed Gomułka through the Polish ambassador Stanisław Kiryluk that between 19 and 22 October the Politburo of the Chinese Communist Party received a series of messages from the Politburo of the CPSU indicating that the Soviet comrades did not approve the programme of the Eighth Plenum of the PUWP and their attitude vis-á-vis changes in Poland was negative. The Politburo of the CCP addressed the Politburo of the CPSU with request to revise their standpoint (Werblan 1996, p. 125).

In subsequent conversation with the Polish ambassador, on 3 December, Mao added that the Soviet comrades asked the leadership of the CCP for approval of the use of armed forces [in Poland]. Mao said that the CCP categorically opposed the Soviet plans and

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immediately sent their delegation headed by Liu Shaoqui to Moscow in order to present the Chinese standpoint in a direct way (Werblan 1996, p. 127).

In a tense situation, when Soviet tanks were positioned several hours’ march from Warsaw, it was important when exactly Khrushchev got to know about the Chinese objection. Regrettably, no archival sources have been made available in Moscow or Beijing yet to answer this question directly but some Chinese memoirs are helpful. According to the recollections of Wu Lengxi, who was the director of the Xinhua News Agency in 1956 and who participated in meetings of the Chinese leadership, Mao Zedong convened the CCP Politburo Standing Committee to discuss the Polish crisis in the afternoon of 20 October (Lengxi 1999, pp. 34 – 35).26 After the CCP leaders unanimously decided to oppose the Soviet military intervention in Poland, Ambassador Pavel Yudin was summoned to Mao’s headquarters. According to Wu Lengxi’s account, Mao Zedong allegedly warned Khrushchev through the Soviet diplomat that in the case of Soviet military intervention in Poland the Chinese party and government ‘would be vehement in its protest against it’ (Jian 2001, p. 147). Yudin reportedly conveyed this message to Moscow by telephone without delay (Zhe 1998, pp. 551 – 552; Jian 2001, p. 147). In Wu Lengxi’s memoirs there are, however, some chronological inaccuracies. Most dates of events described seem to be one day ‘late’. Also the conversation of Mao and Yudin was recorded by Wu Lengxi under the date of 20 October (after 7 pm),

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although the information referred to by Wu, arriving from Warsaw to the CCP Politburo Standing Committee, indicated that it could have taken place a day before. (Alternatively, perhaps the difference of dates results from the seven hours’ difference of time zones between Warsaw and Beijing.) So one cannot preclude the possibility that Khrushchev got to know about the Chinese objection as early as during his stay in Warsaw and that it influenced his decision to cease the advance of the Soviet armoured columns. Such an opinion has been held for a long time by Andrzej Werblan, who participated in Polish – Chinese contacts as a politician after 1956. He indicates that the breakthrough in the Belvedere Palace talks took place after the break during which Khrushchev probably communicated with Moscow by telephone and he could have heard about the Chinese objection against intervention then (Werblan 1991). Although there is no doubt that the CCP supported the Polish changes after October 1956, a hypothesis that the Chinese veto was a direct cause of cessation of the Soviet intervention still needs confirmation based on Russian and Chinese documents.27 The Soviet sources currently known (mentioned below) bring another probable interpretation which would also require verification. Gomułka’s firm attitude and his declarations of willingness to create friendly relations with the Soviet Union undoubtedly was of great importance to the result of the Belvedere Palace talks. It also seems that the Polish delegation, notwithstanding the conflict between its members, maintained a relatively unified standpoint. There was no recognisable split which could be treated 266

by the Soviet leaders as an argument in favour of intervention. Extricating from the crisis Beside the telegram to the Central Committees of the communist parties of the Soviet bloc previously quoted, which expressed a general concern about the development of the situation in Poland, other Russian primary sources have not been identified so far that could shed light on the premises and content of decisions taken by the Kremlin before the beginning of the Eighth Plenum of the CC PUWP in Poland. We do not know the course of the discussion of the Soviet leadership on 18 October, preceding the dispatch of the delegation headed by Khrushchev to Warsaw; nor do we know the arguments used in it. Attempts made to explain the motives and the course of the Soviet political and military intervention undertaken in Poland still have to be based on indirect sources and conclusions drawn from the analysis of facts. However, to some extent the working notes of the meetings of the Presidium of the CPSU Central Committee offer an insight into the course of the discussion and the Kremlin decision-making process after 19 October that resulted in their giving up an armed-force solution in Poland, and led to their gradual extrication from the crisis by mutual agreement. Admittedly, the notes from the meetings of the Presidium of the CC CPSU, handwritten by Vladimir Malin, head of the General Department of the CC CPSU, were indeed of an auxiliary, working nature. They are 267

very laconic and contain fragments of statements, sometimes nothing but single words. Verbatim transcripts of the CC CPSU Presidium meetings were not made then, and formal minutes were limited to a general record of decisions taken. Nevertheless, the ‘Malin notes’ are a capital—and perhaps the only—source revealing the Kremlin decision-making process as well as existing differences of opinions and disputes held within the Soviet leadership. Moreover, they contain unique records from meetings for which minutes were not taken at all, or serve as evidence of some decisions that were taken without being mentioned in the formal minutes. An example is the decision of 23 October on the beginning of the first Soviet intervention in Hungary, which was not mentioned in the formal minutes of that meeting, probably because—in the face of Mikoyan’s objection—it was not taken unanimously (Fursenko et al. 2004, pp. 176 – 177; Orekhova et al. 1998, pp. 356 – 357; Kramer 1996/1997a, pp. 388 – 389). One may often encounter an opinion that the Polish – Soviet negotiations of 19 October were concluded successfully. It is argued that they produced a solution to the conflict and the return of the Soviet troops to barracks was completed over time, at a pace that depended mainly on technical reasons (Rykowski & Władyka 1989, p. 239; Eisler & Kupiecki 1992, p. 42). This opinion was strengthened by official pronouncements that were made later by Polish authorities in order to set public feelings at rest.28 In reality however, the situation continued to be serious.

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There are indications that the talks at the Belvedere Palace ended with no clear conclusion. No essential agreement was reached, and only some alleviation of tension was achieved. It is hard to say to what extent Khrushchev and other members of the Soviet delegation were convinced by an argument that the new Polish leadership headed by Gomułka would assume responsibility to control the situation. Military intervention was ceased, but not revoked. By the end of the talks Khrushchev warned—as Gomułka reported his words—that ‘irrespective of our [of the Poles’] standpoint they would feel forced to intervene should Poland intend to leave the bloc of socialist countries’ (Werblan 1997, p. 126).29 At the break of dawn on 20 October the Soviet delegation flew back to Moscow, but the Soviet tanks remained in the positions they occupied when the order was made for them to stop, ready to resume their advance on Warsaw. After the Soviet delegation’s arrival in Moscow, on the same day a meeting was held of the Presidium of the CC CPSU, at which information on the talks held in Warsaw was presented. The first sentence from the note recorded at that meeting by Vladimir Malin sounds rather firm: ‘there is one possible solution—to put an end to what is there in Poland’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 182).30 However, it seems that they decided to postpone taking a final decision in connection with the situation in Poland. They waited for the results of the Eighth Plenum in Warsaw, and above all, for the results of elections to the Polish Politburo. The position of Rokossovskii was at stake here, since he was clearly perceived as a guarantor of a favourable—from Moscow’s point of 269

view—development of events. They commented that ‘if they decide to keep Rokossovskii, it is best to wait patiently for the time being’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 182).31 As a result of the visit to Warsaw the evaluation of the situation in Poland probably slightly softened, since the Presidium of the CC CPSU became very critical of the value of information conveyed by the Soviet embassy in Warsaw. Namely they noted ‘a very serious mistake made by ambassador comrade Ponomarenko in the evaluation of Ochab and Gomułka’,32 and two days later at the Presidium meeting it was also said that the ‘ambassador was informing us about perfunctory facts’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, pp. 182, 186). However, the military option remained valid, and probably further preparations in this regard were continued. This is what may be deduced—if it is at all possible to attempt to draw conclusions based on such a laconic record—from the following fragment of the ‘Malin note’ from the CC CPSU Presidium meeting on 20 October: ‘Manoeuvres. Prepare a document. Form a committee’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 182). It is, perhaps, a trace of preparations that were being made for replacing Gomułka and his supporters by the Moscow people, should the course of events in Poland take an unfavourable turn and the armed intervention prove to be indispensable. Rumours which were circulating in Poland at that time suggested that a potential replacement for Gomułka was PUWP Politburo member Franciszek Mazur, who was staying in the Soviet Union during the days of the crisis. 270

But for the time being the CC CPSU Presidium postponed their decision on further measures while waiting for the results of the Eighth Plenum. They also recognised that convening the ‘fraternal parties’ together, in order to discuss the problem, was desirable. They decided to ‘invite to Moscow representatives of communist parties of Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, the GDR, Bulgaria, and perhaps to send a CC representative to China in order to provide information’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996).33 The word ‘perhaps’ in the context of consultations with the CCP seems surprising. It implies the Presidium of the Central Committee of the CPSU did not know at the meeting on 20 October about the firm Chinese objection against the Soviet intervention in Poland yet. Otherwise they would have probably immediately initiated talks with the Chinese. The CC CPSU Presidium meeting held on 20 October was of an introductory, and above all, of a reporting nature.34 At the end it was decided ‘to acknowledge the information as provided’ and ‘to consider the issues raised’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 182).35 Next day the discussion continued on the issue of the Polish crisis. The fundamental question of whether to resume the intervention or attempt to solve the conflict by political measures was not solved. This question of the alternatives was set forth at the beginning of the Presidium meeting on 21 October: ‘what line is to be taken: (a) exercise influence and monitor events, b) or shall we choose the way of intervention’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 182). Unfortunately, in a note from that meeting the course of the discussion was not recorded so we do not know the opinions expressed by its participants, and 271

we do not know what arguments were taken into account. Malin recorded only the conclusion reached by Khrushchev: ‘taking the circumstances into account, we should give up the armed intervention. Show indulgence. (All agree)’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 183).36 Against this background, of the intention expressed on the previous day ‘to put an end to what is there in Poland’, Khrushchev’s motion and the consensus on it among the Presidium members is surprising. What caused such a sudden turn? Was the decision to give up armed intervention a result of a thorough analysis of all the ‘pros’ and ‘cons’, whose content is unknown to us, or did ‘the circumstances’ mentioned by Khrushchev imply the emergence of some new facts? It would be difficult to think how the situation in Poland was essentially different from what it was the day before. The Eighth Plenum had not been concluded yet and the results of the elections of the CC PUWP Politburo, which were announced late in the evening, could not have been known during the Presidium’s meeting. Moreover, the fact that Rokossovskii was not elected was a disadvantageous event for Moscow. Another event changing the whole scene could have been information about the Chinese veto against intervention, if it reached the Kremlin only then. The structure of the ‘Malin note’ of 21 October indicates that the Presidium’s meeting consisted of two parts. Khrushchev’s quoted statement was apparently delivered to open the second part of the meeting. In the first part, beside the presumed discussion on intervention, they were discussing the issue of a meeting with the ‘fraternal 272

parties’ and an invitation telegram was drafted. Compared to the note of the previous day, one is struck by the haste in which they started organising the meeting. It was considered ‘necessary to convene a meeting together with the GDR, China, Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, Hungary’ and it was suggested that the meeting be held as soon as possible: on Tuesday, 23 October, or on Wednesday, 24 October at the latest (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 183). Although in the ‘Malin note’ a meeting of all the parties is mentioned, ultimately texts of two telegrams were approved. A separate telegram was sent to the Central Committee of the CCP: ‘in connection with the situation in Poland we would like to exchange views. We would like to ask you, if that is possible, to let your representative arrive on Tuesday – Wednesday—we are sending our Tu-104 plane for that purpose’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 185).37 The decision, influenced by ‘the circumstances’, taken on 21 October on giving up armed intervention, as well as the decision to hold separate talks with a hastily invited Chinese delegation (reference to that is also made in a note from the Presidium meeting of 23 October) may indicate that it was at this time that the Kremlin got to know about the Chinese attitude vis-á-vis the crisis in Poland. Such a hypothesis obviously requires confirmation.38 Irrespective of when the Soviet leaders finally got to know about the Chinese support for the changes in Poland and their objection to intervention, one may assume that it was the reason for the Soviet decision to hold a separate meeting with representatives from Beijing. European communist parties

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unconditionally accepted the CPSU line, while one could expect polemics in talks with the Chinese.39 The ‘Malin notes’ indicate that on 21 October the Kremlin chose a political solution to the crisis in its relations with Poland. In contrast to the alternative presented at the beginning of the Presidium meeting, the option which prevailed was ‘to exercise influence and monitor events’, although it was not a fully grounded opinion. The situation in Poland continued to be unstable, and the course of events was hard to predict. Malin recorded polemics between members of the Presidium of the CC CPSU pertaining to the preparation of information on the situation in Poland and the line of action to be assumed by the Soviet leadership for the meeting with representatives of ‘fraternal parties’. Molotov and Kaganovich were in favour of preparing such information while Khrushchev and Bulganin thought that it was too early to formulate an evaluation like that. ‘[One should] wait till the resolutions are taken by the Plenum of the CC [PUWP]’, argued Bulganin (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 184). Ultimately they decided to draft theses for Presidium members’ use only. However, they considered it possible to publish a press communiqué on the Plenum of the CC PUWP. It was published in Pravda the next day. Until then the Soviet press had not covered the current events in Poland. The course of the meeting of the Presidium of the CC CPSU on 22 October is not known. It is only known that during that meeting they approved a text of the letter to the CC PUWP on the issue of Soviet KGB advisers in Poland. The main themes of that letter were already 274

agreed upon the previous day and the task of drafting it was turned over to Mikoyan, Zhukov, Shepilov, Serov and Konev. The letter brought the first concession to Polish claims. Making reference to talks held by Ochab in Moscow in September, Khrushchev, who signed the letter, informed Gomułka that the Presidium of the CC CPSU had decided to recall all Soviet advisers from Polish security organs, and at the same time he suggested establishing an official KGB representative within the Committee for Public Security of the Polish People’s Republic. This was in line with Soviet thinking of the time. Two days previously, on 20 October, the decision had been taken to recall KGB advisers from Hungary, although the Hungarian leaders did not make such a request (Orekhova et al. 1998, p. 315). However, one step further was taken in relation to Poland. In the second paragraph of the letter of 22 October the Soviet leaders expressed their consent to withdraw Soviet army officers from the Polish military forces: the CC CPSU believes that if in the opinion of the CC PUWP there is no longer a need for the remaining Soviet officers and general officers on the staff of the Polish Army, then we agree in advance to their being recalled. We ask you to prepare the proposals concerning how this could be solved when the delegation from the Politburo of the CC PUWP arrives in Moscow.40

Probably the telephone conversation held by the two leaders on 23 October was in connection with Gomułka’s receipt of that letter. In response to Gomułka’s repeated request Khrushchev promised at that time that the Soviet troops would return to their

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bases within two days (Gomułka 1957, p. 59). It seems that the Kremlin had started to slowly accustom themselves to the changes taking place in Poland. A minimum acceptance of the political programme presented by Gomułka was indicated by the decision taken on the same day to send the text of Gomułka’s speech and the resolution of the CC PUWP Eighth Plenum—together with a letter on the situation in Poland—to CPSU regional party organisations.41 Gomułka had begun to gain the Kremlin’s confidence. As Malin recorded on 23 October, they decided to ‘assume an attitude in favour of contacting’ Gomułka (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 186). On 24 October delegations of ‘fraternal parties’ gathered together at the meeting in Moscow. First, all members of the Presidium of the CC CPSU met the Chinese delegation, headed by Liu Shaoqi and Deng Xiaoping. As Malin recorded, Liu Shaoqi began the talks with confirmation of the ‘fundamental principle’ that the Soviet Union is the only centre of the Socialist bloc, and expressed approval of the steps taken by the Soviet leadership with respect to Poland. At the same time, however, he pointed out ‘some shortcomings’ in the relations of the USSR with other socialist countries, which ‘one should remove’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, pp. 187 – 188). This reservation represents the essence of the message which the Chinese wanted to convey to the Russians. The subsequent course of the meeting, recorded by Malin as well as scarce Chinese sources, indicates that the focal point of the talks was a critique of the USSR’s ‘great power chauvinism’. Liu Shaoqi criticised previous examples of the Soviet Union 276

imposing its will on the ‘fraternal parties’ as well as—in many cases—groundless and overhasty interferences in the internal affairs of the countries belonging to the communist bloc and the infringement of their sovereignty. Co-operation in international organisations was also structured improperly, and other socialist countries were forced to accept Soviet proposals uncritically. Such an incorrect model of relations within the socialist bloc was, in the Chinese opinion, one of the essential causes of the crisis in relations with Poland and Hungary and it required an immediate change (SSSR i Polsha 1996; Jian 2001, pp. 152 – 153; Zhihua 2005, pp. 66 – 68; Chang & Halliday 2005, pp. 421 – 423; Lüthi forthcoming). The content of the Soviet – Chinese talks which lasted all of that week until 31 October is not known in detail, but the fact itself that the Chinese delegation was headed by the two closest collaborators of Mao Zedong (beside Zhou Enlai) indicates the importance attached to these talks by the Chinese. The Soviet Union’s involvement in the crisis in Poland and Hungary created a unique chance for China to strengthen its position in the communist bloc. The Kremlin leaders found themselves in a situation that forced them to take their Chinese ally’s opinion into account. Supporting Poland, and initially also Hungary, China initiated a game in which attainment of an equal-rights position in relation to the Soviet Union was at stake. Liu Shaoqi used as an example the unjustified critique of the Communist Party of Japan openly expressed by the Soviet Union some time before without consulting Mao Zedong, which may even indicate that China aspired to the role of the only 277

‘game holder’ in the communist movement in Asia (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 188). Under the influence of talks with the Chinese delegation, and in connection with the critique of their ‘great power chauvinism’, which the Russians had to admit to a large extent, on 30 October the Soviet leadership issued a ‘Declaration by the Government of the USSR on the Principles of Development and Further Strengthening of Friendship and Cooperation between the Soviet Union and Other Socialist States’ (Zinner 1956, pp. 485 – 491). Although immediately violated by the second Soviet intervention in Hungary in November 1956, the declaration seemed to sanction a new political deal for the communist bloc. Based on it, relations between the countries of the bloc were to be grounded on principles of equal rights, respect for territorial integrity, state self-dependence and sovereignty, and non-interference in home affairs. Although the Russians rejected a proposal to include the principle of peaceful coexistence in the declaration—which would mean granting the communist countries a yet broader scope of autonomy—the proclamation was nevertheless a success for Chinese diplomacy. The game of strengthening China’s position vis-á-vis the USSR was accomplished successfully (Kuo 2001, pp. 99 – 103; Jian & Kuisong 1998, p. 264). After his return from the trip to Europe in 1957, Zhou Enlai wrote in his report prepared for Mao Zedong: ‘now the Soviet Union and China can sit down to discuss issues equally. Even if they [the Russians] have different ideas on certain issues, they must consult with us’ (Guang & Jian 1995/1996, p. 154).

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In the afternoon of 24 October, the meeting of the Presidium of the CC CPSU was held at the Kremlin and attended by the leaders of the communist parties of the GDR, Czechoslovakia and Bulgaria (the Hungarian delegation did not arrive, and a Romanian delegation was probably not invited). The SED was represented by Walter Ulbricht, Otto Grotewohl and Willi Stoph, the CzCP by Antonin Novotny, and the BCP by Todor Zhivkov, Anton Yugov and Georgy Damianov. Khrushchev informed the audience about the course of his visit to Warsaw and presented the Soviet line vis-á-vis Poland. Forming a very critical judgement of the attitude assumed by the Poles during the talks in the Belvedere Palace, and finding Gomułka’s arguments unconvincing, Khrushchev however expressed the opinion of the CC CPSU that in the case of Poland it was necessary to avoid nervousness and haste. ‘It is necessary to help the Polish comrades straighten out the party line and do everything to reinforce the union among Poland, the USSR, and the other people’s democracies’, stated Khrushchev, thus confirming his will to solve the conflict in relations with Poland in a political way (Kramer 1995, p. 53).42 In spite of all reservations, the Kremlin decided to bet on Gomułka. Even the decision not to publish his speech at the Eighth Plenum in the Soviet press was, as Khrushchev explained, an expression of the will to ‘help Poland’. Otherwise they would have had to supplement Gomułka’s text with a polemical commentary, which they wanted to avoid. During the meeting Khrushchev, as it seems, tried to mitigate the zeal shown by the leaders of the GDR and 279

Czechoslovakia who were eager to ‘call Poland to order’. Malin recorded statements by Ulbricht and Novotny that the Poles ‘are opening the door for bourgeois ideology’ and that in Poland ‘after the Twentieth Congress [of the CPSU] the leadership slipped from their hands’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 187). German and Czech grievances, beside reservations of an ideological nature, were also founded on economic issues. As early as May 1956, at the session of the CMEA in Berlin, a dispute had arisen over the volume of exports of Polish coal to these countries. The Czech and German delegations (and also the Hungarian) demanded an increased supply, which the Polish side did not want to accept (Skrzypek 2002, pp. 375 – 377; 2005, pp. 47 – 50). The Czechs and the Germans hoped that the Moscow summit would bring a top-level solution to the problem of Polish coal, but the Soviet leader found it undesirable to exercise pressure on Poland on this issue and renew the dispute; moreover the Poles were not in a position to satisfy such expectations anyway. Khrushchev replied that the USSR would strive for achieving independence of supplies of coal from Poland in two or three years, and it seems that he recommended the same to Ulbricht and Novotny (Kramer 1995, p. 53).43 He also said that the Soviet Union would probably grant Poland economic aid in the form of grain and loans. Before the end of the October meeting with the ‘fraternal parties’, information was received on the content of Gomułka’s speech in Warsaw at a gigantic rally attended by several hundred thousand people on the afternoon of 24 October. The strong emphasis laid by Gomułka on the 280

importance of the alliance and friendship of Poland with the Soviet Union, laying stress on the necessity of Soviet Army troops being stationed in Poland, as well as condemnation of any attempts of ‘anti-Soviet agitation’, all clearly met with Khrushchev’s approval. It was interpreted as confirmation that the right strategy had been followed in relation to Poland. Having heard the account of affairs in Warsaw, Khrushchev said that ‘this speech by comrade Gomułka gives hope that Poland has now adopted a course that will eliminate the unpleasant state of affairs’. He also admitted that ‘finding a reason for an armed conflict now would be very easy, but finding a way to put an end to such a conflict would be very hard’ (Kramer 1995, p. 54). The meeting of the communist leaders on 24 October, which had been convened in order to discuss the situation in Poland, was in fact dominated by events in Hungary. From that day on the issue of the internal situation in Poland receded into the background in the Kremlin’s policy. Soviet military involvement in Hungary put an ultimate end to the possibility of armed intervention in Poland. Moreover, it was now in the Kremlin’s interest to find a modus vivendi with Gomułka as soon as possible. In the face of a serious crisis in Hungary it was necessary to normalise relations and establish loyal cooperation with the most important European country of the Soviet bloc. On 1 November 1956 Gomułka was the first of the communist leaders to be notified by Khrushchev about the decision taken on the second intervention in Hungary (Tischler 1995, pp. 7 – 9).

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‘Rokossovskii go home!’ The issue of Rokossovskii remained a difficult problem in mutual relations after the Eighth Plenum of the CC PUWP. The Soviet leadership saw him as a guarantor of a proper development of the situation in Poland. Rokossovskii was perceived by the Kremlin as a touchstone of the state of mutual relations. Even on 26 October at the meeting of the Presidium of the CC CPSU it was stated that ‘the point about Rokossovskii is the central question’ (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 188; Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 389). However, Rokossovskii was not included in the proposed new composition of the CC PUWP Politburo. During the elections at the Plenum he was put up as a candidate ‘from the audience’ by the Natolinian Stanisław Skrzeszewski, probably not without inspiration from the Soviet embassy.44 Nevertheless he received only 23 of the 75 votes cast and he was not elected to the Poliburo.45 Initially Gomułka, aware of the importance attached by the Russians to Rokossovskii’s presence in the Polish leadership, intended to keep him on as minister of national defence. (Marian Spychalski, Gomułka’s close collaborator from before 1948, was nominated deputy minister, responsible for the political line of the military forces on the day after the Eighth Plenum.) However, those plans were—using the language of that time—‘struck out by life’. Social pressure forced the removal of Rokossovskii from Poland.

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Rokossovskii became the ‘bad guy’ of the Polish October 1956 mass movement. In public feeling he was a flagrant symbol of the Soviet domination of Poland. In connection with the movements of the troops of the Polish military forces, ordered by him in the days of the Eighth Plenum, he was held in odium for his participation in the Soviet intervention (Gluchowski & Nalepa 1997). Khrushchev suggested later in his memoirs that Rokossovskii had indeed presented himself as ready to accept the command of the Moscow leadership, as a loyal Soviet citizen (Khrushchev 1999, pp. 236 – 237; Talbott 1976, p. 231). One of the most frequent demands of the rallies and demonstrations, which were organised on a massive scale after the Eighth Plenum to express support for Gomułka, was a demand for Rokossovskii’s removal. He was the focal point for the anti-Soviet emotions of society. In the whole country slogans were repeated: ‘off with Rokossovskii’, ‘Rokossovskii go to Moscow’, ‘Kostek go to Nikita’,46 ‘Rokossowskii go to Siberia’ (Machcewicz 1993, pp. 154 – 188; 1999, p. 114). The Polish military forces were not immune from this wave of opinion. In many units resolutions were passed aimed against Rokossovskii. The military forces demanded replacement of their commander. It proved to be a decisive argument. On 24 October the CC PUWP Politburo ‘in connection with the shaken authority of comrade Rokossovskii’ decided that ‘it is not possible to keep him in his current post for a longer time’ (Dudek et al. 2000, p. 221). Rokossovskii was granted leave. At the same meeting a decision was taken on the replacement

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of the commander of air forces, Soviet general Ivan Turkel. Further steps in Rokossovskii’s case, however, went beyond the scope of the independent decisions of the Polish leadership. On 27 October, during the meeting of party activists of the military forces, Gomułka said: ‘the issue of comrade Rokossovskii has not been solved by us to the very end. And we cannot solve it to the very end by ourselves. […] At this moment there are no firm decisions within this scope yet’.47 Soon after, consent to dismiss Rokossovskii was obtained from Moscow. On 30 October at the meeting of the Presidium of the CC CPSU Khrushchev announced: ‘on Rokossovskii—I said to Gomułka that this matter is for you (the Poles) to decide’ (Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 392; Orekhova et al. 1998, p. 458). On 10 November the Politburo of the CC PUWP decided to comply with comrade Rokossovskii’s request to dismiss him from the post of minister of national defence. It was decided to hand comrade Rokossovskii a thankful letter for his devoted work on behalf of the government, the party and the state council. Comrade Rokossovskii was also granted a life annuity to the amount of the salary he received (Dudek et al. 2000, p. 228).

Officially Rokossovskii was dismissed from the post of minister of national defence on 13 November. He left for Moscow a day or two later. Rokossovskii’s departure from Poland may be considered a symbolic closure of the most acute phase of the crisis in Polish – Soviet relations in 1956. The root of 284

this conflict was an attempt undertaken by part of the Polish communist leadership to solve the domestic social and political crisis on their own, without asking Moscow for consent, and without consulting their eastern neighbour. This attempt proved to be successful and was realised in due time. If a social explosion had occurred in Poland and the party leaders had lost control over the situation, Soviet intervention could not have been avoided. On 23 October when the Kremlin considered their decision on introducing troops to Budapest, the argument was used many times in the discussion that the situation in Hungary was quite different from the situation in Poland, where the party leadership did not forfeit control over the society (Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 389; Orekhova et al. 1998, pp. 356 – 357). Avoidance of an open split in the Polish leadership was also of essential importance, and this to a large extent was due to the fact that Edward Ochab voluntarily gave up in favour of Gomułka. The changes in Poland occurred independently of the USSR and even in spite of their will. Polish Academy of Sciences and Institute of National Remembrance, Warsaw References Anderson, S. (2000) A Cold War in the Soviet Bloc: Polish–East German Relations, 1945–1946 (Boulder, Westview Press).

