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Memory Practices: The Red and White Terrors in as Remembered after 1990

Béla Bodó University of Bonn, Germany [email protected]

Abstract

This article examines the memory of the Red and White Terrors as they relate to public monuments after the collapse of state . It shows how the memory of politi- cal violence has been exploited and instrumentalized by various actors to achieve po- litical and cultural ends, and the role of civic organizations and private individuals in keeping the memory of these two key events in Hungarian history alive. Finally, the article discusses the commoditization of memory and memory practices in the last fifteen years, and the role of the Red and White in identity politics.

Keywords political violence – memory practices – mourning memorials – justice – 1919 – Council Republic – the 1956 Revolution –

The dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the fall of 1918 inaugurated a period of rapid change in East-Central Europe. Independent Hungary, which emerged as one of the “successor states” to the Dual Monarchy, experienced two revolutions in ten months. The democratic regime, born in the of 1918, was too weak and indecisive to defend the country’s bor- ders and put its reforms, such as the distribution of the large estates among peasants, into practice. The formation of the Hungarian Council Republic in March 1919 was a response to the greed of the victorious Entente powers and neighboring states, which raised impossible territorial demands on the new republic. For a short while, the nation rallied behind the new radical govern- ment in the hope that, with the help of the , it would be able to

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Memory Practices 187 reverse the fortunes of the war. Hungarian soldiers marched under the red flag of the world revolution to reclaim at least some of the territories that had come under Czech and Romanian control after . While, at the beginning, the large majority of Hungarians supported the foreign policy of the Coun- cil Republic, they watched with apprehension its efforts to transform society from the start. The politically inexperienced leaders of the Council Republic, many of whom came from journalistic backgrounds, were determined to put their radical ideas into practice. Having only limited public support to realize their revolutionary agenda, they were soon forced to resort to violence to break popular resistance to their plans. The Red Terror, as the suppression of peas- ant rebellions and middle-class opposition became known in Hungary and the world, cost the lives of at least five hundred people. In the end, the Council ­Republic failed miserably on both fronts. By the end of June 1919, it had turned the better part of the population into the enemy of . At the end of July the invading Romanian Army broke through the front line and occu- pied the central part of the country and . The leaders of the Council Republic either went into hiding or fled the country. The four-month experi- ence with the Council Republic evoked a strong reaction from the traditional elites and the peasantry, which suffered the most under communist rule. The officers’ detachments and the right-wing civic militias, which ­mushroomed after the collapse of the Council Republic, went on a campaign of revenge. They targeted not only the supporters of the Left, but also innocent Jews, whom they blamed for the lost war, foreign occupation, the two revolutions, the communist violence, and social and economic collapse. Their violent cam- paign, which progressive contemporaries both in Hungary and abroad called the White ­Terror, killed at least 1500 people and injured countless more be- tween August 1919 and March 1920 (Ungváry 2000; Bödők 2015; Salamon 2008; Ablovatski, 2004; Bodó 2008, 2010a, 2010b, 2011, 2015). Paramilitary and mob violence in Hungary was part of a European phenomenon associated with the “culture of defeat” (Schivelbusch 2003; Gerwarth 2008; Gerwarth and Horne 2013). However, it also displayed unique features: for example, after Ukraine and the , anti-Semitic violence demanded the highest number of casualties in Hungary in the late 1910s and early 1920s (Stone and Glenny 1991; Dekel-Chen 2011; Klier and Lambroza 1992; Robbers 1986; Abramson 1999).1 The police and the paramilitary groups arrested, imprisoned, or threw into hastily constructed camps about 70,000 individuals, which included la- bor leaders, ­political activists, the functionaries of the Council Republic, and

1 Historians estimate the number of Jews killed during the Civil War in the Soviet Union ­between 50,000 and 200,000.

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188 Bodó innocent b­ ystanders denounced by their jealous neighbors and colleagues. Some 100,000 people, including some of Hungary’s best minds, were forced into exile or left in desperation over their country’s fate. By the end of 1921, the political and military elite had been able to reign in the militias; however, isolated attacks on Jews, as well as social democratic organizations and politi- cians, continued well into the mid-1920s. This essay examines memory practices after 1989 as they relate to the vio- lent aspects, described by the contemporaries as the Red and White terrors, of the Hungarian civil war between 1918 and 1921. There is, fortunately, a grow- ing literature on civic violence in Hungary in the modern era (Freifeld 2000; Kádár and Vági 2005, 2008). Because of its emphasis on the memory of violent events, rather than of regimes or historical epochs, such as the Council Repub- lic and the October Revolution of 1918, this study represents a minor departure in Hungarian historiography on the interwar period (Apor 2010, 2014; Ungvári and Tabajdi 2013). For lack of space, the essay focuses the readers’ attention on a narrow selection of objects, such as statues and commemorative plaques, as well as the unveiling ceremonies and yearly rituals that gave these objects meaning, and in public conscience permanence.2 The study is concerned pri- marily with the fate of monuments erected to commemorate atrocities, and honor the memory of their victims who lost their lives during the Red and White terrors. Thus it does not discuss, unless they also functioned as mourn- ing monuments, the fate of other types of memorials, such as the statues of major politicians and the memorials built to celebrate the achievements of the Council Republic. Statues, reliefs, and plaques, as we know, are parts of our physical environment; more “durable than the fleeting moments that memory is often striving to recover,” they not only mark, and remind us of, the past, but also provide aesthetic pleasure (Cubitt 2008: 79). However, for lack of space, this essay pays only marginal attention to the relationship between aesthet- ics and politics (Reichel 2006). Similarly, it provides only a short description of some of the yearly rituals evolved around the statues and other types of monuments associated with the counterrevolution and the right-wing mi- litias. The detailed analysis of these yearly rituals, their anthropological and ­sociological aspects, such as the social background, motives, and mindsets of ordinary participants—i.e., analysis of the social world and cultural milieu of “new nationalism”—is beyond the scope of this paper (Feischmidt 2014).

2 This short essay is part of a comprehensive study on the memory of paramilitary and mob violence in Hungary from 1921 to 2017. This larger work is going to be based on a wide variety of primary sources, such as police reports, trial documents, history texts, memoirs, newspa- pers, parliamentary speeches, novels, theater plays, songs, films, and documentaries, as well as statues, plaques, street signs, national holidays, and an analysis of private and state rituals.

