The Secret Speech - Страница 59

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Trying to figure out how to stop the giant head from bucking her off, she positioned her feet wide, riding the crest of Stalin’s hair, hands clasped around the protruding street sign. Zoya gained confidence, standing up straight. Spotting Malysh’s concerned face, she smiled to reassure him, ushering him forward, wanting him to join her, but he refused, crossing his arms, staying back, annoyed at her recklessness. Ignoring his grumpiness, she played to the crowd, pointing forward like an empress atop her chariot. The truck was moving at a steady pace: Stalin’s head dragged at walking speed, the Hungarian flag lank behind her, trailing along the ground. She gestured to the driver — faster.

The truck accelerated. Sparks crackled from the bottom of Stalin’s jaw. Zoya’s hair was flapping. Picking up enough speed, the flag began to flap as well, spreading out behind her. In that second, she became an emblem of their defiance, Stalin’s head under her feet, the new Hungarian flag sweeping out. She looked around, hoping to see admiration in the crowd’s eyes, hoping a camera might capture this moment.

Her audience had disappeared.

At the end of Jozsef korut there was a tank, turret pointed directly at them, caterpillar tracks grinding over the street, advancing at speed. The truck braked. The chains fell slack. Stalin’s head stopped so suddenly it flipped forward, nose hitting the street, throwing Zoya off. Dazed, winded, she lay sprawled in the middle of the square.

Malysh grabbed her. She sat up, winded, bruised, seeing the tank rolling straight toward them, only a couple of hundred meters away. Leaning on Malysh, she stood up, staggering away. Trying to find cover, they hurried toward the nearest shop. She looked back. The tank fired: a burst of yellow, a whistling noise. The shell hit the street behind them — a cloud of smoke, fragments of stone, streaks of fire. Zoya and Malysh were smashed down.

Appearing out of the cloud, Stalin’s giant head appeared, blasted off the ground and swinging like a ball at the end of a chain, arching toward them, as if taking revenge for its desecration. Zoya pushed Malysh flat just as Stalin’s head passed over, his jagged neck only centimeters above them before crashing through the shop window, showering them with glass. Where the head traveled, the truck followed, dragged by the chains, flipped over onto its back, rotating round, crunching into the street, the driver hanging upside down.

Before they could get up, the tank appeared out of the smoke, a metallic monster. They crawled backward, reaching the devastated pharmacy window. There was nowhere to go, no way to escape. But the tank didn’t fire. The hatch was opened. A soldier appeared, taking up control of the mounted machine gun. Paralyzed by fear, they remained stationary. As the soldier spun the machine gun toward them a bullet struck his jaw. More bullets struck the tank, fired from every side of the square. Under bombardment the dead soldier was pulled down into the compartment. Before he could close the hatch two men ran at the tank arms raised high, holding glass bottles, a rag burning in each. They tossed them inside, filling the tank with fire.

Malysh grabbed Zoya:

— We have to go.

For once, Zoya didn’t disagree.

SOVIET-CONTROLLED EASTERN EUROPE
HUNGARY

BUDAPEST
BUDA HILL
27 OCTOBER

LEO HAD BECOME FRUSTRATED at their guide’s apparent lack of urgency. They had been making slow progress. It had taken two days to travel a thousand kilometers to the Hungarian border and yet three days to travel the remaining three hundred kilometers to Budapest. Not until Karoly had heard radio broadcasts announcing that disturbances were breaking out in Budapest had he seemed to pick up the pace. Quizzed, Karoly could offer no more than a translation of the radio reports—minor civil unrest perpetrated by bands of fascists. From those words it was impossible to judge the scale of the unrest. The radio broadcasts were censored and almost certainly underplaying the disruption. The request for the troublemakers to go home suggested the authorities were no longer in control. With insufficient information, Karoly decided it was too dangerous to enter the city directly, driving in a circular route, avoiding several Soviet army blockades. They’d looped around to the residential Buda district, bypassing the center, the civic buildings, and Communist headquarters — flashpoints for an insurgency.

