Resistance to these offers swiftly melted away. However, very few did refuse for man is a Herdentier – an animal that always follows the herd, a gregarious animal – and quickly follows its neighbour’s example. It may well have been us two, Zichy and myself, who alone failed to pin on the symbolic flower, but this was not from mere contrariness but because it went against our nature blindly to endorse such trivial emblems. Anyhow, even without us, there were plenty of asters to be seen on the passers-by, on the sightseers standing in the doorways and decorating some shop windows, just as there were on some heavy army weapon-carriers which suddenly appeared among the crowd and just as suddenly rumbled away. Some of these were lavishly decorated with their rusty sides, radiators and headlights garlanded with white flowers. By contrast the army vehicles were packed with sooty-faced, heavily armed soldiers. People ran alongside wildly as the great lorries were driven directly into the crowd, regardless of anyone or anything that might be in their way. None could tell if they were hurrying to some unknown goal or were roaming the streets at random.

The crowd was in far too festive a mood to be worried by any of this, nor did anyone seem to notice that among the many soldiers wandering about so aimlessly there were a number, heavily armed, their tunics unbuttoned and dirtier than any I had seen even on the worst days at the Front. Some seemed merely to be seeking a sympathetic listener to whom they could explain in hoarse voices, perhaps for the umpteenth time, what heroic deeds they had done that night. There were others who, dead tired, tramped mechanically on like the solitary ant who has lost his way back to the heap and pauses, looking around in bewilderment. No one bothered about any of these men, even though they all carried loaded rifles and were hung with hand grenades. The crowd was in too festive a mood to be worried, indeed most of them seemed to rejoice in the soldiers’ presence, as in everything else that day, for was it not the same for them as for everyone else? All that anyone could take in was that the terrible war was over, that now there would be no more flour tickets and food rations, and that peace would come again, at long last peace, wonderful peace. No worries, no anxiety clouded their exuberant joy, for did not every danger and every misery belong to the past, that evil past which must now be utterly forgotten? From this very day the future would hold nothing but brotherly love and friendship … and peace, wonderful peace.

Zichy and I, who also saw these soldiers from whom every vestige of discipline seemed to have drained away, were filled with trepidation at the thought of what would happen if this disintegration spread to the whole of the armed forces. For a while we saw nothing encouraging, but then we were faced with a wonderful example of enduring discipline and courage, a beautiful act that only we had witnessed and would remember.

A young officer appeared in the middle of the street, with some men, perhaps eight or ten, lined up behind him, all apparently from different units. Seeing that one of the aimless armed soldiers I have described was leaning against the railings of the Museum Garden, he stopped his little troop and walked over, alone, to speak to the man. He passed just in front of us. His emblem of rank had been wrenched off his helmet, he wore no officer’s sword tassels, and the stars had been ripped from his collar; but these humiliations had left no other mark on him and there was something serious and dignified about the way he carried himself. In a friendly voice he called upon the lounging soldier to join the little troop he had gathered around him. ‘We have to return to barracks,’ he said. ‘The revolution is over. Now all we need is a little order, a little solidarity.’ He added that if he were needed he would remain with the others … but there was also such a thing as duty. Now was the time for discipline … With words such as these, and without giving an order or asking to be obeyed, he just talked to the man quietly and resolutely.

The soldier obeyed.

This young officer then collected three or four other men who had been standing about in the same way, formed them up with the others and marched them all off in the direction of Károlyi Boulevard.

‘What a man!’ said Zichy. ‘If only there were more like him … then, perhaps…’

We turned into Lajos Kossuth Street and there we met several acquaintances. Among them was Miklós Vadász, the well-known designer, who was sporting a huge aster in his lapel and had about him a somewhat comic air of self-importance, making out that he was a secret revolutionary and hinting that it was he who had brought it all about. As it turned out it was not only he but everyone else we met who, according to the character of each, exhibited the full range of pleasure from radiant ecstasy down to a sort of modest relief which could be described as a ‘post-extraction joy’ or ‘Thank God it’s out at last’, which, of course is not much but still in its way a sort of joy.

The general euphoria was not really surprising. Everything that the general public knew about Károlyi tended to invite their trust and gave them hope. Just before the war he had made no secret of travelling to France and America, openly admitting that this was a political mission. When war broke out he left New York for home but was for a while detained in France. Finally the French government let him go without his having to attempt to escape. He then stopped in Switzerland before returning to Budapest8.

Back in Hungary he proclaimed his support for a rupture with Germany and a separate peace with the Allies.