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Memory Practices 189

In his seminal study on memory politics in Central and Eastern Europe after 1990, James Mark has challenged one of the basic tenets of modern German­ national identity: the possibility of “overcoming,” and “mastering” of the past (Vergangenheitsbewältigung) through objective research and open public discussions. Since we are all part of history, Mark argues, no one can gain an external perspective on the past, especially on historical events whose effects continue to reverberate through our daily lives. Mark asks the question of why the public in the countries of Central and Eastern Europe has paid so much attention to historical debates about the recent past, and why the memory of war has taken such vicious forms. He finds his answer in the peaceful nature of the Revolution of 1989 and the intense political struggles in its aftermath. The “unfinished revolution” of 1989, he argues, failed to mark a clear break with the past. By leaving old power bases and traditional networks virtually intact, the peaceful transition to democracy allowed the old elites to survive, compete on a more-than-equal footing with the new political parties for power, and sab- otaged any attempt to provide justice for the victims of the dictatorship. But the collective memory of the one-party state continues to evoke strong emotions, Mark contends, for a more prosaic reason. After 1989, the new political parties have instrumentalized, and even weaponized, the memory of the recent past, in order to increase the popularity and enhance the power of their organiza- tions. The memory of communism has been frequently evoked to achieve neg- ative ends: to smear public figures and discredit political opponents, who had started their career in the ruling party or the apparatus of the one-party state. Whereas resistance to communism united the liberal and national segments of the cultural elite in the 1970s and 1980s, the smear campaigns of the 1990s and early 2000s have fragmented the political landscape and made democratic debate increasingly difficult. Since the memory wars were not fought in the name of democratic values, which had motivated the political actors in 1989, their impact on society, Mark concludes, has been largely negative and, for the new democratic institutions, destabilizing (Mark 2010). This study owes a lot to Mark’s path breaking study on the politics of mem- ory in East-Central Europe after 1989. Like his book, this short essay provides additional evidence for the instrumentalization of the past by political actors after the collapse of the one-party state. However, it also departs from Mark’s approach in two ways. Mark’s study is concerned mainly with collective mem- ories. His agents are political parties, nationally-known politicians, and intel- lectuals who have tried to dominate the conversation about the past in order to rally the nation, or at least the better part of the population, behind their program. This essay, on the other hand, is concerned not only with “memory wars” conducted by governments, political parties, and civic organizations either to gain or to retain power, but also with identity politics. The agents

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190 Bodó in its story are not only nationally-known public figures and political parties, but also private individuals and civic organizations, which have limited insti- tutional power and cannot influence national politics. The main purpose of the essay is to draw attention to a drastic change in memory practices in the last fifteen years: the transformation of rituals evolved around the memory of the civil war into entertainment and recreational activities, the degeneration of historical memories into consumer goods. In this new world of memory practices, historical memories are divorced from party programs, parliamen- tary politics, and “memory wars”; they are no longer meant to unify the nation along ideological lines but delineate the boundaries of subcultures. The new memory practices, this study argues, have precious little to do with the “un- finished revolution” of 1989. Rather they are the product of recent social and cultural chances: the failure of the state to protect its citizens, the crisis of mas- culinity, and the loss of, or the fear of losing one’s, national and ethnic identity. How these deeper, transnational currents impacted collective memories and memory practices as they related to events during the Hungarian civil war is the topic of this essay.

Changing Memory of Paramilitary Violence in Hungary after 1990

In November 1994, an open trial held by the Hungarian Supreme Court brought the issues of memory, culpability, and justice to public scrutiny. The court was re-examining the appeal of Mrs. Gyula Mészár, the daughter of Mihály Francia Kiss, one of the leaders of the infamous Héjjas militia, a militia unit that had killed at least 300 people during the counterrevolution in 1919 and 1920. In 1948, Mihály Francia Kiss was tried and sentenced to death in absentia for his role in the assassinations. By adopting various aliases and changing jobs and resi- dences frequently, Francia Kiss was able to escape punishment for more than a decade. Betrayed by a childhood friend, the elderly ex-militia leader (who was seventy years old at the time) finally fell into captivity in March 1957. He was re-tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death for the torture and murder of sixty-six people, as well as for forgery and the illegal possession of weapons, on 13 June 1957. The sentence was carried out on 17 August 1957. In 1992, Mrs. Mészár appealed to the Municipal Court of Budapest to posthu- mously revoke her father’s sentence and politically rehabilitate him. Her attor- ney claimed that Francia Kiss had been a victim of a political conspiracy, and that what he faced in both the 1940s and 1950s was nothing less than a show trial. The police, the defense attorney argued, violated the law and established procedures at every turn: they gave credence to rumors and denunciations­ ,

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Memory Practices 191 and resorted to mental and physical torture in order to obtain the desired confession. On the other hand, the court, the defense lawyer continued, failed to double-check the written records and thoroughly cross-examine the wit- nesses, whose testimonies were full of contradictions. More importantly, Mrs. Mészár’s attorney contended, in 1957 the state tried Francia Kiss under a law which was meant to prosecute crimes committed during the Second World War only. Francia Kiss was not a war criminal because there was no war in 1919, and his actions were not politically motivated. To the surprise and deep disappointment of relatives and political sup- porters, the Municipal Court of Budapest rejected Mrs. Mészár’s appeal. In his verdict, the president of the court found the defense’s contention that Francia Kiss had been put on trial illegally was without foundation. F­ rancia Kiss, the president of the court argued, was tried under Law vii of 1945, which allowed for the prosecution of pre-war crimes, and under a separate decree (81/1945.me számú rendelet), which specifically mentioned the of- fenses committed during the counterrevolution. The president of the court confirmed that Mihály Francia Kiss was, indeed, responsible for the death of sixty-six people, that his actions were politically motivated, and that he was able to escape justice in the interwar period because of Regent Horthy’s intervention. The law, the judge argued, defines a war criminal as “someone who instigates, commits, or participates in the illegal execution and torture of people,” and Francia Kiss clearly fit into that category. Dissatisfied with the outcome of the first trial, Mrs. Mészár appealed to the Supreme Court the same year. ­However, the Supreme Court of the Hungarian Republic, too, found the ex-militia leader guilty and approved the original sentence at the end of ­November 1994 (Magyar Köztársaság Legfelsőbb Bírósága, Verdict 1994: 74–83; Rév 2001: 231–251). Mihály Francia Kiss’s remains were buried in Plot 301 of the Rákoskeresztúr New Public Cemetery in Budapest. This mass grave was in use in the late 1940s and early 1950s; more importantly, it contained the remains of the leaders of the 1956 Revolution, such as Imre Nagy, Géza Losonczy, Pál Maléter, József Szilágyi, and Miklós Gimes, as well as those of many lesser-known victims of communism, who had been executed or died in prison between 1956 and 1962. The mass grave was located in a remote and barely accessible part of the public cemetery. Carefully guarded by the police, its existence was, nonethe- less, known both to the supporters and the opponents of the regime. By the mid-1980s, the plot became a site of political protest and a meeting place for intellectuals critical of the current regime. In the summer of 1988, during the first stage of the regime change, a small civic organization, the Inconnu Group, without the permission of the authorities, placed “totem poles” (kopjafák) on

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Plot 301, the resting place of political prisoners executed between 1945 and 1956.3 In 1992, after the regime change, the of the Martyrs of the 1956 Revolution, a modernist monument and a work of the renowned sculptor György Jovánovics, was unveiled on Plot 301. Although the memorial received high praises from experts, many people on the Right felt that the memorial favored the reform-communist victims of state-sponsored violence, includ- ing Imre Nagy. Thus a few weeks before the ceremony, they placed a Szekler Gate (székely kapu) at the edge of plots 298 and 301; the sign on the memorial warned that only people with “a pure Hungarian soul” should enter. Behind the gate the right-wing groups later set up a large marble plaque listing the names of people whose remains could be found in the mass graves and praising them as “the martyrs who died for the fatherland.” In 2008, the plaque was removed because a committee, composed of professional historians, found that be- tween 30 and 40 percent of the people listed on the wall were war criminals, felons convicted of common crimes, and people whose status as the victims of communist oppression could not be established. The graves were not touched, however: Mihály Francia Kiss’ remains still rest in the National Parthenon, only a stone’s throw away from the grave of Imre Nagy (Prohászka 2004: 213–217; Ungvári and Tabajdi 2013: 172–173).

