The Confession by Olen Steinhauer

arrived in white, unmarked vans like the one we’d taken. Some were in uniform, some not. Kaminski was on the edge of the crowd, speaking with a commander from another district. He smiled when he spoke, opening his hands and moving them around in explanation. The commander then walked to a van and spoke to three young militiamen—boys, really—who began gathering short black clubs from the van.
    More groans from the crowd, some worried faces. One stared at me a long time, a stout man with oil stains up and down his work clothes. Farther back was a student who I thought I recognized from Georgi’s. I stood beside Moska. “What’s going on here?”
    But he didn’t answer. His repulsed expression was clear enough.
    “I’m not touching that,” said Leonek when a club was offered to him.
    “Orders,” said the boy.
    Moska touched Leonek’s shoulder. “Take it, Leon.”
    Stefan stared at his own club, as if he’d never seen one before. “It’s like the Americans say.”
    “What?” I asked.
    “On the radio. They say that we club and shoot demonstrators. I was beginning to doubt them.”
    I put my own club under my arm. It was stiff and awkward. Then I looked at all those faces looking back at me. I saw some fear, but primarily hatred. Particularly in the students. A few in the back were trying to start a chant. Russia out of Bu-da-pest!
    A couple others picked it up, but it was a weak effort; our presence was draining their resolve. But as it went on— Russia out of Bu-da-pest! —the repetition began to endow them with courage. I noticed a familiar face in the rear of the crowd, open mouth shouting, helping raise their excitement. Round cheeks, straight teeth, three moles: Brano Sev, only half-disguised in a blue worker’s cap. He and a few others raised fists above their heads, their voices turning to mist. But I could see only him.
    Wives and mothers leaned out of windows and shouted for their men to come back in. From above they could see there was no escape through the ring of militiamen and white vans. But no one heard them. The chanting rose, the students shouting bravely, taken by a fever, by the knowledge that this was their moment of glory—they would not stop shouting until the last Russian tank had left Budapest. Then—a thump on the van beside me. The raised fists held rocks that began to rain on us. Brano Sev’s piece of ragged concrete cracked a windshield.
    The commander bellowed something that must have been an order, because we were all moving forward, clubs held tightly, to round them up. The chant dropped off, and when we reached the demonstrators their open hands tried to push us back. Palms pressed into my chest, faces flashed by. Someone was behind me, stopping my retreat, and we were in the midst of them, in faces and hands and shouts and sweat. Someone hit me in the jaw, and I instinctively struck out with my club. The snap of bone. A student dropped at my feet. I looked around for Emil or Leonek, or anyone, but saw only angry workers and students climbing over each other to get away. Above, women covered and uncovered their faces, screaming. This was too much. I pushed backward through the crowd, outward, elbowing anything that tried to stop me. Something hit the back of my head and I swung the club again, turning, and saw a militiaman floundering on the ground, his ear bleeding. I pushed through them, but the crowd seemed to go on forever, hysterical demonstrators and militiamen, who swung their clubs as if such a small tool could bring silence. Then I was out, and Kaminski stood shouting at me. I couldn’t hear his words, only saw his large mouth, spit-damp, his own club pointing me back into the riot. He reached for me. I grabbed his shoulders and flung him against a van and kept going.
    I crossed the street and stood in front of an apartment door, then sat down. Windows slammed shut above me, then I heard gunshots. I thought I would be sick, but wasn’t. From where I sat, I saw