by Jáchym Topol
Sorry.
I’m glad she’s leading the way. Not like at the airport, in handcuffs, down the corridors. Now she’s just leading the way with the calm sway of her hips. I walk beside her. It’s amazing, really. I slip, nearly fall on my behind.
There’s a patch or two of ice on the pavement. But except for that, and a heap of slush here and there, all of the streets are clean as a whistle. Not like in Prague, never mind Terezín.
We turn off of the Boulevard of Heroes, Maruška says the name of the street, it slips my mind as soon as I hear it. Same roadway, pavements, enormous buildings, a red banner or two up above. I stop in front of one that reminds me of the banner in Terezín. The last time I saw something like this was before I went to prison.
Some of the banners have yellow stars, a red flag or two flaps in the wind. Given how grey the streets are, it’s actually pretty nice.
There are no crowds strolling the streets. The people are tiny compared to the spectacular size of the buildings. I remember the way in Prague the streets twist and turn. Here you can see far into the distance and count everyone. We walk past another stunning palace. The pale yellow of its facade disappears up above in the snow.
Maruška, wait!
I tilt my head up. I’ve never seen such a thing.
You like it? Maruška asks. She stops too.
Yeah!
You should see the TV Palace on Communist Street. Or the Palace of Ground Forces. Now that’s something!
What’s this? I say, the back of my head feeling numb.
This? This is the Palace of the Party Central Committee. But the KGB Palace is just as big.
A crowd of people stands on the corner. The guys have jackets with hoods like mine, some have funny ear flaps or big fur caps. I wouldn’t want one of them. The crowd starts to move, spilling on to both sides of the street. Maruška stops.
We hear screams, the bang of firecrackers. Standing on the icy pavement, we’re not alone, a few other people have stopped to watch the crowd with us. And some are pretty nervous. An older lady in a flowered scarf with bags in both hands steps in front of Maruška, puts down her bags, salutes, and jabbers something. Maruška nods, points her towards the crowd, the woman picks her bags back up and scurries off.
What did she want?
She asked if she could pass.
She thought you were a cop, huh?
And then I hear a voice from a megaphone, it’s telling us to get out of here quick, that much I understand.
They run towards us, maybe they came through the crowd, I don’t know, men running towards us with shields and batons. One of them passes the woman Maruška talked to, a swipe of his arm and she flops to the ice, bags scattered around her.
The men come to a stop in the middle of the street and lean on their shields. I glance behind me and see some young men with long wooden sticks. A couple more running closer. Someone hurls a can, it slams against a shield, a cloud of smoke engulfs the cops.
Maruška takes my elbow.
Come on, let’s get out of here, they’ll move, they’ll let us go.
Around the corner it’s quiet. We turn back into one of those long drawn-out streets, striding beneath the enormous facades. I wonder if there’s a pub nearby where we could talk.
That was a protest, Maruška says. We get them all the time now. Don’t worry.
I won’t! You know any pubs around here?
We’re on assignment.
Right! So who is this Kagan, anyway? I ask. The name has stuck in my head.
He’s from the ministry too. He’ll be receiving you as a foreign expert.
In what?
The revitalization of burial sites.
All right, I say. So you know this guy well, this Kagan?
Yeah, very.
8
We keep striding along these straight, seemingly endless streets. Some with cars zooming by, some without. They all merge into one for me. What time is it? We had breakfast, what about lunch? I don’t know and I’m not going to ask. I don’t know where we are, either, and I don’t care.
Her bag bangs against my hip, that’s how close we are. Her head by my shoulder. Hair slipping out from under her beret. I wish I could touch it.
We walk, we keep walking. I don’t know any city except for my native fortress town and a few glimpses of Prague. So why do I feel so on edge here? The palaces are amazing. Straight, long, solid walls. Now I know what’s bothering me. I can be seen from all sides, just like on Central Square. Right, but in Terezín there were passages through the walls, and catacombs underneath them, and in Prague you could just slip into the nearest winding lane.
