Radio Underground

by Alison Littman

  Boldiszar sat back down and began biting his fingernails, his eyebrows furrowing more and more with every nibble. I kept thinking about the boy who warned me I would only have ten minutes with Boldiszar. My time was almost up.

  “What do you think I should do, Eszter? Would you follow these orders?”

  “Yes, because they’re from Radio Free Europe. Do you know what’s behind that radio station? Money. Power. The West. That is what Hungary needs for this revolution to succeed.”

  “You forgot us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The revolution needs us to succeed.”

  I reached across the desk and grabbed Boldiszar’s hand. “Without people like you, and me, there wouldn’t be a revolution. But we need more now.”

  “This is a huge risk, Eszter.”

  “Your other risks have paid off, haven’t they? They led you to this point.”

  “Because I have been smart.”

  “And you trusted the right people,” I said.

  Boldiszar paused. He stared at me without really seeing me, his eyes glossing over into a daze. He moved his mouth ever so slightly—maybe he was talking himself into, or out of, it.

  “I trust you,” Boldiszar sighed. “We’re in.”

  *

  We crossed the river, abandoning the urban streets of Pest for the quiet hills of Buda. Our meeting point with the Americans was nothing more than a rickety old house, its paint peeling off in random patches to expose rotting, splintering wood. The house sat on top of a steep slope, its contours hardly discernable due to a string of broken streetlights. Darkness surrounded us, and with it, silence. We stared at the house and heard nothing. Of course the Americans would choose a secret meeting place, though I think we expected some indication of activity. Thousands of bureaucrats lived in these Buda hills and wouldn’t emerge from their apartments until the fighting ceased. I wondered how many of them peeked through their blinds now, following our every move.

  “Will you go first, please?” Boldiszar asked me, pointing his gun toward the house.

  I knew I would have to be the adult now. Boldiszar’s friends huddled behind us, like children afraid of what their parents would discover in the depths of their closet. They weren’t going anywhere. And if I said no to Boldiszar, or showed any hint of doubt, he would probably turn around. So I took a step forward, and it was small.

  “What’s wrong?” Boldiszar’s voice cracked.

  “Please,” I begged. “I need a second. I don’t know these people either.”

  Boldiszar reached into his pocket and pulled out a miniature version of the Hungarian flag. The Communist coat of arms had been ripped out of its center, leaving a gaping hole in the cloth.

  “It’s our flag,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re using this as a symbol of our movement. We’re making a new Hungary now.”

  I looked at the tattered flag in his hand, rightfully gutted of its Soviet heart, and thought about how much Boldiszar, and all the young people, deserved to put whatever they wanted into the middle of that flag. I just wasn’t sure they knew what belonged there.

  I squeezed Boldiszar’s hand, and the flag, and nodded.

  An elderly man answered the door, staring at us as if we had lost our way. His clothes hung loose on his shoulders and his white hair sprouted in different directions, as if each strand was terrified of its neighbor. I coughed, hoping that would give me a second to think. Maybe we got the wrong house and should consider turning around. The chances this old man could retaliate against us seemed minimal though, so I decided to try our luck.

  “We are here from Radio Free Europe,” I said.

  The old man’s eyes widened, but he never said anything. Raising his hand, he summoned us into the house.

  “Please,” I said. “We cannot stay for long. We are here to meet with the delegation.”

  He nodded and continued walking back into the house. Following him, Boldiszar clutched his gun at his hip, and I positioned myself right next to him. Boldiszar’s gang remained on the porch. I caught their eyes peering through the windows and looked at them longingly. At least out there, they could run if they needed to.

  A single light bulb illuminated the hallway. It swayed back and forth, very gently, as we passed it on our journey into the house. Decaying, vomit-colored wallpaper surrounded us, interrupted by wooden doors that led to who knows where. The smell of mold and rusting metal permeated the house, and so did silence.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked the old man.

  He ignored me. I imagined the Americans greeting us like heroes, or at least colleagues. I wondered what else wouldn’t pan out as I imagined.

