Liberation Movements (9 page)

Saturday morning
Gavra cleaned himself and put on his dress uniform. He’d never felt comfortable in it, because, as he left Unit 16, his neighbors, including Mujo and his closest friend, Haso (already drunk, though it was only nine o’clock), paused to watch him pass.

He met the others at the Seventh District cemetery, where the tight crabgrass clung to the earth, and waited as Chief Brod said a few clumsy words in front of the hole, then stepped back to let two young recruits shoot rifles into the air. There was nothing left of Libarid Terzian to bury; inside the cheap coffin lay Libarid’s best suit, cleaned and pressed by Zara the day before.

Gavra shook little Vahe’s hand as if he were now a man, then turned to Zara, who looked away as he spoke.

“My condolences, Zara. And I’m sorry if yesterday—”

“Don’t,” she said, then rubbed her arm.

So he withdrew past Katja and Imre, to where Brano stood on the edge of the crowd in civilian clothes. He held a newspaper under his arm and wore his hat, which struck Gavra as impolite. “Were you close to him?” he asked Brano.

When the old man spoke, his lips didn’t move. “We worked in the same office for three decades. We knew each other. I’m not sure you could say we were close.”

Gavra surveyed the mourners. There were a lot of people he didn’t know, Libarid’s friends from outside the station. Armenians mostly, like his wife’s family, remnants of various exoduses from greater Turkey in the early part of the century. They didn’t look like terrorists. He said, “Katja and I are going to Vuzlove after this.”

Brano squinted. “Why?”

“A woman from Flight 54 called and left a message for the hijackers at the hotel.”

“Who told you this?”

“Katja uncovered it. The call was made not long before the flight took off, and if the woman knew the hijackers, she had to know they weren’t in the hotel—they were with her, in the airport. Interesting, no?” When Brano didn’t answer, he added, “Her last address was a mental asylum in Vuzlove.”

Brano blinked a few times. “Mental asylum?”

“I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Name?”

“Eh?”

“This woman’s name.”

“Martrich,” said Gavra. “Zrinka Martrich.”

Brano ran his tongue behind his lips, then nodded.

“You know her?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want you to waste too much time on this. It’s disturbing that someone we knew was a victim of this tragedy, but in the end it’s exactly what it looks like: a hijacking that went wrong.”

“I’d still like to know why the plane exploded.”

“People make mistakes all the time, Gavra. Even terrorists.”

Brano handed him the morning’s
Spark.
The front page told him that, during their interrogation of Wilhelm Adler, Brano had been right about Stockholm. Though Adler’s revolutionary comrades once again showed their frustration by shooting Doctor Heinz Hillegart, the West German economic attaché, no concessions were made by the Swedish authorities. Then, at midnight, the TNT they’d piled in the embassy basement exploded, killing Ulrich Wessel of the Red Army Faction. Everyone else, hostages included, survived. The cause of the explosion was cited as “bad wiring.”

“Mistakes are made every day,” said Brano, just before he walked across the grass to his car.

Katja drove at top speed along the dusty roads east of the Capital, and Gavra asked why her husband, Aron, hadn’t shown up at the funeral—he did, after all, know Libarid. She admitted that they’d been fighting. “He’s a good man, though.”

“You wouldn’t have married him otherwise.”

“I might have. Maybe I wouldn’t have if I’d known how weak he was. He’s desperate for me to find a safe job and have a baby.”

“And that’s not what you want?”

“What about you? Why aren’t you married?”

“No time,” he said quickly. Then: “I’m not sure I’d want to bring someone into this kind of life.”

She tapped the wheel. “You’re different, though. You’re not like those other Ministry characters. You don’t try to intimidate everyone like Brano does. I don’t know how you can work with that man.”

“He’s my mentor—I see a side of him no one else sees.”

“I’d rather not see him at all.”

Gavra let the silence sit between them, and he knew why: A small part of him was trying intimidation. Stay silent, and let her project her fears onto you. He only spoke when they saw the sign for Vuzlove on the side of the road. “We’re here.”

An old man with a white beard gave them directions to the clinic on the north side of town, and they parked beside a lone concrete box in the middle of a grassy field, surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence—the Tarabon Residential Clinic.

