Puffed up with resolve, AVH officers stepped out, rifles ready, a Roman phalanx protecting the radio station. The officers divided into two lines, back to back-one line moving up the street, the other moving down, cutting the mob in half. With bayonets fixed to the end of the rifles they advanced. Malysh and Zoya were being pushed down, toward the museum, as the officers jabbed with their bayonets. Zoya looked at the young girl next to her, perhaps eighteen years old. Far from being scared, she grinned triumphantly at Zoya, locking arms with her. They’d stand together. She called out at the officers, cursing them. Inspired by the girl’s defiance, Zoya bent down, scooping up a rock no larger than her palm and throwing it, striking an officer on the cheek. Elated, she was still smiling when he swung his rifle in her direction.
There was a flash. Zoya’s legs buckled, she fell. Breathless, unsure whether she was hit, she rolled onto her side, staring into the eyes of the girl who’d linked arms with her. The bullet had struck the girl in the neck.
The officers continued advancing. Zoya couldn’t move, unable to pull herself away. She had to get up. The officers would trample her underfoot. They would kill her. Yet she couldn’t leave this girl. Suddenly Fraera crouched down, scooping up the dead girl in her arms. Malysh helped Zoya up-the two of them running. Behind them, the officers stopped their advance, holding position.
Fraera laid the girl down, crying out in raw anger, as if she were her mother, as if she loved this girl. Zoya stood back, watching as men and women knelt beside the young victim, drawn in by the sound of Fraera’s cries. Was this grief a performance? Before Zoya could think about it further, Fraera stood up, drawing a gun and firing at the line of officers. It was the cue her vory had been waiting for. From both sides of the street, they drew their guns, opening fire. The formation of officers began to break up, retreating to the station, no longer certain that they could maintain control. The officers had presumed, like men fighting beasts, that they’d been the only ones armed with guns. Under attack, they hastened back to the safety of the radio station.
Zoya remained by the dead girl’s body, staring at her lifeless eyes. Fraera pulled her aside, offering her a gun:
– Now we fight.
Zoya replied:
– I killed her.
Fraera slapped her across the face:
– No guilt. Just anger. They shot her. What are you going to do about it? Cry like a child! You’ve been crying all your life! It’s time to act!
Zoya grabbed the gun and charged toward the radio station, aiming at the figures in the windows, pulling the trigger and firing all six shots.
24 OCTOBER
Dawn, and Zoya hadn’t slept. Far from being dulled by fatigue, her senses seemed heightened, her eyes picking up every detail of her surroundings. To her side, broken coffee cups, hundreds cracked and chipped, were inexplicably heaped in the gutter, piled knee-high as if marking a burial spot. In front, the remains of a fire composed entirely of charred books, copies of Marx and Lenin, looted from bookstores. Fragile flakes of gray ash rose up toward the sky in a reverse of snowfall. Cobblestones were missing, wrenched out of the ground to serve as missiles, gaps in the street’s teeth. It was as if the city itself had been in a fight and Zoya had fought on its side. Her clothes smelled of smoke: her fingertips were black, her tongue tasted metallic. Her ears were ringing. Underneath her shirt, pressed against her stomach, was her gun.
The radio station had fallen shortly before sunrise: smoke bellowing from the windows. The timber doors had finally been broken open. The resistance inside had weakened while the attack outside had consolidated with a supply of weapons, rifles from the military academy, fired by cadets from the same academy. Fraera had found Zoya and Malysh and ordered them not to take part in storming the building. She didn’t want them caught in a pitched battle, fighting in smoke-filled corridors where desperate AVH officers lurked behind doors. She’d given them a different objective:
Find Stalin.
Arriving at the end of Gorkii Fasor, a street that led out onto the city’s main park, the Varosliget, Malysh and Zoya were shocked by the absence of its landmark. At the center of Heroes Square the vast statue of Stalin-a bronze colossus as tall as four men with a mustache as wide as an arm-was gone. There was the stone plinth but no statue on top of it. Malysh and Zoya approached the mutilated monument. Two steel boots remained: the Generalissimo had been cut off near the knees, a twisted steel support jutting out of his right boot. His body and head was missing, his statue had been murdered and the corpse stolen. Two men were busy on the plinth trying to affix a modified Hungarian flag into Stalin’s hollow boot.