It was sunrise by the time Karoly parked the car on the vantage point of Buda Hill, several hundred meters above the city. The adjacent streets were deserted. At the bottom of the hills the Danube passed through the city, dividing it into two halves — Buda and Pest. While the Buda half remained largely quiet, on the other side of the river there was the crackle of gunfire. Thin wisps of smoke rose from several buildings. Leo asked:

— Have Soviet troops stormed the city yet? Is the insurgency beaten?

Karoly shrugged:

— I know as much as you.

Raisa turned to Karoly:

— This is your home. These are your people. Panin is using both to settle a political dispute. How can you work for him?

Karoly became annoyed:

— My people would be wise to put aside dreams of freedom. They will only get us killed. If this flushes those troublemakers out, so much the better for the rest of us… Whatever you may think of me, I wish only to live in peace.

Abandoning the car, Karoly set off down the hill:

— First, we go to my apartment.

Karoly’s apartment was nearby, just below the castle on the slopes overlooking the Danube. Climbing the stairs to the top floor, Leo asked:

— Do you live alone?

— I live with my son.

Karoly had made no previous mention of his family and offered nothing more, entering the apartment, pacing from room to room. Finally, he called out:

— Victor?

Raisa asked:

— How old is your son?

— He’s twenty-three.

Raisa offered:

— I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for where he might be.

Leo added:

— What does he do?

Karoly hesitated before replying:

— He recently joined the AVH.

Leo and Raisa remained silent, belatedly understanding their guide’s apprehension. Karoly stared out the window, speaking more to himself than Leo or Raisa:

— There’s nothing to worry about. The AVH would have called all officers into their headquarters at the onset of the uprising. He is there, for sure.

The apartment was stocked with food, paraffin, candles, and a selection of weapons. Karoly had been carrying a gun since they’d crossed the border. He suggested that Leo and Raisa follow his example since being unarmed offered no guarantee that they’d be treated as non-combatants. Leo selected the TT-33, a slim, robust Soviet-made pistol. Raisa reluctantly held it in her hands. Concentrating on the danger poised by Fraera, she forced herself to become familiar with it.

They left the apartment, heading downhill, intending to cross the Danube and enter the other side of town where it was likely that Zoya would be working alongside Fraera, at the center of the uprising. Passing through Szena ter they picked their way through the square’s improvised fortifications. Young men sat, smoking in doorways, ready-made Molotov cocktails stockpiled. Tramcars had been toppled, creating a perimeter, blocking access to the streets. From the rooftops, snipers followed their movements. Trying not to arouse suspicions, the three of them moved slowly, edging toward the river.

Karoly led them across Margit-hid, a wide bridge that connected to a small island in the middle of the Danube before reaching Pest. Nearing the middle, Karoly gestured for them to stop. He crouched, pointing at the opposite bridge. There were tanks stationed on it. Heavy armor could be glimpsed around Parliament Square. Soviet troops were evidently engaged, but not in control, judging from the insurgents’ fortifications. Exposed on all sides, Karoly hunched low, hurrying. Leo and Raisa followed, blasted by the cold winds, greatly relieved when they finally reached the other side.

The city was in a schizophrenic state, neither a war zone nor anything like normality, but both at the same time, switching between the two over small distances. Zoya could be anywhere. Leo had brought two photographs, one of Zoya, a portrait they’d had taken as a family recently. She looked wretched and miserable, pale with hate. The other was the arrest photograph taken of Fraera. She’d changed almost to the point where the photograph was useless. Karoly offered them to passersby, all of whom wanted to help. There were, no doubt, many families doing exactly the same, searching for missing relatives. The photos were returned with an apologetic shake of the head.

Pressing onward, they entered a narrow street entirely untouched by fighting. It was midmorning and there was a small café open for business. Customers were sipping coffee as though nothing were out of the ordinary. The only sign that something was amiss were the mass-produced leaflets piled in the gutter. Leo bent down, taking a clutch of the thin papers, cleaning off the dirt. On the top there was a stamp, an emblem — an Orthodox crucifix. Underneath, the text was Hungarian, but he recognized the name: Nikita SergeyevichKhrushchev. This was Fraera’s work. Excited at the confirmation of her presence in the city, he took the leaflet to Karoly.

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