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Nalepa, E.J. (1995) Oficerowie Armii Radzieckiej w Wojsku Polskim 1943–1968 (Warsaw, Bellona). Orekhov, A. (1995) ‘Sobytya 1956 goda w Polshe i krizis polsko-sovetskikh otnoshenii’, in Nezhinskii, L.N. (ed.) (1995) Sovetskaya vneshnaya politika v gody ‘kholodnoi voiny (1945–1985): Novoe prochtenie (Moscow, Mezhdunarodnye Otnosheniya). Orekhov, A. (2005a) Sovetskii Soyuz i Polsha v gody ‘ottepeli’: iz istorii sovetsko-polskikh otnoshenii (Moscow, Indrik). Orekhov, A. (2005b) ‘Moskva i krizis 1956 g. v Polshe (Neskol’ko novykh, neizuchennykh dokumentov)’, in Durachinskii, E. & Sakharov, A. (eds) (2005) Polsha—SSSR 1945–1989: Izbrannye politicheskie problemy, nasledie proshlogo (Moscow, Standing Mission of the Polish Academy of Sciences and the Institute of History of the Russian Academy of Sciences). Orekhova, E., Sereda, V. & Stykalin, A. (1998) Sovetskii Soyuz i vengerskii krizis 1956 goda: dokumenty (Moscow, Rosspen). Paczkowski, A. (ed.) (1998) Tajne dokumenty Biura Politycznego. PRL-ZSRR 1956–1970 (London, Aneks). Pióro, T. (1994) Armia ze skazą (Warsaw, Czytelnik). Poksiński, J. (1992) ‘Pucz wojska w październiku’, Życie Warszawy, 12 October.

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Rainer, J. (1996) ‘The Road to Budapest, 1956: New Documentation on the Kremlin’s Decision to Intervene’, The Hungarian Quarterly, 37, 142 and 143. Rykowski, Z. & Władyka, W. (1989) Polska próba. Październik ’56 (Kraków, Wydawnictwo Literackie). Skrzypek, A. (2002) Mechanizmy uzależnienia. Stosunki polsko-radzieckie 1944–1957 (Pułtusk, Wyższa Szkoła Humanistyczna). Skrzypek, A. (2005) Mechanizmy autonomii. Stosunki polsko-radzieckie 1956–1965 (Pułtusk, WyższaSzkoła Humanistyczna). SSSR i Polsha (1996) ‘SSSR i Polsha: oktyabr 1956-go. Postanovleniya i rabochie zapisi zasedanii Prezidiyuma TsK KPSS’, Istoricheskii Arkhiv, 5–6. Talbott, S. (ed.) (1976) Khrushchev Remembers: The Last Testament (New York, Bantham Books). Taubman, W. (2003) Khrushchev: The Man and His Era (New York, W.W. Norton and Co.). Tischler, J. (1995) Rewolucja węgierska 1956 w polskich dokumentach (Warsaw, ISP PAN). Torańska, T. (1985) Oni (London, Aneks). Torańska, T. (1987) ‘Them’: Stalin’s Polish Puppets (New York, Harper and Row).

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Werblan, A. (1991) ‘Czy Chińczycy Gomułkę?’, Polityka, 26 October.

uratowali

Werblan, A. (ed.) (1995) ‘Rozmowy kierownictwa PZPR z delegacją KPZR. Nieznane dokumenty z października 1956 r.’, Dziś, 4Dziś. Werblan, A. (1996) ‘Chiny a polski Październik 1956’, Dziś, 10. Werblan, A. (1997) ‘Rozmowy Władysława Gomułki z Zhou Enlaiem w 1957 r.’, Dzieje Najnowsze, 4. Zambrowski, R. (1996) ‘Dlaczego Gomułka i co spowodowało odwrót Gomułki’, in Bratkowski, S. (ed.) (1996) Październik 1956. Pierwszy wyłom w systemie (Warsaw, Prószyński i S-ka). Zhe, S. (1998) Zai lishi juren shenbian: Shi Zhe huiyilu [At the Side of Historical Giants: Shi Zhe’s Memoirs] (Beijing, Zhonggong shongyang dangxiao). Zhihua, S. (2005) ‘Rola Chin w rozwiązywaniu kryzysu październikowego 1956 r. Analiza postawy Chin wobec wydarzeń w Polsce i na Węgrzech’, Polski Przegląd Dyplomatyczny, 5, 4. Zinner, P.E. (ed.) (1956) National Communism and Popular Revolt in Eastern Europe. A Selection of Documents on Events in Poland and Hungary, February–November, 1956 (New York, Columbia University Press).

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1

For the most recent detailed account of the 1956 crisis in Poland, see Codogni (2006). 2

This department was responsible for the internal security of the PUWP (Communist Party). 3

Trybuna Ludu, 22 July 1956.

4

For an excellent study of public feelings and the mass movements of the Polish October 1956, see Machcewicz (1993). 5

For detailed analysis of the debates of the CC PUWP Politburo before the Eighth Plenum see Friszke (1996, pp. 188 – 212; 2003, pp. 167 – 213). 6

As of 1 May 1956, in the Polish military forces there were 76 Russian officers on duty (including 28 generals, 32 colonels, 13 lieutenant-colonels, two majors and one captain) and about 50 military advisers (see Nalepa 1995, pp. 86, 134). 7

Jakub Andrzejewski is a pseudonym used by Andrzej Paczkowski. 8

Candidatures for the Politburo and the CC Secretariat were agreed upon by an ad hoc commission set up on 17 October consisting of Gomułka, Ochab, Cyrankiewicz and Zawadzki. In the voting the Natolinians objected to the candidatures of the ‘young secretaries’ of the CC, Morawski, Matwin and Albrecht. 9

Trybuna Ludu, 16 October 1956.

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10

There were rumours circulating at the time—noticed by Western diplomats—that the arrival of the Soviet delegation had followed a refusal by the Polish leaders to go to Moscow ‘for consultations’. However there is no confirmation of this in the accessible sources (see Kula 1992, pp. 123, 132). 11

Konev arrived in Warsaw a couple of hours ahead of Khrushchev. Some Polish accounts mention also the arrival of Marshal Georgii Zhukov, minister of defence of the USSR. Rumours of his presence in Warsaw were recorded by Western diplomats (Kula 1992, p. 122). However, according to Aleksandr Orekhov, Zhukov was taking part in Soviet – Japanese negotiations in Moscow together with Soviet Prime Minister Bulganin on 19 October 1956 so he could not have been in Warsaw on that day (Orekhov 2005a, p. 208, note 21). 12

Such a supposition is confirmed in works of A. Orekhov in which the author uses (although to a narrow extent) documents from the Soviet Ministry of Foreign Affairs Archive (see Orekhov 1995; 2005a, pp. 169 – 171; 2005b, pp. 265 – 266). 13

Speech delivered by Władysław Gomułka at the meeting with editors of the press on 29 October 1956 (see Mond 1962, p. 61). 14

SSSR i Polsha (1996, p. 181). This telegram was sent to the central committees of the communist parties of China, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria, Albania and the GDR, and its content was conveyed

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(orally, through Soviet ambassadors) to leaders of the communist parties of France, Italy and Yugoslavia. 15

During the discussion the following were against postponing the Eighth Plenum: Gomułka, Gierek, Roman Nowak, Rapacki, Stawiński, Jędrychowski, Ochab and, surprisingly, Zenon Nowak. In favour of concessions were Rokossovskii, Jóźwiak, Dworakowski and Chełchowski. Zawadzki, basically supporting Gomułka’s standpoint, expressed himself in favour of moderate concessions. In the minutes of the Politburo meeting Cyrankiewicz’s opinion was not mentioned. 16

An official report of the talks was submitted by Aleksander Zawadzki on 20 October at the CC Plenum (Nowe Drogi, 10, 1956, pp. 17 – 18). The published version of that account is different from the record in the verbatim minutes of the Plenum, although it does not seem that the speaker’s thoughts were misrepresented on purpose (however, one should note that other ‘sensitive’ speeches—including Gomułka’s final speech—were censored in the published materials from the Plenum). Zawadzki’s speech was simply discordant to such an extent that it required thorough editing. Notes taken by Gomułka and Zawadzki were published in Werblan (1995, pp. 105 – 111). For their English translation see: Gluchowski (1995, pp. 41 – 43). The most comprehensive account of the talks in the Belvedere Palace was given by Gomułka in his conversation with Chinese Prime Minister Zhou Enlai in January 1957 (Paczkowski 1998, pp. 5 – 12). This was published in English by Gluchowski (1995, pp. 43 – 45). In this article I refer to another, more detailed version of this 295

document, which was authorised by Gomułka (Werblan 1997, pp. 119 – 144). Moreover, Gomułka referred to the content of his talks with Khrushchev during the meeting with higher officers of the Army on 27 October 1956 (see note 17) and two days later at the meeting with press editors (see note 13). Another important account of the Belvedere Palace talks can be found in Roman Zambrowski’s recollections (1996, pp. 137 – 143). Minutes of the talks drawn by the Soviet side are believed to be kept in the Archive of the President of the Russian Federation. They have not been released to researchers so far. 17

‘Przemówienie Tow. Władysława Gomułki—Wiesława wygłoszone w dniu 27 października 1956 r. na ogólnokrajowej naradzie aktywu partyjnego Wojska Polskiego’ Warsaw, 1956, (mimeographed). Khrushchev in his memoirs used almost the same expression as Gomułka: ‘a harsh conversation was going on, without diplomacy’ (Khrushchev 1999, p. 236). 18

‘Przemówienie Tow. Władysława Gomułki …’, p. 5.

19

It is symptomatic that Polish Minister of Defence Marshal Rokossovskii took orders directly from Khrushchev. According to the latter’s memoirs: ‘at that time Rokossovskii was more obedient to us than to his own [Polish] government’ (Khrushchev 1999, p. 582). 20

Archive of Ministry of Foreign Affairs (AMSZ), Collection 7, fascicle 6, file 51. Registers of road damages were prepared in Spring 1957 by regional 296

offices for public roads management in order to submit damage claims to the Soviet Union. The amount of losses in connection with the necessary repair of roads and bridges was assessed at 36.8 million zlotys, while the damages caused by the Soviet ‘caterpillar vehicles’ in private and state owned properties at 15.3 million zlotys. The first to locate and cite these road damages registers was Robert Łoś in his unpublished doctoral thesis ‘Październik 1956 r. w perspektywie stosunków polsko-radzieckich’ [‘October 1956 from the Perspective of Polish – Soviet Relations’] (University of Lódź, 1993). Beside tabular lists of the damaged stretches of roads, maps of damages were also prepared in the scale of 1:300,000. However, my search for these maps in the archives was unsuccessful. 21

Włodzimierz Muś, ‘Wspomnienia dowódcy KBW’ [‘Memoirs of Commander of Internal Security Corps’], unpublished manuscript, Military History Institute, Warsaw, IV/102/39, p. 426. 22

Aleksandr Orekhov writes that Soviet Minister of Defence Marshal Georgii Zhukov ordered the increased readiness in the Soviet military forces in Poland, as well as the Baltic Fleet and troops in the Baltic Military District not later than on 18 October 1956. However, he does not cite any archival source of this information (see Orekhov 2005a, pp. 173 – 174). 23

Włodzimierz Muś, ‘Wspomnienia dowódcy KBW’, p. 417.

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24

Such information was conveyed by Mao Zedong to Stanisław Kiryluk, the Polish ambassador in Beijing, in a conversation held on 3 December 1956 (Werblan 1996, p. 127). In the aforementioned telegram from the Presidium of the CC CPSU to the ‘fraternal parties’ of 18 October no intention of an armed intervention was mentioned, but they did inform them about sending a delegation to Warsaw. One cannot exclude the possibility that they informed the leaderships of the CCP, CzCP and SED about the decision to start up military actions by a separate telegram. 25

According to General Włodzimierz Muś, the commander of the Soviet detachment that arrived in the suburbs of Warsaw early on 20 October, ‘explained that in compliance with the order he came to Warsaw, where, as he was told, a counter-revolution broke out in which several dozen Soviet soldiers were killed. They had to hurry to rescue the workers of Warsaw’ (Muś, ‘Wspomnienia dowódcy KBW’, p. 426). 26

I am grateful to Lorenz Lüthi for sharing with me his working translation of Wu Lengxi’s memoirs. 27

It is interesting to note that four years later, during the acute conflict with the CPSU, the Chinese made out a ‘bill’ to Polish communists for the assistance granted in 1956. During the meeting of the communist parties in Moscow in November 1960 Liu Shaoqui said talking to Gomułka: ‘today similar kind of difficulties as those of 1956 between Poland and the Soviet Union arose between the Soviet Union and China, and also Albania. As we helped you in 1956, you should help us now to 298

eliminate these difficulties. […] Just think what would have happened if the Chinese Communist Party had supported the Soviet Union in 1956 against Poland?’ (Michnik, 1978, p. 122). 28

In the talk with Zhou Enlai on 11 January 1957 Gomułka openly admitted: ‘we did not want to present to society, and even to party organisations, the full and real course of the Soviet intervention in our home affairs, because that would have promoted anti-Soviet and anti-Russian feelings which were already very inflamed in Polish society. That could have only been done in favour of the reactionary movement and would have done harm to the interests of Poland. Therefore our public and intra-party presentation of that intervention verged almost on a justification of it. We presented the unwanted ‘‘visit’’ of the Soviet delegation as a step dictated by the best will of the leadership of the CPSU, and by their concern for the mutual security of our countries and all the countries of the Warsaw Pact’ (Werblan 1997, p. 127). 29

In another version of the minutes of the Gomułka – Zhou Enlai talks Khrushchev’s statement was recorded in a version quoted by Gomułka: ‘Whether you want it or not, our opinion is that we will have to start an intervention at yours’ [Modern Records Archive (hereafter: AAN), CC PUWP, XIA/ 30, p. 55]. 30

Note also Mark Kramer’s translation of this sentence: ‘there’s only one way out—put an end to what is in Poland’ (Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 388). According to the account of the trip to Poland that Mikoyan dictated in 299

1960, immediately after the delegation’s arrival to Moscow Khrushchev decided that Soviet troops would enter Warsaw. This decision was subsequently reversed at the CC CPSU Presidium meeting. Mikoyan’s account, however, does not sound plausible at this point (see Taubman 2003, p. 294). 31

In Mark Kramer’s translation: ‘if Rokossovskii is kept, we won’t have to press things for a while’ (Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 388). 32

In Mark Kramer’s translation: ‘the ambassador, Cde. Ponomarenko, was grossly mistaken in his assessment of Ochab and Gomułka’ (Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 388). 33

In Mark Kramer’s translation: ‘we should invite to Moscow representatives from the Communist parties of Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania, the GDR, and Bulgaria. Perhaps we should send CC officials to China for informational purposes’ (Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 388). 34

The relevant point of this meeting’s agenda bore a heading: ‘Briefing of the CPSU Delegation about the Trip to Warsaw’ (Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 388). 35

In Mark Kramer’s translation: ‘take notice of information. Think through the questions that have been raised’ (Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 388). 36

In Mark Kramer’s translation: ‘taking account of the circumstances we should refrain from military

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intervention. We need to display patience. (Everyone agrees with this)’ (Kramer 1996/1997a, p. 388). 37

The telegram sent to other ‘fraternal’ parties had the following content: ‘in connection with the situation in Poland we would like to exchange our views. We submit a proposal to organise a top level meeting in Moscow on Tuesday, or on Wednesday at the latest. Such proposal was also submitted to other fraternal parties. Please notify us of your opinion’. 38

During the talks on 11 January 1957, Zhou Enlai told Gomułka that the CCP supported the PUWP’s stance on 21 October 1956. This may indicate that Mao’s conversation with Ambassador Yudin took place rather on 20 or 21 October (see Werblan 1997, p. 132). 39

In a recently published article, Chinese scholar Shen Zhihua argues that the Chinese factor played no role whatsoever in solving the crisis in Polish – Soviet relations, as Gomułka and Khrushchev did not know about China’s standpoint during their talks at the Belvedere Palace, nor did the CCP have information about Soviet military intervention in Poland at that time. Although Shen Zihua may be right that Khrushchev might not have known about Beijing’s veto yet when he ordered Soviet tanks to stop their march towards Warsaw during the night of 19 October 1956, he does not take into account that the ultimate decision to give up the armed intervention in Poland was taken at the Kremlin as late as on 21 October, and that by that time the Soviet leaders most probably had learned about the Chinese position. The ‘Malin notes’ strongly indicate that 301

Beijing’s veto against intervention did influence Soviet decision-making vis-á-vis Poland in October 1956 (see Zhihua 2005, pp. 59 – 61). 40

AAN, CC PUWP, XIA/71, p. 177. On the letter there is a handwritten note by Gomułka ‘Delivered in person by comrade Ponomarenko’; see SSSR i Polsha (1996, pp. 185 – 186) and Gluchowski (1995, p. 46). 41

A ciphered telegram from the Polish embassy in Moscow on 1 December confirms that this decision was implemented: ‘we received information in the embassy that for some time comrade Wiesław’s [Gomułka’s] speech at the Eighth Plenum and resolutions are being read in regional committees of the CPSU for narrow groups of activists, without any comment nor discussion’ (AMSZ, Telegrams Collection, fascicle 50, file 638, p. 50). 42

These are notes from the meeting taken by Antonin Novotny’s secretary, Jan Svoboda. 43

As early as at the CC CPSU Presidium meeting on 21 October Malin recorded the statement—probably by Khrushchev: ‘the sooner we give up the Polish coal the better’. It is not known, however, whether it pertained to current imports, or ‘reparatory’ coal supplies in the past (SSSR i Polsha 1996, p. 183). 44

The decision of the Soviet leadership to wait for the result of elections for the CC PUWP Politburo means that in the Kremlin it was expected that Rokossovskii would be included in the list of candidates after all. 302

45

Nowe Drogi, 10, 1956, p. 157.

46

‘Kostek’ is a diminutive of ‘Konstantin’ in Polish.

47

‘Przemówienie Tow. Władysława Gomułki …’, pp. 10 – 11.

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The Main Provincial Centres of the 1956 Revolution: Győr and Miskolc ATTILA SZAKOLCZAI THERE CAN BE NO DOUBT THAT BUDAPEST WAS THE CAPITAL OF THE REVOLUTION as well as of the country in 1956. That was where the major institutions of the revolution came into being, where the main Hungarian – Soviet talks took place, where the decisive decisions were made, and where the main fighting occurred. Yet it is hard to emphasise enough the role played in those months by Hungary’s provincial counties and cities. It should be remembered that the first independent (student) organisation appeared in Szeged; the first lives were lost in Debrecen; the first workers’ councils formed in Pécs and Miskolc; an important revolutionary demand was fulfilled on 26 October in Győr, when its national council dissolved the state security (ÁVH) in the county; that the defence of Dunapentele (once Sztálinváros, now Dunaújváros) after 4 November can be compared only with the fighting in Csepel and in Corvin Passage; that the armed resistance lasted longest in the Mecsek Hills; that new mass revolutionary events swept through the villages of Békés County in the first half of December; and so on. A decisive role in the temporary victory in October was played by the increasingly articulate and courageous support from provincial protests, while the news (and rumours) from these strengthened the hand of those struggling for change in the capital, and weakened the will of those opposing them. Although Budapest has to be considered before the provincial revolution

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becomes comprehensible, an accurate study of the events in the counties and towns of Hungary is also essential for a precise understanding of what happened in the capital. The forces of armed coercion (the Soviet army, the ÁVH and units of the Hungarian People’s Army) largely managed to hold main roads and railways into the capital in the first few days. This reduced the extent to which Budapest’s influence could spread, by preventing larger and smaller groups from entering or leaving; but on the other hand, it increased the chances for other, secondary centres to arise. So from the outset, the country’s larger cities, especially the industrialised ones and the county seats with universities, became centres for wider areas, and two of these—Győr and Miskolc—soon began to stand out from the rest. Both were viewed as regional centres during the revolutionary days of October and November. This is shown by the way that both were approached by József Dudás, leader of one of the big groups in the capital, with a proposal for forming a joint counter-government, and both rejected the idea categorically (Lomax 1976, p. 91). They were also treated as regional centres by the ensuing Kádár government, whose reprisals, cloaked in a judicial guise, cost the lives of over 20 people and innumerable prison sentences in the two cities (Kende 1996, pp. 238 – 244, 253 – 258). Research into the original sources that began with the change of system in 1989 – 1990 has been aimed at discovering what causes and factors led Győr and Miskolc to be seen as secondary capitals during the revolution, by both historians and by eye-witnesses (Rainer 2002, p. 30). The course of events

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in each city is closely bound up with the history of its county, and so I will consider them together. Győr and Miskolc: background to the revolution The political and geographical position of both cities can be said to have predestined them for their revolutionary role. Győr lies on the main route between Vienna and Budapest, while Miskolc is more or less equidistant from Budapest and Záhony, then on the border of the Soviet Union. The former, hitherto hermetically sealed, became in 1956 the main gateway to the West, and in that light, it was especially important that one of the main aims of the revolution should be to restore the broken economic, political and cultural contacts with the West. The Győr National Council exercised a degree of supervision over the main road crossing to the West at Hegyeshalom, coordinating the arrival of aid and permitting or prohibiting entries and exits over the border, for Győr was the most important transit, storage and distribution depot for humanitarian aid arriving in Hungary by rail or road. Western newspaper correspondents also reached Budapest by way of Győr, often filing their first reports on the events of the revolution from there. But Győr was not a one-way street even during the revolution. Missions for various purposes left for the West from here: Social Democratic Party leaders off to a meeting of the Socialist International, a delegation from the peasant federation due to meet the Austrian Bauerbund, a workers’ council team seeking to brief embassies in Vienna and the United Nations. A 43-man contingent of the Széna Square rebels from Budapest set 306

out for Austria to find weapons and armed support but it was turned back at Győr (Eörsi 2004, pp. 125 – 140). The city also lay on the route refugees took to the West. The ones leaving the country during the revolution were those who did not believe in the change, or on the contrary, those who were afraid of it because they had benefited from the old system, including ÁVH members and party functionaries. So it was also the task of the Győr National Council and the border guards, who were in their charge, to filter such people out and arrest them. After the second Soviet intervention and the armed defeat of the revolution, Győr was one of the last stages in Hungary for the masses of people who voted with their feet and went into exile, and it became the home of the Repatriation Centre for those who were turned back at the border or who voluntarily returned. Miskolc, on the other hand, was on the Soviet line of advance. The first small clashes there occurred on 24 October, when a protesting crowd attacked and halted some vehicles that were lagging behind a Soviet transport column and slashed their tyres. From that day, Miskolc, later cooperating with the Záhony and the Nyíregyháza workers’ councils, gave regular information mainly by radio, but also by telephone and teleprinter, or through delegations to Budapest, about the routes Soviet troops were taking and their strength and arms. After 4 November, messages from deportees to Transcarpathia were passed on to concerned friends and relatives, and the fact that the deportations were taking place was made known to the revolutionary bodies that were still functioning, and through them to the world at large. In 307

this respect, other cities were in a less favourable geographical position, more distant from the main routes. Only Debrecen would have been able to fulfil the role that Miskolc did, but for other reasons, it did not. Both Győr and Miskolc were major railway junctions. This meant that rapid and reliable information during the eventful days of the revolution could pass over the railway news service, which continued operating throughout. It also helped that both cities were fairly close to Budapest, so that delegations could be sent quite quickly to negotiate and gather and pass on information. Both had sent up groups to Budapest by 25 October: from Győr, a delegation of local radio employees arrived about noon to offer technical assistance with the studio set up in Parliament after the occupation of the radio headquarters. They arrived in Parliament after the massacre, saw the dead lying in the square, and almost had to suffer themselves from the anger of the crowd. When they got to the studio inside Parliament, they met and talked with the newly appointed communist leader, János Kádár. They returned to Győr that night and their report played an important part in the break-up of the old authorities, the flight of its representatives, and so of the success of the mass demonstration on the next day. A delegation of workers and students from Miskolc arrived in the afternoon to meet with Imre Nagy, and also witnessed the passions aroused by the shooting incident. They met the prime minister and Kádár at party headquarters (Rainer 1996, pp. 262 – 263). Not wanting to start for home in the dark, they spent the night there, which allowed them to gather further information. They

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arrived home only on 27 October, but they had already reported back by phone on the 25th. Both cities were county seats and centres of public administration with the requisite staffs. In Győr, Gyula Markó as chairman of the county council established a relatively free atmosphere in the council, tolerant of criticism. He gathered round him a staff whose educational standard and expertise were above the national average. He was cautious during the revolution but he tried to cooperate with the local revolutionary leaders throughout the uprising. After it had been crushed, there was a police investigation against him. He eventually escaped prosecution, but his political career was broken and he lost the county chairmanship. The dominant figure in county politics however, was Attila Szigethy. Although at the end of 1954 he had not been re-elected as deputy chairman of the county council, he had remained a decisive figure through his personal connections and the offices he still held, including a seat in Parliament. He took the lead in the revolution in Győr and only avoided a death sentence by committing suicide in prison. In Miskolc, Rudolf Földvári had been first secretary of the county party since the summer of 1954. He had previously headed the party committee in Budapest and been a member of the party Central Committee and the Politburo, taking part in June 1953 in the discussions between the Hungarian and Soviet party leaders in Moscow. There the Soviet leaders had criticised the policy of the Hungarian communists (although it had 309

been previously dictated by Moscow) and opened up a reformist period in communist politics. In 1956, after the Twentieth Congress of the Soviet party and the events in Poznań in the summer, public life in Miskolc became increasingly free. Földvari took issue with the Miskolc reformers and their increasingly radical proposals, calling their demands exaggerated, but at the same time underlining that he also supported the reforms. After 23 October, he supported the forces demanding the democratisation of the system, became a member of the leadership of the revolutionary body, and stood by the main revolutionary demands even after the Soviet intervention on 4 November. He was sentenced to life imprisonment in 1958. So both cities had a powerful politician with experience of public administration and power, yet ready in the circumstances to act for change, and with the credibility to ensure that the public, or the majority, would accept him on the revolutionary side. That meant the local authorities could not act as one against the earlier protests. The presence of Markó, Szigethy and Földvári had a paralysing effect on the local hardliners. Both Szigethy and Földvári were personally acquainted with many leading politicians. Szigethy had been the parliamentary teller in 1947 – 1949, and he had become close friends with Imre Nagy, who had been speaker at the time. He also had good relations with Prime Minister András Hegedüs, who came from the same district. He had done Hegedüs, then minister of state farms and forestry, a service in 1953 by taking his parents off the kulak list. As the best known National Peasant Party 310

politician in Western Hungary, Szigethy was well acquainted with its leaders, several of whom held power to varying degrees during the communist period and (some others of whom) were leaders during the revolution. He had good personal relations also with large numbers of communist writers and intellectuals, which made it easier for the Győr National Council to send information to the government and gain acceptance from it. Földvári, on the other hand, did not have relations of friendship with anyone in the national party or state leadership, but through his earlier functions, he personally knew the political elite of the time much better than the revolutionary leaders in other counties did. (Most of them were hardly known beyond their own region.) The Miskolc delegation would never have gained access to the party centre on 25 October had it not been for Földvári. Both cities were cultural centres that included a theatre and a significant literary life by provincial standards. Both cities were also home to communist writers who had been expelled from the party but were rehabilitated in 1956 and allowed back into literary life. Many of these writers took a significant part in the political debates that preceded the revolution. Independent newspapers were launched in both cities in the summer and autumn of 1956 and published critical articles that roundly attacked the existing conditions. In Miskolc, an increasingly broad public discourse developed on the social and economic questions being debated in the capital; meanwhile the Győr writers criticised the regime in its entirety and forecast its imminent downfall. Their positions in the local press gave them significant 311

opportunities to influence local public opinion and their writings encouraged an increasing number of people to stand up for change and to support those advocating it. The writers in Miskolc who called for radical reforms were mainly supporters of the leaders of the city and county party committees associated with Földvári, at least temporarily, and above all with Károly Grósz (who was among the first to stand by Kádár after 4 November, although even then he hardly escaped criminal proceed-ings).1 In Győr, Szigethy was the main leader who enjoyed good relations with the writers; and it was through him that the members of the party opposition that was forming in the city joined in the debate. Another notable figure was József Kéri, the county prosecutor, who fought a merciless battle to ensure legality and to confront the abuses of those who held power. He made a significant contribution to the local debate by his article in the county paper arguing that no political goal of any kind could justify infringing the rights of the individual, which was a clear rejection of the ruling idea that ‘the end justifies the means’. Kéri also knew Imre Nagy well and had been secretary of the party organisation in the Prime Minister’s Office during Imre Nagy’s first period as prime minister. In the summer of 1956, Kéri paid several visits to Nagy, who was excluded from public life at the time, and in the autumn he was a strong supporter of Nagy’s full rehabilitation. The most committed fighter for reforms before the revolution broke out was Gábor Földes, a party member, a popular actor and director at the local theatre. In a contribution at an expanded meeting of the county party committee in October, he mentioned all the essential demands of the 312

inner-party opposition: readmission of Nagy into the party; recognition that those writers who had been vilified by the party leadership had been right; full clarification of the Rajk case; dismissal of compromised leaders; free debate for members on political issues, and an end to slavish implementation of centrally taken decisions. He criticised the Central Leadership of the Hungarian Workers’ Party and its central daily paper, Szabad Nép (Free People). His critique was so sharp that the party leaders accused him of slandering the party, not trying to remedy its faults. In Győr and Miskolc, as nationally, the entry of the students added new dimensions to the political discourse that was already taking place among writers, journalists and the party opposition. (Győr still had no higher education institute at the time, but there was one at Sopron, in the same county.) Violent debates began at the universities in the autumn, mainly on university and educational matters, but increasingly on public affairs more widely. On 22 October, the eve of the revolution, Miskolc and Sopron were among the places to hold rallies instigated by the Szeged students, who had founded the Association of Hungarian University and College Students, an autonomous, non-party student body, on 16 October, and were calling on others to follow their example (Lomax 1976, p. 93). These rallies were attended by local political (and state security) chiefs, the press, and representatives of the workers in large-scale industry. The students in both places elected new leaders and established a new organisation to represent their interests. Both meetings compiled demands, which were in full accord on 313

essential political matters with the programme being accepted concurrently in Budapest. On two points, however, the provincial students went further than their Budapest peers. Both in Miskolc and in Sopron, the demands included a call for Hungary to leave the Warsaw Pact, and mention was also made of the most painful national grievance, ever since 1920: the annexation of Transylvania to Romania. This was incorporated in the Miskolc programme as a proposal for a Danube Confederation with neighbouring countries, while the Sopron students called for urgent re-examination of where Transylvania belonged. The students of both cities received some support from the local powers. In Sopron, they had permission from the town council to duplicate and distribute their leaflets in the surrounding villages as well. Indeed they even appeared in the county paper on 24 October. In Miskolc however, the county party committee did not agree to publishing the students’ programme in the local paper, because of its demands for the removal of Soviet troops from Hungary, and for Hungary’s withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact. On the other hand, they had published a letter written to the Central Leadership weeks earlier, which strongly criticised the party leadership for its inability to make any essential reforms. Földvári and his group were thereby signalling that although they did not agree with the students on everything, they did so on the fundamental need for essential reforms. On this, they were prepared to take a position openly against the party Central Leadership (Szakolczai 2003, p. 131).