Here I’m out in the open. Where would I hide?
Do these buildings lock their doors? I ask.
Depends on the caretaker. The dezhurnaya.
This city is starting to get on my nerves.
Hey, Maruška, what’s with all the right angles here, anyway?
It’s all rebuilt. What you had in Prague, pshaw, that was nothing! A couple of buildings bombed. Here whatever the Nazis didn’t bomb or shoot to pieces, the Soviets finished off. After the war we had to rebuild. No more dark little alleys where people lived scrunched up like rats in a cage. No: nice wide boulevards. So the sun can get in everywhere. Sorry to say, but it’s pretty dirty and smelly in Prague.
It is not! This place is weird.
This is Sun City. It was a project after the war for the happy people of the future. They built cities like this in lots of places. Wherever a town had been burned down. They weren’t for everyone, though.
Why not?
Every Sun City had a burial site on the outskirts.
I didn’t know that.
You should. That’s why you’re here.
It is?
Shit! There are no taxis. We’ll have to take the underpass, OK?
Whatever you say, Maruška! You know best.
We stand waiting to cross the street. A feeble glow comes from the shop windows. It’s as gloomy now as it was in the hotel dining room. The clouds overhead are still swollen, ready to let loose the snow.
A gap in the traffic opens up. We run across and then down some stairs into the underpass. There are flowers strewn all over the ground, flowerpots, wreaths, burning candles. Maruška leads me through the crowd, shouldering past anyone who won’t move for her uniform.
A chill comes from the concrete. Somebody strums a guitar. A couple of people light candles from each other. Behind them yawns the dark maw of the underpass. That’s where the cold is coming from. A draught tugs at the candle flames.
Maruška, look!
A rat flashes past through the shadows. Now I can make out words in the hum of the crowd. Somebody’s saying names, women’s names. People around us are crossing themselves and bowing at the waist.
I guess we’re not going to get very far with the underpass either.
She grabs my hand and drags me through the crowd, bumping into people.
We stop at the coffin. That’s what they were all bowing to. The coffin is surrounded by pools of red and yellow wax. A girl lies inside. In a white dress. No, silver. A princess. Long hair, headband covered with pearls and glittering stones. She looks nice. I lean over the coffin, look at her face. It’s a mannequin. A fake. Maruška’s still holding my hand. We slowly walk around the coffin. Now we’re right at the entrance.
That’s a bride, you saw a bride, Maruška whispers to me.
There are candles flickering here too.
The girls that died in here are called brides, Maruška says, in a normal voice now. There were fifty-three of them.
During the war, huh?
No. In ’99.
What?
There was a concert. Awesome line-up: Mango Mango, I love them, Maruška says. She points to the wall. Scratches in the plaster. You could see them in the candlelight.
There were claw marks all over, Maruška says. The crowd crushed them up against the walls and the bars, down there. S
he waves her hand, there’s a grille. They got suffocated and trampled to death. High-heel wounds all over their bodies. The girls had their nicest dresses on, for the concert, of course. And they wore really high heels back then. Stilettos, they call them. Nasty things. I never wore them. I was at the concert too.
You were there, huh?
The underpass is long and dark. I’m glad Maruška’s telling me about her life, but I’m ready to leave.
Yeah, I came too, but I ran into some guys I knew! Coincidence. They stole a keg of beer somewhere. So I went with them. Lucky me! A storm got up. The people from the concert ran to take shelter in the underpass here. The crowd squeezed up against the bars, people kept trying to push their way in. They didn’t know the grille was closed. Two or three militiamen also got trampled to death.
How did that happen?
It just did. Which proves it was really an accident. Some idiots forgot to open the grille! The government didn’t plan the massacre to disperse the youth, get it?
I don’t get it. She stares at me, I nod. Black shadows flash past on the ground. I wonder whether Maruška’s scared of mice. Probably not.
You know how much it costs to train a militiaman like that?
I just wave my hand, like it’s obvious.
