Anniversary Jokes

"If you, dear Reader, happen to have a glass in hand, filled to the brim with mellow Hungarian wine, remember the old Hungarian peasant saying: Adjon Isten bort, buzat, bekesseget -- God give us wine, wheat and peace." So mused the magazine New Hungary recently in a wistful article on the possibility of exporting more wine to the U.S.

But God (and Russia) had left Hungary little wine, little wheat and certainly no peace. Last week, as it celebrated its first anniversary, the new Hungarian Republic was in the iron clasp of Russian economic control, and further squeezed by Russia's campaign to achieve political control as well. In charge of the campaign was a short, little-known secret police career man named Boris Osakin, who bore the inconspicuous title of Deputy to the Soviet Ambassador. From his desk at the Soviet Embassy in Budapest, half a dozen direct wires connect him with the leaders of Hungary's Communist Party. The wires have been buzzing lately.

So far, the Communists (through their key Cabinet posts of Police, Communications, and Censorship) have managed to purge Hungary's conservative army command by accusing it of plotting a "democratic military dictatorship," whatever that may be. The generals were soon joined in jail by prominent members of the Christian Small Holders Party, which has a majority (60%) in Parliament and crushingly defeated the Communists at the last elections (TIME, Nov. 12, 1945).

During ceremonies in honor of the Republic's first birthday last week, Hungarian Socialist Arpad Szakasits (a Communist stooge) hinted that the left would soon demand new elections. First, however, all "sworn enemies of democracy" (including many of the Small Holders) must be deprived of the franchise.

But nothing could better summarize the state of the Hungarian nation than the one thing Budapesters have managed to save from the wreckage: their famed wit. Once gay as a gypsy's bow and spicy as goulash a la Szekely, the jokes circulating through Budapest cafes last week were bitter.

On. the surface Budapest is a purged Babylon. The wild inflation of six months ago has been curbed by drastic Russian measures. The street-corner financiers with their briefcases full of dollars and the peddlers who sold Leicas, slightly used countesses and pearl-handled revolvers are in hiding. The possession of U.S. dollars is now a death offense. The joke to match: Q. "What are they giving for the dollar these days?" A. "Sixty." Q. "Forints?" A. "No, years."

When Budapesters first saw the bright, handsome new forints (introduced last August just as the pengo was inflated to 500,000,000,000,000,000 times its original value), they compared the coins with bald, homely Communist Boss Matyas Rakosi, who was advertised as the father of the forint, and cracked: "It must have had a beautiful mother."

Despite the forints, prices are still enormous. Said a cafe wit after studying the fish courses on the menu: "When the news of these prices reaches Lake Balaton, the fogas* will be so flattered that they'll swim in to give themselves up."

Hungarians regard the new Russian-advertised "stability" as phony, call it "Potemkin prosperity" after the Russian general who built beautiful fake villages along the paths of Catherine the Great's travels. One Russian Potemkin trick: 60% of all reparations, food shipments and other "requisitions" going to Russia are simply omitted from the Government budget. The cafe wits tell of a manufacturer who proudly showed a visitor through his factory to demonstrate Hungary's "recovery." The busy machines were turning out shiny new signs which read: "The Elevator Is Out of Order."

* A pikelike fish exclusive to Lake Balaton and, broiled whole and served with new potatoes and melted butter (when available), a favorite Hungarian delicacy.

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