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Győr and Miskolc were also established centres of industry and bastions of the social democratic movement. Győr in 1945 was the second most important industrial centre after Budapest, while Miskolc reached the same level through the communist economic policy of forced industrialisation in the 1950s. The presence of these concentrations of workers with a strong social democratic tradition meant that the Social Democrats won Győr in the 1945 general elections by a margin wider than anywhere else in the country; Social Democrats also came to head the city and county administrations. Meanwhile the Social Democrats obtained a third of the vote in Miskolc in 1945. Győr was a centre of engineering and textiles while in Miskolc the main industries were in engineering and iron and steel. Both had factories with a traditionally high reputation: the Wagon Works and the Richards textile mill in Győr and in Miskolc the ironworks (at Diósgyőr, by then incorporated into the city) and the Lenin Metal Works. The early stages of the revolution and the transfer of local power Miskolc Diósgyőr Ironworks took the lead in launching the revolution locally in Miskolc. After weeks of the dissensions, the party members in the factory decided on 22 October to force the party leaders to hold an open debate. Signatures were gathered with great success: almost all the workers signed the protest. On the following day, 23 October, a list of points was compiled, 315

most of them special demands by the workers. By this time, those taking the lead in the opposition campaign were calling themselves the Workers Organisation Committee. The party leadership agreed to hold a debate on 25 October, but then tried to withdraw their agreement when a national ban on assemblies was declared on 24 October. However, while the question of the mass meeting was being discussed with the works party leadership, the opposition leaders were augmenting the workers’ programme with political demands taken from the students. The Workers Organisation Committee insisted that the debate be held but it was finally agreed that instead of a grand assembly of the whole works on 25 October, there would be meetings called by the party branches to debate the points in each shop. The works party leadership also agreed that the programme should be duplicated on the management’s machine and sent to the other big factories in Miskolc and Diósgyőr. Not long after, a deputation of Miskolc university students arrived at the ironworks to hear the workers’ demands and learn whether they wanted to protest against the radio speech given by party First Secretary Ernő Gerő that was broadcast the previous night. The students were not admitted however, and so a growing crowd gathered at the works gate to hear them. After presenting their respective demands, the two sides agreed to send their points to the government in a telegram, and to demonstrate if they had not received a reply by noon on the following day. The Workers Organisation Committee informed Földvári about this threatening situation, who had protested in public, in the 316

same day’s issue of the county paper, about Gerő’s radio speech. Földvári could only forestall the demonstration by agreeing to accompany the delegation of workers and students to the national party leadership and the government, to present demands that included the withdrawal of Soviet troops and from the Warsaw Pact. During the discussions, the Workers Organisation Committee turned itself into a workers’ council. Földvári did not receive an appointment from the party centre until the next day, and so the departure of the delegation was postponed until 25 October (Szakolczai 2003, pp. 133 – 134). However, the workers had not been told of this and so there was much indignation on the morning of 25 October. As a sign of their protest, the workers sounded the factory siren and the demonstration could not be prevented, even though Földvári and his delegation had left for Budapest at eight in the morning. The local party leadership was obliged to authorise the demonstration, especially as the police and the military would not support the idea of forcibly preventing it, since the men and even some of their officers were in agreement with most of the demands. However, the crowd of 30,000 – 40,000 were not content to take over the streets and repeat their demands: they wanted immediate results. Again the authorities had to make a concession by allowing a workers’ council with powers over the whole county to be formed from among the delegates from the factories. The presiding committee of this county workers’ council included mainly members of the party committees and local councils, but just one worker. This workers’ council declared a general strike until it should 317

receive a substantive response to its demands from the authorities, but transport, public supplies, the mines or the health service were exempted from strike action. The formation of the county workers’ council produced a curious multiple system of authority. Formally, it did not infringe on the party committees or local-government councils, but it began to operate as a third directing body, whose main task was to run the strike—indeed it was called a strike committee initially. In theory, the party committee and local council had more influence (the forces for law and order accepted the existence of the workers’ council but continued to treat the other bodies as their superiors), but in practice the workers’ council had more authority. The party and the council lost touch with the national bodies at this juncture; the customary instructions ceased and even a clear statement of position was lacking. The party centre kept them informed about the struggle against counter-revolutionaries, but those in opposition to them locally could not be seen as reactionary counter-revolutionaries, but rather as workers demanding reform of the system. The occasional central directives gave them the task of keeping order and fighting counter-revolution, and it seemed a good idea to achieve this by allying with the reformers, with the workers, against the expected counter-revolutionary attack. The main aim of the local leaders was to avoid armed clashes and irreparable mistakes until Földvári returned. Nor was the county workers’ council a revolutionary body in the strict sense. Its members did not strive to use 318

crowd support to take power in the county, but only to avoid an explosion. They too were trying to ‘ride out’ the crisis and expected a solution when Földvári’s delegation returned. The main threat was seen as an unintentional clash with Soviet troops. The situation was especially dangerous because Miskolc lay on the Soviet army’s line of advance. Demonstrators met on two occasions in the city while troops were on the move, and each time a clash was averted only by a hair’s breadth. This provided a basis for the three bodies to cooperate. Each wanted to prevent armed struggle spreading to Miskolc and despite the misunderstandings and the rising tension on 25 October, they still managed to achieve this. Győr A large demonstration also took place in Győr on 25 October but here violence could not be avoided. To begin with activists associated with Gábor Földes managed to keep the protest under their influence, so that the protesters called for reform of the system rather than demanding specific decisions. Their delegation met initially with the first secretary of the county party committee, who promised their demands would be discussed and an answer would be given shortly. The demonstrators then marched from the county party committee building to the prison, where they demanded the release of political prisoners. The prison governor called for help from the county division of Interior Ministry forces and began to talk with a deputation of protestors until help arrived.2 When it emerged that only 319

the release of political prisoners was being demanded (the category covered only a handful of people held for border infringements), he agreed to a review of the prisoners and the release of those condemned for political reasons. However, just as the first of those released had left the prison a lorry full of state-security men rounded the corner and opened fire on the crowd, causing three deaths. The demonstrators did not flee, but instead, obtaining bricks and stones from a nearby building site and arming themselves with weapons left in the ÁVH lorry, they laid siege to the prison. Further bloodshed was only averted by the intervention of Gábor Földes, who was allowed into the prison during a break in the siege. He reached agreement with the governor that the ÁVH men and the prison wardens should be allowed out of the building unharmed and all the prisoners should be released. Early that evening, armed protesters then gathered outside the county party committee building to hear the reply that the committee had promised them earlier in the day. However, the party leadership, shaken by events, refused to negotiate further and met the demonstrators with machine-gun fire. Sporadic firing began, claiming no lives on either side. Late that evening, order was restored by Soviet tanks and Hungarian military units, which broke up the demonstrators in various parts of the city. Thus, order was restored and the Soviet troops returned to barracks on the night of 25 October. Indeed on the 26th, they left the city altogether and camped a few kilometres away.

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The use of arms on 25 October meant that feelings were running high, but the revolutionaries still had no competent leader at that time and the authorities had the protection of the Hungarian and Soviet forces. On the next day, however, the situation changed radically. Following an order from the defence minister (stating that the prime task of the military was to defend its own bases) the military commanders withdrew the units deployed to defend public buildings. Work stopped in the whole city after the previous day’s bloodshed and an unorganised mass demonstration began outside the city hall, where the local party and council chiefs were obliged to meet with representatives of the factories. They agreed to accompany a deputation of workers to Budapest, to hand over their demands to Imre Nagy, but the demonstrators protested against the inclusion of the county party secretary, since he had been responsible for the previous days’ firing, and they physically dragged him out of his car. At that point the hardliners fled to Czechoslovakia, although this was more because of the cowardice of the leaders than any threatening moves by the crowd. Meanwhile, Gyula Markó set out for Budapest with the deputation and the city remained without a head. The delegates who remained in the city hall decided to set up a National Council to fill the power vacuum. Leadership of this was offered to Attila Szigethy, who had arrived in the city not long before (Lomax 1976, p. 84). The demonstrators had marched to the barracks, demanding arms and calling on the soldiers to join them. Arms were not given to them, but the commander announced that the military supported their demands and 321

would not use arms against the protesters. He also agreed that unarmed soldiers could join the demonstration making for the county department, and when Attila Szigethy as head of the National Council also warned the commander not to use arms against the crowd, the latter began to negotiate. However, while these negotiations were going on in the commander’s office, the crowd broke down the garage door of the barracks and flooded into the building. There was no chance of resistance under the circumstances and the ÁVH men and police laid down their arms. The military took over the task of guarding the building and the ÁVH men were placed in protective custody at the army barracks. Early that afternoon, the armed forces placed themselves at the National Council’s disposal. Attila Szigethy then called a general strike (with similar exemptions to those that applied in Miskolc), called on the communities in the county to establish national councils of their own, and announced (two days before Imre Nagy did so) that the state-security organisations were disbanded. Another decisive factor behind the collapse of the state security service in the county, apart from Szigethy’s decision, was the disintegration of the county command and events in the nearby border town of Mosonmagyaróvár, where the border guards had fired into a crowd of protesters killing more than 50 of them. The incensed crowd lynched one border guard that afternoon and two more the next day. As an exaggerated account of the events in Mosonmagyaróvár went round the county, the ÁVH men were put to flight. Without an armed support, the local authorities could do nothing but accept the 322

leadership of the Győr National Council: the communist system had collapsed in the city and the county and the revolution triumphed. Acceptance of the Győr National Council was facilitated by the fact that it was headed by Szigethy, who called for radical reform of the communist system in his first speech, but not its removal. He was quite well known and popular in the county and not seen as a traitor, despite several years of heading the county administration, cooperating with the communists, and serving in Parliament and many county offices (including in the People’s Front and the Peace Committee). His agreement to lead the National Council meant the change was not sharp enough to precipitate resistance by the communist functionaries, who were shaken, but not yet defeated. Szigethy was also accepted by Markó, head of the county, on his return from Budapest, and by the party committee, which elected a new leadership the next day. The commander of the local guard also accepted office in the National Council, as did Kéri, the county prosecutor. Szigethy, in trying to strengthen the National Council and increase its popularity, sought to include in it every force that did not oppose the revolution. He preferred to see sharp, but controllable debate within a National Council of a people’s front character than to have those excluded using crowds dissatisfied with the progress and filled with revolutionary ardour to attack it (Szakolczai 2006, p. 163). Miskolc: developments after 25 October

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While the communist system in Győr collapsed without further bloodshed after 25 October, tragedy could not be averted in Miskolc. The protests did not end with the formation of the county workers’ council on 25 October. That evening, several lorries of young people set off to Budapest to join those waging armed struggle there, disarming the police force and reserve command of a small town on the way, so acquiring sizeable quantities of arms. However, they soon ran up against the Soviet and Hungarian forces encircling the capital. Some returned to Miskolc that night, where the police arrested and began interrogating them. On 26 October, a large crowd gathered outside the county division building calling for their immediate release. The situation was extremely tense mainly because of general uncertainty in the city about the interpretation of events. Most people in Miskolc saw the events of 25 October as a victory, not the beginning of a takeover of power: for the local radio had said and the press had published the strike decision; a county workers’ council had formed; and several communities had begun to establish workers’ councils as well. The red stars and flags on public buildings had given way to the national tricolour. The arrests were seen not as a counter-attack by the institutions of communist power, but simply as new signs of arbitrariness in the state security service. The Miskolc party leaders and commanders of the armed forces felt on the evening of 25 October that they were over the difficult part. Földvári’s instructions were being obeyed; order and peace were being preserved; Miskolc had not suffered a bloodbath; the county workers’ council could be counted 324

on to keep order in the future; and Földvári and his deputation were expected to return at any time. But others were dissatisfied with the situation. The Stalinists were disturbed to see non-party people taking up decision-making positions, albeit on a minimal scale. The police and still more the state-security leaders were dissatisfied too. They felt they had made major concessions to avoid clashes when they had refrained from acting against the protests, despite the ban on assemblies. They took note of the workers’ council’s formation and sent a high-ranking representative to its meetings. Yet despite all that, the crowd had attacked and disarmed the police. In their view this sent evidence of the weakness of state security round the county and beyond. The heads of the Borsod state security forces had been inclined from the outset to resolve the crisis with armed force. The events that were to take place overnight on 25 – 26 October would lead them to reconsider their conduct so far and act more firmly. Several dozen young people arrested that night were released, as the demonstrators had demanded, but the crowd felt sure that the bulk of the prisoners were still held in the building. Meanwhile various rumours spread around—about corpses being hidden in the cellar or even disposed of in a human mincing machine. So the crowd refused to budge from outside the police station and even tried to force their way in. As the situation grew increasingly tense, shots rang out (the porter is thought to have fired into the gateway) and the defenders, taking this to be a signal, opened fire on the demonstrators and threw hand grenades into the crowd. A 16-year-old girl was one of the victims who died as a result of the 325

shooting. The demonstrators pulled back for a short while but then surged forward again, blockading the police station. Others laid the body of the 16-year-old girl on the back of a lorry and drove it around the city, and in that way spread news of the brutality of the state security men to the neighbouring large factories and mines. There was no let-up in the rage of the crowd; the police and the armed factory guards all fled. Soon a crowd of workers and miners flooded into the city centre and laid siege to the county division building. The workers were carrying all kinds of objects that could be used as weapons (including iron bars and hammers) and the miners had brought dynamite. The defenders’ fate was sealed when the soldiers in the barracks opposite refused to take up arms against the rebels; in fact, the officers had a hard time preventing their men from joining the siege. Once the building had been taken, the rebels slaughtered six men (another was killed the next day) and the rest were taken into custody by the army (Lomax 1976, p. 94). News of the lynching spread general panic through the city; not just state security men, but police and party and council functionaries lost their heads and fled. The county workers’ council tried to restore order. It moved its headquarters into the county council building, signalling that it had taken over power. With the help of the army, it started setting up a national guard and gathering in uncontrolled weaponry. But the leadership chosen on 25 October were not well-known, respected or powerful enough to wield authority in the crisis situation. A new demonstration the next day demanded the handover of those responsible for the shooting 326

incident. The county workers’ council could not prevent another case of summary crowd justice and its members had to flee in the face of popular anger themselves. An attempt to restore order was made by Attila Nagy, a young actor at the local theatre who had become very popular for his recitations at the 25 October demonstration. He and his fellow actors, and some workers’ council leaders who were persuaded to return, reorganised the county workers’ council. They received help from army officers in setting up a national guard capable of restoring and keeping order, and took the local press and radio under their control, issuing appeals emphasising the importance of restoring order and keeping the public regularly informed about the council’s actions. By that evening, they had just managed to restore order and thus avert an advance into the city by the Soviet unit stationed close by, which had already received an order to attack (Szakolczai 2003, pp. 146 – 147). The situation in Miskolc thus stood in contrast to that of Győr, where the presence of Attila Szigethy provided a solution that the supporters of revolution and the communists still in power could both accept. In Miskolc however, the horrors of the lynching and the collapse of the police and state security forces resulted in a breakdown of law and order. Groups armed with submachine guns and machine guns, including many of the town’s well-known and feared criminal elements, roamed the streets hunting for ÁVH men and party functionaries in hiding. In response the county workers’ council attempted to construct a new power centre and it undertook to restore order and ensure the safety of life 327

and property. It was a situation that required broad cooperation and the political complexion of those restoring order was not the most urgent priority. Thus, the county workers’ council did not call for restoration of the pre-1945 system or the overthrow of the communists, and as a result it could count on support from all officials who were still in their places or wanted to return to them. In this way the workers’ council gained acceptance from the military, the police and the council and party leaders as well. Meanwhile, after the lynching was over, the deputation to Budapest finally arrived back in Miskolc and reported back at the Diósgyőr Ironworks. The assembly considered that a new workers’ council was necessary, as the previous one had failed to keep order and fallen apart. After agreement was reached with Attila Nagy, the county workers’ council was reformed a second time on 29 October, with a presiding committee that included Nagy and representatives of the Diósgyőr works and the university. Földvári, with his party-secretary past, declined the president’s or presidential council post offered him, but played a decisive role as head of the Public Supplies Committee (Szakolczai 2003, p. 157). Revolutionary power and local administration After the Győr National Council and the Borsod County Workers’ Council had taken power, they kept order, ensured public supplies, and helped to build and operate the system of revolutionary institutions in their counties. Both were assisted by the armed forces, police and army, and by the students and the workers in large factories. 328

One of the typical aspects of the revolution was that people with expertise were found for the tasks that arose. In Miskolc, the university students took over the direction of public transport and established a radio-monitoring news service at the university; the theatre actors read the news and statements in an all-day news programme during the revolutionary period; a national guard of workers and students kept order so successfully that there were fewer crimes committed during the revolutionary period than ever before. In Győr, there was a news service organised by writers and journalists, similar to that of the Miskolc university students. They also acted as interpreters, so that Attila Szigethy could address the correspondents arriving from abroad. Here too, the actors took part in the independent radio programme that began to go out on 26 October (Gábor Földes was in the National Council leadership); armed factory guards assisted the police in keeping order. But the consolidation did not bring the political battles to an end in either city. In both Győr and Miskolc, the revolution triumphed more rapidly than in Budapest, so that the Győr National Council and the Borsod County Workers’ Council both came into conflict with the Imre Nagy government after they were formed. In neither place were the revolutionary forces inclined to recognise the government that still included many former Stalinists or Rákosi supporters. They insisted on continuing the general strike until the government restored the multi-party system, made moves to promote the withdrawal of Soviet troops, and announced Hungary’s neutrality and withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact. Both 329

Szigethy and Földvári were in a difficult position. (One absurdity was that Szigethy, day after day, had to prevent the formation of a counter-government under his own leadership.) They had to strive as local revolutionary leaders to persuade Imre Nagy, whom they both knew and trusted personally, to accept the revolution’s still unattained goals. That was the main precondition for maintaining or imposing order. Szigethy and Földvári also identified with the basic demands, but they thought the best way to attain them was not a continued strike, but government recognition and support, which would allow the demands to be attained peaceably. However, their situation was far from secure and their influence far from sufficient to ensure that their views were accepted in local revolutionary bodies. Szigethy in Győr was constantly criticised and dismissed as an ally of the communists trying to sabotage the revolution. Földvári as a former first secretary of the county party came under still heavier attack in Miskolc. So they both saw in Imre Nagy a leader who was both an opponent and an ally. They both feared some elements might try to restore pre-1945 conditions—although there seems to have been very little chance of this in 1956, judging from the sources examined so far. They also opposed a complete turn to a bourgeois society. Földvári, a factory worker turned communist politician (though most of the county workers’ council leaders were also communists), wanted radical reforms, not a change of system; he sought to reinstate a system that he believed to have been deformed only by Stalin’s flawed, indeed criminal policies, a system that would provide more just and 330

humane conditions in life than bourgeois democracy did. He felt that Imre Nagy stood closer to his political ideas than many in the revolutionary camp, by whom he was seen, ironically, as one of the leaders in the political struggle against the prime minister. Similarly averse to bourgeois democracy was Szigethy, who envisaged a kind of peasant socialism without parties. This National Peasants’ Party politician wanted to defend Hungary from Western and Eastern imperialist endeavours alike, and to defend the peasants equally from bourgeois capitalist inequalities and from communist dictatorship. Imre Nagy’s government met the sharpest challenge from the Győr revolution on 30 October, when Szigethy convened there a conference of representatives of Transdanubia’s revolutionary organisations to coordinate their political programmes and demands. This was designed on the one hand to outflank radicals demanding a counter-government and on the other to put pressure on the government. It was to force through acceptance of the remaining demands, which Szigethy also saw as a condition for consolidation and development. The conference exceeded Szigethy’s expectations in two respects. Delegates arrived not only from Transdanubia (Hungary west of the Danube), but from revolutionary bodies in Eastern and Northern Hungary and in Budapest. And instead of having a simple discussion, it resolved to establish a body extending over half the country: the Transdanubian National Council (Lomax 1976, pp. 89 – 90). This can be considered a popular representative body of the revolution. A deputation from it began negotiating with the government the next day, and it held two more meetings before 4 November. 331

The discussion on 31 October was extremely friendly, with Imre Nagy clearing himself of some accusations, above all that he had called in the Soviet troops, and Szigethy denying the charge of establishing a counter-government and assuring the prime minister that the Transdanubian National Council recognised Nagy’s government, even if it had some reservations about it. By that time however, Imre Nagy had heard news of further Soviet troops entering the country and was considering the idea of withdrawing from the Warsaw Pact. He had declared a restoration of the multi-party system the previous day and was planning to initiate talks on the withdrawal of Soviet troops, so that the demands of the Transdanubian National Council were no longer topical and did not feature in the talks. Its main purpose thereafter was to create conditions in Transdanubia for consolidation and build the revolution’s system of institutions. It was considered that it should also possibly make military preparations against a putative Soviet attack by establishing a Transdanubian army command under the Transdanubian National Council, and thereby to create conditions for military resistance, decentralising munitions, changing the military numerical code, and organising armoured and air defence. On the following day the government received a visit from a delegation of the Borsod County Workers’ Council. Földvári advised Nagy to dissolve Parliament (elected in 1953), as it no longer represented anybody or anything, and replace it with a revolutionary national assembly of delegates from the revolutionary bodies. Nagy agreed with the proposal and in the light of it, but 332

primarily following the Győr example, a North and East Hungarian National Council based in Miskolc was formed on 2 November. Its main tasks were defined as the consolidation of the region and the concentration of the military forces there. However, any substantial activity was prevented by the aggression of 4 November. Soviet invasion, resistance and the end of the revolution There was no real armed resistance on 4 November in Győr or in Miskolc. Although the university guard in Miskolc opened fire on Soviet tank troops, this pointless resistance with hand-held weapons soon ended (with two deaths). The Transdanubian National Council dissolved and some leaders fled to the West. Attila Szigethy (who should have been arrested by the Soviet commander occupying the city) went into hiding. Borsod County Workers’ Council, however, negotiated with the command of the occupying forces. Földvári and associates forbade resistance, seeking to avoid bloodshed, and ordered the collection of arms, but they refused to concede any of the gains obtained during the revolution. They made recognition of the new Kádár regime contingent on prior negotiations. On 5 November however, the Soviet authorities, bored with the arguments, arrested the whole leadership of the Workers’ Council and deported them to Transcarpathia. Nevertheless, the Kádárite restoration was not immediately effective in either Győr or Miskolc. The centres of resistance in both cities became the workers’ councils in the big factories—the Wagon Works in Győr 333

and the Lenin Metal Works in Miskolc, which had hitherto cooperated closely with the local revolutionary organisations and won themselves great respect during these October and November days.3 The workers’ councils enjoyed the undivided support of the public and of most of the police, military and council employees who had come out in favour of the revolution. The Soviets also accepted them as negotiating partners, seeing them initially as counterparts of the councils (soviets) of the 1917 Russian Revolution, especially after all the workers’ councils had protested against the aim of restoring pre-1945 conditions and announced that they would defend the socialist achievements of the land reform and nationalisation of the mines, banks and large factories. In Győr, those still defending the revolution were supported by József Kéri, the county prosecutor, who up to mid-December was able to release everyone arrested for political reasons. The only opposition to the workers’ councils came from sections of the party leadership but they had no membership support behind them and had no clear political programme (since Kádár’s political programme did not yet exist). There was crude jostling for political position among them, as they traded accusations of being Rákosi supporters or counter-revolutionaries, cowards or traitors. They did not possess any armed forces apart from the Soviet troops, while the workers’ councils were protected by the armed factory guard. The most important weapon of the workers’ council was the strike, which had become a general strike again. They refused to call for work to resume despite promises from Kádárite party leaders and threats from the Soviet 334

commanders. They stood by their previous demands and called for the reinstatement of the Imre Nagy government, the release of those deported or imprisoned, and the free operation for bodies formed during the revolution. Curiously, the Soviet authorities, having placed the whole country under martial law, took no part in the political debates apart from urging (unsuccessfully) a resumption of work. At the same time, the germs of the Kádárite party, using liaison officers who had arrived from Budapest, could not break the workers’ councils’ resistance either. Often they even had to be defended by the workers’ councils, from workers attacking them with iron bars or knives, if they ventured out to a large factory to negotiate. They soon had to admit defeat and retreat before the workers’ councils and the armed groups still operating illegally. The Győr workers’ councils, headed by the workers’ council at the Wagon Works agreed with Gyula Markó, again chairman of the county council, that workers’ council delegates would be co-opted onto the county and city councils (and later onto district and village councils also). Members of Győr Workers’ Council (and those of Sopron and Mosonmagyaróvár) duly joined the governing board of the county council on 11 November and essentially took over its operation (Szakolczai 2006, p. 196). A few days later, the chairmanship of Győr City Council was taken over by a worker from the Wagon Works and another became deputy chairman of the county council. (Similar moves were made on town and village councils in the next few days.) These delegates gave the workers’ councils control over the police, the press and the radio. 335