  “Go there,” he said, pointing down a stairwell that disappeared into a basement.

  Boldiszar and I stopped, our eyes following the path of the man’s finger. We said nothing as we adjusted to the darkness before us. Not one ray of light emitted from the basement, and all we could hear was the old man breathing.

  “This isn’t right,” I said to Boldiszar. I grabbed his elbow, prepared to direct him out of the house.

  “No,” he pushed. “We are already here.”

  “I really don’t think we have the correct address. Who knows who this delusional old man thinks we are?”

  “He knows who we are.” Boldiszar nodded to him.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “He’s given me messages before. They’ve always worked.”

  “Just because he’s been reliable in the past, it doesn’t mean he will be now.”

  “You said we need this, Eszter.”

  “We do.”

  “Well, then, it’s my responsibility to do the hard things.”

  “Hard, but not stupid. This feels stupid.”

  Boldiszar adjusted his gun, tightening the strap around his chest. “Did you really think the Americans were going to make this easy for us? Did you think they would be so much better than the Soviets? We just need their weapons. That’s what I’m here for.”

  He stretched his arm out across the hallway, preventing me from walking past him into the basement.

  “Do not go past here. I’m going alone.”

  “I shouldn’t let you do that. I don’t want anything to …,” I started, but I couldn’t finish my sentence, and my feet would not allow me to take even one step forward.

  Boldiszar hugged me. His body shook against mine, his quaking racing up my spine to my neck.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need it,” I said. “Just get the job done and get back here quickly. Don’t make any promises.”

  “I promise,” Boldiszar winked. He kissed my cheek, took in a full breath of air, and started down the stairs.

  I watched as the same boy who read to Dora on our living room floor, helped her pull out her first tooth, and gave her the love I never did, disappeared below the surface of the house. I waited at the top of the stairs for him, refusing to join his posse outside. Boldiszar still needed someone to watch over him.

  The old man hobbled past me and down the stairs, leaving me alone in the darkness. The fear of something happening to Boldiszar increased as the minutes passed. I started to doubt that U.S. troops stood beneath me, awaiting the arrival of a student-turned-military commander. Why wouldn’t they just drop bombs on government buildings? Why would they risk their soldiers’ lives on us? Did the chief get some bad intelligence? Was she wrong? Was I wrong? My thoughts spiraled out of control, each question leading to another one with no answer.

  I heard something. I didn’t quite know what it was, but it didn’t sound like anyone talking or negotiating. It sounded more like someone moving heavy boxes, and dropping them on the hard ground.

  I had to go after Boldiszar. I needed clarity, and now. I crept down the stairs, testing each piece of wood for signs of creaking before putting my weight down. My heart beat so loudly, it sounded like a giant plodding through my ear
s. Halfway down the stairs, a gruesome moan stopped my heart altogether. I froze. The sound of coughing—no, the sound of hacking, hacking and gagging—filled the basement. I had no clue where to go next, except down.

  When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw a faint light sneaking out from beneath a door, revealing a grimy, cluttered basement. From the corner of the room, two eyes caught mine. They peered into me, but didn’t move. Was it the old man’s? Did something happen to him? I tiptoed over to him, carefully avoiding a chaos of bikes, china plates, and ripped fabric chairs. Instead, I found a deer head mounted to a slab of splintering wood. Its right antler had been hacked off, causing it to lean crookedly against an armoire. It fixed its glazed-over eyes on me, as if I was the empty nothingness of death.

  A door started to creak open, sending my body into convulsions of fear and dread. I shuffled over to two shipping boxes and crouched behind them. I stared at the door, willing Boldiszar to walk confidently out. Instead, it opened just enough to reveal three men in Soviet uniforms huddled over something at their feet. One of them stepped to the side. There was a body on the floor. It was Boldiszar. Knees to his chest, eyes shut, hands cuffed, he rocked back and forth, and was he … bleeding?

  I didn’t know what to do. We had been betrayed—that I knew—but by whom?

