A theatre was the scene of the opening ceremony. The First National Assembly of Hungarian Soviets met in a suburban theatre in the neighbourhood of the old clothes’ market. “Red walls and wreaths, arranged by inspiring, artistic hands,” the Red chronicler reports. “Silence dominates the audience of thousands, the crowded boxes, when the curtain is raised.” On the stage there is a red tribune ornamented with artificial red flowers and a long table where the People’s Commissaries assemble. “A historical, grandiose gathering,” says the reporter of ‘The People’s Voice.’ “The stage is inundated with a flood of light. The strains of the Internationale rise. Everyone feels that this is the beginning of the second thousand of Hungary’s historical years.” (A pity it’s begun on the stage, though.) “You are burying to-day this country’s thousand years old Constitution,” said Alexander Garbai, the President of the Council, in his opening speech. But a People’s Constitution grows from its soil, like the crops, and no executioners can kill the soil. To-day the soil is suffering in silence: it is the apotheosis of Béla Kun. “The Congress rose for him and applauded him madly for several minutes.” His will is done. He imposes the ‘Constitution’ he likes, and the Soviet joins the Third International. Its leader then produced a message from Red Russia’s leader: “Every Proletarian will fight like a tiger; we shall win or die!” The factory workers swore fidelity: “We will be the pillars of the Soviet Republic.” Steps came along the quiet street and somebody said “good day”: it was Mrs. Huszár speaking through the window. The local schoolmaster was outside and wanted to borrow a copy of Marx’s works. He has to give a lecture on the Communist Declaration. He doesn’t want to, but what is he to do? He will get two hundred crowns for it, and if he disobeys he will be dismissed; besides, he has so many children.... I remembered a tale of the country where the hunchbacks lived. Once upon a time there was a country which was inhabited exclusively by hunchbacks. If by any chance anyone with a straight back happened to enter the country he was at once put to death. Everything went on all right till one day it pleased God to give an exceptional year for wine. Hills and vales resounded with the music of the grape harvest, and it so happened that many people got drunk on the new wine. In the land of hunchbacks the ground was shaking with dancing and the air was filled with songs. Then it happened that a drunken young fellow snatched the hump from his back and waved it with joyful shouts above his head. Others imitated him—all had regained their courage. So they shook their false humps from their backs and finally it turned out that there was only one genuine hunchback in the whole of the hunchbacks’ country. The steps receded from the window: the teacher went off with Marx’s writings under his arm. Wait till the grape harvest, land of Hunchbacks!