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The Workers' Council of Budapest, attempting to negotiate its demands for participation in government and the return of deportees, called a meeting at the Budapest Sports Hall. Serov blocked the way with R men. If he expected the Hungarians to accept this meekly, he was mistaken. Undaunted, the workers gathered in factory yards and planned a united protest. A young boy, one of many braving the R men that day, distributed leaflets on Marx Street: "Don't walk in the streets between 2 p.m. and 3 p.m. on Friday. Stay at home and sympathize with the strike."
A Hungarian newsman reported what happened when the hour came: "In this city of 1,500,000, the only living people in the battered, rubble-strewn streets were the police and Russian soldiers. A voice shouted: 'All those who are working now are Kadar men.' At five minutes to 3 the windows opened, and people sang the national anthem. Everybody was standing bareheaded and singing."
But Budapest was deeply wounded. In one cemetery alone there were 12,000 new graves, black coffins piled high, and people searching for the names of missing kin. More than 8,000 homes had been destroyed. The people's spirit was still determined, but the black shadow of Serov, the constant stream of silent deportations, was having its effect. It took courage to continue to resist. Budapest had the courage.