Past Imperfect: Iconoclasm of the Early 1990s

After 1990, the new political elite prioritized the removal of public monuments connected to the communist past. The highly controversial process, which also included the creation of Memento Park, the museum of “unwanted statues,” divided contemporary public opinion. The repercussions of the debate can be felt even today (Sinkó 1992: 67–79; Boros 2001: 63–64; Pótó 2003: 242–243). After the Soviet liberation monuments, statues erected to honor the memory of the Council Republic stood highest on the list of the new political elite eager to demonstrate their new-found radicalism. In the early 1990s, 68 out of 80 stat- ues and plaques devoted to the history of the Council Republic were removed. The majority of the 80 Council Republic statues were political monuments, making no reference to local events; only a minority, about 15 out of 80 statues and plaques served to celebrate the martyrdom of local leaders and supporters of the Soviet experiment.

3 Associated with the lost province of Transylvania, totem poles and Szekler gates are seen today as nationalist and irredentist symbols.

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A handful and (the most provocative) monuments, such as István Kiss’s statue, the in Debrecen, were removed as part of a complex ritual imitating the hallmark events of the 1956 Revolution. Dedicated to the martyrs of the labor movements and the victims of the White Terror, the gigantic statue of an armed worker had stood at the corner of György Dózsa Avenue (today Egyetemi Avenue) and Poroszlay Street since 1961. On 21 March 1990, on the anniversary of the birth of Hungary’s first radical leftist regime, the Council Republic, and four days after the first free election in Hungary, a small crowd, equipped with a craned truck, chain saws, and a steel rope, pulled the statue down.4 The memorial was dissembled and its fragments were lost without a trace (“Proletár” 2015).5 ’s modernist statue, the Béla Kun Memorial, which had stood on Vérmező Square, facing Square (today’s Kálmán Széll Square), in ­Budapest between 1986 and 1992, met a similar fate. Imre Varga was considered one of Hungary’s most talented postwar sculptors.6 The work, according the artist, was conceived as a protest against ; the statue immortalized Béla Kun’s violent death during the in Soviet Union in the 1930s (a topic which had been taboo in Hungary for decades), rather than his role in the Red Terror in 1919 (“Kun Béla emlékmű” 2016). In 1993, on the other hand, the sculptor told the conservative Magyar Nemzet that the lantern in the com- position functioned as a symbol, to suggest that Béla Kun deserved his hang- ing (Prohászka 2004: 210). Neither explanation was convincing enough to keep the statue in its place. In the fall of 1991, most likely in reference to the J­ewish origins of some of the leaders of the Council Republic, someone painted a Star of David on the monument; a second person sprayed the text “Red mur- derers” on its base. On 23 October 1991, on the anniversary of the 1956 revolu- tion, the offices of the political party Hungarian Democratic Forum (Magyar ­Demokrata Fórum) of the i and xii districts, led by a sculptor by the name of József Velekei, covered the monument in a blue cloth. The image of Béla Kun received a white dress equipped with a clown’s hat. The event was celebrated as a good joke in every major newspaper, including the socialist Népszabadság.

4 It was placed next to a small Russian army base and only a few hundred meters from the main university building, which witnessed intense fighting in 1956. 5 I am particularly grateful for the website Köztérkép, the largest database on public monu- ments in Hungary. I would like to thank everyone (art and public historians, architects, art- ists, and concerned citizens) who have contributed to this website. 6 He also made, on American request, a Wallenberg statue in the mid-1980s; the statue stood in the yard of the American Embassy for years, and after 1990, he created the Arthur Koestler statue, which stands on the Lövölde Square in the vii district of Budapest.

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In ­making a reference to a passage in Dezső Kosztolányi’s novel, Édes Anna (Sweet Anna) the more conservative Magyar Fórum commented that the com- munist leader “will once again fly from Vérmező.” In the end, the statue was not destroyed, but found its final resting place in Memento Park, along with István Kiss’ Forwards and Farkas-Olcsai-Kiss-Herceg’s tree-figure relief of the communist leaders Kun, Szamuely, and Landler (Boros 2001). Some of the Council Republic memorials, such as the statues of the lead- ers of the Council Republic, had no connection to right-wing paramilitary and mob violence, which claimed thousands of lives after August 1919. Oth- ers, such as the multi-figure composition of Imre Varga, entitled Lenin and the Local Martyrs of the Council Republic, which “adorned” Revolution Square in ­Kaposvár, facing the College of Medicine, commemorated the violent death of local socialist leaders in the fall of 1919. Perhaps the best-known sculptor of the late socialist period, Varga modeled his modest-sized figures on his parents and teachers in his hometown, Siófok. In 1991, at the order of the local government, municipal employees dumped the entire composition into a local swamp. Three figures disappeared without a trace. (Rumors circulated that enterpris- ing locals fished the figures out, cut them up, and resold the pieces as scrap metal.) The artist re-possessed the remaining four statues. A few years later, in 1996, with the help of his friends, colleagues, and relatives, he was able to put them on permanent display in Millennium Park in Siófok (“Mártíremlékmű” 2016). In Kecskemét, the giant statue of a woman known locally only as Iron Mary (Vasmarcsa) a work that had commemorated the murder of more than sixty people by the Héjjas militia in the village of Orgovány in 1919, too, became a thorn in the authorities’ eyes. In 1991, the municipal government decided to remove “this symbol of merciless violence, statue of intimidation, and sym- bol of the suppression of the 1956 Revolution” from the center of the town.7 The monument was left to rot on the grounds of the municipal company for years; recently, it has been moved to the village of Kecel for storage. The second Council Republic memorial in Szekszárd, which also functioned as a mourning memorial (listing on its reverse the names of those murdered in Tolna County during the counterrevolution) tells a similar story. The huge statue, which had dominated Museum Square since 1959, was transported to Memento Park in Budapest in the early 1990s (“1919-es mártírok emlékműve” 2014). The Council Republic memorial erected on the burial site of the victims of paramilitary violence in the main cemetery of Pápa, too, was torn down after