They say there was blood up to their ankles, Maruška says. She waves her hand too. It soaked into the ground. Into the river that runs underneath here. The Niamiha. That’s the river Minsk was founded on.
Uh-huh!
The bloody banks of the Niamiha, as The Song of Igor’s Campaign says. Ever heard of it?
I take a deep breath, preparing to answer her truthfully, but just then we come out of the underpass and a blizzard swallows us up, the whooshing wind lifting heaps of snow in the air. I grope my way through the white fog, a red sign flies by, slams into the pavement. I stand, spitting snow.
Where are you? I shout.
The hum of engines drowns out the whoosh of the wind. Trucks emerge from the fog, stop, bundled figures jump out, soldiers.
Damn, these guys don’t take a moment’s rest, I swear under my breath. Maruška knows what to do and where to go, dragging me by the hand again, the wind whipping snow all around us. We walk along the wall, to the next street and the next, and there are trucks here too. I hear commands muffled by the wind, the stomp of boots, as the team comes running down the street. We duck into a passageway. I hear – can it be? – Maruška laughing. We lean against the wall of the passage.
You wanted to go to a pub, right? she says.
Yeah. But what about Kagan?
Kagan can wait. We can’t get out of here now anyway. She laughs behind her hand.
What are you laughing at?
You.
How come?
You’re our expert and you don’t even know how to walk!
Wait till she finds out that I’ve never been in a pub either.
She raises her hand and points to the wall. Aha, a bell.
I go to ring it.
Wait a sec, she says. She pulls the pouch from her satchel, fishes around, we pop some pills. Maybe that’s what people eat here.
She rings, standing on tiptoe, holding her finger on the bell. Not long and thin and nervous like Alex’s: Maruška’s sweet little finger is perfectly ordinary, the nail bare, no polish globbed on. She keeps pressing the bell until the door opens.
We walk down a corridor, it’s quiet here, another door opens, I see a set of stairs. Light, warmth, music, conversation, the blaring of a TV. We walk down the stairs, leaving the wind, snow and fog behind.
Salodky Falvarek. I read the words on the pink neon sign: ‘Sweet Court’. We’re in a bar.
Tea? says Maruška. Or what do you want?
Again I see people’s backs, they’re squeezed into the corner, in front of a TV. The volume’s on high and a man in uniform, pale-faced with a moustache, is talking. He opens and closes his mouth, but there’s no life in his eyes – like that mannequin in the coffin, the bride. I start cracking up. Maruška elbows me in the ribs and a tall guy in front of me, also in uniform, with a leather jacket over it – you know the type – turns, frowns at me. Stop laughing, Maruška says in my ear, that’s our president.
A wave of panic and rage runs through the people around the TV, I can feel it.
Wow! He just declared martial law, Maruška says.
Really? What does that mean? I act interested, seeing as it will probably be a while before I get that tea.
Now everyone is talking, so somebody turns up the volume to full blast. Luckily I know enough Russian, since that’s what he’s speaking, to understand: ‘The German order was formed over a period of centuries, and under Hitler it reached its highest point,’ the pale-faced guy on the screen thunders. ‘Not everything associated with Hitler was bad. This is how we see our presidential government in Belarus today.’ All of a sudden a big man pops out of the swarm in front of the TV, knocks it furiously to the ground, and starts kicking and pounding it. A murmur runs through the room, somebody screams, and a few people laugh. Somebody starts to clap.
A little fellow sweeps through the room and hops up on the bar, holding a piece of paper. Quiet! somebody shouts. He’s going to recite. Maruška tugs at my sleeve, tilts her chin towards the door. What, you want to leave? And go outside in that mess?
Let’s go, c’mon, she says in my ear. We’re on assignment. We can’t stay here. They’ll come, you’ll see.
Yeah, but they’re out there too. The street is covered with them!
This way. She gestures with her chin towards the toilets. The silence is so tense now, she doesn’t want to talk. The only sound is the papers rustling in the hand of the guy on the bar. He tilts his head back, lifts his hands, and shouts:
Kill the president!