Zoya began to laugh. She pointed at the space where Stalin had once been:
– He’s dead! He’s dead! The bastard’s dead!
Malysh pounced, slamming his hand over her mouth. She’d shouted out in Russian. The two men on the plinth stopped and turned. Malysh raised his arm, punching the air:
– Russkik haza!
The men nodded halfheartedly, distracted as their flag fell over.
Malysh led Zoya away, whispering:
– Remember who we are.
In reply Zoya kissed him on the lips-a quick, impulsive kiss. She pulled back and before he could react she pretended that nothing had happened, pointing at the deep scratches in the street:
– That’s the direction they dragged the body!
She set off, heart pounding, following the marks where the bronze had rubbed against the cobblestones:
– They must have dragged it with a van or a truck.
Malysh didn’t reply and, unable to play it cool any longer, Zoya stopped:
– Are you annoyed?
He slowly shook his head. Her cheeks began to burn.
Changing the subject, she gestured at the scratches:
– I’ll race you. First to Stalin’s body! On the count of three…
Before a single number had been uttered, they both broke into a run, cheating in perfect synchronization.
Malysh tore ahead but stopped as he lost track of the scratches in the street, forced to run back, searching for clues as to which direction the bronze corpse had been dragged. Like hounds hunting, they paused at the first intersection, heads down, circling the possible turning points. Zoya found the trail, setting off, Malysh now behind. They were heading south and turned down toward Blaha Lujza Square, a large crossroads, a junction lined with shops.
Up ahead they saw the bronze body, lying flat on its belly, as wide and as long as a tramcar. Both of them accelerated, running flat-out. But Zoya had more in reserve, having paced herself, exploiting Malysh’s earlier miscalculation about how far they’d have to run. She was ahead of him but only barely, she strained forward, stretching-her fingertips touching Stalin’s bronze calf. Panting, smiling, she glanced at Malysh and saw that he was genuinely annoyed. He hated to lose and was trying to think of some reason to annul the race.
To seal her victory Zoya climbed the statue, her flat-soled shoes slipping over Stalin’s smooth bronze thighs until she wedged her toes into the imitation folds of his coat and pushed herself up. Standing on top she saw that Stalin’s head was missing, severed at the neck, a crude decapitation. She walked the line of his back, one foot carefully in front of the other-a trapeze artist pacing a tightrope. Malysh remained on the street, hands in pockets. She smiled at him, expecting him to blush. Instead, he returned her smile. A burst of pleasure exploded inside her chest, and in her mind she performed celebratory cartwheels along Stalin’s spine.
Reaching the bronze neck, she ran her fingers over the rough edge where the head appeared to have been chipped and smashed and blowtorched off. Standing up, hands on hips, conqueror, giant slayer, she surveyed the square. There was a small crowd on the opposite side near Jozsef korut. As they moved she caught a glimpse of Stalin’s head. Supported on the remains of his zigzag neck, he seemed to be staring at her, stupefied at his humiliation. A hole had been smashed in his forehead, buckling his hairline, out of which protruded a street sign: 15KM. The truck that had dragged the statue into the district had also dragged the head from the body. There were chains still attached. Zoya lowered herself to the street, peeking into Stalin’s dark stomach-hollow and black and cold, just as she suspected-before hurrying to the assembled crowd.
Malysh caught up with her, grabbing her hand:
– Let’s go back.
– Not yet.
Zoya pulled free, passing through the crowd, walking straight up to Stalin’s face and spitting at his huge, smooth eye. After having run so fast her mouth was dry and very little spit came out. It didn’t matter. There was laughter. Pleased, she was ready to leave. But before she could retreat Zoya was lifted up and placed on top of Stalin’s head, mounted on his bronze hair. A discussion broke out in the crowd. They addressed her directly. Without any idea what they were saying she nodded. Two men hurried to the truck, talking to the driver while another man handed her the newly modified Hungarian flag. The truck started its engine, slowly driving forward. The slack chains running from the back of the truck to Stalin’s head rose up from the street. As soon as the chains were taut the head shifted position, rotating round, as though it were coming to life. Zoya grabbed the protruding 15KM sign, steadying herself. Everyone was talking at once: she understood they were asking if she was okay. She nodded. They signaled to the driver. He accelerated. Stalin’s head lurched forward, bumping over the tramlines.
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: