Victory Square tyb-5 Read online

  “Yeah,” said Gavra. He searched the monitors until he found the camera outside their door, where a few people in blue TisAir uniforms came smiling down the corridor, looking for him. They kept moving past the security office.

  “What’re you doing here?” said Toni.

  “Hiding out until my plane leaves.” He leaned on the simple desk. Karel stood uncomfortably with his arms around himself. “This is my friend Karel. Karel, Toni.”

  They shook hands. Then Toni bent under the desk and tugged out an old cardboard box. He produced plastic cups and a bottle of plum brandy. “This calls for a toast. To the man who rid us of a couple of real monsters.”

  Karel glared at Gavra.

  Toni handed out the shots and raised his cup. “To Gavra Noukas, who’s put us on the road to freedom!”

  Toni threw back his drink, and Gavra followed suit, the rough homemade brew burning his throat. Karel took a small sip, then set it down. Gavra said, “You have to decide, Karel. Come with me.”

  Toni, clutching his third brandy, looked confused but was smart enough not to interrupt.

  “Someone has to stay around,” said Karel. “Someone has to vote.”

  “Won’t make any difference. It’ll be rigged.”

  Karel shook his head. “You don’t know that, Gavra. In fact, you don’t know anything for sure. You never have.”

  Thinking back over that eventful week, Gavra could see how right his friend was.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Russian was as big as Ferenc and Bernard but padded with a lot of fat. Ferenc set aside the empty Kalashnikov and searched him beside his car, while Bernard kept the pistol trained on him. He wore a cheap gray suit of Soviet make and stared at me while Ferenc patted him down. “You’re Emil Brod?”

  “Do I look like Emil Brod?”

  Fyodor Malevich cocked his head. “Brano said you’d look devastated. So, yes.”

  At that moment, I didn’t like the Russian, nor did I like Brano.

  We brought him into the kitchen and sat him down. He stank of some Moscow hair tonic. Magda served him tea. “Anything stronger?” he asked hopefully.

  Magda obliged, setting out a bottle of brandy with four glasses. Agota wandered in, carrying Sanja. “Hello,” she said, surprised.

  Magda took Sanja from her, and that was the first time I heard the baby cry. “Come on. Let them get drunk and do their talking.”

  Bernard poured the drinks, and Malevich raised his glass. “Na-zdorovye!”

  We drank but didn’t repeat the word. He reached into his jacket pocket and placed a train ticket envelope on the table in front of me.

  “This, Comrade Brod, is for you. Second class straight through to Vienna.”

  I picked it up, confused. “Vienna?”

  “Brano asks that you come see him. It leaves Sarospatak at one in the morning. He’ll be waiting for you. Everything’s arranged.”

  “How did Brano know I was here?”

  “7 knew,” said Malevich. “You visited Comrade Kolyeszar’s headquarters. Think I’m not watching that place?”

  “I’m not going to Vienna.”

  The Russian shrugged and pushed his empty glass forward, but no one chose to refill it. “That’s up to you. I’ve done my duty and passed it on. You do as you like.”

  “But why?” I said.

  He stared at his glass. “Brano told me nothing. He just sent a telegram saying it was urgent you come to him on that train. So I bought the ticket on the way here.”

  I stared at it. I had no desire to see Vienna, or Brano Sev.

  “And now,” continued Malevich, pushing his glass closer to the bottle, “Comrade Kolyeszar.” He smiled at Ferenc, but Ferenc didn’t smile back. “You and I must talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About how to salvage this situation. How to save some little part of the popular revolution.”

  Ferenc reached for the bottle and refilled all our glasses. Malevich looked relieved. But then Ferenc clapped his hand over the Russian’s glass. “Just over a week ago, some of my people captured you. You had a colonel’s uniform in your wardrobe. I know this. Further, I know you and your KGB friends were trying to undermine my work. Why would you be interested in changing sides now?”

  Suddenly, the big Russian laughed, echoing in the kitchen. He slapped the table. “No!” He shook his head and pointed at Ferenc. “You revolutionaries are so narrow-minded!”