7 It has stood next to the Jugendstil treasure of the town, the Cifrapalota (Gaudy Palace), since 1959.

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Memory Practices 195 the regime change in 1990; only the plaque on its base, listing the name of the victims, survived. However, the fate of the Council Republic memorial in Pápa represented an exception to the rule. The authorities and political ac- tivists generally treated memorials located in cemeteries with more respect. The monuments devoted to the memories of right-wing militia violence in the cemeteries of Marcali, Balatonkenes, and Szekszárd survived the regime change unscathed. Cemeteries, in fact, came to function as a refuge for un- wanted statues. Impressed by its title, municipal employees transported István Bors’s high-quality and modernist work, the Mourning of the Martyrs, which had stood in Dimitrov Park (today’s Jókai Park) close to the harbor in Siófok since 1971, to the local cemetery.8 Mourning memorials dedicated to the vic- tims of right-wing violence, even if they had been located outside the gates of the cemeteries, continued to command respect after the regime change. István ’s The Martyrs’ Memorial located in the public park where the militias had executed the leaders of the Council Republic in Kiskunhalas in August 1919 has been left alone.9 In the village of Kótaj, Szabolcs County, the municipal gov- ernment built an obelisk in 1959 to honor the victims of the White Terror. The monument still stands in its original place. Around the year 2000, the wise lo- cals substituted the golden five-pointed star for a rose. In the village of Tab, the place of one of the worst atrocities committed during the counterrevolution, the mourning memorial was unveiled in 1950; it remains there today. As an exception to the rule, in the western town of Sopron, the statue on Széchenyi Square dedicated to the memory of the victims of the White Terror was pulled down in the early 1990s. Public opinion surveys suggested that the majority of Hungarians were not interested in the fate of communist monuments. About fifty percent of people polled in the early 1990s said that the Council Republic monuments should not be touched; slightly more than a third thought that they should be placed

8 Bors was an admirer of Henry Moore; in addition, his statues reflected the influence of peas- ant and Native American art. Earlier monuments, as we have seen, symbolized the power of the state and its determination to crush popular dissent. Bors’s work, on the other hand, exposed the fragility of life and vulnerability of the individual in the face of (state) violence. Whereas the earlier Council Republic monuments were proudly atheist, Bors’s Mourning for the Martyrs employed a Christian motive, Pietà, to draw attention to the horror and suffering associated with the White Terror. Recently, one of the figures has been stolen (“Mártírsirató” 2016). 9 The memorial portrays a blindfolded man, his hands tied behind his back, facing the wall before his execution. The life-size statue stands on a modest pedestal. On its side one can read the names of people murdered during the White Terror (“Tanácsköztársasági emlékmű” 2016).

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196 Bodó in “statue parks;” only a small minority, less than ten percent of people polled, wanted the memorials to be destroyed or placed in storage permanently (Pótó 2003: 244). The driving force behind the removal of the communist memorials was the new political parties: the liberal Alliance of Free Democrats (Szabad Democraták Szövetsége or szdsz) and Alliance of Young Democrats ­(Fiatal Democraták Szövetsége or Fidesz), the national conservative Hungarian Democratic Forum (Magyar Demokrata Fórum or mdf) and the more right- wing Independent Smallholders’ Party (Független Kisgazda Párt or fkp), and ­Christian Democratic People’s Party (Kereszténydemokrata Néppárt or kdnp) all advocated the cleansing of public space of the reminders of communist rule. The leaders and rank-and-file of the Hungarian Socialist Party (Magyar Szocialista Párt or mszp), the successor to the Communist Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party (Magyar Szocialista Munkáspárt or mszmp), remained ambiva- lent about the process, but lacked the courage to mobilize the public in their defense. The ferocity of attacks on Council Republic memorials shocked many con- temporaries. In the 1970s and 1980s, the public seems to have been indifferent to the presence of these markers of the past. Admittedly, only a few people liked, and even fewer identified, with these memorials; yet vandalism re- mained rare (Prohászka 2004: 203). The indifference may have had a lot to do with the fear of the police and the heavy-handedness of the one-party state. Yet it also reflected the absence of popular resistance to the one-party state. The Kádár regime, Gábor Gyáni argues, used both propaganda and consump- tion to suppress the memory of the 1956 Revolution. “Goulash communism” can be perceived as a vain attempt by the political elite to buy legitimacy and make Hungarians forget about their past (Gyáni 2001). Until the early 1980s, as Ivan T. Berend has shown, the one-party state was, indeed, able to deliv- er on its material promises (Berend 1996: 182–254). The Kádár regime, Péter György contends, provided a badly needed respite to rebuild individual and family lives and deal with the traumatic collective experiences of the twen- tieth century. However, the strategy of Kádár and his colleagues to suppress the memory of the recent past, especially that of the 1956 Revolution, proved to be a fatal mistake. Because of censorship, Hungarian culture and collective memory, made up as they were of millions of complete and incomplete stories, failed to evolve in a healthy way. Pushed into national subconscious, the stories of individual and collective tribulations had produced only anger and frustra- tion, which surfaced in unexpected ways after 1989 (György 2010). To the majority of Hungarians, Council Republic memorials stood as the symbol of the recent past; only a small minority of the demonstrators in 1990 understood the connection between the defeat of the Revolution of 1956 and

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Memory Practices 197 the erection of these monuments. Without fully realizing it, by pulling down the statues, they attacked one of the founding myths of the Kádár regime. In the official narrative before 1989, the democratic revolution of October 1918 did not represent an independent phase, and a missed chance, in history; rath- er it functioned as a prelude to the formation of the first socialist republic on Hungarian soil in 1919. Foreign invasion and the counterrevolution in the sum- mer of 1919 destroyed the working-class state. However, the memory of So­ viet power survived; the social state after 1947 both learned from the mistakes and continued the works of the Council Republic. In the official narrative, the popular uprising in 1956 represented a repetition of the bloody counterrevolu- tion of 1919. However, unlike in 1919, in November 1956, the working class, led by the Party and supported by the Soviet Union, was able to defeat “fascism” and restore socialist legality. This victory over “fascism” and Western imperial- ism, hence the official narrative, laid the foundation for the social and cultural progress of the Kádár era. The official interpretation of the recent past was an anathema to the op- positional groups, which, in the late 1980s, idealized the Revolution of 1956 as one of the greatest events of modern Hungarian history. The new icono- clasts after 1989 thought they had been participating in a good fight: by de- stroying the reminders of the past, they were clearing the path for the arrival of a better world based on truth and authentic tradition. With the benefit of the hindsight, we can state that legalized vandalism also blocked the path to self-knowledge. ­Rudolf Jaworski has recently pointed out, by creating a tabula­ rasa, administrators and political activists in Eastern Europe made the intel- lectual confrontation with their countries’ recent history, including their own complicity in that reality, more difficult. By severing an important link with the past, as Aleida Assmann has recently argued, the political groups did a disser- vice to future generations eager to learn from their parents’ and grandparents’ mistakes. Confronting, understanding, overcoming, and thus keeping a criti- cal distance from the past, according to Assmann, requires introspection and time: they cannot come from the demolition of buildings and monuments, the burning of books, and the censoring of ideas (Jaworski 2003: 11–25; Assmann 2013: 98). Yet iconoclasm was not only about the future, but also about the re- writing of the recent past. By destroying Stalinist and post-1956 statues, the new political elite could pretend that they had been fighting against a violent, illegitimate, and totalitarian regime, the nature of which had not changed af- ter 1947. The political and cultural elite after 1989 propagated an image of the Kádár regime, which was at odds with the experience of the majority of the population, by seeking to understand the nature of the Kádár regime based on its violent genesis rather than its peaceful demise; by highlighting­ and

