They want to rob us of our cradles and graves, “in the name of peace and justice....” My God! “Natural frontiers....” Are they making fun of our sufferings? Dare they call the wound cut into the country’s body “Natural frontiers?” Somebody in the room laughed gruesomely. “Here, we overlooked this: the frontier is only fixed till the conclusion of a definitive peace treaty....” I clung to the words, supported myself with them as with crutches. “Of course these frontiers are meant for the Bolsheviks only. They are threats to induce them to surrender....” Aladár Huszár shook his head sadly: “You will see, all this will remain....” * * * * * _June 22nd–23rd._ The days when something happens to us are not always the worst. The long dragging hours of eventless days are just as terrible. To stand roped to the mast of a wreck, to wait passively, to gaze at the hopeless horizon and to fancy that every white wave is a sail. To see the lights of phantom vessels, to hear imaginary voices. There is nothing to see, nothing to hear: all this is as much torture as the catastrophe itself. * * * * * _June 24th._ The blossoms of the acacias have faded, but this year I have not seen their beauty. Now they have fallen to the ground and something else is in the air—a rich scent which floats through my window. If it had a colour it would be white, if it were visible it would smile—the limes are blooming. Somewhere, everywhere. Books are less heavy to my weary hands, and I can now sit up in bed. The shrill whistle of the trains no longer pierces my brain, and there are many trains running, more and more every day. The troop trains are coming back: something is happening. The Soviet meeting was suddenly broken up and Budapest is under martial law. The Soviet members of Balassagyarmat have already come home, and judging by their reports the triumphant Soviet must have been a strange gathering. During the proceedings the comrades unfolded their greasy parcels and began to eat, filling the place with the smell of garlic and the litter of food. Notwithstanding prohibition there was a good deal of drinking in the dining-room, and while the comrades in the House of Parliament were gushing about Proletarian happiness, outside, at the entrance to the former House of Lords, the leather-jacketed Lenin Boys were brutalising pale and starving people.