The Austro-Hungarian Revolutions
Chapter I – A meeting in the Carpathians
September, 1935
Nestor Makhno watched the fluttering red banner of the Hungarian Union of Soviets as it unfurled in the evening breeze. Finding their way down through the dark clouds and even darker pine branches, a few crimson rays from the setting sun bathed the Red Army camp it flew over in a lurid glow. The dying hours of the day, in the dying days of the Empire, Makhno thought with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction.
The camp was on a heavily wooded Carpathian hillside, where the prying eyes of Imperial observation airships weren’t likely to spot it. The men marching about in grey-green squares were unmistakeably soldiers – how different from how an anarchist outfit would have looked, at least in the old days. Back then, uniforms were anathema, the attribute of the oppressors; military, police, the tools of the state. These days, the Platform Anarchism Makhno had postulated and promoted, despite fierce criticism, had militias in uniform. They didn’t have officers though. Three straight defeats (Russia, France, and Romania) against Communist bureaucracy hadn’t been enough to make them cross THAT line. His long thick hair might have been greying, his wrinkled face might have told the story of a life of fighting for an impossible dream, having to face disappointment and bitter defeat time and again – but in the depths of those narrow dark eyes, the old fire still flamed as hot as ever. He could still fight. Men still jumped at his commands. Yet even as a military leader in time of war, he was wearing a mismatched assortment of military clothes, less flamboyant than old Schtuss but still completely unmistakable for a uniform. At least he hadn’t had to make THAT compromise for himself.
‘Privilege of rank, I guess’, he thought and smiled at himself for the incongruence. With a frown, he adjusted the Steyr submachine gun hanging from his shoulder and his trademark cavalry sabre. He was here to meet an allied leader – he wanted to look impressive. One of the Hungarian Red Army soldiers – an ethnic Romanian, like most of them – came closer, marching through the snow with a step that would have made a Prussian drill sergeant proud. A soldier of the people, indeed, Makhno thought with an inner sneer as the man saluted him, military fashion. The Ukrainian Zapata just nodded in response.
‘Comrade Makhno, Field Marshal Kun will see you now!’
‘Field Marshal is it? Tell me, is this the same Bela Kun who was Secretary General of the Communist Party last week? His must be the fastest military career in history!'
The soldier pursed his lips. ‘The Secretary General also serves as our Commander in Chief. It is only logical that he should have supreme rank.'
Makhno nodded. ‘I guess so. Just like Comrade Generalissimo Trotsky, heh?’
Soon Makhno stood inside the largest of the tents in the camp. The place was dark, smelling faintly of wet earth, rotting leaves and mould. Probably a leftover from the Great War, rotting away in some Romanian warehouse until it was brought out for the latest glorious revolution planned by Leon Trotsky.
Bela Kun looked as out of place in the tent as the ornate Field Marshall’s uniform did on him. He would have been most fitting behind the desk in a store, or in an office. No, that was not right – as he approached his guest, Makhno got a good look at his eyes. Hatred, anger, thirst for power, these things shone as hotly in Bela Kun’s eyes as the thirst for freedom flamed in his own. He would have scared any customer right out of his shop.
‘Comrade Makhno! So good of you to grace us with your presence! Your trip was uneventful, I take it?’
The falseness of the welcome was obvious, and yet Makhno forced himself to shake the little bastard’s hand. ‘I wouldn’t say uneventful. I had to dodge Imperial border patrols to get here, but I’m very good at that kind of thing. Now, I’m assuming from the look of things that you’re ready to launch the revolution now?’
‘We are! As soon as your people rise in rebellion against the Imperialist oppressors, the divisions of the Revolutionary Peoples armies of Soviet Hungary, the North Slavic Peoples Republic and the South Slavic Peoples Republic stand ready to descend from the mountains and chase out the Austrians!’
‘By “Peoples Armies”, you refer to all those Romanians you have marching around in fancy uniforms?’ Makhno said softly.
‘So they are ethnic Romanians – so what?’ Bela Kun exclaimed with a theatrical opening of the arms. ‘There are plenty of Romanians on the Imperial side of the border… just have a look at this map!’
Makhno looked. ‘Uh-hu. Let me guess – the South Slavic Peoples Army is composed of Serbian exiles. Don’t you people know how to make a REVOLUTION any more, rather than a camouflaged invasion?’
The Hungarian shrugged. ‘Well, the North Slavic Peoples Army only has a minority of Russian volunteers, I’m told. Mostly bona fide Poles, Czech’s and Slovaks, but really what difference does it make? Aren't your people mainly Ruthenians - sorry, Ukrainians? Besides, I thought making the populace rise was your job?’
Makhno sighed. ‘Well, I guess I do have a flair for that – and never fear, we anarchists have done our job well. When your invasion begins, you’ll find libertarian fighters greeting your troops as they arrive. I doubt you’ll catch an Austrian soldier before Budapest. These people were so fed up with their corrupt Monarchy that a little bit of education was all that was needed to make them rise.’
He briefly wondered why the Communists had spent so little time educating and politicising the people. This time he would have ten anarchist rebels for each Communist soldier – he almost anticipated their inevitable attempt to push the anarchists aside. This time, they would encounter a well organized anarchist militia, ready to defend the true revolution of the people.
First of course, there was the little matter of defeating an Empire that had stood, in one form or another, for the last thousand years or so. But that should be the easy part, the fun part. The real decisive fight, as always, would begin once revolution had triumphed.
Makhno stroked the handle of his sabre in anticipation.