  The soldiers started kicking Boldiszar. They rammed their boots into the boy’s knees and stomped on his shoulders. With every thud, my body rocked with a fresh spasm.

  “Tell us where they are. Tell us,” one of the Soviets shouted at Boldiszar.

  Boldiszar opened his mouth for a second, but instead of words, blood came out of it.

  I needed help. I wished I had brought Antal with me—he would think of something. He had a way of distancing himself from chaotic situations, giving advice as if he was in a classroom or doctor’s office. But, wait; Antal was the one who told me about this specific meeting location. He handed me the phone to speak to Anya. He took that phone back. He mumbled something inaudibly to the person on the other line, who maybe wasn’t even Anya at all, because maybe it was Antal who betrayed us. I thought back to Antal repeating the word “czar” through the delirium of his injuries. It had to be Boldiszar’s name he was trying to say. Did I find Antal, beaten to pulp, right after he was tasked with this mission? Did they spring it on him? Or did he know for a long time? And, more importantly, how could he have done this to us?

  “You bastard,” a soldier yelled at Boldiszar. “We will kill you. You think you deserve to be alive?”

  Another soldier lit a cigarette and savored a long, first drag. He stooped down, holding the cigarette to Boldiszar’s lips. “Smoke your last little cigarette, boy.”

  Boldiszar pursed his lips, refusing to part them.

  “What? The commander doesn’t like to indulge?” the soldier laughed. He jammed the lit end of the cigarette into Boldiszar’s lips, sending a distinctive sizzle through the basement, and the faint smell of charred flesh.

  Boldiszar’s face contorted. I wondered if I should try to save him, and how. I didn’t have a weapon. I could scream. Would it be loud enough for his friends to hear me outside? The old man reclined in a chair, watching the soldiers with total indifference. One of the soldiers went over to him, pulled out a wad of money, and placed it in his hand.

  “Here’s your other half. Thanks for helping us out with him,” the soldier spat and shoved the old man out the door.

  Some friend of Boldiszar’s, he was.

  The soldier turned back to Boldiszar, pressing the sole of his boot on Boldiszar’s jaw. “You’re going to tell us everything we want to know. Who else are you working with? What are your plans? We know you know.”

  The taller soldier lined up next to Boldiszar, swung his foot back and drove it into Boldiszar’s head.

  Boldiszar moaned and curled deeper into his chest, “And what if I tell you nothing?”

  Pointing a gun toward Boldiszar’s stomach, the taller soldier said, “You want the stomach, the neck, or the head? It’s your choice.”

  Boldiszar’s eyes crossed each other as he looked at the barrel of the gun.

  “I’ll never tell you.”

  Shrinking behind the boxes, I pressed my cheek against their hard edges and wept in silence. The more I thought about it, the more I realized Antal created this situation, and so did I. Antal, the kindly old man who, despite spending eight hours a day working for the government, still had the energy and freedom to sneak out at night to help dissidents like me. He encouraged me to say the West was coming to our aid, and I fell for it. So intent on seeing my dreams come true, I ignored reality.

  Laszlo was right. Antal didn’t have any real reason to work with us and undo the comfort of his life, unless he was, of course, working against us. And, if the Americans weren’t really coming, what would happen to the Freedom Fighters?

  I wanted to asphyxiate myself with the guilt clamping down on my chest. I should have done something—scream, charge those soldiers, run upstairs for help—but my entire body turned to sludge. I tried to stand, but I couldn’t feel my bones. My mind failed to reason, my lungs wouldn’t breathe.

  One of the soldiers peeled away from the group and walked toward the boxes. After delivering two more blows to Boldiszar, the others joined their comrade, standing above me. I tried to make my breathing shallow and scarce, willing my heart to slow too, terrified the soldiers would pick up on its frenetic drumming.

  “Dmitry,” the shorter one said, “what should we do now?”

  “If we kill him, our work here is done,” Dmitry said.

  “But shouldn’t we get some information out of him first?” the third soldier chimed in. “If we find out where the other leaders are, we can kill them too.”

