Slings and Arrows
One of the lesser known changes the 1956 Revolution brought in its wake was the abolition of the despised “peace loan”, which had involved the deduction of a small portion of every worker’s salary in exchange for a bond, in essence completely worthless. Once a year a draw was held and the winners were paid back its value plus a modest dividend. Shaken by the outpouring of popular resentment and the mass exodus of
Hungary’s intellectuals and middle classes, the regime devised a more palatable method of extracting money from its recalcitrant subjects: the state lottery. The bulk of the revenue was used to prop up the budget, but between fifteen and twenty per cent was redistributed as prize money, the precise amount of the jackpot variable, but hovering around the million mark at a time when the average monthly wage comprised 1,500 to 2,000 forints. Unsurprisingly, the lottery proved an infinitely superior money-spinner for the government than its predecessor.
Having selected the numbers, players posted their tickets, keeping a slip by way of proof, each of which possessed a unique serial number. The draw took place once a week, on a Friday morning. To ensure that the entries arrived on time, they had to be posted by Wednesday evening at the very latest from outside Budapest, although popping them in the box on Thursday morning sufficed for residents of the capital.
Sándor’s colleague in the abattoir office was a quiet man, counting out the notes for the pay packets with nervous, but efficient fingers. He kept himself to himself in the canteen whilst the slaughtermen laughed, appetite not spoiled by the brutal nature of their trade. Sándor, in charge of guaranteeing that most vaunted yet least often attained Communist goal of maximum efficiency through meticulously planning the delivery routes, felt sorry for his reclusive comrade, whose eyes inevitably settled on the spatters of blood the aprons (now hanging on pegs outside the dining area) had not caught.
After many unsuccessful attempts to coax a conversation out of him, Sándor was surprised when, one otherwise dull afternoon, his workmate’s spindly voice cut through the customary silence like a razor blade. Week in, week out he had religiously filled in his chosen numbers, floating to the post box in a pleasant reverie of indolence and escape. He wouldn’t throw his cash around like the vulgar little fellow in the ad. The only visible (and not overly immodest) sign of his new status as a man of leisure would be a Cuban cigar, imported in bulk from our brave fellow-combatants in the Socialist paradise across the oceans, defying the imperialists on their very doorstep. His credentials as a loyal Communist could not be impeached as a result of lighting up: he was, after all, actively supporting their economy. That day, however, everything had conspired to distract him. He had slept in for no reason he could discern and missed the usual tram. Trapped in the rush hour throng, he had been unable to squeeze his way out on time and travelled one stop too far, sprinting back so that he would not arrive late. Flustered at this rude disruption of his normal routine, it was only when he fumbled in his pocket for some loose change that evening that the smoothness of the paper betrayed the presence of the envelope. His heart sank, yet all was not lost.
Brilliant sunshine penetrated the chinks in the ancient shutters, rousing him from a fitful slumber and he leapt out from beneath the thin summer duvet. Gulping down the thimbleful of tar-like black coffee he had sugared and left on the table the night before, he rushed to the bus station as the early coach would pull in early enough for a passenger to pop the slip into the nearest post-box before the first collection. One kindly soul agreed to assist him and he walked through the abattoir gates with an uncharacteristic grin spread over his features. It took years off him.
On Friday, he switched on his set to listen to the results of the draw at the end of the news as usual. His palms grew clammy with excitement as his numbers were chosen in exact sequence. Perhaps the neighbours were puzzled by the single strange whoop from below, but they didn’t report it to the authorities as suspicious.
He could barely contain himself as he queued with his slip to claim his winnings. A thousand unexpected plans had rattled through his brain, banishing sleep. The official calmly looked through every line recorded in the tome. “I’m sorry sir, but we have no record of your entry”. Bright lights like shards of glass obscured his vision. “Please could you check again,” he gasped, proffering the flimsy slip, proof of fortune’s benevolence. “I really am very sorry…” came the reply, as blackness engulfed him. The stranger at the bus station had not been entirely sincere about his intentions.
For three years, he had wandered through the corridors of the asylum in a stupor of disbelief, the irony not entirely lost on him even in his bleakest moments. He would watch the other wretches from an armchair in a daze, until the bitterness slowly began to evaporate like an autumn fog chivvied away by the light. When he was deemed to have recovered sufficiently to function in a normal setting, he was released and immediately started to play the lottery again. As a reminder to himself that he had regained his sanity.
He never so much as recouped the cost of a ticket.
