– 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 cafe 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.
Karoly was standing, transfixed upon a distant point. Leo’s eyes followed his gaze to the end of the street. It opened out into a small square. In it there was a single leafless tree. Sunlight filled the space, contrasting with the shadows where they were standing. As his eyes adjusted, Leo focused on the trunk of the tree. The trunk appeared to be swaying.
Karoly broke into a run. Leo and Raisa caught up with him, hurrying past the cafe, attracting the attention of those seated at the window. Reaching the end of the street on the brink of sunlight, they stopped. From the thickest branch of the tree, the body of a man hung upside down. His feet were lashed with rope. His arms swayed back and forth like a ghoulish wind charm. A fire had been lit under his body. His head was burnt clean of hair: his skin, flesh, features unrecognizable. He’d been stripped naked, but only to his waist, his trousers left in an act of modesty incongruous with the savagery of his murder. The fire had burnt his shoulders, blackening his torso. The untouched skin revealed the man’s age. He’d been young. His uniform, jacket, his shirt and cap, were in the ashes below. He’d been burnt to death with his own uniform. As if she were whispering in his ear, Leo could hear Fraera’s voice:
This is what they’ll do to you.
The man had been a member of the AVH, the Hungarian secret police.
Leo turned to see Karoly clawing at his scalp, as though his hair were infested with lice, muttering:
– I don’t…
Karoly edged closer, stretching his hand out to touch the charred face before pulling back, circling the body:
– I don’t know…
He turned to Leo:
– How can I know if this is my son?
He dropped to his knees, falling into the cold fire, a puff of ash rising. A crowd gathered, watching the scene. Leo turned to see their expressions-hostility, anger at this display of grief being shown to the enemy, anger at their justice being rebuked. Leo sank down beside Karoly, putting an arm around him:
– We have to go.
– I’m his father. I should know.
– It’s not your son. Your son is alive. We’ll find him. We have to go.
– Yes, he’s alive. Isn’t he?
Leo helped Karoly up. But the crowd wouldn’t allow them to pass.
Leo saw Raisa’s hand move closer to her gun, concealed in the top of her trousers. She was right. They were in danger. Several of the crowd began talking-one man had a strap of finger-thick bullets wrapped around his neck. They were accusatory. With tears still in his eyes, Karoly pulled out the photos of Zoya and Fraera. Upon seeing the photos the man with the bullets relaxed, putting a hand on Karoly’s shoulder. They spoke for some time. The crowd began to part. Once everyone was gone, Karoly whispered to Leo and Raisa:
– Your daughter just saved our lives.
– That man had seen her?
– Fighting near the Corvin cinema.
– What else did he say?
Karoly paused:
– That you should be proud. She’s killed many Russians.
SAME DAY
The approaching Soviet personnel carrier caused panic among the crowd, as surely as an explosion detonating in their midst, every citizen propelled in different directions, desperate to get off the street. Raisa ran as fast as she could, men and women and children beside her, their positions interchanging. An elderly man fell. A woman tried to help him, tugging his coat, straining to get him clear of the road. The armored personnel carrier either didn’t see the man or didn’t care: prepared to ride over the couple as though they were rubble. Raisa hurried back, heaving the man out of the way as the carrier crunched past-the tracks so close Raisa felt a rush of metallic air.
Raisa checked the street. There was no sight of Leo or Karoly but they were close. Exploiting the confusion created by the personnel carrier, she turned down a side street-any street-running until, exhausted, she stopped. She waited, catching her breath. She’d been separated from Leo. She was now free to search for Zoya by herself.
The idea had occurred to her in Moscow more or less as soon as she’d heard that Zoya was alive. Zoya could imagine a life with Raisa. She’d said so. She could not imagine one with Leo. Over these five months Raisa was unable to see how that point of view would’ve changed. If anything Zoya’s position was likely to have become more entrenched. On the train into Hungary her resolve had strengthened as she’d watched Karoly interact with Leo-two former agents, suspicious of each other, yet connected like members of a secret society. Zoya would ask: two KGB agents sent to rescue me? She’d spit at the idea. How little they understood her, the exact sentiment Fraera had no doubt exploited, claiming to emphathize with Zoya’s sense of isolation.