Murder the bastard!
Amid the voices of thunderous approval – apparently this is their favourite poem – I hear a woman shriek. The hefty guy in the leather jacket and somebody else rush the bar and try to grab the man reading, but the ones who want to keep listening form a wall and block them.
The little guy ignores them and goes on reading:
Kill the President!
Axe him, shoot him
Chop off his accursed head
Murder the son of a bitch!
Now the guy on the bar is yelling and tossing his papers into the crowd, people are clapping, whistling. I see the guy in the leather jacket has pulled out a gun, so I rush after Maruška. She’s gone to the ladies’, inconvenient for me, but we can’t go back out on the street, there are trucks full of soldiers out there. I burst in, lean back against the door. She’s climbing on to the radiator, her soggy clothes kind of get in the way, but now she’s wriggling out the window, she kicked the lock clear off the thing, the girl knows how to move! I jump down into the yard, land on all fours, sneak through the rubbish bins. The wind’s died down, it’s quiet now, no snow scraping between my teeth. And look, another rat. I just see the flash of its teeth, then the tail, its mangy behind covered in stains. All of a sudden, bang! We hear gunfire in the bar. I look around for a way out. Can’t stay here. At least now we’re touching, though. Hunched down in the courtyard, wedged tight together. Wow, Maruška’s really shaking. It’d be awful if you got busted, she says softly into my ear, if I lost you. That really got me. I snuggle closer. Alex would kick my arse, she says, if I fucked up my first assignment. A shadow slips across the lighted bathroom window, we pull apart. We’re not the only ones who want out of the bar, now that there’s shooting. I don’t know if the big man did the poet in or what, and with my foreigner’s accent I’m not about to ask. A guy with a beard lands in the yard, boots, quilted coat. Something’s blocking out the light, a big woman climbing out the window, they must be pushing her from inside. The guy that just jumped down reaches out his hands, she lands in the snow, right by me. Yeah, she’s big all right. Hair tucked under a scarf. Ula. But I didn’t know that yet.
I help her up. She’s from somewhe
re else, I can tell by the look in her eyes: they’re afraid. Not that I’ve met a lot of Belarusians, but the people here are like hawks, always on the alert. Well, she may have been scared in the yard that time, but I turned out to be wrong about her.
A few more people jump down. Talking under their breath. Someone, maybe one of the big guys that pushed Ula through the window, finds a metal door in the shadows behind the rubbish bins. He kicks it, hard. We creep out to the street one, two at a time. Nobody says a word. Maruška and I walk away. I don’t know how Ula got out of there.
We stride down a deserted street. No cars, no pedestrians, nothing. Well, we didn’t get much of a chance to warm up, did we? I say, wrapping my arm around Maruška. I tell her that I’m sure it’ll be safer if they’ve got martial law. We look totally normal. Just two ordinary people, maybe hurrying home to their sick kid. Maruška doesn’t object to having my arm around her shoulders. We walk. I feel lucky.
9
Evil, piercing eyes, pointy chin, this dezhurnaya is one nasty old bag. She won’t let us in. The uniform? Maruška’s ID? Barking orders in Russian? Pleading in Belarusian? None of it works. She’s like a stone wall.
Finally Maruška waved some money in front of her face and the old bag opened the museum’s heavy wooden door. It was a close call. We had to get in. And not just because of Kagan.
There were tents burning on the square. Hundreds of protesters surrounded by cops. We forced our way through the screaming crowd at the last minute. Protesters dropping under baton blows, cops packing them into vans, people fleeing left and right. I squeezed up against Maruška from behind, pushing her forward, covering her back as she cleared a path, kicking people out of the way as we slowly edged through the crowd surging back towards the tents, the epicentre of the madness. Then we broke into a run and didn’t stop till we reached the museum. We could still hear shouting and engines from the square. Finally the old bag snatched the note and opened the door.