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­exaggerating its negative sides, while ignoring, or downplaying its undeniable achievements especially in the social and economic realms; and by overlook- ing its greatest political talent, namely its constant search for balance and compromise, Árpád von Klimó writes (2006). This vision of the recent past implied that there had always been a strong popular resistance to dictatorial rule, and that the regime lacked popular support and legitimacy both at home and abroad. The iconoclasts saw themselves as revolutionaries and heirs to the heroes of the 1956 Revolution. This false continuity gave the participants in the political transformation process the confidence and the sense of legitimacy needed to finish their work. Yet it also helped to hide the fundamental dif- ference between the two events. In 1956, the small groups of politicians and intellectuals, who placed their trust in Hungarian society, were able, for a short period time, to close the cultural and emotional gaps between the privileged few and the exploited and despised many. On the other hand, even during the headiest days of the peaceful revolution in 1989 and 1990, the sense of national unity continued to elude the participants. In spite of the attempt by many local and national politicians to get the population involved in the decision-making process, including the removal of unwanted statues, the sense of alienation characteristic of the era of state socialism remained. The large majority contin- ued to watch the unfolding of historical events from the sidelines, complaining that the political elite had been making decision over their heads (Rainer 2011: 82–92, 220). The heady days in October 1956 resembled in form but differed in content from their 1990 counterparts. Iconoclasm in 1956 was revolutionary violence: the same people who destroyed the political symbols of the recent past also blew up Soviet tanks and killed or wounded soldiers and policemen. They put their lives on line to liberate the country from foreign rule and change the so- cial and political system; the participants in the uprising recognized that if defeated, they would be killed or receive long prison sentences. The revolu- tionaries’ chance of winning was slim: they faced the largest and best army in the world, the Soviet Red Army, and a determined enemy at home. In 1990, on the other hand, the destruction of statues came after a peaceful transfer of power: the old elite were in disarray, and could no longer count on the mili- tary support of their Soviet allies; the would-be revolutionaries, in other words, had nothing to lose. The multitude in 1956 that pulled down Stalin’s statues was large, unorganized, and predominately working class; the crowd in 1990 was smaller, better organized, and predominantly middle and upper-middle class. The participants in the collective actions pursued different goals. Inde- pendence in 1956 meant neutrality, equal distance from the Soviet Union and the United States; in 1989, on the other hand, it meant integration into nato

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Memory Practices 199 and the West, and rejection of close eastern ties. Some of the revolutionaries in 1956 wanted to restore parliamentary democracy; others, the majority or the loud minority, considered both capitalism and democracy obsolete. The advo- cates of regime change in the late 1980s and 1990s, with a few exceptions, ide- alized liberal capitalism. They had no need for a third path, but wanted their country to follow the path of the Western states (Rainer 2011: 231–233). The iconoclasm of the early 1990s, in fact, bears a closer resemblance to less glorious and, to a large extent forgotten, events, such as the destruction of memorials during the Council Republic in 1919 and the demolition of statues after the Second World War. In the spring of 1919, for the first time in modern ­Hungarian history, a small and fanatical group of left-wing radicals sought to delete entire epochs from collective memory and condemn important person- alities to oblivion by destroying their memorials during the ill-fated commu- nist experiment in 1919 (Vörös 2010: 218–236). The leftist groups engaging in the destruction of monuments between 1945 and 1949 pursued similar goals. Both in the post-1945 and the post-1990 periods, the elimination of the sym- bols of the recent past was the work of small yet vocal crowds, which enjoyed either the open or tacit support of the major political parties, municipal gov- ernments, and the upper echelons of the civil service. Both the left-wing crowd in the post-1945 period and the anti-communist mob in the early 1990s staged their demonstrations for the cameras and the press media. Finally, in neither 1945, nor in 1990, was anyone arrested or punished for participation in the de- struction of political art (Pótó 2003: 270–271). The new political elite wanted to settle scores with the Kádár regime by de- stroying its ideological foundation. Yet the removal of Council Republic statues also served to deal a blow to socialism and left-wing ideologies and political tra- ditions as a whole. After all, many of the Council Republic memorials were often erected over the remains of provincial social democrats and left-wing liberals, who had never entered the communist party and did not support the Council Republic in Budapest, or did so only with reservations. For over forty years, the leaders of the one-party state deliberately blurred the boundaries betw­ een the social democratic and communist victims of the White Terror; they pretend- ed that the local victims of the White Terror had either been fighting for the Council Republic, or at least agreed with its goals (which were finally realized by the one-party state after 1947). Paradoxically, the anti-communist political activists and administrators after 1990s, too, failed to distinguish between the various leftist groups. The Council Republic statues distorted and politicized the past; yet they also commemorated the sacrifices of the often ­innocent vic- tims, kept their memories and names alive, and provided some form of jus- tice, thus helping family members to deal with their losses ­(Marridale 1999).

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The memorials were, in most cases, the only compensation that relatives re- ceived. The destruction of statues was therefore justly perceived by the descen- dants of the victims of right-wing militia violence as an insult. Since about half of the victims of the counterrevolution were of Jewish origin, the demolition of Council Republic monuments also had an anti-Semitic edge. By removing the last traces of the collective memory of the Council Republic from public spaces, the new political elite were also dishonoring the memory of the victims of ethnic violence, and suppressing an important link between locally-inspired atrocities committed before 1944 and the largely German-directed and super- vised genocide of Hungarian Jews in the final stage of the Second World War.

The Reclaiming of Public Spaces

Collective memories, according to Assmann, exist only as long as they are able to provoke the same knee-jerk reactions, provide inspiration, mobilize follow- ers, defend identities, and promote interests (Assmann 2006: 32, 37–41, 54). The memory of the Council Republic was destined to fade not only because the political interests that had sustained and the agents that promoted it had left, with the collapse of communism, the political stage. In the “post-heroic” age of the twenty-first century, violence used to achieve social and political ends has become a taboo. The political elite both in Western and in East-Central Europe have very little in common with the fanatical and violent revolutionaries and counterrevolutionaries of the twentieth century, particularly with those of the immediate post-1918 period. And their clients, the citizens, to whom they cater, seem to have lost interest both in social experimentations and in ­historical fig- ures who symbolize the desire for drastic and violent change, as well. The tear- ing of down of the statues of communist leaders appealed to this conservative trend in political culture. It was not an accident that public spaces, which were once dedicated to the memory of leftist reformers and revolutionaries, have come to provide homes for stone images of conservative and anti-­ communist politicians, such as Count István Tisza and Miklós Horthy in Hungary, Józef Pilsudski in Poland, Josef Tiso in Slovakia, and Marshal Ion Antonescu in (Jaworski 2003: 11–26).10 The new political elite did not simply suppress the memory of Hungary’s first communist experiment, rather they reduced its history to the Red Terror. In 1993, Catholic organizations in Szentendre erected a cross in memory of

10 While Pilsudski has been fully rehabilitated and has dozens of memorials in Poland, rela- tively few statues have been erected to Horthy in Hungary, Tiso in Slovakia, and Antones- cu in Romania.

