From behind the clouds a pale sun lit up the gloomy town. All the shops were closed, and the tiny red flags adorning the buildings fluttered in an icy wind. Careworn faces passed rapidly before the window of the rattling cab. A black crowd had gathered on the pavement in front of a pork-butcher’s shop, the signboard of which advertised luscious hams and appetising sausages, looking now like the impossibilities of a prehistoric age. But the shop window was absolutely empty. Further on a baker’s shop displayed a wooden sign on which were painted beautiful loaves and rolls. This, too, gave the impression of a diagram in a museum, showing things of the past; it made one feel suddenly hungry. Posters everywhere, innumerable red posters. But there were no goods in the shops, and disappointed women slunk along the walls. “The Red Newspaper!” howled a tiny urchin. “The Young Proletarian!” And he waved the papers in the air. Few passers-by bought any, but went on with their heads drawn between their shoulders as if they expected blows. Is this the town of the glorious revolution, this sad mass of dirty, frightened buildings standing amidst piles of dustbins filled to the brim? Is this the rapturous achievement for the sake of which Hungary had to perish—a town where the factories have stopped, the shops are closed and all work has ceased? A town where all and everybody have but one of two thoughts: either “We have lost everything,” or “Now everything is ours!” The appearance of the principal railway station was like a nightmare. Its walls were covered with obscene drawings and dirty scribblings; it had not been swept, and sawdust had been strewn over the mud. Machine-guns were standing in the ankle-deep dirt, greasy pieces of paper were flying about, unnameable filth covered the flagstones and oozed beneath the people’s feet. A rough, impatient crowd pushed and jostled, and the air was pervaded by an insufferable stench. While Zsigmondy took my ticket I looked at the people. Many of them kept their eyes to the ground as if they wanted to hide—these were in flight. Some swore obscenely. A sailor was examining luggage at the entrance, and rewarded himself for his trouble by continually putting things from them into his pocket. At a distance I saw Elisabeth Kállay. She saw me too, but we did not take any notice of each other. Suddenly I found my sister Mary standing by my side. She was very pale and only her eyes greeted me. The Secretary of the Women’s Union came towards me: “The trip won’t last long and I shall bring you news!” I passed the newspaper stall. Nothing but ‘Red Newspapers,’ ‘The People’s Voice,’ ‘The Young Proletarian,’ and the little red and blue volumes of ‘The Workmen’s Library.’ In the crowd I managed to embrace my sister. Then, “God bless you, Zsigmondy!”