a row of white vans, bloody men being thrown into them, and a block where women cried from their windows. Two unconscious bodies were carried into a van. I stared at my rings.
After a long time, the vans started to pull out, beginning their journeys to the prison infirmaries. Stefan and Emil appeared, beaten and numb. They noticed me and turned away. Then they parted without words. Leonek was shouting at Moska, some incomprehensible stream of abuse. Moska said nothing, then started across the street toward me, leaving Leonek to his anger.
“You got out,” he said. He looked back. There was a smear of blood from his ear to his collar; it wasn’t his blood. “Kaminski is after you. Says you attacked him. Says you refused to fight.” He brushed his shoulder with a hand. “Sounds like you just fought the wrong person.”
“Did I?” My hands were between my knees. I didn’t know what had happened to my club. “Did you see Brano?”
He turned to me.
“Sev was dressed up like a worker. This was all a setup.”
Moska grimaced, but didn’t say anything for a while. As the last van left, we saw what remained: a bloodstained sidewalk with spare pieces of clothing—a torn shirt, a shoe, some hats. A crying woman knelt over a hat, and a few dazed militiamen stood perfectly still.
“To dirty us,” said Moska.
My hands were dirty. My clothes were dirty.
Moska sat down next to me. “A trial run, to implicate ourselves. So that if they want to use us later, we won’t hesitate. You, though,” he said, but didn’t finish his sentence. He stood up and said something that, at that moment, struck me as utterly strange: “I wonder where my wife is right now.”
10
It took an hour and a half to walk back to the station. I wasn’t thinking of Malik Woznica anymore. He and his morphine-addicted wife were nothing to me. A few busses passed, but I didn’t flag them down. Brano Sev had helped organize a demonstration in order to close it down. The absurd logic of state security was difficult to grasp.
If I were sent to prison—this is what I remembered telling Leonek—Ágnes and Magda would be alone, maybe even harassed. I would not be able to protect them. But I couldn’t take a club to those people. And Kaminski—I’d attacked him. That, perhaps, was my one regret. But it wasn’t a deep regret.
I didn’t go inside the station. I found my car, waited for the ignition to catch, then drove fast.
Magda was putting away groceries in the kitchen. “Ágnes is with a friend,” she said absently. Her hands shook as she closed the cabinets.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Of course I’m all right.” I was glad she didn’t look at me, because I was not all right.
Pavel followed me as I turned on the radio and went back to the kitchen. But instead of the usual Russian composers, or even staticky American crooners, I heard a Hungarian voice speaking slowly and clearly, giving news of the continued fighting in Budapest. Then another voice asked Soviet soldiers why they were killing their Hungarian brothers and sisters; why, after suffering Stalin for two decades, they were now serving worse Stalins. Magda looked up, surprised and, it seemed to me, terrified.
“You’ve been listening to the Americans?”
“No,” she said abruptly. Pavel let out a sharp cry; she’d stepped on him.
“Christ, Mag, I’m not going to arrest you for it.” I forced a smile to show that this was true.
Pavel scurried, whimpering, into the other room.
Magda turned back to the counter so I wouldn’t see her face. “Maybe it was Ágnes,” she said, then: “No, it was me.”
“Doesn’t matter. Just turn it back to something mundane when you’re finished.”
She nodded at the wall. “Of course. Yes.”
I wanted to talk it all out with her, to tell her what had happened. I wanted her to touch me and say that I’d done right. But she wasn’t listening today. She was somewhere else. She was distracted by her own
After a long time, the vans started to pull out, beginning their journeys to the prison infirmaries. Stefan and Emil appeared, beaten and numb. They noticed me and turned away. Then they parted without words. Leonek was shouting at Moska, some incomprehensible stream of abuse. Moska said nothing, then started across the street toward me, leaving Leonek to his anger.
“You got out,” he said. He looked back. There was a smear of blood from his ear to his collar; it wasn’t his blood. “Kaminski is after you. Says you attacked him. Says you refused to fight.” He brushed his shoulder with a hand. “Sounds like you just fought the wrong person.”
“Did I?” My hands were between my knees. I didn’t know what had happened to my club. “Did you see Brano?”
He turned to me.
“Sev was dressed up like a worker. This was all a setup.”
Moska grimaced, but didn’t say anything for a while. As the last van left, we saw what remained: a bloodstained sidewalk with spare pieces of clothing—a torn shirt, a shoe, some hats. A crying woman knelt over a hat, and a few dazed militiamen stood perfectly still.
“To dirty us,” said Moska.
My hands were dirty. My clothes were dirty.
Moska sat down next to me. “A trial run, to implicate ourselves. So that if they want to use us later, we won’t hesitate. You, though,” he said, but didn’t finish his sentence. He stood up and said something that, at that moment, struck me as utterly strange: “I wonder where my wife is right now.”
10
It took an hour and a half to walk back to the station. I wasn’t thinking of Malik Woznica anymore. He and his morphine-addicted wife were nothing to me. A few busses passed, but I didn’t flag them down. Brano Sev had helped organize a demonstration in order to close it down. The absurd logic of state security was difficult to grasp.
If I were sent to prison—this is what I remembered telling Leonek—Ágnes and Magda would be alone, maybe even harassed. I would not be able to protect them. But I couldn’t take a club to those people. And Kaminski—I’d attacked him. That, perhaps, was my one regret. But it wasn’t a deep regret.
I didn’t go inside the station. I found my car, waited for the ignition to catch, then drove fast.
Magda was putting away groceries in the kitchen. “Ágnes is with a friend,” she said absently. Her hands shook as she closed the cabinets.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Of course I’m all right.” I was glad she didn’t look at me, because I was not all right.
Pavel followed me as I turned on the radio and went back to the kitchen. But instead of the usual Russian composers, or even staticky American crooners, I heard a Hungarian voice speaking slowly and clearly, giving news of the continued fighting in Budapest. Then another voice asked Soviet soldiers why they were killing their Hungarian brothers and sisters; why, after suffering Stalin for two decades, they were now serving worse Stalins. Magda looked up, surprised and, it seemed to me, terrified.
“You’ve been listening to the Americans?”
“No,” she said abruptly. Pavel let out a sharp cry; she’d stepped on him.
“Christ, Mag, I’m not going to arrest you for it.” I forced a smile to show that this was true.
Pavel scurried, whimpering, into the other room.
Magda turned back to the counter so I wouldn’t see her face. “Maybe it was Ágnes,” she said, then: “No, it was me.”
“Doesn’t matter. Just turn it back to something mundane when you’re finished.”
She nodded at the wall. “Of course. Yes.”
I wanted to talk it all out with her, to tell her what had happened. I wanted her to touch me and say that I’d done right. But she wasn’t listening today. She was somewhere else. She was distracted by her own
Similar Books
