A young girl came along, a Hungarian. She distributed chrysanthemums and smiled, and her shaded eyes shone like a child’s: “Long live independent Hungary!” I stared at her. There are some like this too. Many, perhaps very many. They live the glorious revolution of 1848 in this infamous parody, and dream of the realization of Kossuth’s dreams. Poor wretches! They are even more unfortunate than I am.
The girl offered me a flower and talked some nonsense about Petöfi. I wanted to tell her to give it up and go home, that she had been deceived and it was all lies; but my efforts were in vain, I could not pronounce a single word. I stumbled over the edge of the pavement, my feet seemed leaden.... A bucket stood in front of me with a big brush in it. I looked up. A weedy youth was spreading paste over the wall, and a new poster glared at me. The people stood around and craned their necks.
“Soldiers! You have proved yourselves the greatest heroes within, the last twenty-four hours, don’t soil the honours you have gained.... Abstain from intoxicating liquors.... Obey your comrades who have volunteered to maintain order. With patriotic, cordial greetings,
Heltai,
Town Commandant.”
“And who is that, now?” people asked each other.
“The Commander of the troops?”
“Is he the Heltai who is the son of Adolph Hoffer?”
“To be sure!” I heard behind my back.
The unkempt crowd laughed.
“Paul Kéri and Göndör got him nominated by the National Council.”