Somebody mentioned the National Club. “The whole place is unspeakably filthy,” Jeszenszky said. “The silver, the whole equipment, the library, have all been confiscated. The office which disposes of the property of the Church has been established there. An unfrocked priest of the Piarist Order sits there organising the despoiling of the Church and the confiscation of the property of the various creeds. The provincial Soviets receive their orders to attack convents and the palaces of bishops from this place.” Evening was darkening the windows. The clock struck. For a while we stayed with Jeszenszky, then we walked towards the village. “Let us look at that house which is for sale,” said Elisabeth Kállay, as we turned off the main road. We crossed a small farmyard. The house was surrounded by mud, and it took some time before the good wife could be found. She asked us to wait as the master was out, and brought us chairs. A young man strolled out from the stable, doffed his hat, and sat down on the stairs. Now and then he looked stealthily at us, then went on smoking his pipe in silence. Lenke Kállay spoke to him. “One knows little that is good and little that is bad about this new order,” he said cautiously. “There are some who like it and some who don’t. It may be true that the Government intends to give every farmer three hundred acres and make them free of taxes.” Then he cast his eyes down and began to stir the mud with the point of his boot. “You see, they will confiscate nothing but big fortunes, and that for justice’s sake.” The sound of a cart was heard approaching from the main road. Elisabeth Kállay turned in that direction. “I have heard that carts and horses are being requisitioned for the Red army.” The attitude of the man changed suddenly. He raised his head threateningly and his voice was full of rage: “Just let them try. I will knock down the first who touches mine!” * * * * * _April 11th–13th._ Palm Sunday. Spring has come. Easter is approaching through awakening nature, and yet this Palm Sunday is very different from all those I can remember. The days of persecution, forgotten for thousands of years, are rising from their grave and haunting us. Life is like the ravings of a fever-stricken brain; the Christian faith is persecuted in Hungary to-day. Our churches are in danger. Kunfi, the People’s Commissary for Education, the Jew who has so often changed his religion, has decreed that the priests must read from the pulpit every Sunday for three weeks only that which they are directed to read.