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:
—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 th
e 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.
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 café, 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.