Raisa doubted that Leo would accept that her disappearance was deliberate. Karoly might guess her true intention. Leo would deny it. That delay gave her a slim advantage. Karoly had provided them with a map of the city, marking his apartment in case they should get separated. She estimated her position to be somewhere near Stahly ut. She needed to travel directly south, keeping off the most obvious routes to the Corvin cinema where Zoya had been sighted.
Making slow progress, forced to keep her map hidden, she reached Ulloi ut. The district had seen intense fighting: there were spent tank shells scattered on the broken cobblestones. Despite the street’s size Raisa could see very few people, figures darting between doorways and then nothing-eerie stillness for such a key thoroughfare. Remaining close to the edge of the buildings, tentatively advancing, she scooped up a broken brick, ready to duck into a doorway or smash a window and climb through should she need to take cover. As her fingers handled the brick she noticed the underneath was wet. Perplexed, looking down, she saw the street was coated in some kind of slime.
Material had been carpeted across the width of the street. It was silk, rolls and rolls of precious silk. Yet it was soaked in a soapy lather. Bemused, Raisa tentatively stepped forward, her smooth-soled shoes slipping this way and that. Progress was only possible by keeping one hand on the wall. As though she’d tripped an alarm, shouting bellowed out from the windows above. There were people on both sides, in the windows, on the roof, heavily armed men and women. Hearing a rumbling, feeling the vibrations, Raisa turned. A tank pulled onto the street, it circled, surveying both directions before spinning toward her, pivoting on its tracks and accelerating. Everyone in the windows and on the roof disappeared, pulling back, out of sight. This was a trap. She was in the middle of it.
Raisa hurried across the wet silk, falling over, scrambling up and reaching the nearest shop. The door was locked. The tank was close behind. She swung the brick, smashed the window-large shards falling around her. She clambered inside just as the tank reached the beginning of the frothy silk. Raisa looked back, convinced the tank would ride across this unsophisticated obstacle with ease. But it immediately lurched to the side, no longer gripping, chomping up the slippery silk. There was no traction, no control. Looking up at the rooftop, Raisa saw the waiting forces amassing-a volley of Molotov cocktails crashed down around the tank, streaking it with fire. The tank angled its turret toward the tops of the building, firing a shell. Unable to control its position, the shell missed, racing into the sky.
Raisa hurried farther into the shop. The walls began to shake. She turned around. Through the smashed window she saw the tank veering toward her. She dived to the floor as the tank crashed into the shop front, the turret spiking through the ceiling above her, walls crumbling. The tank was wedged to a standstill.
In the smoke and dust, Raisa picked herself up, stumbling toward the back of the ruined shop, reaching the stairs only to hear the insurgents coming down from their rooftop positions. Caught between the tank and the descending force, she retreated behind the shop counter, drawing her own gun. With her eye level just above the counter, she saw a Soviet soldier open the tank’s hatch.
The insurgents arrived. Raisa caught sight of a machine gun carried by a young woman wearing a beret. The woman cocked her gun, raising it toward the Russian soldier, ready to fire. The young woman was Zoya.
Raisa stood up. Reacting to the movement, Zoya swung around, aiming the gun at her. Face-to-face after five months, surrounded by swirling brick dust and smoke, the machine gun sagged in Zoya’s hands as though it had become impossibly heavy. She stood dumb, mouth open. In the background the grimy-faced Russian soldier, perhaps no more than twenty years old, exploited the opportunity. He pointed his gun at Zoya. Reacting instinctively, Raisa aimed her TT-33, pulled the trigger, firing several shots; one hit to the young man’s head, flicking it back.
In disbelief at what she’d done, Raisa stared at the soldier’s body, her gun still pointing. Pulling herself together, aware that there was very little time, she looked back at Zoya. Stepping forward, she took hold of her daughter’s hands:
– Zoya, we have to go. Please, you trusted me before, trust me again.
There was conflict in Zoya’s expression. Raisa was pleased-there was something to work with. About to make her case, Raisa paused. Fraera had appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
Raisa pulled Zoya aside, taking aim. Caught unaware, Fraera didn’t defend herself. Raisa had a clear shot. She hesitated. In that moment she felt the barrel of a gun pressed against her back. Zoya was pointing the gun directly at her heart.