“Listen, Gavra,” Katja said as she removed the ignition key. “If I insulted you back there—”

“It’s nothing.” He waved a hand casually, but as he climbed out a smile crept into his face. He was finally getting the hang of it.

The front office was a depressing affair, with two white-smocked matrons in front of a wall of file cabinets, filling ashtrays and watching a black-and-white television in the corner. It was half past three on a Saturday, and like most of the country they were tuned to
Family Popa,
about the difficult but virtuous lives of the members of that ideal socialist family. Gavra had watched it only once and had been irritated by its forced internationalism. While the family’s ethnicity was Romanian, they went out of their way to name the children Laszlo (Hungarian), Frantisek (Czech), Nastasiya (Ukrainian), and Elwira (Polish).

Katja waved her Militia documents, but neither woman stood as she explained what she needed.

“Eh?” said the closest one.

Gavra took out his Ministry certificate, hoping that would help. It did.

It was intimidating.

The head nurse stood with some effort, finally noticing their dress uniforms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you asked for.”

Gavra said, “We’re interested in the records of a patient with the family name of Martrich.”

She put out her cigarette. “First name?”

“Zrinka.”

The nurse went to the wall of drawers and opened
M–P,
then returned with two files:
MARTRICH P
and
MARTRICH S
. But the two names were
PAUL
and
SANDOR
.

“Zrinka,” said Katja. “We’re looking for a female patient.”

“Well, these aren’t women,” said the nurse.

“I know.”

“And they’re the only Martriches here.”

Gavra leaned on the counter. “Could she be filed somewhere else?”

“If it’s not here—”

“Zrinka?” said the other nurse, her eyes still on the television. “She’s been gone three years.”

“Where’s her file?” said Katja.

“Arendt,” said the one at the television.

“Arendt?” Gavra asked.

The first nurse shrugged. “Doctor Arendt. You think so, Klara?”

“He was Zrinka’s doctor,” said Klara.

“Can we speak to the doctor?” Gavra asked.

“Not here you can’t,” Klara said to the television.

The other nodded. “He’s in the Capital. Left how many?”

“Eight.”

“That’s right. Eight months ago. Took his patients’ files with him.”

“You find the doctor,” said Klara, “and you’ll find your file.”

“And where,” Gavra said, “do we find the doctor?”

The first nurse hesitated. “Well…”

Klara didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “Bottom drawer, next to the thumbtacks.”

Doctor Arendt lived in an airy third-floor Habsburg apartment over a post office, facing a cobbled Fifth District street. When he opened the door, he froze for an instant in the face of the two uniforms.

“What can I do for you?”

Katja gave him a reassuring smile. “Just a few questions, Comrade Doctor. About an old patient of yours. May we come in?”

Arendt recovered from his surprise and ushered them in. Once they reached the living room, he offered tea, which Katja accepted but Gavra didn’t; he was still working on the subtleties of intimidation.

Arendt was an old man, and when he brought Katja’s tea, some spilled into the saucer. He settled in his musty purple armchair and put on a smile. Gavra couldn’t decide whether it was true or not—this man was a psychologist, so it could have meant anything.

Katja sipped her tea, then said, “We’d like to see the file on a patient of yours. Zrinka Martrich.”

Arendt shrugged. “I haven’t seen her in three years.”

“Still,” said Gavra, “we’d like to see the file.”

Arendt climbed out of his chair again and went to a wardrobe standing by the bedroom door. Inside were rows of out-of-date files. Zrinka Martrich’s folder was thick, covering the seven years, Arendt explained, that she was kept at the Tarabon Residential Clinic. Gavra began to leaf through the heady mix of typed and handwritten memos, cardiograms, dietary records, and interview transcripts but closed it again. “Can you just tell us about her?”

He was back in the chair, placing a glass ashtray on its arm. He lit a cigarette—Kent, Gavra noticed. American, the preferred brand of all doctors. Arendt said, “Zrinka arrived at the Tarabon clinic a decade ago, back in sixty-five. Fifteen years old. She’d been through a tragedy—both her parents committed suicide. The experience, as you’d imagine, scarred her. She blamed herself.”

“She thought she murdered them?” asked Katja.

“In a way, yes. You see, Zrinka believed she had influenced them.” He paused, touching his lip, smoke rising into his eyes. “This is going to sound ludicrous to you.”

“Go on, Doctor,” said Gavra.

He took a drag. “Zrinka Martrich had delusions. In particular, a very strong delusion of ‘thought broadcasting,’ which means that she believed her thoughts could be heard by other people. The difference between Zrinka and schizophrenics who usually suffer from this was that she didn’t believe the people were listening
in
. She wasn’t afraid of mental spies or anything like that; she wasn’t paranoid. She instead felt that she could speak, with her mind, to other people, and that by doing this she could manipulate people into doing her will.”

“So she was crazy,” said Katja.

“Well, it wasn’t that simple.”

“How do you mean?” said Gavra.

The doctor tapped ash and brought his hand to his ear, as if he had trouble hearing. “At first, yes. For the first year she showed characteristics of hysteria, violent panic, and once tried to kill herself. But by the second year she seemed to…
adjust.
She stopped displaying the normal characteristics of delusion. Zrinka became completely lucid. Her thoughts were clear; they all made sense. This sort of thing is extremely rare.”

“And she left the asylum,” said Gavra. “You cured her?”

The doctor took another drag. “I never cured her of her delusions. I tried, many times, but she always maintained her calm. Over the next six years. Six years of weekly talks.”

“So why did you let her go?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “She was transferred to another clinic in seventy-two. It was out of my hands.”

Katja sat up. “What other clinic?”

Rokošyn. It’s small, in the mountains. I didn’t want her to go, because it’s a research institute. Their only interest is observation. Their excuse was that in seven years I’d done nothing for her, so she might as well serve the state. I was unable to keep her.”

“What happened to her then?” Katja asked.

The doctor tapped off some ash. “I’ve checked, but there are no records. The last documents I have are her transfer papers to Rokošyn, from three years ago.”

In the silence that followed, Gavra went to the window, looked down into the street, then turned back. The light from the window behind him left his features in darkness. “Would it surprise you if I told you she was spotted in the airport three
days
ago? She made a telephone call to the Hotel Metropol, then boarded a flight to Istanbul.”

The doctor’s mouth fell open, revealing badly made false teeth. “The one that exploded?”

Gavra looked at Katja; Katja nodded.

“Yes,” said Arendt, staring at his thin rug. “It would surprise me.”

Gavra came closer. “Did she display any political passions when you knew her?”

He shook his head. “Absolutely none. She was apolitical. I also tried to cure her of this, but…well, it’s difficult.”

“Of course it is.”

Katja said, “Does she have any relatives who might know more?”

“Only her brother, but I doubt he knows anything more.”

“Brother?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes. Adrian Martrich. I told him about the Rokošyn clinic as well.” He noticed their faces. “You didn’t know she had a brother?”

1968

There is
something comforting about being taken prisoner by amateurs. They make mistakes all the time. Though he realized their mistake quickly, Peter did not at first move. He remained on his cot and listened to the undertones and footsteps in the corridor, trying to ascertain his position here. The sonata came to mind. Themes in a sonata change roles depending on the melodies around them or the key they’re in—a light, airy melody becomes ominous in a minor key. Peter had gone from incompetent farm boy to demure, silent music student, then co-conspirator—albeit a minor one—in the making of
socialismu lidskou tvár
. Then, for mere days, he’d been a refugee until, for just a few moments that night in the field outside
eské Bud
jovice, he’d become a fool.

And that role, like a change in key, had colored the roles that followed. Prisoner, suspect, traitor—and now, fugitive.

Peter climbed out the window and jumped two floors to the bushes below. Bare branches scratched his sore face, but he had no trouble getting up and running through the warm dusk, past unsuspecting students, down Pod Stanicí.

He wasn’t sure where to go. His family was in Encs, on the southern border—but that was no longer his home. His small circle of friends now despised him. So he found himself, after another long tram ride, on Celetná, in front of the Torpédo bar.

Stanislav Klym was already at their back table, but without his rifle. Before him was a full ashtray, a sheet of paper, and three empty beer glasses, a fourth at his lips. He lowered it. “Peter! Come on, come take a seat.” Stanislav waved to the bartender for another beer. “What happened to your face?”