From 10 November to 9 December, the party committee’s paper in Győr was joined by an independent paper (Hazańk—‘our country’) that reported accurately on the struggle to preserve the gains made in the revolution. In view of these gains and having persuaded the Soviet military to withdraw their tanks from the streets, the workers’ councils called for a resumption of work. It was a sign of their strength that this call was obeyed, although a general energy shortage meant that the factories could not resume full production. On 14 November, Attila Szigethy reappeared in public; he would not accept any position but he took part in the more important discussions. Szigethy’s hope was that there would not be any unbridgeable political conflict between the de-Stalinising Khrushchev, Kádár, who had been imprisoned under Rákosi, and Imre Nagy. He wanted to see the organisation of a people’s front that would extend to the Budapest communist intelligentsia and open a substantive political debate with the new Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party. He trusted that there would be free elections in the spring, partly because of international pressure; his great aim was to ensure by then that conditions were established that would prevent the restoration of any right-wing gentry-based Horthyite or bourgeois forces or of a Rákosi-ite dictatorship. It was not political blindness, but the incapacity of the Kádár government that prevented him from seeing that only one of those represented a real danger. In Miskolc, it was somewhat longer before the county workers’ council regained power. The local Kádárite party leaders had been relatively quick to set up an 336

armed militia under Károly Grósz, who had supported the revolution before 4 November; but the main factor impeding the workers’ council was less the strength of the Kádárites than that the return of Földvári and his deported associates from Transcarpathia had to be agreed. From 8 November onwards, Grósz and his group were also pressing for their return, intervening several times with Kádár and with Ferenc Münnich, minister of the armed forces, on the grounds that a further explosion with probable armed conflict was inescapable unless the Földvári group were returned. The situation in Miskolc was particularly dangerous because the workers’ councils and the students had made contact with the armed groups still hiding in the surrounding hills and were planning to renew the fighting. On 13 November, party leaders negotiating at the Lenin Metal Works were saved only by a Soviet tank unit from an attack on them by the workers, who also occupied the offices of the county newspaper and printed leaflets there containing their revolutionary demands. After a day of unrest, Grósz and his men positively pleaded with Kádár and the other government members to do something to ensure that all the workers’ council leaders were returned, for otherwise, the armed struggle would inevitably break out again (Szakolczai 2003, p. 185). On 17 November, the Soviet authoritiess allowed Földvári and then the other deportees to return home. They then reconvened the county workers’ council in subsequent days and ordered a return to work. Földvári set himself more realistic aims than Szigethy did. It was clear to him that the Soviet Union would not allow a free, independent, democratic Hungary to emerge and 337

that the Western great powers would not provide any support. So as a realistic politician, he aimed to achieve the social and economic aims of the revolution and some cautious democratisation. He was prepared to pursue these aims by cooperating with the Kádárites against the radicals, while still insisting on all the revolutionary goals, and even to use against them the political police that was just being formed. But his moderate policy left him increasingly isolated; the Kádárites came to see him as a ‘counter-revolutionary’, while those who stuck by the full demands saw him as a traitor to the revolution. By late November and early December, despite the set-backs after 4 November, the revolutionary forces seemed to have triumphed completely in Győr and in Miskolc. Their representatives appeared to have a tight hold on the county and city, and the workers’ councils sent permanent delegates to Budapest to attend sessions of the Greater-Budapest Central Workers’ Council. One sign of this consolidation in Győr is that the theatre began to rehearse the classic play Bánk bán, an emblematic account of national resistance that stresses the need for national cohesion against foreign tyranny. Aware of their success, the revolutionary bodies were tied up increasingly with day-to-day, routine tasks: public food and fuel supplies, controlling the rise in market prices, preventing hoarding, and so on. Meanwhile however, Kádár and his team were preparing to break the revolution irrevocably. At the beginning of December came the party resolution summarily condemning the events of 1956 as a counter-revolution, which gave the signal for a counter-attack (Litván 1996, 338

p. 136). At the end of November, Kádár opened the party wide to the hitherto attacked and rejected Rákosi-ites and the party leadership began to organise its branch network. At the same time, political departments within the police and pufajkaś—literally quilt-jacketed—militia units began to be formed from the ranks of former ÁVH men and party and state functionaries. The political police became increasingly successful at breaking up the revolution organisations as more and more people were persuaded by threats or promises to take work as informers and secret agents. The ‘quilt jackets’ also had motives of personal revenge to do battle with the revolutionaries. On 11 – 12 December, the 48-hour strike called by the Greater Budapest Central Workers’ Council was still overwhelmingly successful in both Győr and Miskolc, with office and catering workers joining the factories, but this was the last flare of revolutionary national resistance. The renewed, well-directed attacked by the Kádárite authorities on 12 December was against a disillusioned society tired of struggle. As martial law was declared, internment camps were set up, masses of arrests were made, and the militia units made repeated raids on workers’ and students’ hostels and villages; resistance was broken in a society now convinced that Western aid was not coming. After 12 December, there was only a defensive rearguard action by revolutionaries in Győr and Miskolc. The heads of the workers’ councils and other revolutionary organisations were successively arrested along with many of their members, along with police and army officers who had sided with the

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workers’ councils or had spoken out against the terror that was descending. Földvári, Szigethy or Kéri could now only attempt to moderate that terror—until they were arrested themselves in the spring of 1957. The Institute for the History of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, Budapest References Eörsi, L. (2004) A Szeńa teŕiek, 1956 [The Group of Széna Square, 1956] (Budapest, Institute for the 1956 Hungarian Revolution – Historical Archives of the Hungarian State Security). Kende, P. (ed.) (1996) 1956 Keźikönyve, III. Megtorlás eś emlékezés [The Handbook of 1956. Vol. III] (Budapest, Institute for the 1956 Hungarian Revolution). Litván, G. (ed.) (1996) The Hungarian Revolution of 1956. Reform, Revolt, and Repression, 1953 – 1963 (London & New York, Longman). Lomax, B. (1976) Hungary, 1956 (London, Allison & Busby). Rainer, J.M. (1996) Nagy Imre. Politikai eĺetrajz, I. 1896 – 1953, II. 1953 – 1958 [Imre Nagy. Political Biography. Vol. I 1896 – 1953, Vol. II 1953 – 1958] (Budapest, Institute for the 1956 Hungarian Revolution).

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Rainer, J.M. (2002) ‘A Progress of Ideas: The Hungarian Revolution of 1956’, in Király, B.K. (ed.) (2002) The Ideas of the Hungarian Revolution. Suppressed and Victorious, 1956 – 1999 (Highland Lakes, NJ, Atlantic Research and Publications). Szakolczai, A. (2003) ‘Borsod megye’ [‘Borsod County’], in Szakolczai, A. & Varga, Á.L (eds) (2003) A vidék forradalma, 1956 I [Revolution in the Countryside, 1956, Vol. I] (Budapest, Institute for the 1956 Hungarian Revolution – Budapest City Archives). Szakolczai, A. (2006) ‘Győr-Sopron megye’ [‘Győr or-Sopron County’], in Szakolczai, A. (ed.) (2006) A vidék forradalma, 1956 II [ Revolution in the Countryside, 1956, Vol. II] (Budapest, Institute for the 1956 Hungarian Revolution) 1

Grósz was to be the last leader of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party before the change of system in 1989 – 1990. 2

The organisational independence of the ÁVH had ceased formally in 1953, since when it was under the Interior Ministry. Interior Ministry divisions were set up in the counties and Budapest and Interior Ministry departments in towns and Budapest districts, whose commanders oversaw the local police, state security, border guards, prison guards, civil defence and the fire service.

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3

Several key workers in the ironworks were among the members of the county workers’ council deported to Transcarpathia, which dampened the militancy of their associates.

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Re-emergence of Public Opinion in the Soviet Union: Khrushchev and Responses to the Secret Speech KARL E. LOEWENSTEIN PUBLIC

OPINION

IS

GENERALLY

UNDERSTOOD

AS

AN

in political decision-making. It is also clear that such a thing does not really exist, in that there is no real aggregate opinion. When people, however, treat it as if it is an actual phenomenon, it takes on real significance. The aftermath of Khrushchev’s secret speech of 1956 created conditions where both the party and many members of the public began to feel as though Soviet public opinion was developing. Many imagined a public opinion that would help correct the mistakes of the regime and hoped that Khrushchev would accept their input. The party leadership saw the emerging public opinion, which often offered critical assessments of government policies, as a threat which needed to be analysed and controlled. Thus, after 1956, the leadership became much more interested in the phenomenon. This terminology entered Soviet vocabulary again and the party became deeply concerned about what the average citizen thought. As part of Khrushchev’s attempts to reshape the Soviet Union, the party was forced to deal with public opinion in ways that it had not since the 1920s. IMPORTANT FACTOR

Public opinion surveying, ubiquitous in modern Western democracies, often plays an important role in shaping political decisions. This was not part of the process for

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the Soviet leadership. Although the state carried out extensive surveillance of its own population, it was carried out by security organs. By Stalin’s time, such observation had become part of a repressive apparatus, not a tool for analysing popular responses to government policy. In the aftermath of the secret speech, Khrushchev and the leadership of the Communist party were shocked to see the outpouring of opinion that was generated by those words. The twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU), held in February 1956, traditionally was the beginning of a new period of openness in Soviet history. Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev, First Secretary of the CPSU, gave what has become known as the secret speech late in the evening on 25 – 26 February, denouncing the excesses of Joseph Stalin’s reign. It struck both Soviet society and the world as a bombshell and has been generally considered to have changed the way that people in the Soviet Union understood their own system.1 All of this is true, but the point of this contribution is to think about the problems it generated. As well as being important as the first opening of Soviet society, the speech unleashed the forces of public opinion beyond Khrushchev’s wildest expectations.2 Khrushchev and the party leadership did not want to open debate about Stalin, but wanted to set a new, unquestioned course. Instead, the speech caused a great deal of confusion. This contribution will examine three moments from the 10 months following the secret speech that demonstrate the re-emergence of public opinion. First, party meetings 344

that were held throughout the country became forums for discussion. The meetings were closed and summaries were not published in the press. They provided an opportunity to ask questions, although discussion was not generally encouraged. Very quickly, and encouraged by Khrushchev’s vagueness, the participants began to ask difficult questions of party leaders in ways that they had not done before. These meetings demonstrate both the outpouring of individuals’ ideas about the secret speech, and the depth of the party leadership’s misunderstanding of public opinion. Second, meetings of writers as well as readers occurred throughout 1956, culminating in an open meeting of the prose section of the Writers’ Union in Moscow in October. This meeting was part of a trend where official meetings became forums for people to express their dismay at the current situation. The meeting in October 1956, like many others, was attended by thousands of people and a great number of writers. Because of the large number of attendees and the way the discussion was held, it became a significant moment in defining the power of public opinion. Finally, the Central Committee rejected the influence of public opinion, issuing a letter in December, entitled ‘On strengthening the party organisation, political work among the masses and cutting off the attacks of hostile, anti-Soviet elements’. This letter denounced most of what had been said in public since the twentieth Party Congress. It was a document that stopped the transformation that seemed to be underway. The letter

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itself was ‘closed’, and to be read only by party members. It was never mentioned in the newspapers or other non-party forums. In this letter, the party authorities reasserted themselves and denied the legitimacy of outside input. Khrushchev and the others realised that public opinion was re-emerging, but was incompatible with their belief in the leading role of the Communist party. Each of these moments reveals a new awareness of Soviet public opinion. The confusion and discontent generated by Khrushchev’s speech grew into demands that the Soviet leadership should respect public opinion. People insisted on discussion, which had only been given lip service under Stalin. Khrushchev’s response in December demonstrated that he rejected the idea of having to listen to the contradictory voices of public opinion and reinforce the traditional authoritarian power of the Communist party. Public opinion in the Soviet Union Public opinion is a difficult concept to precisely define. Pierre Bourdieu argues that it does not exist at all, though it has real effects (Bourdieu 1979, pp. 124 – 130). In the 1920s, the Soviet government tried to gather and analyse it through the press (Brooks 2001, p. 16). Peter Holquist argues that in the beginning this was part of a transformative project of modernity (Holquist 1997, pp. 415 – 450). Other work shows that the structures associated with public opinion and the public sphere began even earlier, in nineteenth-century Tsarist Russia, and they were strengthened after the revolution of 1905 346

(Clowes 1991). Vibrant institutions continued throughout the 1920s (Il’ina 2000), and by 1927, the Soviet Union was filled with literary salons, public associations, and newspapers that openly disagreed and were an important part of public life (MacGuire 1987). It was only with Stalin’s ‘revolution from above’ that such institutions lost their ability to provide space for discussion. Instead, they were transformed into transmission belts for party orders. After Stalin’s rise to power, public opinion was generally conceived to be a real part of Soviet society that was to be moulded and controlled by the Communist party. In addition, there was no attempt, outside of the security organs, to systematically capture what the Soviet public thought. Nevertheless, the Soviet leaders themselves talked often about public opinion, even having an institute for its study. The Central Committee’s Academy of Social Sciences prepared students to become the instructors and agitators of the Communist party. The party understood that part of its job was to create socialist public opinion that would support its decisions. Stalin, discussing the completion of socialism with Roy Howard in 1936 said, ‘these public (obshchestvennykh) organisations which we have created may be called Soviet, socialist organisations, even though they are not yet completed, but they are the root of the socialist organisation of the public’.3 Even Stalin called for public spaces to be transformed, not destroyed. The press often mentioned public opinion in the context of other countries but the term public opinion (obshchestvennost’) only began to appear regularly in 347

Pravda after Stalin’s death. In many cases it was used very specifically in reports about how the news media in other countries were reporting events important to the Soviet Union. Usually, the story was about how public opinion in a country has rejected some action or idea of the United States. For example, in 1957, the newspaper reported that public opinion in West Germany had deep divisions across the political spectrum in reacting to a letter sent by Bulganin. The article ended with this comment: ‘we can already say that there will be a discussion, which will be useful for strengthening our position’.4 Thus, public opinion reappeared in Soviet life, though as a part of non-Soviet societies. When the threat of Stalinist arrest was lifted, meeting spaces inside the country again became locations for heated discussions. In particular, literary arenas became nexuses for public opinion. The great change after Stalin’s death was repeatedly expressed in terms similar to those of Vladimir Dudintsev, author of Not by Bread Alone. He pointed out how much things had changed at a meeting held in 1954: ‘earlier, when we discussed S. P. Babaevskii,5 five years ago, every speech sounded like the next and no one wanted to speak, everyone repeated themselves. Look now at their different character’.6 Old meeting spaces were transformed, losing their official aura and becoming public ones. Not surprisingly, writers began to emphasise the need for discussion within their own society. As secretary of the prose section of the Moscow section of the Writers’ Union, Evgeny Dolmatovskii expressed in August 1956: 348

In all aspects of our lives, we are now reconstructing our understanding of public opinion (obshchestvennoe mnenie) as real public opinion, growing out of the gatherings of specialists and masters and lovers of literature … The Writers’ Union and public organisations must create public opinion through the means of discussion, etc.7

This statement represented a growing sentiment among the intellectuals in Moscow and St Petersburg. They did not want to destroy the Soviet state, but instead, wanted to create a new kind of understanding based on public opinion. As Oleg Kharkhodin points out, the post-Stalin era marked the beginning of a new framework for participation: With the fear of denunciation to the secret police substantially reduced, people gathered just ‘to chew the fat’ (trepatsya): parties of 30 – 40 people would get together for no other reason than the pleasure of unrestrained communication. Their communication often took the form of a loyal critique of the regime’s dysfunctions. And from these gatherings, in full accord with Habermas’s schema, a public sphere of belles lettres emerged from interfamily communication and in its turn later became politicised (Kharkhordin 1999, p. 313).

Susan Reid adds that the Soviet public was ready to be entrusted with the responsibility that it felt it had been promised (Reid 2005, p. 716). The twentieth Party Congress began a process that would lead to a much broader appreciation of public opinion in Soviet society. Discussions after the secret speech were not dissent in any real sense—the participants and critics wanted to change emphases, and thought that what they 349

were doing was completely legitimate.8 Writers in 1956, although not creating oppositional groups, attempted to deploy Soviet ideas and vocabulary in both new and old ways. Specifically, the concept of public opinion was reclaimed by Moscow intellectuals and they used it to propose a new way to discuss the problems of a mature socialist state. Public opinion emerged as a category of analysis in the aftermath of the twentieth Party Congress, when political leaders and intellectuals were forced to confront the fact that the Soviet public was not simply accepting commands that came down from above. Small forums were turned into spaces where public opinion might be formulated and expressed. After the secret speech, many Soviet citizens hoped that Khrushchev’s policies would address the issues raised by public opinion. They did not want to blandly accept the infallibility of party decisions. They argued that the party should lead and inspire, but not rule over the maturing Soviet, socialist society. Sociology and the study of public opinion also re-emerged, and the response to the secret speech had much to do with its return. Stalin had suppressed sociological research in the 1930s, but this left a void of information for Soviet policy-makers. The trauma of watching so many criticise the party led to an effort to understand where the anger came from. The first attempt to study public opinion began with the Institute of Public Opinion formed under the auspices of Komsomolskaya pravda in 1960. Background

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Between 1953 and 1957, Nikita Khrushchev battled with Georgii Malenkov, Lavrenty Beria, and Vyacheslav Molotov for control of the party and state apparatus. Joseph Stalin’s death in March 1953 led to a long struggle between those who would take his place as unquestioned leader of the Soviet Union. There was no clear successor to Stalin. Instead, there was a deep divide within the Presidium (the name of the Politburo from 1952 to 1966). There were many who wanted power, but if we simplify, we might say there were two extremes. First, the conservatives, often long-time members of the Politburo such as the foreign minister Molotov, wanted to continue the policies of political repression and military build up. Second, those who pushed for a more liberal approach to economics and culture, such as Malenkov, head of the government, who wanted to emphasise consumer goods and administrative reform. In the middle was the eventual victor of the power struggle, Nikita Khrushchev, who refused to champion any one policy. He successfully used his position as First Secretary of the CPSU to negotiate the conflicts by choosing his allies and issues wisely. By 1956, Khrushchev was clearly first among equals, but his rivals had not yet been completely vanquished. The emergence of public opinion Khrushchev’s secret speech, given on the evening of 25 – 26 February 1956, changed the course of Soviet history. For four hours, Khrushchev held his audience in rapt attention as they listened to the denigration of Stalin and many of his policies.

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After careful preparation, Khrushchev denounced Stalin in a closed session of the twentieth Party Congress. He walked a treacherous path. Carefully detailing parts of Stalin’s misrule, he took a bold step toward acknowledging the great problems of the Soviet Union. He detailed Stalinist repressions, arrests, terror and murders. He also attacked Stalin for bungling foreign affairs and mishandling the war. He labelled Stalin’s desire for acclaim and power as the ‘cult of personality’. All in all, it was a radical denunciation of the Stalinist era, but it was careful in its limitations. In particular, Khrushchev stressed that Stalin was personally responsible, and the party was a hapless victim. The hall was filled with hundreds of stunned members of the party’s elite. Although the speech was officially to remain secret in the Soviet Union until 1989, within a few days of its delivery, it became the main topic of discussion throughout Moscow and the world.9 Khrushchev emphasised that the attacks against the anti-Soviet activities of Trotsky and Bukharin were correct. He did not implicate any of the current leadership in the Stalinist crimes and did not explain how the system could have allowed Stalin to get away with such abuses. Khrushchev walked a fine line and set out the dimensions of criticism that was to be allowed. Individual activities were worthy of being criticised, but the system had been correct and successful. Near the end of the speech, Khrushchev made another key point. He did not want to begin this discussion with the full glare of publicity. Thus, there was no clear, public presentation of the party line for many months, 352

leaving others to guess at what was desired. In the final moments of his speech, Khrushchev put it this way: We can not allow this question to leave party circles, especially to the press. That is why we discuss it here, at a closed meeting of the congress. We should know the limits, we should not give weapons to our enemies; we should not air our dirty laundry in front of their eyes. I think that the delegates to the congress understand and properly value all of these suggestions (Serebrennikov 1988, p. 69).

This comment was greeted with thunderous applause. This quotation reveals clearly that Khrushchev wanted the secret speech to be contained within the party. He knew that public discussion might follow and raise questions to which there was no clear answer. Following Khrushchev’s order, there were no direct references to the secret speech in the national press, although Mikoyan’s public speech at the Congress had hints of anti-Stalin sentiment. In any case, many people heard about it quite quickly after it was given.10 The Central Committee quickly issued a directive that the speech was to be read at every primary party organisation. Party members throughout the country heard the speech, but Khrushchev’s words were not specific enough to answer all the questions it raised. Stormy discussions were held at closed party meetings throughout the country and show that the public was alive with concern about what Khrushchev meant. In a report sent to the Presidium from Leningrad, historian and Central Committee member Anna Pankratova noted that the great number of questions were ‘witness to the 353

great agitation and confusion among the intelligentsia’.11 Approximately 6,000 party members heard the secret speech and 800 questions were sent forward on cards. Reading this document, one gains a strong sense of the confusion that engulfed Soviet society after Khrushchev’s speech. The questions can be divided up in to several different categories, ranging from practical issues to those that question the entire legitimacy of the regime. Some members asked what should be done about the dominance of Stalin’s image in public. They asked if Stalin was to be removed from the mausoleum, whether his picture should be removed, whether he should still be remembered as ‘comrade’ Stalin and whether towns and streets should be renamed. A few questions in a similar vein were asked about art and literature. What were they to do about all of the works that extolled Stalin? Were they simply to discard them, even if they had some artistic merit? On a practical level, questioners asked about how history was to be taught. For example, one professor asked, one comrade is defending his dissertation, in which there are references to Stalin. There are Stalin’s works in the bibliography. One of his opponents demanded that all references to Stalin in the text and the bibliography be removed. Is he right and should we agree?

In addition, teachers asked, examinations in the tenth mistakes and imprecision in recommended suspending

‘how should we carry out class if there are many the textbooks?’ Pankratova examinations until new

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textbooks could be printed, as examinations would not be useful, perhaps even harmful under the current situation. The questioning extended to the problem of party control over ideological questions and the study of the past. As one questioner wrote, ‘careerism is the disease of repression’. He was greatly troubled by the ease with which writers followed the party line, adding, ‘don’t you think that the biggest danger is not the idealisation of Ivan the Terrible, but the complete readiness of our historians to submit to any ideological coercion and that that readiness remains?’ Hope existed that the secret speech and the new directions in ideology might bring great freedom in historical pursuits, as one asked, ‘will it be possible for historians to make their own independent decisions about debatable questions? Should they accept the propositions of the party press as directives, marking the end of discussion?’ Other questions criticised the broad layers of bureaucracy that existed in the Soviet Union, even casting doubt on the ‘socialist basis’ of society and government. ‘If we are speaking about a principled overturn of Stalinist policies, what real measures are being taken against the bureaucracy that Stalin represented?’ As another wrote, at the twentieth Party Congress, many words were spoken about the rebuilding of society, but nothing has happened in Leningrad—can we speak about it if the substantial part of the leading workers, who for many years worked only for themselves, not the people, remain in their posts?

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Finally, some questioners viewed Khrushchev’s claims that the other members of the Presidium were powerless with great scepticism. They also suggested that it was difficult for anyone in Soviet society to accept this explanation. Where were the members of the Presidium? It is very difficult for us propagandists to explain this question to the Soviet people. Did the members of the Presidium know about it? And how will we better answer this question? Will party organs clarify it?

Others suggested that Khrushchev’s speech was mistaken, suggesting a cult of personality in reverse—created by the current members of the Presidium to blame others for problems in the Soviet Union. In the report that accompanied the questions, Pankratova acknowledged the issue of public opinion. Her conclusions demonstrated the problems that the party leadership faced when they simply read Khrushchev’s speech without explanation. First, she argued that the major problem was that the party leadership had not made a strong enough statement in public to explain the correct meaning of Khrushchev’s words and the surrounding silence: ‘it seems to me that the campaign to discuss questions about the cult of personality can not be limited to one article in Pravda, although that article has had a positive repercussion among the wide Soviet society’. She categorised the criticism and confusion that appeared at party meetings as anti-Soviet, hidden in Soviet society:

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It is necessary to clarify more deeply and concretely the questions about the cult of personality at meetings of activists circles in the cities of the USSR and at special meetings of propagandists, lecturers, scientific workers, and wide circles of the intelligentsia, among who exist isolated unhealthy feelings and clearly recidivist Trotskyist – Bukharinist views.

At all the meetings, there was a desire to hear directly from members of the Presidium and requests for another letter that would give ‘necessary clarification in relation to questions about the cult of personality’. For Pankratova, the solution to the problem was to have the party leadership issue decisive answers, so that there would be no more need for discussion or debate. Even party officials realised that a conflict was growing between those who wanted to discuss the secret speech and the party officials who desired a controlled understanding of it. These official spaces became forums for the formation of public opinion because of Khrushchev’s incomplete comments about the history of the Soviet Union. Throughout the spring and summer, public discussions became more frequent and more openly critical of Khrushchev’s limited approach. In a growing number of places, people gathered to discuss the future of the Soviet Union. There are many reports of increasing debate in any forum where people gathered to discuss life and politics. On 4 May, writers in Leningrad were envisioning a bright, free future. In an open party meeting of the Leningrad section of the Writers’ Union, the speakers almost unanimously talked

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of the great change that was on the horizon. They told stories that they thought illustrated the worst of the ‘era of the cult of personality’ and proclaimed that it would not happen again. ‘Why did life not always appear in our books?’ asked E. I. Katerli, a successful novelist in her 50s, ‘not because we did not know that life, but because we closed our eyes at much, because sometime, we were afraid to write the truth [italics in transcript]’.12 Another writer by the name of Liufanov said that times had truly changed and writers must rise to the occasion, put the most dramatic images together: Spring has come. It is a stormy, demanding spring of a great life with great labour. From Soviet writers—the offspring and receivers of the great Russian literature, born and developed in our beautiful city, the people wait for honest work of the highest artistic nature. The twentieth Party congress opened a new, enlightened era for the people of our country, for our literary success in the great struggle to create a communist society.13

Creating a communist future was to be done in a new era where honest work was finally possible, fulfilling the true demands of the readers. The meeting was also overwhelmed with comments about the beginning of a time without reviews, without editors, even without forced rewriting. Officials at the Cultural Section of the Central Committee complained continuously that meetings held throughout the country refused to follow party instructions.14 These officials were aware that there was a growing assertion of independent opinion, against which the party needed to take more decisive action. The 358

Central Committee on 21 August issued a decree entitled, ‘On the results of the school year in the system of party enlightenment and goals for the party organisation in the next school year’ which criticised the press. According to the Moscow party report on the decree: The Central Committee considers it incorrect that in the last year the central, republican and regional newspapers, theoretical and political journals of the Central Committee of the parties of the Soviet Republics almost stopped publishing articles and consultations to help political self-education and answers to the questions of readers on theoretical questions and problems.15

Party leaders looked at public opinion and saw ‘enemies’ who were using the criticism of the cult of personality of Stalin in order to attack Marxism – Leninism and to turn the workers against communism. Bazovskii, the secretary of the Frunze region of Moscow, attacked the intelligentsia for ‘the attempt to discredit party and state organs’. However, his solution was to work harder at enlightening them with more propaganda.16 This line of reasoning by party officials helps us see the transition that was occurring during 1956. The party felt as though public opinion needed to be shaped as it had been in the Stalin era, but was not sure how it would be able to accomplish it. These officials fell back on a belief that proper articles in the press would change the public perception of the secret speech. However, articles in the papers were still few and often indistinct. This allowed the discussions to continue and build, climaxing in October.