  Ferenc removed his hand from the glass and let him drink it down. The Russian set down the empty glass.

  “Listen, Ferenc. You’re letting paranoia get the best of you. What you may not know is that I’ve got a crackpot for a boss. Gorbachev. He starts seeing the results of his idiotic catastroika and realizes he’s made a mistake. Everything’s going down the tubes. The Poles, the Germans, the Czechs, the Hungarians.” He shook his head. “Everywhere, it’s turning to shit. So what does he do? He pulls in some of the head guys and talks over options. They tell him, quite reasonably, that the only real option is to send in the Red Army until all this blows over. Secure socialism, et cetera. But Gorby doesn’t do that. He sends them all away and calls in my boss, Vladimir Aleksan-drovich Kryuchkov. He says he’s not worried about losing these countries. He’s very philosophical. He only worries that the results won’t be what the people want. He actually says that!”

  He laughed, red-faced, but none of us was laughing with him.

  He settled down. “Okay. You don’t believe me. Whatever. But the fact of the matter is, we start getting our mission briefs. Go in, take a look at the situation, and do our best to make sure there’s no bloodshed. If the people want to start a new government, then so be it. Just make sure there aren’t any massacres, okay?”

  Bernard broke in. “Not very successful, were you?”

  The Russian squinted at him and spoke seriously. “You think thirty dead’s a massacre? If it weren’t for us, brother, there’d be three hundred dead.”

  “How does Brano Sev come into this?” I asked.

  Malevich looked at me. “He’s a friend of the people, our Comrade Sev. He’s always been. Who do you think told us to support your buddy here?” he said, motioning toward Ferenc. “Who told us to watch out for the Galicia Revolutionary Committee and all its CIA money?”

  I looked at Ferenc; he, too, was stunned, but he found his tongue. “So what have you been doing to stop the committee?”

  Again the Russian shrugged, but this time he reached for the brandy himself and filled our glasses. “Not as much as I’d like. My boss tells me to protect your Democratic Forum but also says I can’t shoot anybody. What am I supposed to do? Why do you think the glorious Bolshevik Revolution was so full of corpses? There’s no other way to get rid of the foreign influence. Everyone’s crazy about Gorby, but the man’s about as practical as a firefly.”

  None of us knew whether or not to believe him. The fact that he’d used Brano Sev’s name wasn’t enough. Then again, what would the Russians gain by hurting Ferenc when the real threat was in the Capital, where friends of America were already in control of the country?

  Malevich said, “I bet you never thought you’d have a Russian come to protect you from the Americans.”

  “That’s why it’s so hard to believe,” muttered Bernard.

  “It’s just common sense,” said the Russian. “You’ve got the CIA, they’ve been funding the Galicia Committee for years. Millions of dollars, probably, when you add it up. Then there’s unrest in Patak, and a senator comes to visit the CIA director and says, This is what we’ve been paying for, right? Now, that director, he’d like to keep hold of his pretty secretary (who’s probably his mistress), his fancy office, and his pension. So he says, Yes, of course. This is exactly what you’ve been paying for. Now, he’s got to make sure it happens. He makes sure his team gets into power.”

  “They’re funding murderers and communists,” Bernard said.

  “Syn, wake up,” said Malevich.

  “I’m not yo
ur son,” countered Bernard.

  The Russian raised his hands. “Okay. But the Americans don’t care about this. They only care that the new government will owe them something. What they want, and what they’re getting, is a group of countries who love them. Everybody needs to justify his budget, and if a million dollars buys you the friendship of a whole country, that’s money well spent.”

  Ferenc, like me, was tired of this talk. “Okay. Say I believe all this. How are you going to help us?”

  “Not much can be done anymore,” he said. “There’s only one option: You meet with the opposition and negotiate a settlement.”

  “Settlement?” said Bernard. “You don’t settle with murderers!”

  “We settle with murderers every day,” said Malevich. He turned to Ferenc. “What you need to do is get a foot in the door. Then you can run for office. It’s the only way.”

