that man stepped out to light a cigarette. He didn’t seem proud, not as proud as he’d seemed in the interrogation room or later in the café. He instead looked like a man at the end of a long day of factory work, the weight of repetitive motion bearing on him. But strong. Bald, tall, and strong.
“Now you look like you’ve been hit by a train. Where do you keep running off to?”
He tried on a smile as he sat down. “I’ve had enough beer.”
Stanislav folded the letter into his pocket again. “Listen, this is my last night to be foolish. Once I’m back…well, I’ll have responsibilities. You up for a final blast?”
Peter felt his special talent—the one the StB officer had been so impressed by—bring on a big, authentic smile. “I don’t want to let you down.”
So they bought a bottle of Becherovka liquor and began again to drink. “Did you fight?” asked Peter.
“When?”
“Here. You’ve only said you ended up being stationed here. You never told me what you did.”
Stanislav shifted, then peered into his shot glass. “Most of the time, no. We were all quite pleased no one wanted to fight us. These girls—pretty girls, and what short skirts they had—they gave us flowers and told us to go home.” He shook his head. “As if we had a choice in the matter. But they were nice. At the beginning, though, there was some fighting.” He finished his glass and refilled it. “It was the twenty-first. We’d just gotten here, and half of us didn’t even know where we were. Then we were sent over to the radio building, over on Stalinova Street. A big crowd outside. I think the radio station had called them all there to protest. Well, it got out of hand. They threw rocks, someone started shooting, and, well…” He lifted the dark liquor to his chin. “Yeah, there were dead people.”
“Did you kill anyone?”
“I hope not. In the confusion, I couldn’t tell. But the station—” He grunted. “Those guys are clever. Radio Prague still broadcasts from different areas of town. They change frequencies and give out news for ten minutes, then move on. I doubt anyone will be able to stop them.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Me?” Stanislav peered at the dark liquor in his glass. “You think any of us want to be here? You think any of us are here because we want to defend socialism?”
Peter raised his own glass. “To going home.”
They swallowed what they had and then poured more.
Katja
As the plane descends toward Atatürk International, I yawn to pop my ears. Beside me, the young electric-fan salesman rubs his eyes and smiles. “Did I sleep the whole way?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“I can’t seem to sleep these days.”
“Well, you won’t sleep in Istanbul. Very un restful place. Where are you staying?”
His thin hair lies flat on his scalp, and in a few years he’ll be bald. He has bright eyes.
“I didn’t make a reservation,” I say, and it occurs to me how sudden this trip is. How ill planned. This afternoon, taking the long taxi ride from the Hotel Metropol to the airport, fingering my crisp new passport, it felt like the only option. But that was the fatigue confusing me. The fatigue and the buzzing in my ears that muted all other sounds.
“Well, you’ve got to make a reservation,” he says. “It’s a popular city. I’m staying at the Pera Palas. Why don’t you come into town with me and we’ll see if we can get you a room?”
“Yes,” I say, trying on a smile. “That’s a good idea.”
“I’m Istvan. Istvan Farkas.”
I make a smile with teeth and take his hand. “Good to meet you, Istvan.”
Then I notice the fat man looking at me again. When I catch him he turns away.
Waiting for Brano Sev at the Metropol earlier today, I also felt watched—a woman on her own at the half-empty bar, male eyes converging on my back. So I ordered vodka from a lanky bartender who set the glass down and smiled. “You waiting for
“Now you look like you’ve been hit by a train. Where do you keep running off to?”
He tried on a smile as he sat down. “I’ve had enough beer.”
Stanislav folded the letter into his pocket again. “Listen, this is my last night to be foolish. Once I’m back…well, I’ll have responsibilities. You up for a final blast?”
Peter felt his special talent—the one the StB officer had been so impressed by—bring on a big, authentic smile. “I don’t want to let you down.”
So they bought a bottle of Becherovka liquor and began again to drink. “Did you fight?” asked Peter.
“When?”
“Here. You’ve only said you ended up being stationed here. You never told me what you did.”
Stanislav shifted, then peered into his shot glass. “Most of the time, no. We were all quite pleased no one wanted to fight us. These girls—pretty girls, and what short skirts they had—they gave us flowers and told us to go home.” He shook his head. “As if we had a choice in the matter. But they were nice. At the beginning, though, there was some fighting.” He finished his glass and refilled it. “It was the twenty-first. We’d just gotten here, and half of us didn’t even know where we were. Then we were sent over to the radio building, over on Stalinova Street. A big crowd outside. I think the radio station had called them all there to protest. Well, it got out of hand. They threw rocks, someone started shooting, and, well…” He lifted the dark liquor to his chin. “Yeah, there were dead people.”
“Did you kill anyone?”
“I hope not. In the confusion, I couldn’t tell. But the station—” He grunted. “Those guys are clever. Radio Prague still broadcasts from different areas of town. They change frequencies and give out news for ten minutes, then move on. I doubt anyone will be able to stop them.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Me?” Stanislav peered at the dark liquor in his glass. “You think any of us want to be here? You think any of us are here because we want to defend socialism?”
Peter raised his own glass. “To going home.”
They swallowed what they had and then poured more.
Katja
As the plane descends toward Atatürk International, I yawn to pop my ears. Beside me, the young electric-fan salesman rubs his eyes and smiles. “Did I sleep the whole way?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“I can’t seem to sleep these days.”
“Well, you won’t sleep in Istanbul. Very un restful place. Where are you staying?”
His thin hair lies flat on his scalp, and in a few years he’ll be bald. He has bright eyes.
“I didn’t make a reservation,” I say, and it occurs to me how sudden this trip is. How ill planned. This afternoon, taking the long taxi ride from the Hotel Metropol to the airport, fingering my crisp new passport, it felt like the only option. But that was the fatigue confusing me. The fatigue and the buzzing in my ears that muted all other sounds.
“Well, you’ve got to make a reservation,” he says. “It’s a popular city. I’m staying at the Pera Palas. Why don’t you come into town with me and we’ll see if we can get you a room?”
“Yes,” I say, trying on a smile. “That’s a good idea.”
“I’m Istvan. Istvan Farkas.”
I make a smile with teeth and take his hand. “Good to meet you, Istvan.”
Then I notice the fat man looking at me again. When I catch him he turns away.
Waiting for Brano Sev at the Metropol earlier today, I also felt watched—a woman on her own at the half-empty bar, male eyes converging on my back. So I ordered vodka from a lanky bartender who set the glass down and smiled. “You waiting for
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