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Chaplain Dr. Ferenc Kucsera (“Kucsera-kereszt” 2015). In 2004, a tasteful tab- let, the work of Benő Gábor Pogány, was put on the wall of the Tisza Hotel in to commemorate the martyrdom of dozens of people killed during the uprising against the Council Republic in 1919. The political initiative had been taken, and the work was financed, by the pro-Fidesz “citizen circles” in ­Szolnok and its vicinity (“1919-es áldozatok emlékére” 2013). In 2006, conservative groups unveiled a plaque to remember the murder of the well-known liberal conservative politician Lajos Návay and two of his friends by the Red militias in Kiskunfélegyháza during the Council Republic (“Návay Lajos-emléktábla” 2017). In 2009, in the presence of the victim’s relatives, the right-wing farmers’ association (Gazdakör) unveiled a plaque to observe the memory of Dr. Andor Joó in Jászapáti. The famous judge was assassinated in the local county court- house on 1 May 1919 (“Joó Andor dr.” 2014). The local municipal and county administrators usually complied with the civic associations’ requests and gave financial support. Yet, occasionally, right- wing groups, which considered the issue of the Red Terror particularly close to their hearts, had to overcome bureaucratic hurdles and public resistance to re- alize their plans. The tribulation of the plaque on the Buda side of the Lánchíd (Chain Bridge), which commemorates the murder of State Secretary Sándor Hollán and his son by the members of the Lenin Boys on 22 April 1919, shows just how controversial the counterrevolution in Hungarian collective memory has become. The original plaque, raised in 1920, was removed after the Second World War. In 2004, the victims’ descendants requested the plaque be restored to its original place. However, they had failed to obtain the financial and moral support of the Budapest municipal government and the Hungarian Academy of Science. In the end, it was the on-line Bombagyár (Bomb Factory), a radical right-wing group specialized in ad hominem attacks on liberal and leftist politi- cians and public figures, which provided the necessary funding to complete the task. The plaque was unveiled on 21 March 2009; a few months later, v­ andals poured red paint over the memorial; later, the tablet was smashed to pieces with a hammer. Since then, the plaque has been fully restored (“Harmads­ zor avatták fel” 2011). The honoring of the victims of revolutionary violence served clearly de- fined ideological goals and political interests. In March 2012, the statue of Count ­Mihály Károlyi, the prime minister of Hungary’s first democratic gov- ernment in the fall of 1919, was removed from in Budapest and ­transported to Siófok (“Éjjel érkeztek Károlyiért” 2012). A complex and contro- versial figure, “The Red Count” had been scapegoated by the Right since 1920. His space was taken over by the equally controversial figure of Prime Minister István Tisza, who was killed by a group of enraged soldiers and workers during the first days of the revolution at the end of October of 1918. In the interwar

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202 Bodó period, the Horthy regime idealized Tisza, and built him up as a counterpoint in collective memory to Károlyi, as one of the staunchest and skillful defend- ers of historical Hungary, a nationalist martyr, and victim of left-wing violence. Between 1920 and 1945, Tisza statues adorned many public squares, and almost every town had a street named after the Calvinist politician, whom even the elderly Bismarck once described as one of the best political minds in Europe (Pölöskei 2001). In 1945, the Tisza memorials were predictably removed: the majority were blown up or otherwise destroyed (Potó 2003: 50–51). In 2000, the municipal government restored Zsigmond Stróble Kisfaludi’s tasteful Tisza statue, located close to the main entrance of the municipal hospital and the buildings of the medical faculty of Lajos Kossuth University. Two years later, in 2003, a modest plaque was placed on the wall of the Róheim Villa in Buda- pest (Prohászka 2004: 117). In June 2014, Prime Minister Viktor Orbán unveiled the restored and aesthetically appealing Tisza memorial on Kossuth Square in Budapest. In his speech, the Prime Minister drew a parallel between the dis- solution of the Dual Monarchy and the destruction of historical Hungary and the blowing up of the Tisza memorial in 1945. The snake that destroyed him and historical Hungary in 1918, the Prime Minister argued, also attacked his memory in 1945. Since the snake functioned as the symbol of communism and the Red Terror in the interwar period, the Prime Minister indirectly equated the angry and war-weary soldiers who had assassinated Tisza with the socialist and communist students who, with connivance of the occupying Red Army and the communist-controlled municipal government, pulled down Tisza’s statue in 1945. Like conservatives before 1945 and orthodox Marxist histori- ans in the post-1945 period, he failed to distinguish between democracy and communism, blaming the war and the destruction of historical Hungary on liberal and leftist groups rather than on the traditional social and political elite, and describing the democratic phase as only a prelude to the Council Republic (Lakner 2014). After 1990, through the destruction of Council Republic monuments, the collective memory of right-wing militia and mob violence was suppressed. Through the erection of new memorials and restoration of the interwar statues and plaques, the memory of left-wing state and paramilitary violence, on the other hand, was revived. But it was not only the victims of the Red Terror who were honored after 1990: Dezső Szabó’s Village Swept Away, an interwar best- seller and one of the most influential anti-Semitic texts, was reprinted and sold in high numbers in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Szabó was, and has remained, a highly controversial figure. Inspired by French fascism, Szabó portrayed Jews in his famous novel as traitors, heartless capitalist, seducers, and traders in flesh. He did more than write anti-Semitic texts during the counterrevolution.

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As a public intellectual, he denounced the communist experiments as a Jewish plot after August 1919; he also cultivated close ties with the university militias, one of the main sources of anti-Semitic violence in Budapest. He was one of the most vocal supporters of the numerus clausus legislation of 1920 aimed at drastically reducing the Jewish share of the student population. Szabó figured frequently as a speaker at anti-Semitic rallies between 1919 and 1921, calling for the expulsion of Jews from the professions and inciting violence. Yet Szabó was also more than a rabble-raiser and radical anti-Semite. Contemporaries saw him as a talented writer and a visionary, not unlike the poet Endre Ady. Szabó supported radical political and social, especially land, reforms. Unlike Marxist socialists, however, he placed his hopes in the Hungarian peasants. A forerun- ner to the movement of populist writers (népi irók), he attacked both capital- ism and Soviet totalitarianism in the interwar period. In the 1930s, under the threat of Nazism, he abandoned his radical anti-Semitism and moved closer to the left-wing of the peasant Smallholders’ Party. He took a strong anti-Nazi and anti-German position during the war, advocating the expulsion of ethnic Germans after the conflict. He died during the siege of Budapest in the winter of 1945. His last wish was to be buried on the top of, or on one of the slopes of Gellért Hill (Groh 2002). Fulfilling his last wish, his admirers named a promenade on Gellért Hill af- ter him in 1989. A year later, a statue, the work of a renowned artist and fellow Transylvanian, Tibor Szervatiusz, was unveiled in his honor on the southeast­ ern slope of Gellért Hill (“Szabó Dezső-emlékmű” 2013). Typically, the group that set up the monument did not even bother to obtain the necessary permits. The monument is of high artistic quality: the oriental features of the statue, which make Szabó resemble Buddha, captures the visionary side and radical ideology of the nationalist writer (Boros 2001: 89–92). In 2007, pastor Loránt Hegedüs Jr., one of the leaders of the right-radical miép, unveiled in a public ceremony three memorials in the Church of Homecoming (Hazatérés ­Temploma) ­located on Szabadság Square in Budapest, the first devoted to Szabó, the second to the nationalist writer Albert Wass, and the third to the nineteenth-century politi- cian Lajos Kossuth. In 2008, an outraged visitor poured red paint over the glass cover protecting the memorial (“Festékkel öntötték le” 2008). While Szabó’s popularity has declined significantly in the last twenty years, Cécile Tormay, the author of another key anti-Semitic text during the counter- revolution, Outlaw’s Diary, has been elevated into a cult figure in the past ten years (Tormay 2003; Kollarits 2010).11 The readers’ comments suggest that many