  Ferenc, too, was angry. He’d spent the last days filled with the naive optimism that somehow his ragged band of students could overpower the Capital by simple moral force. He refilled his own glass, threw the brandy down his throat, and lit a cigarette. He stood and stared down at the Russian. “Brano agrees with this?”

  “He did when I spoke to him.”

  “When?”

  “Couple of weeks ago. We discussed the various outcomes and what should be done in each case. He seemed to think he had information that could bring down the committee’s main candidate. But not anymore. That fell through.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to block out all this. Brano, I realized, knew long ago what would unfold here. If he’d told me about this weeks ago, Lena might still be alive. I said to Ferenc, “I don’t trust this.”

  “Neither do I,” he said, wandering toward the sink, smoke streaming from his cigarette.

  Bernard remained silent. He stared at his empty glass, turning it in his fingers.

  “Okay, then,” said Malevich. “If you’ve got a better plan, then let me know. I’ll be happy to assist.” He reached for the bottle again.

  It was no use. For the next hour, the Russian gradually went through the bottle, and Ferenc tried to come up with alternatives. He made phone calls, discussing the Russian’s plan with his young revolutionaries, and they reacted as he had, but with the self-righteousness of youth. They weren’t able to think straight. I went outside with him and tried to come up with something, anything, but I was never a political thinker, and Ferenc, despite his position, wasn’t much of one either. At least with this solution, Ferenc’s people wouldn’t be completely marginalized. They could represent the western part of the country in parliament, and even put forth their own candidate for president.

  Malevich didn’t gloat when Ferenc admitted he had no alternatives. Instead, the Russian cocked his head and said, “You know, Brano never thought it would come to this either. I told him from the beginning this is where it would go, but he refused to believe me. That man, he’s as idealistic as the rest of you. He’s an eternal optimist.”

  Ferenc frowned at him. “I never took Brano for an optimist.”

  Neither had I.

  “Oh,” said the Russian. “One more message from Brano Sev, then I take Comrade Brod to the train station.”

  “What’s that?” said Ferenc.

  “He wishes you all a happy Christmas.”

  25 DECEMBER 1989

  MONDAY

  THIRTY-THREE

  Of course, I went. Like Gavra, I was starting to realize there was nothing for me at home anymore. The life of Militia Chief Emil Brod, at sixty-four years, had ended with an automobile explosion. And what had that life been anyway, when I’d never even known my wife? It had been an illusion. Whether my final days were eked out at home or in Austria, it made no difference. I just didn’t want anyone else to die because of my stupidity.

  When Magda kissed me good-bye, she was out of threats. She squeezed my face in her hands and told me to come back soon, because Austria would be too much for a simple man like me. She meant it as a compliment. As thanks, I handed her Gavra’s Makarov and told her to bury it.

  In the car, Fyodor Malevich became serious. For a moment I wondered if this was all a trap. Maybe Brano hadn’t sent him; maybe I would be the last witness to die, quietly on a frigid evening roadside. But he just wanted to tell me, in private, how sorry he was about Lena. His own wife had been killed five years before when he was stationed in Paris, a hit-and-run. Though it was never solved, he believed the English had done it in retaliation for an agent of theirs he’d had to kill months before. As we crossed the Bodrog, entering Sarospatak, he said, “Get prepared, my friend, because you’ll never get over it.”

  The train was packed, and though my ticket gave me rights to a window seat, I found it occupied by a pregnant woman and her baby, so I spent the hour until the Hungarian border smoking in the corridor. It occurred to me as we pulled into Szerencs that I didn’t have a passport and would be turned back, but it was a different time then, fraternal borders briefly open to all newly freed peoples-my Militia card sufficed. We stopped for a couple of hours in Budapest, where the train emptied. I found a window seat and peered out at Deli Station, its platform still shrouded in predawn gloom, then dozed until a Hungarian man woke me in Tatabanya, insisting my seat was his. I had to change trains there anyway. I found my new train, tracked another empty seat, took some Captopril, and went back to sleep.