  I felt a tiny drop of his spit land on the back of my neck.

  “There’s no point, really. We don’t need to kill them to win. The tanks are going to roll in soon and obliterate all of them,” Dmitry said.

  The soldiers started laughing.

  “So what are we doing here then? Wasting our bullets on this loser?” the shorter one whined.

  “If we don’t kill him, our commander will kill us.” Dmitry took out his gun. “I’ll take care of him. Go upstairs and watch his friends.”

  Dmitry sighed and slunk back to where Boldiszar twisted on the floor. Towering over him, Dmitry aimed the gun at Boldiszar. Boldiszar uncurled his body, puffing out his chest and straightening his legs, despite his restraints. He looked up into Dmitry’s eyes.

  I closed my eyes, and I covered my ears. I willed my brain to move faster. I tried to think. I tried to get my legs to carry me to Boldiszar or my voice to shout out and distract the soldier. I even opened my mouth to force out noise, but nothing came out. The only thing I heard was the screaming in my head—No. No. No.

  *

  I woke up, but I couldn’t see. I blinked. Black. I blinked again. Still, black. The smell of chalk and ashes rushed into my nose. My mind came back to me, but I wished it hadn’t. I realized I was smelling gunpowder, and I had passed out.

  I had to find Boldiszar. I had to get help. I had to warn his friends outside, and Laszlo too. I felt cold and dizzy. I hoisted myself up and hobbled out of my hiding place. The blackness began to recede a little, like curtains drawing back on a still dark night. I saw dirty footprints on the floor, leading away from the room where they held Boldiszar. I traced them back to their origins, realizing they weren’t made of dirt, but blood. As I crept closer to the room, they got thicker and redder.

  I pressed my ear against the door, now shut, and heard nothing. I nudged it open and, peeking in, saw a body lying on the floor. A pool of blood gathered beneath it.

  “Boldiszar,” I whispered, dropping to my knees next to him. I could hear his breath forcing its way out in strained wheezes. “It’s okay. It’s me, Eszter.”

  His eyes moved erratically, looking at, past, and around me. I couldn’t tell if he recognized me, or could even see at all.

>   “I’m here. I’m here,” I cried, unable to hold back the tears streaming down my cheeks. I wanted so badly to be in his place. He, of all people, didn’t deserve this. I had to fix him. I ripped off my scarf and wrapped it around the gunshot wound in his neck, but his blood overtook it in seconds. “Just hold on for a little longer. I’m going to go get help.”

  “No …,” Boldiszar gasped, trying to take in as much air as possible. “Stay, please.”

  Oh, God, he knew. He knew it was over. I hated that he knew. It felt like the end of my life too. I would die with him, even if my lungs and heart forced me to continue living.

  “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be fine,” I told him, thinking I could somehow shelter him from his own death. Boldiszar had sheltered Dora from so many things, but most of all, from me. I quit being a mom for … for what? For the only real love my daughter ever knew to die in my arms.

  I lay down next to him, pressing my cheek against his, as my tears mixed with his warm blood. I wanted to say something that would soothe him and bring him a final peace. Nothing seemed right. “Don’t be scared,” I started, hating myself for sounding so cliché. “Think about Dora, and the person she will become, because of you.”

  “Tell her …,” Boldiszar said, his entire body shuddering at the effort required to finish the sentence. “… that I love her.”

  “I promise,” I sobbed. “I am so proud of you.” I kissed him three times—once on the forehead and once on each cheek.

  “You have to ….”

  “I will take care of her,” I held his hand. “I promise that too.”

  I thought back to the times when I came close to making a connection with Dora, only to pull away for fear she would see through me. She’d see that I, at the core, cared more about myself than my child. I realized I had let Boldiszar parent Dora not because I was so engrossed in the revolution, but because I was too weak to be a mother.

  A single tear fell down Boldiszar’s cheek, and as it did, I heard boots clunk down the stairs. I grabbed Boldiszar’s gun and faced the door.