11 Written in the form of a diary, the Outlaw’s Diary was celebrated in the interwar period as the most authentic text on the revolution and the Red Terror. Contemporaries read it as a

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204 Bodó people on the radical Right still find her description of the democr­ atic revo- lution and the communist dictatorship as a product of a world-wide J­ewish conspiracy credible and intellectually satisfying. One of her female readers de- scribed her book as a revelation. She realized that she had been lied to about the country’s history: its real heroes were not Károlyi and Kun, but Miklós ­Horthy, Pál Prónay, and Iván Héjjas, and that the White Terror was about reclaiming the country for its rightful owners. She was for the first time confronted with com- munist crimes. Tormay’s book changed her view of the “rat’s revolution” and finally put “everything in me into its place” (vszk 2009). However, the fan club of this undoubtedly talented writer is not confined the lunatic fringe of the political spectrum. Two thousand and twelve was declared the Year of Cécile Tormay. At the end of May 2012, the bust of the fascist no­ velist was unveiled in a public ceremony in front of Szent Rókus Hospital in Eight District of Buda- pest (“Felavatták Tormay Cecile Szobrát” 2012). On 5 October, a major confer- ence was organized in her honor at the Károlyi-Csekonics ­Residence. Some of the lectures were recorded and screened by Duna tv. On 8 October, the Cécile Tormay Circle laid a wreath on her bust in the Kőfaragó Street (which was called Cécile Tormay Street before 1945) (“Tormay Cécile ünnepségek és programmok” 2012). Her admirers have been intensely lobbying the Ministry of Culture to include some of her works, along with those of Károly Kós, Ferenc Herczeg, Sándor Reményik, Lászlo Tompa, and Albert Wass, in the high-school curriculum (Takaró 2012; Zárug 2012).

The Cult of Horthy and Militia Violence

As a member of the National Army, Mihály Francia Kiss rubbed shoulders with powerful individuals and was known personally by Regent Horthy. His ­rehabilitation trial in the early 1990s coincided with the revival of the ­Horthy cult. Since the changing image of Horthy in history books and public ceremo- nies has been discussed by several excellent works, the remaining part of the essay will discuss it only to the extent to which it touches on the memory prac- tices related to paramilitary violence (Romsics 2007; Turbucz 2016). There is a general agreement among historians that the Horthy cult has at least two main varieties on the right, and although there are overlaps on certain issues, such as anti-communism, the conservative version of the Horthy cult differs significantly from its radical and proto-fascist varieties. Conservatives focus

truthful recollection of real events. The book is, in fact, based more on rumors, gossip, and crude ethnic and religious stereotypes. Tormay’s text was often read, and often continues to be read, as a justification of the pogroms and the White Terror after August 1919.

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Memory Practices 205 their attention on the middle years, rather than the violent inception and the even more violent final months of the interwar regime. They emphasize its peaceful achievements, rather than the violent aspects of its rule (Turbucz 2013). The followers of the radical Right, on the other hand, idealize the violent early phase of the counterrevolution, and portray Horthy as a principled anti- communist, convinced anti-Semite, and fearless defender of national interests (Hajdu 2014; Karácsony and Róna 2010). The radical version of the Horthy cult is more popular not only among members of radical right-wing political party Jobbik and various civic organizations on the right end of the political spec- trum; however, many conservatives also accept at least some of its features (Ungváry 2014: 391–392). Since Horthy statues are aesthetically conservative, and share no features with interwar fascist memorials, the dedication ceremonies and yearly ritu- als should, at least in theory, provide a shared space for nationalists of many shades from moderate conservatives to the followers of the radial and fascist rights. In reality, in the last fifteen years, they have been, with a few exceptions, the affairs of the radical right. Thus it was the members of the Historical Order of Vitéz (Történelmi Vitézi Rend), the Miklós Horthy Society, István Horthy – Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Foundation, the neo-Nazi Goy Motorcyclists (Gój motoro- sok), and the representatives of “Upper and Lower Hungary, Carpatho-Ukraine and the Székely Land” who had raised the money for, and unveiled a life-sized Horthy statue in the village of Kereki, in Somogy Province, on 13 May 2012 (mti 2012). One month later, Jobbik erected a Horthy statue on “Greater Hungary Square” in the village of Csókakő in Fejér County (Hajba 2012). The speakers at the unveiling ceremony told the participants that they should consider the entire Carpathian Basin (Kárpáthaza), as symbolized by a white horse, as their native land. (The concept Kárpáthaza was lifted from the political writings of the Arrow Cross Leader, Ferenc Szálasi.) On 3 November 2013, Jobbik displayed for the first time the bronze bust of Miklós Horthy in the Church of Home- coming located on Szabadság Square in Budapest.12 Civil rights and Jewish or- ganizations demanded that the pastor, Lóránt Hegedűs Jr., who had attracted public attention with his anti-Semitic remarks in the past, be fired from his job (Czene 2012). In the end, his superiors in the Calvinist Church only admon- ished the wayward pastor (Orosz 2014).

12 Hegedűs was originally a member of Csurka’s Hungarian Truth and Life Party (Magyar Igazság és Élet Pártja or miép). In 2007, he was admonished by his superior because he had held a roundtable discussion on the works of the infamous British journalist and ­Holocaust denier, David Irving. He also praised in his speeches and sermons the activities of the Hungarian Guard (Magyar Gárda), a paramilitary organization which had terror- ized the country’s Roma minority.