  It was all catching up to me by then. The exertion of the last days had put my back out, but until that train I’d been able to ignore it. I kept waking up, my lower spine tight and burning, and no position helped. Of course, it wasn’t just the physical discomfort. It was everything.

  The worst thing was Lena, knowing that I’d never really known her. If she’d survived, perhaps she would have told me on her own. A deathbed confession, or something less dramatic. A quiet talk over dinner. She was dead, though, and I was left without answers. A part of me was starting to hate her, and that only made me hate myself. If I had any reservations about what I would later do, that’s when they left me. When I started to hate myself.

  I’ve had time since to think about a lot of things, and it still surprises me I’m alive. When your personal life runs so sharply into the life of your country, there’s no place to rest. Not even in another country. And since you’re no longer young, your body balks at the things you have to do. It even denies you the escape of physical pleasure. Wherever you turn, there’s pain. It starts to drive you a little mad. Because people are not built to take this. Why should they be? Stories like mine are not supposed to happen.

  The sun was up by the time we reached the Austrian border. I’d assumed that my Militia pass would get me through there as well, but the border guard, a tall, blond young man who didn’t care what I’d been through, shook his head and led me out of the train at Nickelsdorf. So it’s over, I thought, and a part of me was happy to be turned back. At least my story would end. I listened as he spoke to his supervisor, explaining what I’d offered as identification. “Let me see,” said the supervisor.

  From his pocket he unfolded a telegram, then compared my ID to it. He returned my Militia certificate and nodded politely. “Welcome to Austria, Herr Brod. You may return to the train.”

  The guard who’d taken me off was annoyed, and he argued with his supervisor as I returned to my seat and stared out at them. My success left me feeling uncomfortable. The train lurched and started forward again.

  This was the first time since 1947 that I’d left the East. There was no difference outside my window-the sun wasn’t brighter, the fields weren’t more lush. I was soon asleep again, but my back still hurt.

  It was a little before ten in the morning when we pulled into the large block of stone and glass that was Vienna’s Sudbahnhof, in the Fa-voriten district. I helped a student wrestle his bags down to the bleak concrete platform, then waited, hands on my hips. Police and departing passengers wandered by, some pushing wheeled carts loaded with suitcases. Then, at the end of the platform
, by the Sudbahnhof doors, I saw Brano Sev. He’d gotten fatter in retirement, but he wore the same cheap brown suit I remembered from his retirement party. I wondered if it had been refitted. He still had hair on top, but not much, and it was all white.

  He didn’t bother waving or showing any of the signs of excitement common to transportation hubs. He didn’t even move quickly, and I didn’t bother walking to meet him. As he approached, I saw those familiar three moles on his left cheek. I also saw I’d been wrong-it was a new suit, and it wasn’t cheap. It just appeared that way from a distance, because of the way he wore it. His face was the surprise. Up close, there was color in his cheeks, and the chronic bags under his eyes had shrunk. When he retired, he’d looked older than his sixty-nine years; now, at seventy-two, he looked sixty-five.

  “Emil,” he said, and we shook hands. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  “You always have a choice. I’m just pleased my telegram got you through the border.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Listen,” he began, then coughed into his fist. “My condolences. About Lena.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He peered past me. “No baggage?”

  I shook my head, then wondered if he meant it metaphorically.

  “Here’s something, then.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a stiff brick-colored passport. On the cover was an eagle with a crest and the words REPUBLIK OSTERREICH and REISEPASS. Inside, I found my photograph and name.

  “What’s this?”

  “What’s it look like?” He patted my back to encourage me to walk. “My friend helped put it together, very quickly. I figured you wouldn’t have your passport, and I don’t want the Austrian police stopping you.”

  He led the way down steps, through an underground passage, and up an escalator to a dirty station with high windows looking out onto the busy main street, Wiener Gurtel. We stood at the curb as shining Western cars flew by in the cold; then Brano raised a hand easily, and a black BMW pulled up. He opened the back door and nodded me in.