“Some trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Some friends.”

“Not very friendly.”

Peter touched his cheek. “They had reason.”

“Did you kill someone?”

“I’ve made mistakes.”

Stanislav grunted. “Haven’t we all! But the kinds of friends who beat you to teach a lesson, those are friends you can do without. Here.”

The bartender set a fresh glass on the table and, before leaving, caught Peter’s eye. It was a hard stare. Stanislav slid the glass to Peter. “Drink up. You’re among friends now.”

It surprised Peter how comfortable this soldier made him feel. Stanislav was in a mild state of euphoria, waiting for his trip back home. He patted his pocket. “Ticket’s here, I’ve already said good-bye to the regiment, and now I’m going to drink until eight thirty in the morning, when the train leaves. You know what I’m going to do as soon as I get back?”

“What?”

“I’m going to marry my Katja.” He tapped the paper in front of him, which Peter now saw was one of her letters. “That’s all I’m interested in doing. And then we’re going to stay in bed for a week.” He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “You ever been in love?”

“I think so.”

“What do you mean, you think so?” Stanislav shook his head. “You must not have been, because when you are, you know it.”

“I did a lot of things so she would notice me. I abandoned my schoolwork for her. To me, that’s love.”

“And how far did it get you?”

Peter didn’t answer at first. He stared at his glass, then at the soldier’s face. He felt a pang of the thing he had felt that whole trip—first in a pickup truck, then on foot—to the Austrian border: jealousy. An intense jealousy that erupted whenever he saw the two of them under their blanket, the way Ivana stroked Toman’s cheeks until he fell asleep, and the kisses she woke him with. “It didn’t get me far at all. You can see the result here.” He touched his pink eye.

“Then you need to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Doing so much for others. You’ve got to be independent. Women like that.”

“I can’t be independent here. Everyone knows me.”

“Then get out of Prague,” said Stanislav. “Try Bratislava. Start doing things for yourself.”

“Once I get some money together, maybe.”

The soldier placed a fist on the table. “Don’t procrastinate. I’ve spent enough of my life procrastinating. Now I know what I want. It’s my girlfriend, my apartment, and a quiet life. You should go somewhere else. Then no one will disrupt your plans. You can start again, become who you want to be.”

It struck Peter that this soldier, unlike himself, did not change key. He had no relation to the sonata. Whether or not he donned a uniform, Stanislav Klym remained what he would always be—a simple man motivated by his love for one woman.

“You sure you’re all right?” asked Stanislav.

“Can you excuse me a minute?”

“You’re leaving?”

“I just need to make a call. There’s a pay phone outside.”

“There’s a phone behind the bar.”

“I’ll be right back.”

He got up and wound his way through tables and smoke and wide, hunched backs until he was outside. Across the street, two more soldiers shared a cigarette, unaware of him. He walked to the Czech Telecom booth on Republic Square, across from the Obecní Dům, and closed himself inside.

After a minute, the voice spoke to him. “Captain Poborsky here.”

“Look at you. You’re shivering. It’s cold out there?”

“No,” said Peter. “Mind getting another round for us?”

Stanislav held up two fingers for the bartender, mouthing
pivo,
then turned back. “You look like you just saw a dead man.”

Peter rubbed his arm. “Tell me about your home.”

“You don’t want to hear about that again.”

“I do. Really.”

So Stanislav began to speak. When he talked of his grandfather’s apartment on 24th of October Street—building number 24, in fact—it was as if he were speaking of a palace. One with limited hot water and peeling walls, but a palace nonetheless. His description of his village, Pácin, was cursory, a few friends and a loyal family, but with one truly extraordinary detail—Katja Uher. They had been in school together, their parents distantly related like everyone in that village. Even though they had spent all their time together, neither of their parents had expected them to fall deeply in love when she was fifteen and he seventeen, but they all condoned it, as if it were as inevitable as the harvest.

“Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not listening.”

Peter smiled. “I’m listening to every word. Trust me. Do you have the time?”

The soldier squinted at his watch. “Little after eight.”

“Mind if I step out again? Ten minutes.”

Stanislav took the letter out of his pocket again and unfolded it. “Take your time.”