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The same groups regularly celebrate Horthy’s birthday and the anniver- saries of his death. In the last five years, they have lobbied to mark as a na- tional holiday the entry of Horthy and the right-wing militias into Budapest (16 November 1919). The annual celebration of the National Army’s entry into the capital has been at least as much about the paramilitary leaders and their followers (and their violence, radical antisemitism, and denunciation of cos- mopolitanism, secularization, and globalization) as about the heroic deeds of Horthy (Balogh 2011). Like their interwar counterparts, the followers of the radical right are also critical of Horthy; they see him as too conservative, too much wedded to es- tablished interests, vacillating on the so-called Jewish Question, and too pro- Western to their taste. Horthy does not live up to their image of the perfect Leader: young, virile, independent of establish interests and groups, radical, and violent. In the last eight years, many of these groups have switched their allegiance to the right-wing paramilitary leaders of the immediate post-1918 period. The rise of paramilitarism and paramilitary politics in Hungary can be attributed to the real or imagined weaknesses of the liberal state, such as its failure to provide security (or the impression of law and order) and enforce its monopoly on violence. The emergence of paramilitary groups, such as the Hungarian Guard (Magyar Gárda), increased the need for useable historical precedents and models. Thus it comes as no surprise that many of the paramil- itary groups deliberately modeled themselves on the interwar militias (Csepeli­ 2011). Many of the local units bore the name of Pál Próny, Gyula Osztenburg, Mihály Francia Kiss, or Iván Héjjas.13 Extremist organizations have been cel- ebrating the leaders of the Hungarian Freikorps units and civic militias as mis- understood patriots in the last ten years (Czegei Wass 2014; Lipusz 2011). As a sign of growing interest in the history of the post-1919 militias, the right radical press has recently reprinted three important memoirs first published in the interwar period (Bálint 1990; Héjjas 2006; Somogyváry, 2004). The success- ful writer of popular history texts, Pál Földi, has published a lucidly written, but also poorly researched and heavily biased, account of the history of Iván ­Héjjas’s militia, the Rongyos Gárda (the Ragged Guard). The short study, which has been sold by the thousands at kiosks countrywide, significantly, says noth- ing about the hundreds of murders committed and dozens of pogroms orga- nized by Iván Héjjas and his men (Földi 2012). József Botlik’s professional study

13 “Pál Prónay Squad of Vitéz Ödön Sebők Company is Recruiting in Pest County on May 16, 2009. Time and Places of Recruitment: 9:30 a.m. in the Tavern Pub, Galgagyörk; 12:00 ­Molnár Tavern, Galgamácsa; 14:30 Váckisújfalu, Fishing Lake. On May 17, 2009, 9:30 Váchar- tyán, Tószer Pub; 12:00 Sződliget: Klub Tavern” (“Pest megyében toboroz a Gárda” 2009).

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Memory Practices 207 of the militia uprising celebrates the members of the paramilitary groups as patriots, who kept part of Burgenland Hungarian in 1921. Unfortunately, the study ignores the less glorious side of the uprising: the atrocities committed against the civilian population during the uprisings (Botlik 2008). The same right-wing historians play a vital role in the annual celebration of the paramili- tary uprisings in October. The locations of minor skirmishes with the Austrian police and army units, such as in Ágfalva, have become places of pilgrimage in the last five years. These pilgrimages took on the forms of excursions and summer holidays complemented with rock concerts, horseback riding, archery demonstrations, and competitions on literature, history, and geography com- petitions (“Rongyos Gárda-emléknap Harkán” 2012; Novák 2012). Although the issue has been often raised, the radical Right has not been able to erect statues to celebrate the deeds and honor the memories of the leaders and members of the right-wing paramilitary groups. The first step in this direc- tion was taken with the unveiling of the renovated statue of a young engineering student, Tibor Vámossy, in the Farkasrét National Cemetery in 28 August 2013. Vámossy and his friend were ambushed and shot to death by an Austrian police patrol on 6 October 1921, during the uprising of Hungarian paramilitary groups in western Hungary in the fall of 1921 (Balogh 2014). Unveiled in the interwar period, his statue was restored at the initiative of the Jobbik, the Committee of National Memory and Respect (Nemzeti Emlékezet és Kegyeleti Bizottság), and the Ministry of Defense. The members of the paramilitary ­organizations, such as the New Hungarian Guard (Új Magyar Gárda), the ­Hungarian N­ ational Guard (Magyar Nemzeti Gárda), the Youth Movement of Sixty-Four Provinces, and Patriotically Inclined Motorcyclists (Nemzeti Érzelmű Motorosok), ap- peared in uniforms, and the first three marched in formation to honor the memory of the fallen student. The main speaker of the event, Loránt Hegedűs Jr., praised Vámossy as a national hero. Kárpátia rock band played irredentist songs. Prof. József Botlik evaluated the significant of the militia uprising in 1921, paying homage, as well, to its leaders, including Prónay, Héjjas, and Francia Kiss. Both he and Hegedűs blamed Károlyi and the first democratic govern- ment for the destruction of historical Hungary and the mutilation of the coun- try after the war. The ceremony ended with the participants laying wreaths on the grave and singing the Transylvanian anthem (Hering­ 2012).

Conclusion

The collapse of the one-party state in 1990 led to a drastic transformation of the collective memory of political violence committed after the First World

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War. During the era of state socialism, historians did not deny the use of heavy- handed methods to put down “counterrevolutionary” uprisings. However, they did not celebrate the members of Red paramilitary groups as heroes, and the regime dedicated only a few monuments to their political leaders, such as ­. After 1945, with state support, local communities erected doz- ens of memorials to honor the memory of the victims of right-wing paramili- tary violence. These memorials preserved the names of the victims of political crimes; at the same time, by downplaying the Jewish background of many of the victims and ignoring the pogroms, they helped to suppress the memory of religious and ethnic violence during the civil war. The statues and plaques built to commemorate the White Terror also became a part of, and gave physical form to, a self-serving narrative: they celebrated the defeat of fascism, which Marxist ideologists in the 1950s and 1960s equated with the defunct interwar regime, and the victory of revolution over counterrevolution, which the same ideologues identified with the popular uprising in October 1956. The Council Republic memorials were meant to justify political oppression after the de- feat of the 1956 Revolution, display the regime’s determination and readiness to deal with dissent and opposition, and demonstrate the unity and internal cohesion of the political elite. The memorials sent a warning and threat to the rest of the population, hindered political debates, proscribed diverging views, and promoted self-censorship. Their function was to preserve the power of the one-party state. The removal of the Council Republic memorials in the early 1990s was a logical consequence of the successful regime change. The destruction of the Council Republic monuments was meant to mark the defeat of old regime and its narrative of the recent past, and to create room for new collective memo- ries, celebrations, and rituals. Vandalism, however, also helped to suppress the memory of the recent past and skirt uncomfortable questions about one’s role in the Kádár regime. Old monuments were dismantled and sold off as scrap metal, or ended up in Memento Park. In their place, municipal governments built statues of medieval kings and modern and nineteenth-century national heroes. The revival of the Horthy cult in the early 1990s also favored the erec- tion of memorials devoted to the private life, political career, and notable achievements of the Regent. While in the 1990s, the cult had enjoyed the sup- port of many traditional conservatives, since 2004, it has been mainly radical right-wing parties and civic groups which have been setting up statues and unveiling plaques devoted to Horthy’s memory. The same trend can be ob- served in regard to the commemoration of the Red Terror and the honoring of its victims. In the last ten years, with the rise of paramilitarism, the same groups have made an attempt to create a cult around the two most important

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Memory Practices 209

­militia leaders­ of the counterrevolution, Pál Prónay and Iván Héjjas. The rapid- ly evolving cult of the postwar militias and their leaders who robbed, tortured, and murdered thousands of Jews and raped hundreds of mainly working-class women in prisons and internment camps between 1919 and 1921, point to the existence of a cultural crisis fueled by the fear of losing one’s ethnic and na- tional identity. Finally, the latest attempt by the radical Right to rehabilitate the postwar paramilitary groups speaks volumes about the absence of civility, the disappearance of shared values, and the removal of cultural and psycho- logical barriers to verbal and physical violence.

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