Hungary

So once upon a time there was the Austro-Hungarian Empire. These days? Well, no more empire. And today the Hungarian half of the equation is celebrating its National Day—the anniversary of the day Hungary became a republic in 1989. You know—the spread of the Velvet Revolution. I didn’t make it to Hungary when I was in Europe, but it looks like I’ll have a chance to spend a (very cold) few days there when I head back to Australia for another sunny Christmas.

The Blue Danube, Buda and Pest. My early stamp collection, and the sense of enlightenment I felt when my mother told me that the stamps marked “Magyar” were from Hungary.

I remember the fall of the Berlin Wall—and sometimes I even like to think I have a vague recollection about hearing about the end of the one-party system in then-Czechoslovakia. But I know I wasn’t aware that Hungary had had the same Post-World War II period under Communist control. (I was nine—I think I should be relatively pleased I knew about Gorbachev, about perestroika and glasnost. We watched stories about these on the wonderful “BTN” or “Behind the News,” aimed to let 9-year-olds like me know the background to world events. But Hungary? Couldn’t have told you much other than the fact I liked their stamps.) As Central and Eastern European countries began to break out from Soviet control, Hungary followed suit.

In May 1989 Hungarians began to remove the barbed wire fence that ran along the Austrian border—apparently it was the first rip in the Iron Curtain. Hey—that’s pretty important stuff right there.

Free elections returned after four decades of Communist Rule in March 1990. It hasn’t been the easiest transition—no major upheavals politically, but the transition to a free market economy has taken its toll on living standards for the majority. (I don’t know how the current crisis is playing out in this region of Europe… note to self: learn everything.)

Now, go out and eat Goulash. Play Bartók’s violin quartets. Pick up a CD of Ligeti’s music. Dig your Rubik’s cube out of the back of the cupboard. Have a glass of Pálinka. Kick back. Relax. Read a poem. Like, for instance, “The Hole,” by Imre Oravecz. I found it in New European Poets.


The Hole

The sheep with the trepanned head stood on the other side of the fence,

in the shade,
facing us,
its head hanging,
motionless,
silent,
an arm’s length away,

in its head was a huge funnel-shaped hole
which we could see down into,

the hole consisted of mildew-colored concentric rings
that narrowed to a single point,

in the point something throbbed,

the whole thing was like a bird’s-eye view of an exposed surface mine,
only the busy engines and trucks were missing
from the circular beam,

we would have liked to reach in through the pickets
and poke in it with a stick,
but we didn’t dare,

we just stood there holding our breath,
and looked at it, stupefied.

—Imre Oravecz
from New European Poets
translated from the Hungarian by Bruce Berling and Mária Kõrösy