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An October meeting of the prose section of the Moscow section of the Writers’ Union became the focal point for the party leadership’s anger at the challenging attitudes that were now emerging in public discussion. The gathering was held to discuss V. Dudintsev’s novel Ne khlebom edinym (Not By Bread Alone). The novel, published in several issues of Novyi mir in the early autumn, is the story of an inventor of a pipe-casting machine who had to struggle against all types of bureaucrats to get his invention put into use. His main nemesis is a self-interested, petty bureaucrat named Drozdov. The inventor, named Martian Lopatkin, works for many years and is wrongly imprisoned, but fights on until his machine is produced. His victory is incomplete, however, as he is denied control over the production of the machine for which he fought for so long.17 The novel is clearly a struggle of an individual against the corrupt, arrogant world of Soviet bureaucracy. Strangely the novel was not reviewed in the Soviet press for many months after its publication. At the Central House of Art in Moscow, an overflow crowd, including over 350 writers, gathered to hear expressions of satisfaction with Dudintsev’s novel and use it as a way to call for a new direction for the Soviet future. The speakers were almost unanimous in their praise for the new novel. Konstanin Simonov, editor-in-chief of the journal that had printed it, introduced the discussion by emphasising that the work was helping to build a communist future: … we printed the novel with great sympathy for it, with great interest, with feeling for this book, the first novel by a

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comparatively young author, written by a good person, who loves the Soviet order, strongly loves Soviet power and is prepared to fight with people who get in the way of our movement forward.18

He continued, saying that he knew that the work had both positive and negative sides and hoped that even the large crowd will not stop them from having a ‘serious, professional discussion’ about the work. The meeting, however, was far from the balanced discussion for which Simonov called. Feeding off the enthusiasm of the crowd, speakers became increasingly strident in their praise for Dudintsev and his description of Soviet society. Lev Slavin explained the popularity in a way that did not address any of Simonov’s criteria.19 Instead, he emphasised the importance of the work in raising the questions everyone was thinking about: ‘Vladimir Dmitrevich Dudintsev’s novel has greatly interested readers, obviously because it is not only a literary work, but also a kind of societal event’. From this point forward, the meeting took the path of denouncing the bureaucracy and bureaucrats for leading the Soviet Union in the wrong direction. For example, Nikolai Atarov continued this attack on bureaucrats, called ‘Drozdovites’, by arguing that the people sided with Dudintsev.20 He called upon public opinion to organise and defeat the bureaucrats that were hampering technological progress:

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I am reminded of a letter of Dinisyuk from Orsk. This Dinisyuk wrote, ‘It seems to me that for blocking the progress of technology, it is necessary to institute criminal proceedings’. This is clear water of societal temperament, of public opinion. Technical progress in our country became a very political activity and can be corrected by the political activity of the people.

Public opinion was demanding technical progress while the bureaucracy was standing in the way. Atarov and Slavin both asserted that the party leadership had been too badly distorted by its bureaucratisation. Only by letting the public become involved could the Soviet Union move again in the correct direction. The meeting’s most dramatic moment came with Konstantin Paustovskii’s denunciation.21 His inflammatory words were met with continual outbursts of applause and shouts of agreement. He began by calling the bureaucracy a new, counter-revolutionary group within Soviet society: It seems that in our country without impunity there exists and even, in some ways, flourishes a completely new stratum, a new caste of philistinism. There is a new tribe of plunderers and owners, not having anything in common with the revolution, with our society, nor with Socialism.22

This was greeted by voices from the audience yelling ‘correct!’ Dudintsev was to be praised most of all for revealing the perfidy of the bureaucrats and for turning this phenomenon into a public discussion:

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And the highest service of Dudintsev is that he struck to the very core of the matter. He writes about the most terrible occurrences in our society and under no circumstances should we close our eyes, if we do not want the Drozdovites to control the country.

Bureaucrats were the true obstacle to progress toward communism and had to be challenged through openness and discussion. The struggle for communism was not against capitalists or the imperialists, but against their own Soviet bureaucracy, ‘But I think that the people, who created all the worth in our lives, in the end will sweep away the Drozdovites very quickly’. Paustovskii’s speech demonstrates the way that Khrushchev’s speech opened the floodgates of public opinion. He and many other speakers suggested that the Soviet Union was no longer building communism. Worse than that, party bureaucracy was the reason for that stagnation. Remaining within seemingly acceptable bounds by calling for a communist future, he wanted to let public opinion have more power over the party and its decisions. Although bureaucracy was often criticised, even under Stalin, Paustovskii made a broader attack. Just as Dudintsev had described, the bureaucracy had developed into its own class that destroyed anyone who might disagree with it. For Paustovskii, it was composed of simple-minded, careerists who were perfectly willing to kill to have their vision of the future approved. Paustovskii was criticised for exaggeration by one of the other speakers, prominent novelist Valentin Ovechkin, and quickly responded,

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I, as all of us, know that only the twentieth Party Congress gave us the possibility to destroy the Drozdovites. It is very strange that comrade Ovechkin should take my words about Drozdov for words about the leadership … They had no relationship to the leadership.

This meeting represented the deep problems of the secret speech. Khrushchev had tried to limit such outpourings by keeping the speech private. However, speakers here challenged the party’s claim to be correctly moving the Soviet Union towards communism. They openly questioned the ability of the party to make decisions that benefited the state and the people. At a large public gathering, writers spoke openly about the need to replace bureaucratic decision making with public opinion. At the same time as this meeting was taking place, the Hungarians were in a moment of acute crisis.23 Within two weeks, the new Hungarian government would declare its desire to abandon Soviet socialism and leave the Warsaw pact, causing violent Soviet military intervention. The reports sent from Hungary clearly blamed writers and other intellectuals for planting the seeds that led to the need for such brutality.24 The quick change from discussions about reform to outright ‘counter-revolution’, suggested to the party leaders that any relaxation of control might lead to the collapse of the regime. Placed in the context of the troubles in Eastern Europe, the October meeting became an incredibly threatening moment. This was surely an unscripted, unexpected response to both the twentieth Party Congress and Dudintsev’s novel. It displayed all the characteristics of

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dynamic, independent public opinion. Those who spoke did not see themselves as challenging the regime in the way that they would be accused of. As Lev Kopelev, later a famous dissident and exile, commented: They [the Stalinists] frightened Khrushchev and the Politburo, calling the Moscow writers a Petőofi circle [a group of writers blamed for inspiring the uprising in Hungary]; as a witness to this they used the discussion of Dudintsev’s novel and Paustovskii’s speech, the notes of which had many times been recopied and passed around to the first samizdat groups (Orlova & Kopelev 1988, p. 47).

Kopelev’s statement suggests that public opinion was beginning to develop, distributing ideas that party and state did not want others to have access to. Participants understood that discussion itself was beginning to be a challenge to party authority. In the aftermath, many found this meeting to be a very positive occurrence. At a meeting of the prose section of the Writers’ Union a few days later, minutes recorded that the participants felt that the discussion had been successful and carried out on a professional level, although it was a bit too one-sided. They suggested that the only problems had been organisational ones. There should have been a better system of admitting people to alleviate the overcrowding and that the crowds of students should have been handled better. In conclusion, they wrote, ‘the abundance of those who wished to come to the discussion was caused by reader interest and the absence of reviews of the novel in print’.25 For these people, discussion was itself justification for large-scale

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meetings. If the party did not want to discuss a work in the public sphere, the readers should be allowed to. The right of discussion was accepted by these writers, who were interested in how to make meetings more useful and interesting. This meeting was at the crest of the wave of discussion after the secret speech. From confusion among party members and the public at large in the spring, the literary intelligentsia had begun to question the bases of the Soviet system. However, the uproar both at home and abroad led the party leadership to end all of the ‘senseless dreams’ (to borrow a phrase from Nicholas II) of letting the public have input in the decision-making processes. The Presidium and Khrushchev decided to finish it without making an open attack. They responded, not through the newspapers, but through a closed letter, sent only to the party sections. It was issued on 19 December 1956, entitled ‘Strengthening work of party organisation in cutting off the attacks of anti-Soviet, enemy elements’. Public opinion seemed to be emerging as a potentially potent force that could challenge party authority. This challenge could not be met publicly, because the idea that independent opinion was possible challenged the Soviet regime. In other words, if the leadership were to hold a public debate about the need to suppress public debate, they would automatically lose. The committee in charge of writing this letter was led by Leonid Brezhnev and Georgii Malenkov. The bulk of the letter summarised the troubling events of the last several years in art and literature. In particular, the letter singled out the meeting in October and Paustovskii for criticism. 366

The committee made clear that the major problem was the failure to respond correctly to the rising discussion in society. The authors attacked party members who misunderstood the message of the secret speech and had refused to accept the limits that Khrushchev had insisted upon: More than that, there are certain ‘communists’ who hide behind ‘party-mindedness’ (partiinost’), flying the flag of the fight against the consequences of the cult of personality, and then moving to an anti-party position, allowing demagogic attacks against the party, calling into question the correctness of its line … it must be stated directly that party organisations in such situations must not forget that against anti-Soviet, hostile elements, the party must always strongly and directly lead an irreconcilable and most decisive struggle.26

The authors asserted that criticism beyond what was allowed by the party was not acceptable and was anti-Soviet. They clearly explained that only the party leadership could decide what the party position on any issue was going to be. Questioning party decisions became tantamount to counter-revolutionary activity. The committee went so far as to group all the critics together as prisoners and Trotskiites, recalling the worst of the Stalinist charges that would have led to execution in the 1930s: At the same time, there are such people among those released, who maliciously create feelings against Soviet power, especially from a number of former Trotskiites, pure opportunists and bourgeois nationalists. They gather together

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anti-Soviet elements and politically unstable people; they try to renew their hostile, anti-Soviet activity.27

Next, they found that writers were the major cause of the challenge to party leadership. Their calls for change and freedom were widely acclaimed by readers. The open challenges to Khrushchev in public were spilling over into too many organisations: Turn your attention to the facts of the unhealthy mood of many parts of … our organisations, technical schools and scientific institutions as well as among literary and artistic workers. Attempts have been made to create doubt in the government line on the development of Soviet literature. They have been trying to replace the principle of Socialist Realism with the position of non-ideological art, and have begun to promote ‘freeing literature and art from party leadership’, to defend ‘freedom of art’, as understood in a bourgeois-anarchistic, individualistic spirit.28

Discussion was defined as non-socialist, and was seen as representing the influence of hostile, bourgeois ideology. Critical debate was not to challenge party leadership. Questioning the leadership in any forum was categorised as illegitimate. The letter of 19 December 1956 ended hope that official spaces might be transformed, and public opinion respected. There was to be no more chance for discussion among party members once this letter was distributed. It is key to our understanding, however, that this letter was not meant to be published, and was an attempt to control Soviet society without making a broad public pronouncement. The members of the Central

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Committee demanded that party members change what they wrote and said, without revealing it to the broader public in the Soviet Union. The party leadership began to increase the use of the coercive powers of the state to enforce this decision. The number of arrests for anti-Soviet behaviour skyrocketed and writers who had spoken out in favour of discussion no longer appeared in newspapers and journals. It took several months for this repression to silence public opinion, demonstrating that the hope and excitement that had been generated was not easily forced back into silence.29 Public debate could only serve to undermine the one-party state. Even a discussion about the worth of public debate raised questions that the leadership did not want to answer. Conclusions Khrushchev’s secret speech elicited great amounts of uncertainty and excitement that the leadership did not expect. The discussions surrounding the speech quickly spiralled out of control. This fact tells us much about the Soviet Union and the control that the party had over society. The ferment caused by the secret speech marked the re-emergence of public opinion, even in an authoritarian society like the USSR. The three sets of events described here demonstrate the ways that these ideas began to challenge the authority of the Communist party. At the first of these, the party meetings in Leningrad, tentative questioning and the desire to open up the problem of Stalinism began to transform even party meetings into forums for discussion. Next, the meeting of Moscow writers in October was a bold 369

challenge to the regime, where individuals demanded that public opinion be respected. Finally, the party used channels of authority, outside of the public sphere, to order an end to the discussions. The events of 1956 led an increasing number of people to believe that there was a Soviet public opinion that could be discerned. It also led them to hope that the party leadership would respect the conclusions that might be reached by it. Both Khrushchev and his questioners became aware of how central the ideals of public opinion were to understanding the secret speech. However, the party would not allow public discussion, but also, it would not admit that it would not allow it, for fear of negative reactions both at home and abroad. Instead, this was a battle fought between the secret party mandates and people trying to continue a discussion that began at the twentieth Party Congress. They wanted to bring the party to the conclusion that public opinion in itself was a legitimate force. In 1956, the party leadership refused to agree. Their refusal created a new generation of intellectuals who would work outside the official arenas of power. The events of 1956 show the growing awareness of public opinion. The year began with Khrushchev attempting to redefine the boundaries of the Soviet discourse. The cult of personality of Stalin was to be strongly criticised and not allowed to recur. However, the party was to remain above criticism and was to be acknowledged as the final arbiter of all questions. Khrushchev could not accept conclusions suggested by his own speech: that the party was fallible and would 370

benefit by listening to outside critiques. The people who came to meetings felt that the speech meant that more discussion would be allowed. These expanding arenas for public expression demonstrated the weakness of Khrushchev’s leadership and created a potentially challenging moment for the Communist party that it did not expect. December 1956 marked a change in the nature of public opinion. The 10 months after the secret speech were a unique time in the history of the Soviet Union, when intellectuals and their readers thought they could help define the path of the Soviet Union through open discussion of the options available. The letter in December destroyed those hopes and forced those who wanted a different Soviet Union to fall silent or take a much more radical path. The party members who heard the December letter realised that there had been a severe change in attitude in the Presidium about the course of Soviet ideology. As H. G. Obushenkov later noted: For us it was obvious that December 19, 1956 was the end of the Thaw. It meant that all hopes for renewal from ‘above’ henceforth and for a long time were groundless, that the only possibility in the battle for renewal was illegal activity. Others have attempted to spread the understanding that the Thaw was the whole period until the change of leadership in 1964, but the new epoch had already ended in 1956.30

Hope for a larger role for public opinion was dashed by the strong words of the Central Committee. Nevertheless, although it would not be given real power, authorities began to pay attention to the concept, and

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gave it weight in their political decision-making. Trying to assess it and sway it became an important project for the leadership. The ferment generated by the secret speech that appeared outside of the Soviet press goes far towards illustrating why Mikhail Gorbachev’s proposals generated the explosion that they did. After surviving in an incredibly repressive Stalinist state, the idea of public opinion re-emerged. When a small window of opportunity appeared, intellectuals spoke of the need for more reliance on the discussion, not coercion. Khrushchev could never acquiesce to the idea of sharing power outside of the Presidium. Gorbachev’s far-reaching reforms seem to echo these earlier voices in their call for perestroika and glasnost’ and true participation. University of Wisconsin—Oshkosh References Bourdieu, P. (1979) ‘Public Opinion Does Not Exist’, in Mattelart, A. & Siegelaub, S. (eds) (1979) Communication and Class Struggle. Vol. 1, Capitalism and Imperialism (New York, International General). Brooks, J. (2001) Thank You, Comrade Stalin! Soviet Public Culture from Revolution to Cold War (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press). Clowes, E. (ed.) (1991) Between Tsar and People (Princeton, Princeton University Press).

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Connelly, J. (1997) ‘Ulbricht and the Intellectuals’, Contemporary European History, 6, 3, pp. 329 – 360. Doklad … (2002) Doklad N.S. Khrushcheva o kul’te lichnosti stalina na xx s’ezde KPSS: Dokumenty (Moscow, ROSSPEN). Furst, J. (2002) ‘Prisoners of the Soviet Self?—Political Youth Opposition in Late Stalinism’, Europe-Asia Studies, 54, 3, pp. 353 – 375. Furst, J. (2003) ‘Re-Examining Opposition under Stalin: Evidence and Context—a Reply to Kuromiya’, Europe-Asia Studies, 55, 5, pp. 789 – 802. Gibian, G. (1960) Interval of Freedom: Soviet Literature during the Thaw (Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press). Granville, J. (2001) ‘Hungarian and Polish Reactions to the Events of 1956: New Archival Evidence’, Europe-Asia Studies, 53, 7, pp. 1051 – 1076. Holquist, P. (1997) ‘‘‘Information Is the Alpha and Omega of Our Work’’: Bolshevik Surveillance in Its Pan-European Context’, Journal of Modern History, 69, 3, September, pp. 415 – 450. Il’ina, I.N. (2000) Obshchestvennye Organizatsii Rossii V 1920-E Gody (Moscow, RAN).

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Kharkhordin, O. (1999) The Collective and the Individual in Russia: A Study of Practices (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press). Khrushchev, S. (2000) Nikita Khrushchev and the Creation of a Superpower (University Park, PA, Penn State University Press). Kozlov, V.A. (2002) ‘Kramola: inakomyslie v SSSR vo vremena Khrushcheva i L. Brezhneva (Po materialam Verkhovnogo suda i prokuratury SSSR)’, Obshchestvennye nauki i sovremennost’, May. Kramer, M. (1998) ‘The Soviet Union and the 1956 Crises in Hungary and Poland: Reassessments and New Findings’, Journal of Contemporary History, 3, 2, pp. 163 – 214. Kuromiya, H. (2003) ‘‘‘Political Youth Opposition in Late Stalinism’’: Evidence and Conjecture’, Europe-Asia Studies, 55, 4, pp. 631 – 638. MacGuire, R. (1987) Red Virgin Soil (Ithaca, NY, Cornell University Press). McLean, H. & Vickery, W.N. (eds) (1961) The Year of Protest 1956: An Anthology of Soviet Literary Materials (New York, Vintage Books). Nordlander, D. (1993) ‘Khrushchev’s Image in the Light of Glasnost and Perestroika’, Russian Review, 52, 2, pp. 248 – 266.

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Orlova, R. & Kopelev, L. (1988) My zhili v Moskve (Ann Arbor, Ardis). Reid, S. (2005) ‘In the Name of the People: The Manege Affair Revisited’, Kritika, 6, 4. Serebrennikov, A. (1988) Khrushchev o staline (New York, Teleks). Taubman, W. (2003) Khrushchev: His Life and Times (New York, Norton). Tighe, C. (1996) ‘The Polish Writing Profession: 1944 – 56’, Contemporary European History, 5, 1, pp. 71 – 102. The author would like to acknowledge generous financial support from the University of Wisconsin Oshkosh Faculty Development Program, ACTR/ ACCELS, and Duke University that made this research possible. 1

Sergei Khrushchev makes this argument in his book Nikita Khrushchev and the Creation of a Superpower (2000). For a summary of Russian appraisals of Khrushchev, see Nordlander (1993, pp. 248 – 266). For an excellent political biography see Taubman (2003). 2

Most of the older work published about this period stresses the protest, but only in terms of published works and their challenge to Socialist Realist conventions; see, for example, Gibian (1960) and McLean and Vickery (1961).

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3

‘Beseda s predsedatelem amerikanskogo gazetnogo ob’edineniya ‘Skripps—Govard nyuspeipers’ g-nom Roi Govardom’, Pravda, 5 March 1936. 4

‘Obshchestvennost’ zapadnoi Germanii obsuzhdaet poslanie N.A. Bulgachina’, Pravda, 13 February 1957, p. 4. 5

S. P. Babaevskii was the winner of three Stalin prizes in the late 1940s and 1950s, and later became an incarnation of optimism, of concealment or minimisation of the true problems in agriculture after the war. 6

Rossiisti Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Literatury i Iskusstva (RGALI), f. 1702, op. 6, d. 77, p. 52. 7

RGALI, f. 2464, op. 1, d. 78, p. 42.

8

One interesting recent dialogue about this rethinking comes from Julianne Furst and Hiroaki Kuromiya. They argue that dissent can only be understood within the discursive foundations of Stalinism (see Furst 2002, pp. 353 – 375; 2003, pp. 789 – 802; Kuromiya 2003, pp. 631 – 638). 9

It was published in the New York Times in March, apparently passing from a Polish party member, to Mossad then to the CIA. It was also reproduced inside the Soviet Union in limited numbers to be distributed to party members throughout the country. 10

There have been several interesting articles on the way that intellectuals from the Eastern Bloc received the

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secret speech; see, in particular, Connelly (1997, pp. 329 – 360) and Tighe (1996, pp. 71 – 102). 11

Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Noveishii Istorii (RGANI), f. 5, op. 16, d. 747, p. 95. The citations in the next two pages are drawn from this document (pp. 95 – 126). This and other documents have been published in the collection Doklad … (2002). 12

Tsentralnyi Gosudarstvennyi Arkhi Izucheniia Politicheskikh Dvizhenii (TsGAIPD), f. 2960, op. 6, d. 13, l. 128. 13

TsGAIPD, f. 2960, op. 6, d. 13, ll. 84 – 85.

14

RGANI, f. 5, op. 36, delo 3, l. 11.

15

Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Sotsial’noi i Politicheskoi Istorii (RGASPI), f. 556, op. 1, d. 598, p. 181. 16

RGASPI, f. 556, op. 1, d. 603, p. 131.

17

Originally published in Novyi mir (1956, issues 8 – 10). It was published in book-form in the Soviet Union in 1957 and translated in 1957 by Edith Bone and published by Dutton in the United States. 18

Central Archive of Societal Movements for Moscow (TsAODg.M), f. 8132, op. 1, d. 9, pp. 110 – 175. All of the quotations from this meeting over the next few pages are drawn from this transcript.

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19

Lev Slavin (1896 – 1984) was a well respected writer who had, however, been a fellow-traveller in the 1920s and was amongst those who had called for the separation of literature from politics before the imposition of Stalinist cultural orthodoxy in the 1930s. He also supported the dissidents Sinyavsky and Daniel when they were arrested and put on trial in 1965. 20

Nikolai Atarov (1907 – 1978) would be removed from the editorship of the journal Moskva in 1957 for deviating too far from the party line. 21

Konstantin Paustovskii (1892 – 1968) started writing in the 1920s, and became an outspoken proponent of sincerity and the independence of writers. In 1957, he was attacked by the party leadership for this speech and for his editing a liberal collection of works entitled Literaturnaya Moskva (Literary Moscow). 22

Excerpts of this speech appeared in Samizdat almost immediately afterwards. An abridged version was translated and published in English in McLean and Vickery (1961). 23

There is much current work that discusses these events in the lights of the archives; see for example, Kramer (1998, pp. 163 – 214) and Granville (2001, pp. 1051 – 1076). 24

See, for example, Literaturnaya gazeta on 22 November and 1 December 1956.

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25

Tsentralnyi Gosudarstvennyi Arkiv Obshchestvennykh Dvizhenii Gorod. Moskvy (TsGAODg.M), f. 2464, op. 1, d. 325, p. 46. 26

RGANI, f. 89, perechen 6, doc. 2, p. 6.

27

RGANI, f. 89, perechen 6, doc. 1, p. 10.

28

RGANI, f. 89, perechen. 6, doc. 1, p. 7.

29

In 1957, 1,964 people were arrested for anti-Soviet activity, almost five times more than in 1956. For example several students at MGU were sentenced to prison for passing out leaflets and trading documents with Polish students (see RGANI, f. 89, perechen 6, doc. 8; also see Kozlov 2002, pp. 75 – 88). 30

Voprosy istorii, 4, 1994, p. 77.

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The Fog of Hungary’s Negotiated Revolution NIGEL SWAIN OUR

FOCUS IS ON THE ‘FOG OF NEGOTIATED REVOLUTION’,

by which fateful decisions were made, rather than the decisions themselves, as Party1 and opposition negotiated themselves out of socialism.2 Clausewitz’s apocryphal comments about the ‘fog of war’ are well known: the very conditions themselves under which wars take place result in distortion, disinformation and uncertainty despite very simple goals.3 A similar kind of ‘fog’ is investigated here: how seemingly clear negotiating goals were reached over the course of the negotiation process. For although the outcome of the ‘negotiated revolution’ is well known, the process by which the positions emerged, the ‘how’ rather than the ‘what’, is not. The negotiations were exceptionally wide ranging and continued for months, of course, so any examination of the process must necessarily restrict its focus.4 THE PROCESS

Hungary’s negotiated revolution and the presidency If it had not been for 1989, 1988 might have gone down as a wonder-year in Hungarian politics (Hankiss 1989, p. 73). By the end of that year, following the Extraordinary Party Conference of 20 – 22 May, reformers had come to dominate the Party; new, independent political organisations had come into being; and old parties such as the Smallholders’ Party had reconstituted themselves. At the end of January 1989 Imre Pozsgay bounced the

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Party into reclassifying the events of 1956 as a ‘popular uprising’, and by the Central Committee meeting of 10 – 11 February the Party had committed itself to move towards some form of multi-party future. In the wake of massive popular celebrations on Hungary’s hastily re-instated national day of 15 March, when huge numbers declined the Party’s invitation to celebrate ‘together’ but marched rather with their preferred opposition group, a relatively unknown organisation, the Independent Lawyers’ Forum, suggested the formation of an Opposition Round Table (ORT) to act as an umbrella group for the opposition organisations. Its principle aim was to provide a united front around common goals and to counter the Party’s strategy of divide and rule. The ORT was formed on 22 March, and between then and 10 June, the ‘negotiated revolution’ consisted effectively of talks about talks between the ORT and the Party. The ORT’s position from the start was that the talks should consist of simply passing certain ‘cardinal’ laws to assist the peaceful transition to the holding of genuinely free parliamentary elections. The joker that was 1956 played a further role in the politics of 1989 by helping bring this talks-about-talks phase of the negotiated revolution to an end. Following the reassessment of 1956 as a ‘popular uprising’, it had been decided that Imre Nagy and his colleagues should be ceremoniously re-interred on 16 June. The Party was under pressure to compromise because it could not afford to appear to be dragging its feet in the build-up to such an event. On the other hand, the Party had its own potential trump card in the option of simply ignoring negotiations and presenting its own version of ‘cardinal 381

laws’ to parliament at its session scheduled for 27 June. Both sides gave ground and agreement was reached on 10 June. The ORT gave way in three areas: economic issues and constitutional reform were included on the agenda, and the principle of three-party talks rather than bilateral discussions was accepted. Constitutional reform was not part of the 10 June agreement itself, which referred to ‘principles and rules of democratic political transition’ (Bozóki 2002, p. 289), but was included in the more detailed thematic agreement of 21 June, which specified ‘timely matters of the amendment of the constitution, the questions of the institution of the president of the republic and the constitutional court’.5 The Party agreed in return to each side having only a single vote, to limits on the veto powers of the third side and to the declared goal of the negotiations being the creation of the legal preconditions for transition (Kalmár 2002, pp. 51 – 57; Ripp 2002, pp. 16 – 18). The three-party talks or National Round Table (NRT) took place between 13 June and 18 September, with negotiations taking place at three levels: the plenaries, two middle-level committees, one for legal and political affairs, the other for social and economic affairs, and six specialist committees reporting to each of the middle-level committees. When agreement was reached on 18 September, it was a curious affair and, as with the equivalent negotiations in Poland, it did not produce the final word. In both countries, what ultimately proved decisive was the popular will expressed in the ballot box. In Poland this was Solidarity’s overwhelming victory in the June parliamentary elections; in Hungary, it was the 382

November referendum, the result of which was both overwhelmingly anti-communist and marginally anti-populist. This requires some clarification. One of the most distinctive features of the Hungarian transition was the absence of unity on the opposition side. While opposition coalesced in Poland around Solidarity and its Civic Committee and in Czechoslovakia around Civic Forum and Public Against Violence, all of which stood united against the communists in the first free elections, Hungary’s anti-communism was divided from the start. The ORT consisted of nine organisations: the Alliance of Free Democrats, the Bajcsy-Zsilinszky Friendship Society, the Democratic League of Independent Trade Unions, the Federation of Young Democrats (Fidesz), the Hungarian Democratic Focum, the Hungarian People’s Party, the Independent Smallholders’ Party and the Social Democratic Party of Hungary as founder members, and the Christian Democratic People’s Party which joined in June. These were seen by analysts and themselves as being divided between the ‘urbanist’ Free Democrats, Young Democrats, Social Democrats and League, and the ‘populist’ Democratic Forum, People’s Party, Smallholders, Christian Democrats, and BZs Society, although, as we shall see, opinions did not always divide neatly along these lines. It was this urbanist – populist divide that gave the 18 September agreement its unusual character. An agreement was indeed presented to the plenary session, but, to the surprise of all but those privy to ORT decisions,6 the Free Democrats and Fidesz refused to sign it7 because, as Péter Tölgyessy (Free Democrats) announced, of disagreements about the presidency 383

