History of Terror

"It isolated the East from the West; it split Europe and the World in two; it took away our freedom; it held us in captivity and fear; it tormented and humiliated us; and finally, we tore it down..."

Just one subway stop down the street, these words are etched in bronze - a constant education, a constant reminder, a constant memory of what Hungary has endured. I've passed these words a dozen times, even taken a picture in front of the monument, and never really wondered what it meant. Yesterday morning, though, before going into the House of Terror, I took the time to study the tribute. Immense chains are pulled taught on either side. I tried threading my fingers through the metal, reaching in futility for the light on the other side, but my hand just got caught in the rust and chains. All of a sudden, despite the foreboding strength it emits, the monument seems so small. I can circle it in seconds. I can stand on one side, then step to the other. The real Iron Curtain - the one that symbolized an ideological and physical divide - was something that nobody could walk away from.

From the outside, the House of Terror doesn't look particularly frightening. That is, until you catch a glimpse of the word spelled out in the shadows. Terror. Looking up, the word is spelled out in sheet metal, jutting out of the top floor. It offers an eery, stark suggestion of what lies inside. The museum itself, after all, is not just any dusty collection of the era's remnants. The building housed two sets of terrors. It acted as the "House of Loyalty" for the

Hungarian Arrow Cross Party in 1944. In simpler terms, it was the headquarters for the Hungarian Nazis. For the next eleven years, it housed two prominent communist organizations - the Allamvedelmi Osztaly (AVO) and the Allamvedelmi Hatosag (AVH). Essentially, these organizations were different forms of Hungarian Secret Police. They harassed, terrorized, and tortured civilians that they suspected were against Stalin's communist rule over the nation. The violent, merciless reigns during these three eras are all embodied in every inch of the House of Terror.

In the center of the building, an enormous gray army tank sits atop a canvas of still black water. The walls are lined with the black-and-white faces of victims. Even stretching up towards the skylight, all I could see were the gradient shadows of faces surrounding me. It's a fascinating start, considering the pictures have little weight and meaning when entering the museum, but so very much upon leaving it. We wove through the house and history - wandering past Arrow Cross Party uniforms, melting into the Soviet occupation, weaving through communist propaganda and replicas of rations. The walls were dotted televisions, playing the carnage, despair, and destruction on loop. I saw a picture of the Chain Bridge leveled, crumbled in the Danube. I watched a video of a man recounting his time at a labor camp where 5,000 entered and only 113 made it out alive. I saw perfect, clean lines of soldiers, marching in a sweeping block - the grainy footage making history seem unreal.

It was the basement that truly shook me, though. During the double occupations, the building's basement was used as a prison. The cells have been reconstructed, and the images are unbelievably haunting. Even the biggest cell was simply breathing room in the middle of concrete walls. One cell floor was only a few feet across - standing room only. I stepped inside it and could only stay for a second before the choking feeling of panic began to rise on my skin. Another cell was plunged in entire darkness. They used it as a form of torture. Deprivation of the senses inevitably leads to hallucinations, which can force even the strongest-willed to break down into lies and false admissions. Some rooms, I could only step into for a second before my courage crumbled and I had to step out again. Although the cells were a chilling reminder of the torture, that's not what got to me the most. The Hall of Tears, towards the end of the museum, stuck with me the most. Perhaps because it was the most downplayed, still room. There was no music, no videos playing. There were no photographs on the walls. Just a red room, scattered with tall, slender crosses. Each cross held a tealight, so that the entire room emitted a solemn glow. A banner on the wall wound around the entire room. Names - 2,500 names of those who died in the 1956 Revolution - were etched into it. At the entrance, the word "murdered" was stamped on the wall.

The word, so plainly declared, was stirring. I had consciously known during the whole tour that these Hungarian citizens were being killed. They were being worked to death. They were being kidnapped. They were being hidden away in darkness until their own insanity convicted them. Still, it wasn't until I saw the word plainly written out that I realized the hard truth. They were being murdered. There were no facts, no evidence, just a world of terror and suspicion that hovered for years. I have absolutely no grasp - even after visiting the museum - of what some of the people in this city have endured. I have nothing to compare it to back home. There is nothing that has existed within my entire family's history that can even come close to Hungary's dark past. It's a thought that crosses my mind now, when passing strangers on the street. I wonder what they've seen, who they might have lost, and how they have the energy and strength to keep their heads up. It has me looking at Hungary in a whole new light.

(For those of you stuck back home in the dreary United States, you can check out this video for a brief glimpse into the museum. Or, just go to the House of Terror website and take a look around.)

Terror House Tour

House of Terror Official Website