In vain has the Cabinet decreed under the pain of severe penalties that the ‘blue’ money (of the Austro-Hungarian Bank) must be exchanged within nine days for their own ‘white’ banknotes. At ‘The People’s Bank’ of Balassagyarmat the people of the whole county have so far exchanged twenty crowns. The peasants hide their money and say: “What good is it to pay it into the bank if it is worthless? Let the worthless things remain in our trunks.” The other day a soldier stuck the white money he had received for pay on the wall. It has no purchasing value. The peasants laugh among themselves. They are hiding their crops, they did not enlist, and they will not give their money to Béla Kun. As for the propaganda speakers, they say: “We sent them back to the Government—in blankets.” Since things have taken this turn, the three hundred crowns daily wage fails to revive the enthusiasm of the Jewish agitators engaged by the Dictatorship of the Proletariat. The Commissary for Education has now decreed that henceforth the teachers will have to speak to the people in the villages. * * * * * Voices in the next room. Railwaymen, postmen, simple citizens now frequently slip in by the back door; they come for advice and bring the news. The Czechs have again entered Kassa, but the Rumanians have not withdrawn from the Tisza, whatever Clemenceau may have promised. The heroic pupils of the military academy escaped death at the last moment: the Terror tribunal sentenced them to hard labour. This is to Romanelli’s credit. It is said that it was he who delivered Baron Perényi and his patriotic companions from gaol whither the Counter-revolution of June 24th had brought them. A deep sad voice spoke: “Fourteen counter-revolutionaries have been sentenced to death in Budapest....” I strolled out into the little back garden but even there I could not breathe. The trees did not move. The soil was hot and above it the air trembled like leaves above an open fire. * * * * * _July 12th._ They came slowly round the corner, talking with an air of importance. Then they stopped, as though quarrelling. They had Soviet caps on their heads and were dressed, regardless of the heat, in leather coats and black leggings. Then I noticed the hand grenades in their belts. They had a bestial look about them, with faces that betrayed a familiarity with gaol. The hand of one was covered with black hair and he had a costly ring on his finger. Where did he get it from? I shuddered. They have been coming for days, their number has increased since the Entente insisted on the evacuation of Balassagyarmat. The forsaken town listens trembling at night when their nailed boots clatter along the pavement and stares at them with horror from under doorways, from behind drawn curtains. They laugh, boisterously, their mouths wide open....