(Bozóki 2002, p. 341).8 Antall presented a position in the name of only five ORT members (Bozóki 2002, pp. 341 – 343). Then, to the surprise of all but the organisations concerned, the Free Democrats, supported by Fidesz, expressed concern at the failure to reach agreement on other key issues and announced that they would begin campaigning immediately for a referendum to be held on the presidency and three other unresolved issues (on which all ORT were in agreement): the presence of the party in work places, the continuance of the workers’ militia, and the Party’s reporting on its property. The ‘urbanists’ refused to sign therefore because of disagreements not with the Party but within the ORT, and the crucial sticking point was the presidency: only the presidency divided them (Bozóki et al. 2000b, pp. 11 – 12).9 The reason why the ‘urbanists’ chose the rather curious strategy of going through with the negotiations to the end and then refusing to sign was a function of the ORT’s internal rules; part of the fog of negotiation. The ORT had been formed as a defence against the Party’s divide and rule tactics, and operated on the basis of absolute consensus. Every member organisation had a veto which, if used, would dissolve the ORT; but if the ORT dissolved, there could be no agreement with the Party. As with the sovereign nations negotiating the Paris Peace Conference in 1919, they operated under what Nicolson called the ‘curse of unanimity’ (1933, p. 189). When disagreement over the ORT’s position on the presidency came to a head, the ‘urbanists’ decided they would not use their veto because there was too 384

much that was positive in what they had negotiated for it all to come to nought. They expressed their disagreement while circumventing the ‘curse of unanimity’ by refusing to sign. The Hungarian parliament had agreed on 27 June not to pass any ‘cardinal laws’ while the negotiations were taking place, but once an albeit partial agreement had been reached, it set to work. At its 26 – 28 September session the agreed ‘cardinal laws’ plus bill on the presidential election were submitted, but discussion was postponed to the following session in October.10 Meanwhile the long-awaited extraordinary congress of the Party took place between 6 and 9 October, and the Party was transmogrified in two ways. First, it became the Hungarian Socialist Party with a self-consciously social democratic orientation. Second, it became, relatively, a much smaller party. The vast bulk of the membership of the old party declined the option to join the new one, a further mass rejection of the old system (Tőkés 1996, p. 363). This transmogrification of the Party also symbolically severed its link with parliament, and the government, led by Miklós Németh, began to act independently. When, at its 17 – 19 October session, parliament discussed the ‘cardinal laws’, the amended bill on parties went beyond the Round Table agreement and contained provisions to prohibit parties from the work place. Parliament also passed a government-sponsored bill to wind up the workers’ militia,11 symbolically taking possession of the militia’s weapons on 23 October, the anniversary of the 1956 uprising (Kurtán et al. 1990, p. 318). The question of the Party reporting on its property also ceased to be a 385

significant issue since the new socialist party was required to report on its assets if it wanted to run for election. As a consequence, when the urbanist-sponsored referendum was held on 26 November, although all four issues figured, it was effectively a plebiscite on the presidency. There was 95% support for parliament’s anti-(former)Party stance on the three issues, but a margin of 50.07% to 49.93% (or just 6,101 votes overall) for postponing the presidential elections12—hence ‘overwhelmingly anti-communist and marginally anti-populist’. ‘Negotiated revolution’ was an essential component of the transition from socialism to pluralist democracy in Hungary, but it alone did not constitute that process. Importantly it reflected unique elements in Hungary’s transition, in particular its divided opposition. The opposition was divided on many issues, but a central one, the one that triggered the unexpected denouement of 18 September and the November referendum, was the question of the presidency. The ‘how’ of such a momentous decision merits attention. The long and winding road to the presidency The issue of the presidency in Hungarian politics predated the formation of the ORT. It figured in the Party’s detailed Conception for the Constitution of the Hungarian People’s Republic of November 1988 and its purpose was to replace the 21-member Presidential Council whose powers included issuing decrees with the force of law, effectively bypassing parliament (Bozóki et al. 2000d, pp. 1 – 3). The Conception was modified 386

slightly on 30 January 1989, discussed by the Central Committee at its 20 – 21 February session and accepted by parliament on 8 March (Bozóki et al. 2000c, p. 2). But the presidency was not an issue that the ORT wanted initially to address. Although the early sessions of the ORT allowed discussion to range over a variety of policy issues, very soon, and especially after the first appearance of Tölgyessy for the Free Democrats on 14 April, the ORT had crystallised its policy around the passing of ‘cardinal laws’ to facilitate the transition. On 19 April it adopted a proposal concerning roundtable talks which took the view, outlined above, that modifying the constitution and creating the new institutions required by it, such as the presidency and a constitutional court, was a job for a freely elected parliament. The purpose of the talks was simply to negotiate over the conditions for a smooth transition to the holding of free parliamentary elections (Bozóki 2002, pp. 284 – 285). The presidency came onto the agenda again only as the talks-about-talks were reaching conclusion. On 7 June, Bálint Magyar (Free Democrats) expressed real concern that the Party wanted to drive through a law on the presidency (as well as an electoral law and a party law) at the next parliamentary session. Tölgyessy was more sanguine noting that they had all agreed that political agreement should precede law-making so such legislation could not be bounced through, yet he did acknowledge that this was a threat that the Party had already used to pressure them to reach an agreement before 16 June.13

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Similar concerns about the minister of justice railroading through legislation were expressed two days later by Tibor Füzessy (Christian Democrats) and Tölgyessy, when presenting the proposed structure of the subcommittees for the negotiations, admitted openly that this threat had forced him to accept the inclusion of the presidency on the agenda.14 As noted above, the official communiqué on the agreement to commence negotiations of 10 June and the first plenary session held on 13 June, did not address the presidency directly, but each side made its views clear. Károly Grósz (the Party) referred to bills, such as that on the presidency, as already well advanced (Bozóki 2002, p. 298); while Imre Kónya (League) made it clear that elections for the presidency or local elections should not precede the free election of a new parliament (Bozóki 2002, p. 300); and István Kukorelli (Patriotic People’s Front, Third Side) expressed, on behalf of some of the members of the third side, a preference for electing the president before parliamentary elections in the interests of economic and political stability (Bozóki 2002, p. 304). In the ORT meeting of the 20 June which preceded the plenary session of 21 June, members such as György Szabad (Forum) and Magyar repeatedly stated their view that some modification of the constitution was necessary for elections to be possible, hence some discussion of the presidency was acceptable, but that election of the president should be the job of a future parliament and not a part of the talks.15 At the plenary meeting of 21 June, Szabad restated this view, despite the presence of the presidency on the agenda (Bozóki 2002, p. 317). Pozsgay, by contrast, stressed the need for 388

government by the rule of law which necessitated amendments to the constitution and acts on, among other things, the presidency (Bozóki 2002, p. 316). By this time, the presidency was unambiguously on the agenda, but the ORT was committed to trying to remove it. The continued importance of the presidency to the Party and one at least of its leading figures was reflected in the fact that days later, at the Central Committee meeting of 23 – 24 June which effectively removed the hard-liner Grósz from power by creating a four-person presidency made up of him and three reformers (Kurtán et al. 1990, p. 295), the Party also announced that Pozsgay would be its candidate for president (Bozóki et al. 2000c, p. 14). Days later again, on 27 June, although it was announced in parliament that the prime minister had withdrawn all bills affecting the negotiations, parliament nevertheless accepted the initiative of a member calling for a law on the creation of a presidency to be put before parliament before the beginning of October, a matter which Tölgyessy complained about, with some sympathy on the part of Pozsgay, at the middle level negotiating session of 6 July.16 The ORT was not immune to this pressure for a president. On 28 June, the ORT held a meeting, the first attended by József Antall of the Forum, to confirm membership of the working committees and discuss the relationship between them and ORT meetings. At the meeting, Szabad first suggested that they should debate their principled (but not detailed) position on the subject matter of the first three specialist committees since these effectively determined the content of the rest.17 This did 389

not find favour at the meeting, but his alternative suggestion was accepted: that they should at least discuss their position on what variously at the meeting were termed three ‘neuralgic’ questions, the time of elections, the voting system and the presidency.18 In a climate where, as Tibor Baranyai’s (Social Democrat) intervention made clear, the questions for journalists were whether the current parliament should elect the president and whether Pozsgay’s ‘ascent to heaven’ should be before or after the MSZMP congress,19 it is perhaps not surprising that for many the formulation of the question was simply the when and how of the presidency. Tölgyessy felt the need to intervene strongly to point out that there was a prior question, namely whether the presidency need be considered at all.20 The meeting to decide the three ‘neuralgic’ questions was held on 6 July after most member organisations had held meetings of their governing bodies. For some at the meeting, such as Füzessy, it was self-evident that Pozsgay would be elected president by direct elections and the issue was how to cope with this, by insisting on a long gap between presidential and parliamentary elections—Pozsgay as president would not be able to mobilise on a party basis.21 Károly Vigh (BZs Society) supported this view and suggested that the meeting not only take a position on the presidency but on Pozsgay as candidate, challenging those present to think of someone better.22 Nevertheless the meeting actually endorsed the position submitted by Antall at the request of Tölgyessy,23 which, as Antall was at pains to point out, was the position that his organisation had agreed, not his 390

personal view.24 The position more or less reinforced the ORT’s original one, confirmed in the declaration of intent delivered by Kónya on 13 June, that anything to do with the office of the presidency was not the concern of the ORT, that it was the task of the new, freely elected parliament, to address such problems. It also suggested that for the transition period leading up to parliamentary elections, the chairman of parliament should temporarily be invested with presidential powers, thus rejecting the Party’s idea of a deputy president, while still doing away with the undemocratic Presidential Council. This solution, Antall argued, was in line with Hungary’s 1946 Law One on the form of the Hungarian state.25 Csaba Varga reported that the People’s Party’s view concurred with that of the Forum concerning the presidency, but suggested appointing a reformed Presidential Council to act as interim president made up of new MPs appointed from various groups including the ORT.26 Meanwhile the I/1 specialist committee on constitutional reform had begun its work and was going through the constitution paragraph by paragraph considering what changes were necessary to make it operable during the transition period. The issue of the presidency had to wait until the appropriate paragraph had been reached, and this did not happen until 17 July. The Party re-stated its belief in the need for a strong institution independent of both parliament and the government to handle possible conflicts that might arise in the transition from a single-party to a multi-party system.27 It further argued that at a time when the legitimacy of the current parliament

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was being questioned, it was important to have a head of state with strong political legitimacy, directly elected by the people, who could guarantee the continuity of state power in the time of transition.28 The ORT restated the position agreed at its meeting of 6 July.29 The presidency did not figure in the discussions of 19th and 26th, while on 27th each side agreed to use the phrase ‘head of state’ but understand something different by it until they had resolved the issue.30 This more or less completed the subcommittee’s consideration of the presidency. In its progression through the paragraphs of the constitution it reached another relevant section on 31 July, but agreed that, given their differing views, it would be pointless to discuss the topic further.31 Three weeks later, on 22 August, its review of its work, which was formally completed the next day, summarised their differences clearly.32 Subsequent discussion of the presidency took place at the higher negotiating level. Meanwhile dramatic developments had taken place within the ORT itself. At its meeting of 21 July Varga presented the People’s Party’s six-point package out of the blue. His justification for this radical change of position was dramatic changes in the international environment, the declining economic situation, and moves by some Budapest members of parliament to dissolve parliament. Part of the package entailed withdrawing the People’s Party’s idea of interim presidential powers being endowed on a reformed Presidential Council and replacing it with the idea of a president with moderate powers, elected by the current parliament when it reconvened in September.33 When Tölgyessy and Gábor Fodor (Fidesz), in the chair, 392

pointed out that they had already decided their position on the presidency, Varga and Vigh maintained that the ORT had only discussed the issue earlier but had not reached a decision. They were unwilling to modify their interpretation of events even when informed that the ORT view had been announced on TV. At Antall’s suggestion the meeting agreed that each organisation should consider Varga’s proposals later, finally agreeing that this should be within two weeks.34 In the heated arguments that followed concerning what their interim position should be, Magyar at one point asserted it was all just a trick to get Pozsgay elected as president.35 The meeting ended with an agreement to meet on 27 July.36 At this meeting, discussion of the People’s Party’s six-point package was delayed because of the tougher line that had emerged in the Party’s position, particularly in relation to areas covered by the I/2 subcommittee. When it eventually began, Antall made a long statement from the chair reminding all participants to respect one another’s opinions, stressing the importance of the survival of the ORT, and suggesting they only consider two aspects of the six-point plan: the date of elections and the election of the president; the others being more an analysis of the political situation.37 Tempers quickly frayed, however, and László Kövér (Fidesz) said that the new proposal was simply a scheme to have Pozsgay elected after Sándor Keresztes (Christian Democrats) had described the strong head of state that he preferred in terms that indicated he was clearly thinking not just of a concrete individual but this concrete individual.38 The issue was finally put to two votes: first for members to decide if they wanted to 393

change their position, that is to say to accept the People’s Party proposal, and secondly to decide if they would use their veto in support of that. The People’s Party, Christian Democrats and BZs Society all indicated that they wanted policy to change and would make use of their veto in order to achieve it.39 After further heated discussion, Antall suggested as a way out of the impasse that they give themselves a two-week moratorium on the issue of the presidency, that during that period negotiations should continue as normal in the spirit of the original decision, but that no firm decisions should be made and nothing should be said about it in press statements.40 It might be noted that at this point, debate around the presidency was associated predominantly with the president’s indirect election by the existing parliament. When Péter Kelemen (League) intervened with comments suggesting that they were considering presidential elections soon to be followed by parliamentary elections, Szabad began to say that the People’s Party suggestion referred to indirect election, and Antall rather abruptly retorted that, ‘no one wants direct election’.41 The ORT deliberations on the presidency began at their meeting of 17 August. In the interim their internal disagreements had become public knowledge and the young communist movement had begun to collect signatures for a referendum for the soonest possible direct election of a president.42 Antall presented a new ‘package plan’ which he saw as an attempt to both bridge the differences within ORT and give them something to negotiate with.43 On the presidency the ‘package plan’ differed from the Forum’s earlier position 394

in that it accepted that the ORT should address the issue, and it suggested a codicil to the amended constitution which specified that the election (directly and for five years) of the president should take place either at the same time as parliamentary elections (with joint voting on multiple ballot slips), or after them. It also confirmed the idea of presidential powers being temporarily exercised by the chairman of parliament, in line with the 1946 law. The meeting agreed to discuss the Forum’s proposal on the afternoon of 23 August,44 when the debate focused more on the very idea of a package rather than its component parts. Iván Pető (Free Democrats) began by arguing that it was not yet necessary to come to a view on the presidency,45 while Antall insisted that they had to agree matters as a package, and soon.46 Füzessy complained that it included issues such as the country’s coat of arms that had not been discussed previously,47 and László Vitézy (League) and Kövér pointed out that, whatever its true origins, public perceptions would see the idea as coming from the Party.48 Kövér went as far as to ask outright if there was collaboration between the Forum and the Party,49 which Antall naturally rejected.50 But the session did not discuss the presidency at length. Just as the chair, Imre Boross (Smallholders), suggested that they move on to the second part of the package—the presidency—Pető announced that he, Boross and Antall had been invited to meet Pozsgay that evening,51 and discussion switched to what they should say at that encounter. The ORT met the following day but hardly addressed the presidency either, because the meeting between Pozsgay and the ORT representatives the previous evening had 395

made much of the logic of the package plan redundant. An agenda had been discussed according to which issues would be discussed separately, with the questions that were easier to resolve coming first.52 While Antall insisted that the cardinal issues in his package plan should be discussed that day,53 the meeting was pulled towards taking the issues on a subcommittee-by-subcommittee basis. Eventually Antall withdrew his package plan and there was no discussion of the presidency as the meeting continued with its subcommittee-by-subcommittee analysis. The presidency issue came to a crunch at the ORT meeting of 29 August. (This is discussed at length in the next section.) In a formal sense, the ORT took all day not to change anything, since the amended line was finally accepted, not at the meeting itself, but by telephone messages the following day. The amended line represented a move back towards the original ORT line in that Antall’s codicil was changed to specify the one-off indirect, rather than direct, election of the president. Other than its length, the meeting was noteworthy for two reasons. First, it was the first time the Free Democrats formulated a position in terms of the manner of election of the president rather than simply stating that the presidency was not a matter the ORT should consider. Second, Antall clearly expressed a personal preference for indirect presidential election, despite his later position. This amended line was submitted by Antall to the middle-level political session of 30 August which agreed to consider it.54 There was little likelihood that it would 396

be considered favourably, and this was confirmed almost immediately when the Central Committee meeting of 1 September came down in favour of a directly elected president with elections taking place preferably prior to, but at worst simultaneously with, parliamentary elections (Bozóki et al. 2000c, p. 42). The Party’s formal response to the ORT’s position came at the middle-level meeting of 4 September when Pozsgay accepted the principle of using the 1946 legislation as a basis for the discussion of the modernised constitution, but insisted on a directly elected president to be elected before parliamentary elections. The negotiators agreed to send it back to the specialist committee for further discussion,55 which it duly did on 7 September, but neither side deviated from its agreed position.56 In the final days before the 18 September ‘agreement’, the debate within the ORT focused not only on what their position concerning the president should be, but also on whether it should be considered in the same way as the other unresolved issues. A procedure for handling unresolved issues had been initiated at the middle-level negotiations of 4 September and agreed on 15 September,57 yet the ‘populists’ within the ORT were reluctant for the presidency to be handled in the same way. Thus 11 September was a busy negotiating day with an ORT meeting, a specialist committee meeting and middle-level negotiations. The specialist committee simply confirmed what matters had been agreed and what should go back to the middle-level committee. At the ORT meeting, Antall presented another proposal for compromise, the crucial feature being the revised codicil 397

which now referred to the one-off direct election of the president, effectively reintroducing his ‘package plan’ as far as the presidency was concerned. He acknowledged that this was a concession to the Party’s insistence on direct elections, and justified it by the fact that three of their members had already expressed a preference for direct election.58 Tölgyessy replied that the Free Democrats’ concessions to reach the earlier position were concessions enough, that the Party was in fact divided on the issue, and that the presidency should be treated like the other unresolved issues.59 In the tense atmosphere, Viktor Orbán (Fidesz) became very heated about the fact that the Forum’s document referred to Fidesz’s view, the original one of the ORT, as a ‘minority view’,60 and Antall and Tölgyessy almost came to blows when the latter asked provocatively if they should accept the Party view on all outstanding issues.61 The ORT eventually voted on two issues: whether a presidency elected by parliament should be their initial position, and whether one elected directly should be their fallback. The first was passed 8:1, the second 5:4. The next question was whether any group would veto this decision, to which the Free Democrats, Fidesz and the Social Democrats said yes.62 The meeting agreed not to make their disagreements public, and, since the use of the veto would mean that no decision had taken place, their official stance remained unchanged, as it would until the end of the negotiations.63 There were middle-level political negotiations on 11, 13, 15 and 18 September which ultimately put back all issues relating to the presidency and Presidential Council to the 398

plenary session.64 Meanwhile the ORT discussed the presidency on 15 September. László Sólyom (Forum) presented the issue in terms of the manner of election, direct or indirect.65 This had become the dominant discourse, although Orbán later corrected him, saying that for Fidesz this was not the issue.66 Tölgyessy argued that the way to retain unity within the ORT was to treat the presidency in the same way as the other unresolved issues.67 Antall’s counter argument was that the presidency was not one of the cardinal laws, thus differed from the other unresolved issues, and there was a danger that the Party would simply railroad through its own conception,68 a distinction that János Kis (Free Democrats) saw as flawed.69 Szabad argued that so long as the powers of the presidency were sufficiently limited, the manner of its election was a minor issue.70 He then suggested further conditions that might be added to the direct election of the president.71 The vote on this proposal divided 5:4 as usual, and Fidesz and the Free Democrats confirmed that they saw it as a veto-issue. It was Orbán of Fidesz who presented the ‘urbanist’ solution to the ‘curse of unanimity’. So long as the ORT refrained from taking a public position on the presidency before the Monday, he promised that Fidesz would do nothing to prevent agreement on further issues; on the Monday, it would not sign the agreement, but it would not prevent the other groups from signing either.72 Tölgyessy then said that the Free Democrats would follow the same policy.73 All agreed that until Monday there should be total secrecy about their disagreement and that the ORT should meet briefly before the final plenary in case there was a change of view.74 But there 399

was not. Tölgyessy chaired the 18 September meeting, and when they got to the issue of the presidency restated the Free Democrats’ position,75 as did Zsuzsa Szelényi for Fidesz in her only ORT appearance.76 At the request of Antall and Szabad, they clarified that this meant they would not sign the agreement at all.77 Antall then asked whether this meant that they wanted the ORT to break up or continue its work on the unresolved issues and the plethora of other areas where agreement still had to be reached,78 and Tölgyessy made it clear that this procedure for solving the ‘curse of unanimity’ was premised on the ORT continuing its work.79 The scene was set for the dramatic scenes at the plenary later in the day, made all the more poignant as far as the Party was concerned because it was at the plenary that it announced it had accepted the ORT argument in favour of abolishing the Presidential Council immediately (Bozóki 2002, p. 341). The marathon ORT session of 29 August The battlefield Although the participants at this session chaired by Varga of the People’s Party acknowledged that the presidency was the chief issue of the day,80 and it was this topic that dragged the meeting on for so long, it was not the only item on the agenda; indeed roughly a third of the meeting was devoted to other topics. As was often the case in the ORT sessions, there was much to be discussed before agenda items could be broached,81 and on this occasion much of the discussion of agenda items such as the Party’s policy on withdrawal from the 400

workplace became wasted breath because of the Party’s hardened line on these issues after 1 September.82 The other issues considered prior to the presidency were the use of the word ‘socialist’ in the constitution,83 and rules for declaring a state of emergency.84 The parties began by restating their positions on the presidency. First, in a long and discursive speech which included references to the Gaullist constitution in France, the 1848 constitutional reform, the shortcomings of the Regency of Horthy, and the appropriateness of an elected president in a single-chamber rather than a two-chamber parliament, Antall presented a position similar to that previously presented as part of his ‘package plan’ of 17 August in that he advocated the inclusion of the presidency as an element in their amendments to the constitution, that the 1946 law should be the basis for amending the constitution, and that it allow for the one-off direct election for the president. But it differed in that he now agreed with Tölgyessy that the norm be for the president to be elected by parliament. The Forum, he noted, had no firm preference for the timing of the presidential election. He made it clear that his personal preference was for an indirectly elected president but argued that the special situation of the transition required special measures.85 He also allowed himself to be side-tracked into bitter comments on a hobby-horse theme of his, namely that Gáspár Miklós Tamás (Free Democrats) had at the middle-level negotiations of 24 August unilaterally stated that the end of the transition would be taken as the first session of the new parliament, rather than their original position of 12 July, namely that it would be when a government had 401

taken office and a president had been elected.86 In the process he became rather worked up about the behaviour of other members of the ORT, and Kis intervened to apologise and calm things down. Tölgyessy, in a more focussed contribution, then picked up on the reference to Hungarian traditions, but suggested that this was a reason for not having a popularly elected president, and presented a case for using 1946 as the basis for constitutional amendment which would necessarily include an indirect presidential election.87 Keresztes (Christian Democrats) began by saying he agreed with the ‘package’ (now withdrawn), but not about timing. Their position was for direct elections for a president which must precede parliamentary elections because of the danger of a power vacuum in the transition period.88 He stressed the importance of direct election, and stated that the indirect election of the president was the only thing that his party in its original incarnation had not liked about the constitution in 1946, although he was at pains to point out he wanted a president with moderate powers only.89 A subsidiary argument for prior presidential elections, he argued, was that the electorate would be confused, not just by three voting slips (candidates for the parliamentary list, the individual constituencies and the presidency) but by the confusing instructions the parties would have to provide concerning whom they should vote for. This comment only made sense if there was an expectation that the party faithful would need to vote for a non-party member in presidential elections. Taken in conjunction with his observation a sentence earlier that there were insufficient 402

politicians in the country capable of being elected president, his words strongly suggested that he had Pozsgay in mind as presidential candidate. Vigh (BZs Society) began by stressing the importance of the international situation. He was in agreement with the Forum’s package and regretted its passing. He would accept presidential elections either before or at the same time as parliamentary ones. Boross (Smallholders) agreed with the Christian Democrats, but, like Vigh, stressed the importance of the international dimension—the need for a credible interim regime. Antall then reminded them all that the issue of direct and indirect elections only referred to the period before the new parliament sat, since once it was in session the parliament could decide what it liked. Tölgyessy saw this as evidence that their positions were becoming closer, if, for example, the Forum could agree a constitutional amendment which called on the new parliament to elect a president within 60 days. Antall replied he was simply making a clarification, and the exchange suggested that neither side was paying too close attention to the other’s position, since the two sides were indeed quite close on everything except the one-off election of a president, but the amendment Tölgyessy mentioned would not have brought them any closer. Varga for the People’s Party simply stated that it agreed with the Smallholders, Christian Democrats and the Forum but did not elaborate.90 István Gaskó for the Social Democrats then stated that their position was that the election of the president should only take place after parliamentary elections, 403

because, in the case of indirect election, only a freely elected parliament had sufficient legitimacy, and in the case of direct elections, the political situation prior to parliamentary elections would be inappropriate. He accepted Antall’s reservations about the end of the transition period, but challenged the Smallholders and Christian Democrats to specify how a president would really help economic stability.91 The Fidesz view, as Orbán was at pains to point out, constituted the original joint ORT position of the plenary session,92 namely that they were not empowered to address the issue of the presidency, that they were only empowered to address questions relating to the smooth progress to elections and that the new, legitimate parliament should decide both the institution of the presidency and the manner of its election. His argument was not one of principle alone, however. He also argued that the opposition would be at a disadvantage if there were presidential elections either before or at the same time as parliamentary elections. He concluded, somewhat dramatically, ‘I think that the decision we took today about democratic socialism is a capitulation. If we accept the president too we would consider it political hara-kiri’.93 Finally, the League noted that since it did not have a vote, it would not take part in the discussions but agreed in principle that they were not empowered to decide anything beyond the transition period.94 In these initial position statements, Varga’s comments above are instructive. In stating that he agreed with the Smallholders, the Christian Democrats and the Forum, like most of the participants in the ORT, he was thinking 404

of there being two opposing sides within the ORT. This was clearly their self-image. They sat at opposite sides of the table. They talked about ‘we on this side of the table’, and ‘you over there’. Yet, it is clear from the positions of the organisations that this bipolar model was a simplification. There was agreement among the ‘populists’ only on direct election, not timing, and the Forum’s argument in favour of direct election was tactical not principled.95 There were in fact five positions within the ORT at this point: Fidesz maintained the original ORT position pristine—the presidency was a matter for the new parliament only; the Christian Democrats, the People’s Party, the BZs Society and Smallholders wanted the direct election of a president, preferably before parliamentary elections; the Forum was adamant the constitution should include a presidency, but was against prior elections and saw direct elections as a one-off solution only; and the Social Democrats wanted election, direct or indirect, after parliamentary elections. The position of the Free Democrats was ambiguous. They had inherited a position of electing the president after parliamentary elections because that was the logical consequence of the original ORT stance of leaving the whole issue to the new parliament, but having shifted towards the Forum’s position of accepting inclusion of the office of the presidency as a constitutional amendment that they were empowered to discuss, their focus has switched to the manner of election (indirect) rather than its timing. Initial skirmishes

