The town, quiet during the day, went to sleep early. The March wind blows cold and chases through dark empty streets. The shop-signs swing like black shadows, and the brass plates of barbers’ shops dance in the air.
Our street sleeps too. Through its dream a step breaks now and then. In the next room the clock with the alabaster pillars strikes midnight in hesitating strokes. Who goes there, in this stormy night?
I seem to see him. He is tall and wears an old-fashioned shabby dolman. His white shirt is folded over it, and the wind plays with the soft collar. His face is scarcely visible, so far has he drawn the cap over his eyes. He goes on and on, through empty, unfriendly streets. His spurs clink, and his big sword knocks against his boots. A motor races through the streets, its interior lit up by an electric bulb. A heavy-featured fat man leans back into the cushions. A patrol turns the corner. “Pogány,” says one of the men. The boots of Red soldiers tramp unsteadily on the pavement. They pass the man in the dolman, look in his direction, but see him not. His fluttering collar touches them, but they feel it not. And he just glares at the red gashes left on their caps where the national cockades have been torn off.
“What have you done with my rosettes?”
His face turns paler than death. He goes on. His eyes wander over the empty flag-staffs between the red flags.
“What have you done to my flags?”
His way takes him past some lighted windows. They are working up there in an editorial office. Red soldiers stand with cocked revolvers in front of the editorial table. They are the censors, and the rotary presses hum in the cellars. Compositors in linen overalls, besmeared with ink, lean over their work.
“What have you done with my free press? What have you done with its freedom born in March?”
He leans over the compositors’ shoulders, and his eyes pass over the letters. They do not see him, nor hear him; they go on composing the line: “Under the statue of Alexander Petöfi, Eugene Landler spoke of the significance of March 15th. The choir sang the Marseillaise.”
“What have you done with my songs?”