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Having re-stated their positions, the ORT first divided into two camps. One side took the view that their disagreement was an unalterable fact: this is a topic on which we disagree, we must accept this and focus on how we can agree to disagree and what this means for future negotiations. The other side stressed that agreement was essential and that without agreement on that very day, the whole ORT project would collapse. The former position emerged from the interpretation that the participants put on a contribution of Kis, although, as will become clear, this was not the only point that he made, nor his main one. A bipolar structure to their views was established right at the beginning when Varga said that there were five organisations that wanted one thing and four that wanted something different. Orbán instantly disagreed with this, but in his reply Varga continued to assume that his five at least want almost the same thing.96 The first major contribution to this stage in the discussion came, as usual, from Antall. His grandiloquent argument was that if they reached consensus they would be able to say before history that they had dismantled the People’s Republic and the Presidential Council and re-created the state of parliamentary democracy; but if they did not agree that day, the ORT would fall apart and everything that they had agreed with the Party would lose its validity.97 In his response, Kis ended up by saying that they could ask for an extension of an extra day or two in order to try one more time to reach an agreement, and that this was in fact his favoured position, but the thrust of his contribution was to call for calm after Antall’s 406

melodramatic statements about vetoes and the break-up of the ORT and to argue for the elaboration of procedures whereby they could agree to disagree.98 Varga interjected briefly calling for them to agree by Thursday because the Party’s Central Committee was meeting on Friday and the party might split.99 But the next significant contribution came from Szabad. In another long speech, peppered with historical references (Kossuth, Széchényi, Macaulay, 18th Brumaire) as many of his contributions were, he used two phrases which were picked up throughout the meeting; and he made a concrete proposal regarding the Forum’s position on the presidency. He called on the meeting not to wash its hands ‘Pontius Pilate-like’ on the need to come to an agreement, and, in the context of describing how the present parliament did not have the legitimacy to elect a president, he used the phrase Hungarian democracy should be the issue of a ‘clean bed’. His policy suggestion concerning the presidency was that the danger of Bonapartism would better be avoided if the presidential elections took place at the same time as the second (rather than first) round of parliamentary elections.100 Antall then made another lengthy intervention. He essentially went over old ground in his verbose and convoluted style, but what was significant was the passion with which he announced that: ‘We need to decide today. We should not get up from this table without deciding’.101 Bruszt (League) noted first that the Party had changed its policy on the presidency because of its poor results in by-elections: the Party was not popular but one of the 407

individuals within it still was. He then argued that there was no need for them to agree on everything. On matters where there was no agreement, the initiative would pass to parliament or the Party, but they could continue their battle in other ways and in other forums.102 Miklós Haraszti (Free Democrats) then broke what had already become an unwritten rule in the negotiations by mentioning Pozsgay by name: ‘we all know where this whole plan is coming from, it is connected to the person of Imre Pozsgay’. He ended, after making reference to Pozsgay’s statement in Germany that he might be the candidate of the Forum too, by asking the Forum and the People’s Party directly whether they would put forward presidential candidates.103 Antall was understandably angered by this, both interjecting during Haraszti’s comments and speaking directly after them; he asserted that such discussions fell out with the competence of the ORT, that the Forum has issued no statement in support of Pozsgay, and again he called on those present to reach an agreement.104 Not for the first time, when Orbán intervened on behalf of Fidesz he complained about the chairing and the order in which contributions were being taken. Not surprisingly, he rejected the Pontius Pilate analogy while insisting on the ‘clean bed’ one. The only way to achieve a ‘clean bed’ was for the future parliament to elect the president. His position was not just one of principle, but politics: he argued the opposition was not yet strong enough to beat a good Party candidate. Echoing Bruszt’s earlier comments, he also made it very clear that after the end of ORT negotiations, Fidesz would use every political tool available to ensure that there were no 408

presidential elections, ‘we will not remain silent even after the negotiations have be signed if there is such a thing with the Party’, an early warning of the policy implemented on 18 September.105 Tölgyessy maintained the ‘let’s agree how to disagree’ line, arguing, against Antall, that the negotiations would not come to an end. He too gave a hint of what the Free Democrats might do in the event of ultimate failure to agree with the Party on the presidency—‘we will continue these debates in the manner of European, civilised political debates, but what the Free Democrats cannot do is keep quiet and give free passage to decisions that it thinks are bad decisions’. He too reflected the bipolar vision of most participants saying that they might as well agree to disagree unless the Forum saw a chance of coming to an agreement.106 Füzessy (Christian Democrats), however, immediately gave the lie to the bipolar vision in a speech which agreed with the Kis line of agreeing how to disagree without losing prestige; he also drew analogies with developments in Poland.107 Varga followed suit. First he suggested that if it were all a matter just of principle, he would support Orbán. But it was not. After denying the role of Pozsgay in their change of policy, he returned to the rationale he used for introducing the ‘package plan’ of 21 July, namely that the international situation had changed, the idea of a ‘clean bed’ was an illusion, what was needed was the swiftest possible introduction of the presidency. He too recognised his agreement with the Kis line that they should agree on how to disagree.108 Boross pointed to the Polish example (opposition prime minister and socialist president) as something the international community would accept and appeared to 409

agree with Varga.109 Torgyán insisted that if presidential elections were held, a joint ORT candidate would win.110 Vigh completed this ‘agree how to disagree’ phase by saying that there was nothing wrong with disagreements in democracies, like the Czechoslovak democracy in which he had grown up.111 The next intervention was by Kis who made a very long speech which began with criticism of attempts to categorise some as ‘realists’ and others as ‘idealists’. He did not take the issues much further forward, however, beyond reminding them that ‘agreeing how to disagree’ had not been his main point: he wanted to reach an agreement and had requested more time in order to make that possible. But his intervention was of interest because he too addressed the Polish comparisons. He argued that the Polish round table negotiations were very different from the Hungarian ones, that the ‘our prime minister, your president’ compromise was specific to the pattern of the Polish negotiations and Solidarity’s early desire for legalisation, and that there was no reason for them to offer such a solution to the Party before elections, even if it remained a possible outcome after them.112 Thereafter the ‘we must reach agreement today’ school gained the floor. The first to argue this was Elemér Hankiss of the League who suggested Szabad’s proposal should be considered seriously.113 Varga immediately said this was impossible, but this was ignored,114 and Iván Timkó for the Forum took up the baton, noting that there was no animus for agreement and concluding that they either agreed or the ORT was unworkable.115 Gaskó for the Social Democrats suggested making further efforts to come to agreement, although he noted that it 410

was those who argued in terms of realpolitik and who had moved away from the original ORT line who might review their positions. He also sensed, after Varga’s reply to Hankiss, that there were three positions within the ORT, but he was persuaded by others that there were only two.116 Antall concluded this phase in another impatient contribution, restating that if they had no agreed position there would be nothing to negotiate with the Party about, and stressing how much of the negotiations he thought would break down if they did not reach agreement. He insisted that the presidency was an issue they were empowered to discuss, especially after they had started going through the constitution line-by-line, and he reinforced the ORT’s bipolar vision of itself by dividing the ORT into a majority which wanted the presidency in the constitution so as to guarantee the exclusion of all Stalinist elements, and the minority that did not.117 At this point Bruszt suggested that they take a vote. The usual five ‘populist’ organisations voted in favour of trying to resolve the issue that day, and the other four organisations abstained. Despite the clear evidence in the meeting that there were many more than two positions within the ORT (both the Christian Democrats and the People’s Party had previously argued the ‘agree how to disagree position’), when it came to voting, the bipolar self-perception re-asserted itself. This phase of the meeting was brought to an end at 5 pm by a short break, but not before Orbán had reminded them that Antall’s ‘majority’ and ‘minority’ positions had only come about because the other organisations had changed their minds. He also joked to Boross (‘brother Imre’) that it had 411

become a ‘sleeping bag’ issue—they could not leave until agreement was reached. Boross had christened issues which had to be debated through to consensus as ‘sleeping bag’ issues at the ORT meeting of 28 June.118 Stalemate and breakthrough Since they had voted in favour of trying to come to a consensus on the presidency, Varga started the next discussion with a request for new proposals,119 but discussion continued to be more on ‘agreeing how to disagree’ than on possible consensus. Vigh started by reminding them that, for the Party, the presidency was part of a process of political bargaining and asking what would its reaction be when it realised that the ORT had a majority opinion which had been vetoed.120 Kis replied that he did not see things as starkly as that, and that it was not a solution to ask those in the minority not to use their veto, when they could equally well make the same request of the majority.121 Tölgyessy re-stated his view that they should agree to disagree,122 while Timkó and Boross opposed it stressing that if they did not have an agreed position they were simply handing decision-making over to the other two sides (of the three-party talks).123 There followed some discussion as to whether this was in fact the case, the consensus being more or less that it was.124 In his fifth lengthy contribution, Antall argued that if they did not agree, they would open themselves up to accusations of failing to take responsibility; he then restated his arguments about the danger that the Stalinist constitution might remain in place, concluding 412

somewhat petulantly with critical remarks, about the way that the ORT negotiations had been conducted, about the fact that they had entered middle-level negotiations without agreed positions, defending his ‘package plan’ as an attempt to create an agreed position, and referring to the ‘dung-beetle rolling mentality’ that had developed.125 Timkó contributed further to the increasingly emotional atmosphere by arguing that they did not have the right to abstain and concluding that they were faced not just with a failure to agree but ‘complete national catastrophe’.126 Kis intervened to try to smooth things down, questioning the value of moral threats—‘I would ask everyone to refrain from holding others responsible’. When Timkó reposted, ‘But we have a right to’, Kis’s emollient reply was, ‘Yes you do, but so do I, and I am refraining from using it. This is a request, I am not questioning your rights’. But he too was working within the mindset of ‘agreeing how to disagree’. He argued that the Party was unlikely to back away from the whole negotiations and suggested holding a press conference on Thursday or Friday at which they would present their opinions without polemics or attacks on one another, at which they stressed they were united on other matters.127 Kis’s attempt to pour oil on troubled waters did not succeed. Antall attacked his position on legal and political grounds, neither of which were made clear as he digressed to criticise the behaviour of the Third Side. More cogently, he rejected the idea of a joint press conference in favour of, perhaps, a joint communiqué followed by separate press conferences, because their positions had become so far apart and some might feel 413

uncomfortable about it, they would be criticised by their memberships as having been naive to have come to such a position, ‘they lack realism’.128 Varga, in the chair, tried to get them to focus again on consensus, since in his view, if they did not achieve consensus, the Party would impose a presidency and early presidential elections.129 But this merely prompted Antall to remind them all of the lengths to which the Forum had already gone to achieve consensus—they had moved closer to the People’s Party, Christian Democrats and BZs Society by suggesting presidential elections at the same time as parliamentary elections, which Szabad had amended slightly that very day.130 Varga ignored the digression and posed the crucial question: ‘Is there any way we can come together?’131 At this point Tölgyessy, who until that point had been arguing mainly the ‘agree how to disagree’ line, stated that the Free Democrats had been discussing the issue and had moved on from the principled position that Orbán represented so clearly. If they were trying to bring views closer, the mode of election was the key. He even suggested that the president could be elected by the current parliament if the Party insisted on having a presidency quickly.132 Antall asked for clarification, translating as he always did, the proposal into the context of modifying the constitution: we put into the 1946 law on the republic that parliament must elect the president. And then this parliament votes in this amendment and in the spirit of it this parliament elects the president of the republic. That is conceivable in theory.

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Nevertheless, he observed, Orbán would reject it.133 When clarifying the proposal, Tölgyessy stressed for Orbán’s sake that such a president could only be temporary, until the freely elected parliament began its work, a point (as will be clear below) Antall appeared not to note.134 As Antall predicted, Orbán’s reaction was that the mode of election was a secondary matter, that they should not be addressing the presidency at all, that the proposal was in fact worse than what was on the table, and that Fidesz would veto it.135 Kis asked for more time: the Free Democrats needed to agree whether this idea of an indirectly elected presidency was acceptable to them as a body, and he wanted to spend time the following day convincing Fidesz and the Social Democrats of this position.136 Füzessy was sceptical, but Antall suggested, since they were there and his day had already been frittered away,137 that they break up and consider it now, averring that he was willing to wait an hour to see if Kis could talk Orbán around. Orbán insisted that his was an institutional view which could not be changed, but Kis persisted and asked for 10 minutes in which he might persuade him to change his mind.138 Consensus of a kind When they reconvened, the first comments were practical in nature. Orbán reported that Kis had tried to persuade him that the Free Democratic proposal was acceptable to Fidesz. He was not convinced personally, but was willing to submit it to the organisation’s leadership which might delegate someone in his place 415

more willing to compromise. If the current meeting were to reach an agreement, Fidesz could hold a leadership meeting to discuss it, even though most of its leadership was demonstrating in front of the Czechoslovak embassy.139 Gaskó for the Social Democrats also said he would take it to his party for consideration.140 Antall then asked the Free Democrats to clarify what it was that they had agreed, which Kis and Tölgyessy did between them, although their presentation was curiously hesitant: parliament elects the president in general, but uniquely the current parliament could elect a temporary president until the parliamentary elections took place.141 Varga quickly interjected, that they should accept the proposal, better any sort of agreed position than an ‘agreement to disagree’.142 Antall’s initial reaction, however, was wholly negative: ‘it is a cunning solution, a typical Tölgyessy solution, but I am against it because it is based on a trick, it is not serious, Tölgyessy has only presented it because nothing will come of it, Orbán will reject it’. When Kis asked him why he thought it was a trick, his answer was that the Party, nor Pozsgay or anyone else, did not want this parliament to elect anyone; and Fidesz would not accept it.143 Varga then asked Tölgyessy to explain some of the powers the president would enjoy, which he did, indicating that they were based on Hungarian traditions, essentially those of the 1946 law but with minor modifications relating to the ability of the president to send back legislation and the identity of the commander-in-chief of the armed forces, which he thought should be the prime minister.144

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Antall’s speech in reply was one of the most curious of the whole session: he was visibly thinking on his feet. He began by reacting to the suggestion relating to the commander-in-chief of the army. He attacked the suggestion on the well-worn grounds that the current commander-in-chief was the Party secretary and this would remain so until the constitution was changed, implying that the Free Democrat’s suggestion entailed keeping the Party General Secretary as 145 commander-in-chief. After Tölgyessy briefly clarified that these were details that they could consider, Antall somewhat assertively and impatiently told them that they should be considering points of principle, not detail (oblivious to the fact that he had started off criticising a detail), before asking those present whether they would accept the idea of the 1946 president, including his election by parliament. His comments then meandered through three scenarios of what might happen if this were their position, replete with half-formed sentences and comments as to how unlikely each one was. As he presented these options however, he appeared to convince himself that the Free Democrat position had some mileage after all and stated that if the Social Democrats and Free Democrats agreed, and if Fidesz agreed not to veto, then it could be the basis for a common position. He concluded, however, that they could not debate it then because they were too tired and called for written suggestions to be submitted by 1 pm the next day.146 For a moment it looked as if agreement had been reached. The Social Democrats and Fidesz said they would phone in their decisions. Although Kis called for a 417

clear statement of position from ‘the other side of the table’, the mood of the meeting seemed to be in favour of agreement. Tölgyessy specified they could accept the 1946 law, Antall checked that this was with due modification concerning the commander-in-chief of the army, in which case the Forum would accept it.147 The People’s Party and the Smallholders said they could accept it. The BZs Society said it could probably accept it. The Christian Democrats said they would have to check with the membership.148 As Varga noted, they appeared to have reached the position that they would report back by 1 pm the next day and if any group did not agree with the position, then the position they would have to represent with the Party at the 5 pm meeting was the ‘agree how to disagree’ line.149 But then Vitézy insisted on raising a point of detail—how long would a president elected by the current parliament be in place for?150—and their agreed position began to crumble. Antall stated that he would be in office for a full four years and, after hearing Gaskó’s background comment that it would be just until the elections, expressed his view that they could not accept that this too was just until the parliamentary elections. He clearly had not fully digested the Free Democrat proposal. Kis pointed out that there had been a misunderstanding between them, and Antall replied petulantly that ‘then we have returned to the beginning, we withdraw everything’,151 but he went on to indicate what he saw as the constitutional absurdities of the Free Democrat position: the amended constitution that they were agreeing gave the chairman of parliament presidential powers in the case of the temporary 418

indisposition of the president, they effectively already had rules for a temporary president, so why elect one for what was a temporary period only.152 He would be happy with a solution whereby the chairman of parliament would have presidential powers for any indisposition or absence of the president. On two occasions he repeated that this had always been his favoured position, and stated that the only argument against it was that the Party was unlikely to accept it.153 When Orbán challenged him to clarify how this position differed from the ORT’s original agreed position, he avoided the question and described at some length the proposal noted above—a parliamentary republic on the basis of the 1946 law, with a codicil that the indirect election of the president should follow parliamentary elections.154 During this intervention, Tölgyessy interjected from the floor to express his acceptance of Antall’s proposal. Antall’s mention of the codicil (specifying that only the new parliament was empowered to elect the first president of the republic) prompted Varga to comment that the People’s Party did not agree with it.155 Orbán by contrast wanted clarification that there would be no election of a president prior to parliamentary elections and that the new parliament was not being committed to anything concerning the election of a president, because satisfaction on both counts would bring it into line with Fidesz policy.156 Vitézy suggested an additional codicil preventing the present parliament from holding a referendum on the presidency, which prompted Füzessy to warn that it was precisely because of ideas like this that the Christian Democrats were unlikely to find the position acceptable and why it had 419

rejected earlier positions.157 Both Tölgyessy and Gaskó then said that this position was acceptable to their organisations,158 but Füzessy and Varga in the background countered that what made it acceptable to the Free Democrats and the Social Democrats, in particular the absence of a president in the transition period, made it unacceptable to them.159 Varga insisted that the People’s Party could only accept the proposal with no codicil.160 Not long afterwards, speaking again from the chair, Varga stated that the issue seemed to be ‘with the codicil’ or ‘without the codicil’,161 at which point Kis interjected that if they decided ‘without the codicil’ then there would have to be an additional codicil specifying that early elections of a president could only be temporary,162 at which point Füzessy demanded that ideas be put in writing because in the past they had accepted too readily ideas submitted by the Forum which they had not thought through properly.163 After clarifying some of the powers of the chairman of parliament acting as president, and repeating that for him the proposed solution only made sense if elections were held relatively soon,164 Antall engaged in a bitter exchange with Füzessy and asked him what his constructive proposal was because he had already made ‘twenty-seven’ concessions. When the latter said that he had made it two months ago, Antall concluded bitterly that he did not consider a three-week-old position a ‘constructive proposal’.165 Orbán then called for them to state their positions, noting that it was 99% certain Fidesz would agree; and the Free Democrats and Social Democrats said their position was the same as that of 420

Fidesz. But Füzessy stated that it was 99% certain that they would disagree.166 His further insistence on having a strong presidency drew attacks from nearly all parties. The Smallholders, the Forum and the BZs Society all said they could accept it. By this time, there were two broad positions within the ORT, but they no longer reflected the urban – populist divide. The battle line was between the Forum, the Free Democrats, the Social Democrats, Fidesz and less enthusiastically the Smallholders and BZs Society and those who insisted on early, direct elections, the People’s Party and, most adamantly, the Christian Democrats. Apparent agreement was broken a second time when Varga realised that they had not yet clarified whether they meant ‘with the codicil’ or ‘without the codicil’. In the course of this discussion, Varga asked about Kis’s second codicil (about a temporarily elected president), producing a further moment of tension. Antall asked what he was talking about; Kis explained; Orbán said he would veto it; Kis tried to distance himself from it; Tölgyessy hastily added that Antall’s proposal was better; Gaskó agreed; Antall noted that the Christian Democrats could not accept the codicil; and Varga insisted that the People’s Party wanted a president now and had said so ‘thirty-two times’.167 Antall complained again about the unreadiness of other groups to compromise and, noting that it was not just the Free Democrats and Fidesz with whom they had disagreements, pointed out that the People’s Party and the Christian Democrats had signed the ORT’s original statement of intent.168 Orbán described the

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course of the meeting to-date, referred positively to the Forum’s ‘seventy seventh’ compromise proposal, and suggested they meet at 4 pm to clarify their overnight positions.169 Antall continued to express his frustration at the unwillingness of other organisations in the ORT to compromise, still directed at the Christian Democrats and People’s Party. Amongst other things he argued, this ‘seventy seventh’ amendment of ours was suggested to help us overcome the impasse, not in the expectation that the other side would accept it. If the other side did accept it, he reasoned, the Christian Democrats and the People’s Party would hardly tell Pozsgay that presidential elections must be held now.170 In the final minutes of the session confusion reigned. Varga clarified that the People’s Party’s interpretation of no codicil could accommodate the election of a temporary president until parliamentary elections as the Free Democrats had earlier suggested.171 Boross asked for clarification of who was the commander-in-chief under their proposed solution.172 Füzessy and Antall squabbled again over the former’s unwillingness to compromise.173 Orbán sprang to the defence of Antall, his usual sparring partner: the Forum had submitted ‘eighty-eight’ proposals, ‘ninety’ proposals and I rejected ‘eighty-seven’ of them.174 Boross and Vitézy continued to press the point about the identity of the commander-in-chief while the chairman of parliament was acting president. Antall replied it was not dealt with properly in the 1946 law but it was a side issue they could resolve.175 The final words were with Szabad and Varga. The former said that those who did not agree should submit written counter proposals by 4 pm which 422

should include a statement on ORT’s position at the middle-level negotiations. The latter insisted twice that this should include comment on the codicil.176 There is no record of the results of the phone calls or what pressure was necessary to get the Christian Democrats and the People’s Party to withdraw their opposition, but, as noted in the earlier section, at the middle-level political meeting of 30 August it was the Antall – Tölgyessy proposal, with the codicil, that was submitted—and rejected. Conclusion The term ‘negotiated revolution’ suggests two things: the absence of violence and a settlement based on reasoned argument. This examination of the ‘how’ of ‘negotiated revolution’ suggests that, while the former was certainly the case, the latter was not. Negotiations, particularly within the ORT itself, took place in a ‘fog’ of Clausewitz’s distortion, disinformation, and uncertainty. They lacked focus (on 29 August they spent all day making minimal progress), they temporised (discussion of the presidency was constantly postponed or avoided), and were characterised as much by emotion as by reason. Harold Nicolson, commenting on different negotiations stated, ‘hypocrisy just happened (emphasis in original)’ (Nicolson 1933, p. 188). Hungary’s negotiated revolution was equally buffeted by events. Agendas were subject to constant change; there were numerous issues to be taken prior to the agenda, often the result of the tensions between the ‘urbanist’ and ‘populist’ wings of the ORT, particularly over questions of leaks to the media. Some very lengthy discussion, 423

such as that on the morning of 29 August, came to nothing because the Party’s line changed. Pozsgay’s evening meeting with key negotiators on 23 August disrupted the sessions preceding it and transformed the agenda for the one following it. Once agenda items were engaged, the quality of the debate was mixed. Chairing proved problematic. Orbán made frequent complaints about being ignored by the chair on 29 August, while the participants simply ignored the chair’s requests to move on from the ‘agree how to disagree’ agenda. Some participants, Antall and Szabad in particular, enjoyed ‘speechifying’, and Antall had a tendency towards bluster and acrimony when things were not going his way. The contributions of Orbán and Tölgyessy were generally less circumlocutory, although at times all were guilty of either failing to pay attention to, or ignoring the contribution of others, as with the Antall – Kis exchange on 29 August. Yet there was humour alongside the acrimony. Orbán developed a joking-relationship with his elders such as Boross (‘sleeping bag, brother Imre’) and in particular in his sparring with Antall (his ‘eighty eighth’ proposal). None of this is really surprising and for many will be of little more than curiosity interest. Negotiations are games of give and take. But of greater interest, perhaps, is the relationship between politics and politicking in the give and take. The ORT was divided politically into two; observers knew it, and the participants knew it; and this division re-emerged whenever battle-lines were drawn for a vote. Yet the principled positions, stubbornly adhered to, of the participating organisations were more nuanced than this, blurring the political divide and 424

periodically threatening agreement. Füzessy’s dogged insistence on a directly elected president against Antall’s concessionary posture almost prevented agreement on 29 August, while Orbán only came on board once the Free Democrat idea of a president indirectly elected by the current parliament had been dropped. The presidency had always been more about politicking and Pozsgay than political principle. Antall’s position changed frequently, as we have seen, while Tölgyessy’s recourse to Marx’s 18th Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte in support of an indirectly elected president rang particularly hollow,177 and the ‘populist’ refusal to treat the presidency in the same way as other unresolved issues remained hard to justify on rational grounds. The Party had forced the presidency onto the agenda in June; the ORT had failed to remove it; and the populists in the ORT had become ever more inclined towards Pozsgay’s interpretation of it as his personal star rose and events in Poland suggested an ‘our prime minister, your president’ solution. Although his name was rarely mentioned in formal negotiations, it was Pozsgay and the presidency above all that divided the ORT and triggered the denouement of 18 September. Yet, as the ‘long and winding road’ section revealed, the contours of the debate changed frequently, and the question as it was put in the November referendum only emerged late on. Similarly, as the ‘marathon session’ of 29 August made clear, the options put to the people in November did not reflect the full spectrum of views on the presidency within the negotiations. When it came to the crunch, politicking prevailed. In the ‘foggy’

425

negotiations, the biggest distortion was the bi-polar vision of politicking. University of Liverpool References Bozóki, A. (ed.) (2002) The Roundtable Talks of 1989: the Genesis of Hungarian Democracy (Budapest, Central European University Press). Bozóki, A., Elbert, M., Kalmár, M., Réveśz, B., Ripp, E. & Ripp, Z. (eds) (2000a) A Rendszerváltaś Forgatókönyve: Kerekasztal-Tárgyalások 1989-ben CD-ROM (Budapest, Új Mandátum Kiadó). Bozóki, A., Elbert, M., Kalmár, M., Révész, B., Ripp, E. & Ripp, Z. (eds) (2000b) ‘Bevezetés’ [under ‘Bevezető’ section], in Bozóki, A. et al. (eds) (2000a). Bozóki, A., Elbert, M., Kalmár, M., Révész, B., Ripp, E. & Ripp, Z. (eds) (2000c) ‘Kronológia’, in Bozóki, A. et al. (eds) (2000a). Bozóki, A., Elbert, M., Kalmár, M., Révész, B., Ripp, E. & Ripp, Z. (eds) (2000d) ‘Alkotmányozás dokumentai’ [under ‘Jogi dokumentumok’ section of ‘Jogtár’], in Bozóki, A. et al. (eds) (2000a). Bozóki, A., Elbert, M., Kalmár, M., Révész, B., Ripp, E. & Ripp, Z. (eds) (2000e) ‘Szerkeztői Tájékoztató’ [under ‘Bevezető’ section], in Bozóki, A. et al. (eds) (2000a).

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Bruszt, L. (1990) ‘1989: The Negotiated Revolution in Hungary’, Social Research, 57, 2, Summer. Clausewitz, C. (1976) On War (Howard, M. & Paret, P., eds) (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press). Hankiss, E. (1989) ‘Annus Morabilis? Annus Miserabilis?’, in Kurtán, S., Sándor, P. & Vass, L. (eds) (1989) Magyarország Politikai Évkönyve 1988 (Debrecen, R-Forma Kiadói Kft). Kalmár, M. (2002) ‘From ‘‘Model Change’’ to Regime Change: The Metamorphosis of the MSZMP’s Tactics in the Democratic Transition’, in Bozóki, A. (ed.) (2002). Kurtán, S., Sándor, P. & Vass, L. (eds) (1990) ‘Tizenkét hónap krónikája’ [‘A Chronicle of Twelve Months’], in Kurtán, S., Sándor, P. & Vass, L. (eds) (1990) Magyarország Politikai Évkönyve 1989 (Budapest, AULA Kiadó and OMIKK). Nicolson, H. (1933) Peacemaking 1919: Being Reminiscences of the Paris Peace Conference (the reference is to the 2001 edition: Safety Harbor, FL, Simon Publications). Ripp, Z. (2002) ‘Unity and Division: The Opposition Roundtable and its Relationship to the Communist Party’, in Bozóki, A. (ed.) (2002). Tőkeś, R.L. (1996) Hungary’s Negotiated Revolution (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press).

427

Appendix 1 DRAMATIS PERSONAE Name

Affiliation

Notes

József Antall

Hungarian Democratic Forum

Museum administrator and historian, first post-socialist prime minister

Tibor Baranyai

Social Democratic Active in Party of Hungary 1945–48

party

Imre Boross

Independent Smallholders’ Party

party

László Bruszt

League Independent Unions

Gábor Fodor

Fidesz

Active in 1945–49

of Sociologist, coined Trade the term ‘negotiated revolution’ Founder member, law graduate

428

Tibor Füzessy

Christian Founder member, Democratic People’s retired lawyer Party

Istváan Gaskó

Founder member of Social Democratic independent trade Party of Hungary union of railway workers

Károly Grósz

Successor to Jaanos Hungarian Socialist Kádár as Party Workers’ Party leader

Elemér Hankiss

League Independent Unions

of Sociologist, head of Trade Hungarian TV, 1990–93

Miklós Haraszti

Alliance of Democrats

Active in ‘democratic Free opposition’, author of Worker in a Worker’s State

Péter Kelemen

League Independent Unions

of Founder member of Trade independent teachers’ union

429

Christian Active in Sándor Democratic People’s Democratic People’s Keresztes Party Party 1945–49

János Kis

Alliance of Democrats

Philosopher, leading member of Free ‘democratic opposition’, editor of samizdat journal

Imre Kónya

League Independent Unions

of Founder member of Trade Independent Lawyers’ Forum

Lászlo Kövér

Fidesz

István Patriotic Kukorelli Front

Law graduate, founding member People’s

Academic lawyer

Bálint Magyar

Alliance of Democrats

Free Sociologist, helped publish samizdat

Miklós Németh

Hungarian Socialist Prime Minister Workers’ Party

430

Law graduate, founder member and spokesman, later prime minister

Viktor Orbán

Fidesz

Iván Pető

Alliance of Democrats

Imre Pozsgay

Hungarian Socialist Party candidate for Workers’ Party president

László Sólyom

Hungarian Democratic Forum

Academic lawyer, advisor to environmentalist movement, later president of constitutional court

Hungarian Democratic Forum

Academic historian, member of Smallholders 1945–46, founder member

György Szabad

Free

431

Founder member, active in ‘democratic opposition’

Zsuzsa Szelényi

Fidesz

Gáspár Miklós Tamás

Alliance of Democrats

Iván Timkó

Hungarian Democratic Forum

Péter Alliance of Tölgyessy Democrats

Member leadership

Free

of

Philosopher, active in ‘democratic opposition’

Academic lawyer, Free established links with opposition 1987

Csaba Varga

National secretary, Hungarian People’s writer and publisher Party on village life and popular culture

Károly Vigh

Bajcsy-Zsilinszky Friendship Society

432

Retired historian and archivist, founder member

László Vitézy

League Independent Unions

of Founder of Trade independent union of film-makers

Appendix 2: Abbreviations used for negotiating sessions Negotiating sessions on the CD-ROM (Bozóki et al. 2000) can be accessed either chronologically or thematically by negotiation type. Perhaps the easiest means of access is to identify the date using the chronology index (Kronológia) and then click on the various types of negotiation or document that figure on that day. ORT followed by date and page number (day/month)—internal sessions of Opposition Round Table (Ellenzéki Kerekasztal). Mid pol followed by date and page number (day/month)—the three-party negotiations of the middle level (középszintű tárgyalások) political arbitration committee (politikai egyeztető bizottság). I/1 followed by date and page number (day/month)—the specialist level working committee (politikai munkabizottság) on ‘timely aspects of the modification of the constitution and the questions of the institution of the presidency of the republic and the Constitutional Court’ (az alkotmánymódosítás időszerű tételei, a köztársasági elnöki intézmény eś az Alkotmánybíróság kérdeśei). I/6 followed by date and page number (day/month)—the specialist level working committee (politikai munkabizottság) on the creation of legal guarantees to exclude solutions using

433

force (az erőszakos megoldások kizáró jogi garanciák megteremtése). 1

‘Party’ will henceforth refer to the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party, the ‘Communist’ party. 2

The classic statement of ‘negotiated revolution’ is in László Bruszt (1990). The fullest discussion is by Rudolf L. Tőkés (1996). 3

See Clausewitz (1976). For the simplicity of war aims and literal fog, see Book One, Chapter Seven on ‘Friction in War’; for the figurative fog of uncertainty, see Book Two, Chapter Two ‘On the Theory of War’. 4

The focus chosen here is the issue of the presidency, perhaps the most contested issue in the whole process. As readers who follow Hungarian events will be aware, much of Hungary’s ‘negotiated revolution’ was recorded on videotape, giving a more or less verbatim record of the ‘how’. Thanks to the commitment of a team of scholars led by András Bozóki, these have been made available to the general public in the form of eight printed volumes in Hungarian, a summary volume in English, and a Hungarian CD-ROM which covers volumes one to six and eight of the printed version. I have used the CD-ROM version (Bozóki et al. 2000a) because of ease of access. For more background on the project, see, Bozóki et al. (2000e, pp. 1 – 10). 5

Unfortunately this sentence is mistranslated in Bozóki’s English-language publication. Paragraph 1.a) of the

434

agreement on 21 June refers to the ‘timing of the amendment of the Constitution, and questions relating to the Presidency of the Republic and the Constitutional Court’. But the original Hungarian is ‘időszerű’ which simply means ‘timely’ or ‘of the moment’. The timing of the presidential elections was not an issue at this point. The presidency was simply a question of the moment, something in the air. The timing issue came onto the agenda much later. Compare Bozóki (2002, p. 311) and the Hungarian text of the 21 June agreement (accessible via the Kronológia index) of the CD-ROM (Bozóki et al. 2000a, p. 1). 6

Tőkés (1996, p. 497) notes that Pozsgay should have known. He was privy to secret service briefings which warned this would happen. 7

The League had observer status only and did not sign, the Social Democrats signed but noted their objection to the presidency. 8

Whenever a new character is introduced his full name and affiliation is given. Thereafter s/he is referred to by her/his family name. A dramatis personae is given in Appendix 1 to ease identification. 9

There are no page numbers on Bozóki et al. (2000a), neither for the collection as a whole, nor for individual articles or documents. Documents and articles are accessed by clicking on the title in the various indices. Within articles and documents, page numbers given in this article refer to the number of clicks in the right-hand paging column needed to reach the reference. 435

10

Magyar Nemzet, 29 September 1989.

11

Magyar Nemzet, 17 – 20 October 1989.

12

Magyar Nemzet, 30 November 1989.

13

ORT, 7/6, in Bozóki et al. (2000a, pp. 40 – 41). For details of the abbreviations used in references to ORT, please see the explanation provided in Appendix 2. 14

ORT, 9/6, pp. 29 – 30.

15

ORT, 20/6, pp. 27, 38 and 48.

16

Mid pol, 6/7, in Bozóki et al. (2000a, p. 26). For details of the abbreviations used in references to Mid pol, please see the explanation provided in Appendix 2. 17

ORT, 28/6, p. 21.

18

ORT, 28/6, suggestion is made on p. 25, it is finally agreed on p. 33. 19

ORT, 28/6, p. 30.

20

ORT, 28/6, p. 31.

21

ORT, 6/7, pp. 25 – 27.

22

ORT, 6/7, pp. 29 – 30.

23

ORT, 6/7, p. 40.

436

24

ORT, 6/7, pp. 30 – 32.

25

ORT, 6/7, p. 32.

26

ORT, 6/7, p. 34.

27

I/1, 17/7, in Bozóki et al. (2000a, p. 7). For details of the abbreviations used in references to I/1, please see the explanation provided in Appendix 2. 28

I/1, 17/7, p. 8.

29

I/1, 17/7, p. 8.

30

I/1, 27/7, p. 3.

31

I/1, 31/7, p. 4.

32

I/1, 22/8, p. 2.

33

ORT, 21/7, pp. 36 – 37.

34

ORT, 21/7, pp. 42 – 44.

35

ORT, 21/7, p. 60.

36

ORT, 21/7, p. 65.

37

ORT, 27/7, pp. 32 – 36.

38

ORT, 27/7, p. 54.

39

ORT, 27/7, p. 61.

437

40

ORT, 27/7, pp. 66 – 67.

41

ORT, 27/7, p. 53.

42

For arguments about publicity and disagreements within the ORT, see ORT, 3/8, pp. 57 – 58 and footnote 25 and ORT, 23/8, footnote 5. For the young communist initiative and reactions to it, see ORT, 17/8, footnote 8 and Bozóki et al. (2000c, p. 33). 43

ORT, 17/8, p. 10.

44

ORT, 17/8, pp. 41 – 42.

45

ORT, 23/8, pp. 12 – 13.

46

ORT, 23/8, p. 14.

47

ORT, 23/8, p. 24.

48

ORT, 23/8, pp. 27 – 28.

49

ORT, 23/8, p. 29.

50

ORT, 23/8, pp. 30 – 31.

51

ORT, 23/8, p. 47 and footnote 32.

52

ORT, 24/8, p. 6.

53

ORT, 24/8, p. 18.

54

Mid pol, 30/8, pp. 10, 12 – 13.

438

55

Mid pol, 4/9, pp. 16 – 20.

56

I/1, 7/9, p. 2.

57

Mid pol, 4/9, pp. 22 – 24; 15/9, pp. 6 – 8.

58

ORT, 11/9, pp. 4 – 7.

59

ORT, 11/9, pp. 7 – 8.

60

ORT, 11/9, pp. 9 – 10.

61

ORT, 11/9, p. 13.

62

ORT, 11/9, pp. 30 – 31.

63

ORT, 11/9, pp. 33 – 34.

64

Mid pol, 11/9, pp. 17 – 28; 15/9, pp. 54 – 57; 18/9, pp. 8 – 10. 65

ORT, 15/9, p. 64.

66

ORT, 15/9, p. 74.

67

ORT, 15/9, p. 66.

68

ORT, 15/9, p. 68.

69

ORT, 15/9, p. 69.

70

ORT, 15/9, p. 71.

439

71

ORT, 15/9, p. 72. He suggested the participation of two thirds of the electorate and receipt of 50% plus one of the vote. 72

ORT, 15/9, pp. 77 – 78.

73

ORT, 15/9, p. 79.

74

ORT, 15/9, p. 79.

75

ORT, 18/9, p. 6.

76

ORT, 18/9, p. 7.

77

ORT, 18/9, pp. 7 – 8.

78

ORT, 18/9, p. 9.

79

ORT, 18/9, pp. 9 – 10.

80

ORT, 29/8, p. 65.

81

ORT, 29/8, pp. 2 – 18.

82

ORT, 29/8, pp. 19 – 48.

83

ORT, 29/8, pp. 48 – 62.

84

ORT, 29/8, pp. 63 – 64.

85

ORT, 29/8, p. 68.

86

ORT, 29/8, pp. 65 – 70. For Tamás’s comments, see Mid pol, 24/8, footnote 25. For the original positions, see 440

I/6, 12/7, in Bozóki et al. (2000a, p. 10); and I/6, 26/7, p. 5. For details of the abbreviations used in references to I/6, please see the explanation provided in Appendix 2. 87

ORT, 29/8, pp. 70 – 72.

88

ORT, 29/8, p. 73.

89

ORT, 29/8, p. 72.

90

ORT, 29/8, pp. 75 – 76.

91

ORT, 29/8, p. 76.

92

ORT, 29/8, p. 78.

93

ORT, 29/8, p. 79.

94

ORT, 29/8, p. 80.

95

ORT, 29/8, p. 76.

96

ORT, 29/8, p. 81.

97

ORT, 29/8, pp. 81 – 83.

98

ORT, 29/8, pp. 83 – 85.

99

ORT, 29/8, pp. 85 – 86.

100

ORT, 29/8, pp. 86 – 93.

101

ORT, 29/8, pp. 93 – 95.

441

102

ORT, 29/8, pp. 95 – 97.

103

ORT, 29/8, pp. 97 – 99.

104

ORT, 29/8, p. 99.

105

ORT, 29/8, pp. 101 – 103.

106

ORT, 29/8, pp. 103 – 104.

107

ORT, 29/8, pp. 104 – 106.

108

ORT, 29/8, pp. 107 – 108.

109

ORT, 29/8, pp. 109 – 111.

110

ORT, 29/8, pp. 111 – 112.

111

ORT, 29/8, pp. 113 – 114.

112

ORT, 29/8, pp. 114 – 117.

113

ORT, 29/8, pp. 120 – 121.

114

ORT, 29/8, p. 121.

115

ORT, 29/8, pp. 122 – 124.

116

ORT, 29/8, pp. 124 – 126.

117

ORT, 29/8, pp. 126 – 128.

118

ORT, 28/6, p. 26; 29/8, footnote 71.

442

119

ORT, 29/8, p. 133.

120

ORT, 29/8, p. 134.

121

ORT, 29/8, p. 134.

122

ORT, 29/8, p. 135.

123

ORT, 29/8, p. 135.

124

ORT, 29/8, pp. 136 – 137.

125

ORT, 29/8, pp. 137 – 139.

126

ORT, 29/8, pp. 139 – 140.

127

ORT, 29/8, pp. 140 – 141.

128

ORT, 29/8, pp. 141 – 143.

129

ORT, 29/8, p. 143.

130

ORT, 29/8, p. 143.

131

ORT, 29/8, p. 144.

132

ORT, 29/8, p. 144.

133

ORT, 29/8, p. 145.

134

ORT, 29/8, p. 145.

135

ORT, 29/8, p. 146.

443

136

ORT, 29/8, pp. 146 – 147.

137

ORT, 29/8, p. 146.

138

ORT, 29/8, p. 147.

139

ORT, 29/8, footnote 78. Fidesz members were conducting continuous demonstrations and hunger strikes in front of the Czechoslovak embassy in Budapest demanding the release of party members Tamás Deutsch and György Kereńyi who had been arrested after participating in the 21 August demonstrations in Prague commemorating the twenty-first anniversary of the Soviet invasion. 140

ORT, 29/8, pp. 147 – 148.

141

ORT, 29/8, p. 149.

142

ORT, 29/8, p. 149.

143

ORT, 29/8, p. 150.

144

ORT, 29/8, pp. 149 – 150.

145

ORT, 29/8, p. 151.

146

ORT, 29/8, pp. 150 – 154.

147

Antall clarified that the issue of the commander-in-chief related to the fact that in 1946 the Allied Control Commission did not allow the president

444

to be commander-in-chief and the legislation was rather confused. 148

ORT, 29/8, p. 155.

149

ORT, 29/8, p. 155.

150

ORT, 29/8, p. 156.

151

ORT, 29/8, p. 156.

152

ORT, 29/8, p. 157.

153

ORT, 29/8, pp. 157 – 158.

154

ORT, 29/8, pp. 158 – 159.

155

ORT, 29/8, p. 159.

156

ORT, 29/8, pp. 159 – 160.

157

ORT, 29/8, pp. 159 – 161.

158

ORT, 29/8, p. 161.

159

ORT, 29/8, p. 161.

160

ORT, 29/8, p. 161.

161

ORT, 29/8, p. 162.

162

ORT, 29/8, p. 162.

163

ORT, 29/8, pp. 162 – 163. 445

164

ORT, 29/8, pp. 164 – 165.

165

ORT, 29/8, p. 165.

166

ORT, 29/8, p. 167.

167

ORT, 29/8, pp. 168 – 169.

168

ORT, 29/8, p. 169.

169

ORT, 29/8, pp. 170 – 171.

170

ORT, 29/8, p. 171.

171

ORT, 29/8, p. 171.

172

ORT, 29/8, p. 172.

173

ORT, 29/8, pp. 172 – 173.

174

ORT, 29/8, p. 173.

175

ORT, 29/8, p. 174.

176

ORT, 29/8, pp. 175 – 176.

177

Mid pol, 11/9, p. 20.

446

Index

All-Poland Club of Catholic Intellectuals 92 Antall, J. 164, 165, 166, 167–168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 177, 178, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184 antifascism: 1944–1956 in Hungary 24–27; 1956 uprising 31–32; 1956–1989 in Hungary 32–40; 1960s personal political withdrawal 37–40; abandonment 27; communist state institutionalisation 28–29; post-1989 41–50; post-1989 communism demonisation 43–44, 46 Arrow Cross Party; Hungary 25, 26, 28, 44, 46 Assmann, J. 12 Association of Hungarian University and College Students 127 Atarov, N. 151 background; 1956 events viii-xi Balázs, E.; and Casoar, P. xviii; xix, 53–72 Baranyai, T. 164 Beretty, D. 56, 57 Beria, L. 145

447

Berman, J. 75, 98 Bibó, I. 6; antifascism 26 Bierut, B. 98 Black Book of Communism (Courtois et al) 43 Boross, I. 168, 172, 176, 177, 183 Borsod County Workers’ Council 134, 136–137 Bourdieu, P. 143 Brezhnev, L. 153 Brzezinski, Z. 104 Bulganin, N. 115; Warsaw visit 99 Casoar, P. and Balázs, E. xviii; xix, 53–72 China; Polish crisis (1956) 86, 109–110, 113, 114, 116–117 Clausewitz, C. von 159, 183 Club of the Crooked Circle 77, 92 communist autobiography politics: Hungary (1944–1956) 24–32; Hungary (1956–1989) 32–40; Hungary (1989-) 41–50 Connerton, P. 12, 13 448

Cyrankiewicz, J. 81, 89, 93 De Biasi, M. 60 Dolmatovskii, E. 144 Dudek, A. et al 93, 100, 102 Dudintsev, V. 144, 150, 151, 152 Epoca 55, 60, 62, 63, 70 Fidesz 16, 17, 161, 170, 173, 175, 179, 180, 182 Fodor, G. 166 Földes, G. 127, 130, 131 Foldvari, R. 126, 127, 129, 130, 133, 135, 136, 137, 139 Füzessy, T. 163, 165, 168, 175, 181, 182, 183, 184 Gaskó, I. 172, 176, 179, 181 Gero, E. 129 Gierek, E. 81, 91 Gillis, J.R. 11, 13 Godard, J-L. 71 Goëss, F. 56, 60

449

Gomulka, W. 74, 83–94, 101, 103, 105–106, 110, 111, 112, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119–120; Hungarian Revolution 88–91; Palace of Culture and Science oration 87; reasons for Soviet acceptance 85–86 Gomulka, W. viii; ix; x; xv; xix Gorbachev, M. 156 Gross, J. 80–81 Grósz, K. 127, 138, 164 Gyáini, G. xix, 11–20 Gyor: background to revolutionary role 124–128; early stages of revolution 130–132; local power transfer 130–132; power and local administration 1346; Soviet resistance and end 136–140 Gyor National Council 124; 126; 131; 132; 134 Gyor Workers’ Council 138 Hankiss, E. 176 Haraszti, M. 175 Hegedüs, A. 126 Hirszowicz, M. 74 Hitler, A. 24

450

Hobsbawm, E. 1 Hollós, E. 67, 68, 69 Holocaust 42, 44 Holquist, P. 143 Horthy, M. 26, 42 Howard, R. 143 Hungarian Revolution (1956) 88–91, 92, 152; challenge to Soviet empire 7; counter-revolution 32–33, 40, 47, 63, 67, 68; DISZ xi; effect on Soviet socialist dogma 7; Fidesz’ mythical vision 16, 17; first shots xii; Gyor 124–128, 130–132; and historians’ role 17–19; hot and cold memory 12, 15, 17; Imre Nagy remembrance dispute 13–15; Köztársaság Square lynchings (1956) 36; main provincial centres 122–140; memory and discourse 11–20; Miskolc 124–130, 132–134; myth 12–13, 15; Nagy’s return xv; nineteenth century-type revolution 8; outline xi-xviii; PetofiCircle xi; xii; 82, 152; photojournalism 53–72; post-Revolutionary Hungary and the world 2–4; power and local administration 134–136; public demands for reform xi-xii 4; reprisals 35; revolutionary popular movement model 7; revolutionary vision 4–6; significance and memory 6–8; Soviet resistance and end 136–140; Transdanubian National Council 136; western magazines 62–63; Writers’ Memorandum xi Hungarian Socialist Party; creation 162

451

Hungary: 1945 as liberation 23, 24, 26, 28, 34–35, 39, 42, 45, 46; 1960s political withdrawal 37–40, 51; National Round Table (NRT) 161; negotiated revolution 159–185; Opposition Round Table (ORT) 160–183; politics of communist autobiographies (1944–56) 24–32; politics of communist autobiographies (1956–89) 32–40; politics of communist autobiographies (post-1989) 41–50; post–1989 communism demonisation 43–44, 46; presidency issue 161–162, 163–183 Imre Nagy Institute 18 Institute of National Remembrance vii Institute for the Study of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution vii Jaruzelski, W. 74 Kaczmarek, Bishop C. 76, 91 Kádár, J. 125, 137, 139 Kádár, J. xv; xviii, 2, 3, 4, 12–13, 16, 22, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 39, 47, 50 Keleman, P. 167 Kemp-Welch, A. ix; x; xix, 73–96 Kende, P. 7 Kéri, J. 127, 132, 137, 140

452

Kersten, K. 75 Kharkodin, O. 144 Khrushchev, N. 7, 17, 84, 85, 87, 97, 103, 105, 108, 109, 111–112, 113, 115, 117, 118, 119, 141–157; Warsaw visit 99 Khrushchev’s secret speech: background 145; December 19th letter 153–155, 156; need for clarification 148; public discussions 142, 147–149; public opinion emergence 146–155; questions 147–148; and Soviet public opinion 143–145; Writers’ Union meetings 142, 144, 149, 150–153, 155 Khrushchev’s secret speech viii-x; xi; xix, 76–77, 78, 97, 100, 141–157 Kis, J. 170, 172, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182 Kocsis, G. 70 Kónya, I. 164 Kopelev, L. 152, 153 Kornai, J. 2 Kukorelli, I. 164 Kultura 94

453

Kuron, J. 76 Little Soldier 71 Liu Shaoqi 116 Loga-Sowinski, I. 101–102 Lowenstein, K. E. ix; x; xix; xx, 141–157 Machcewicz, P. 80 MADISz (Hungarian Democratic Youth Alliance) 25 Magyar, B. 163, 166 Malenkov, G. 145, 153 Malin, M. 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117 Mao Zedong 109–110, 116, 117 Mark, J. xviii; xix, 21–52 Markó, G. 125, 131, 137 Mazowiecki, T. 92 Mazur, F. 113 Melcher, R. 67, 70, 71, 72; Hungarian Revolution photojournalism 56–61 Mikes, G. 70 454

Mikoyan, A. 82, 85, 90, 108, 111, 146 Mindszenty, J. 49–50 Miskolc: background to revolutionary role 124–128; early stages of revolution 128–130; local power transfer 128–130; post October 25th developments 132–134; power and local administration 134–136; Soviet resistance and end 136–140; Workers Organisation Committee 128–130 Molotov, V. 85, 145 Moscow Writers’ Union; Soviet public opinion 142, 144, 149, 150–153 Münnich, F. xv, 138 Nagy, A. 134 Nagy, E.; Imre Nagy remembrance dispute 13–15 Nagy, I. 22, 30, 34, 36, 38, 49, 125, 126, 127, 131, 135–136, 137, 138, 160; reburial 13 Nagy, I. viii; ix; x; xi; xii; xv, 5 Németh, M. 162 Not By Bread Alone (Dudintsev) 144, 150, 151, 152 Obushekov, H. G. 156

455

Ochab, E. 79, 80, 81, 84, 86, 87, 100, 102, 104, 120 Opposition Round Table (ORT); Hungary 160–183 Orbán, V. 169, 170, 173, 174, 175, 177, 178, 179, 181, 182–183, 184 Ovechkin, V. 152 Pankratova, A. 147, 148 Paris-Match: Communist Hungary photograph reaction 63–69; Hungarian Revolution photojournalism 53–62; iconic status in France 71; Western interpretations of photograph 69–71 Paustovskii, K. 151–152, 153 Pedrazzini, J-P. 55, 56, 71 Persak, K. x; xix, 97–122 Peto, I. 167, 168 PetofiCircle; Hungary xi; xii; 82; 152 photojournalism: Hungarian Revolution (1956) 53–72; Paris-Match reaction in communist Hungary 63–69 Pióro, T. 107 Po prostu 77, 92, 94

456

Poland: 1956 legacy 73–96; Bulganin’s visit 99; Church autonomy 75–76; de-Stalinism 74–78; explanations for June 1956 disorder 80–83; Front of National Unity (FNU) 93; Hungarian Revolution (1956) 88–91, 92; June 1956 events 78–80, 98; legislative election (1957) 93; Motorized Reserves of the Citizens’ Militia (ZOMO) 94–95; Natolinian faction 98–99, 101, 102; October 1956 events 83–88; October 1956 legacy 94–95; post-1956 church-state relations 91–93; public feeling in July 99–100; Pulavian faction 98–99, 102; Solidarity 94; Stalin Factory (ZiSPO) demonstration 79–80; strikes 78; Ursus tractor factory 78; Wroclaw University demonstration 83–84 Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR) 74, 75, 76, 77–78, 97, 99 Polish-Soviet confrontation (1956) 73–96, 97–122; Belvedere Palace talks 103–106, 110, 111, 117; Chinese veto 86, 109–110, 113, 114, 116–117; CPSU Central Committee Presidium meeting notes 111–117, 120; crisis extrication 110–118; Eighth Central Committee Plenum 101–102, 103, 104, 109, 110, 112, 113, 115–116; Khrushchev’s visit 99; Natolinian faction 98–99, 101, 102; Polish thaw 97–99; Pulavian faction 98–99, 102, 104; Rokossovsky issue 118–120; Soviet delegation to Warsaw 102–106; Soviet military intervention 106–109, 112, 113; speeding-up of events 101–102 Ponomarenko, P. 102, 112

457

Pozsgay, I. 160, 164, 165, 167, 168, 169, 172, 175, 183, 184 Pravda 82, 87, 143, 148 Radkiewicz, S. 78 Rainer, J. M. xviii-xix, 1–10, 14, 15 Rajk, L.; reburial 31 Rajk, L. viii Rákosi, M. 29, 30, 82, 137, 138 reform socialism 29, 30 Reid, S. 144 Ripp, Z. 12 Rokossovsky, K. 80, 84, 85, 90, 92, 100, 102, 105, 112, 118–120 Simonov, K. 150 Slavin, L. 150–151 Smallholders’ Party; Hungary 26, 28, 29 Solidarity 161, 176 Sólyom, L. 170

458

Sopron 128–129 Soviet public opinion: Institute of Public Opinion 145; and Khrushchev’s secret speech 141–157; letter of December 19th 153–155, 156; Writers’ Union meetings 142, 144, 149, 150–153, 155 Spychalski, M. 119 Stalin Factory (ZiSPO); Poland 79–80 Stalin, J. 142, 143, 146, 147; death viii; ix, 145 Stusiak, L. 79 Subor, M. 71 Swain, N. xx, 159–185 Szabad, G. 164, 167, 170, 174, 176, 183 Szabad Nép 88, 127 Szakolczai, A. ix; x; xix, 122–140 Szelényi, I. 17 Szigethy, A. 125–127, 131–132, 134, 135, 136, 138, 139–140 Tamás, G. M. 171 Time 69

459

Timko, I. 176, 177, 178 Tito, J. B. xv, 5, 89 Tölgyessy, P. 161, 163, 164, 166, 169, 170, 171, 172, 175, 177, 178, 179, 180, 182, 184 Transdanubian National Council 136 Tygodnik Powszechny 91 Varga, C. 165, 166, 171, 172, 173, 174, 176, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183 Vigh, K. 165, 166, 172, 177 Wajda, A. 78 Warsaw Club of Catholic Intelligentsia (KIK) 77 Werblan, A. 110 White, H. 18 Workers Organisation Committee; Miskolc 128–130 Writers’ Memorandum; Hungary xi Wu Lengxi 109, 110 Wyszynski, Cardinal S. 76, 91, 93 Yudin, P. 110

460

Zambrowski, R. 98, 99 Zawadzki, A. 101–102, 106

461