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.
SAME DAY
HAVING SPENT SEVERAL HOURS looking for Raisa, fearing that she might be hurt, Leo finally understood that she must have left him in order to find Zoya. She didn’t believe Zoya would come home with him. Running in an attempt to catch up with her, he arrived at the Corvin cinema, the place where Zoya had been sighted. The cinema was a defensible oval building set back from the street, connected by a pedestrian walkway that had been blocked off and fortified. A fighter approached. Karoly had been left far behind, unable to keep up. Without his translator, Leo was saved from questioning by the arrival of a Soviet T-34 tank, now in the insurgents’ hands, a Hungarian flag hanging from the turret. The fighters surrounded it, cheering. Pushing through the crowd, Leo raised the photograph of Zoya. After examining the photograph one man pointed down the boulevard.
Leo set off running again. The boulevard was empty. He stopped, bending down—the entire street was covered in ripped silk. Patches of the silk were burnt through, smoldering, while others were soaking wet. He saw where the captured tank had veered off the street and smashed into a shop front. The corpses of four Soviet soldiers were heaped on the ground. None of them was much older than twenty.
There was no one else around.
SAME DAY
RAISA CLOSED HER EYES, concentrating on the noises in the surrounding rooms—people running, shouting, items being dragged, orders being barked in Russian and Hungarian. Injured men and women cried out in pain. One room was being used to carry out crude treatments for injuries sustained in the fighting; another served as a mess hall for Fraera’s band of insurgents—the smell of antiseptic mingling with the smells of cooking, fried meat and animal fat.
Escorted from the tank at gunpoint, Raisa had barely paid attention to where she was being led, focused entirely on Zoya as she’d marched ahead, striding like a soldier, gun over her shoulder—the gun that she’d just pointed at Raisa’s heart. Arriving at an apartment block set back from the street and accessed through a passageway, Raisa had been taken to the top floor, hustled into a small room that had been hastily stripped bare and improvised as a cell.
The walls began to shake. Heavy armor was passing close by. Raisa peered through the small window. There were skirmishes in the street below. Directly above her head was the sound of feet on tiles, snipers moving into position. Raisa crouched by the wall farthest from the window, exhausted, hands over her ears. She thought about Zoya. She thought about the young Soviet soldier she’d killed. Finally, she allowed herself to cry.
HEARING FOOTSTEPS OUTSIDE THE ROOM and a key in the lock, Raisa stood up. Fraera entered. Whereas before, in Moscow, she’d been unruffled and in control, she now appeared tired, strained by the pressures of her operation.
—So, you found me…
Raisa’s words trembled with anger:
—I’m here for Zoya.
—Where’s Leo?
—I’m alone.
—You’re lying. But we’ll find him soon enough. This is not a large city.
—Let Zoya go.
—You speak as though I stole her. The truth is I rescued her from you.
—Whatever problems we had as a family, we love her. You don’t.
Fraera hardly seemed to register the observation:
—Zoya wanted to join me, so I allowed her to. She is free to do whatever she likes. If she wishes to go home with you, she can. I won’t stop her.
—It’s easy to win a child’s favor by allowing them to do whatever they want and telling them whatever they want to hear. Give her a machine gun; tell her she’s a revolutionary. It’s a seductive lie. I don’t believe she loves you for it.
—I don’t ask her to. You and Leo, on the other hand, you demand love. You’re both obsessed with it. And the truth is that she was miserable living with you, whereas she’s happy with me.
Over Fraera’s shoulder, at the end of the corridor, Raisa could see an injured man spread on the kitchen table. There were no doctors, little equipment to speak of, bloody rags and pots of boiling water.
—If you stay here, you are going to die. Zoya is going to die with you. Fraera shook her head:
—Concern for her well-being is no proof that you’re a parent. The fact is, you’re no more her mother than I am.
RAISA AWOKE. The room was dark and cold and she shivered, pulling the thin bedding around her. It was night. The city was quiet. She hadn’t expected to sleep but as soon as she’d lain down her eyes had closed. There was a plate of meat and potatoes on the floor, deposited while she’d been asleep. She reached out, pulling the plate closer. Only now did she notice the door was open.
Standing up, walking forward, she glanced into the hallway. The corridors were empty. To escape would be a matter of leaving the apartment, descending the stairway, then exiting to the street. Was it possible that Zoya had opened the door and broken the lock, wanting to help while at the same time concealing her involvement? The enterprise demonstrated stealth and skill, yet it was based upon a false assumption. Raisa wasn’t here to escape: she was here to bring Zoya home. Zoya would understand that. The method was inconsistent with her character, circumspect while
she was bold and brash.
Uneasy, Raisa stepped away. At the same time a shadowy outline appeared in the door. It was the figure of a young boy. He spoke in a whisper:
—Why don’t you escape?
—Not without Zoya.
He sprang forward, wrapping a leg around hers, uprooting it and forcing her to the floor, her cry stifled by his hand. She was on her back, pinned down. Raisa felt a knife against her throat. He whispered:
—You should’ve run.
She repeated, speaking through his fingers:
—Not without Zoya.
At the mention of Zoya’s name she felt his body tense, the blade press against her neck. Raisa asked:
—You… like her?
There was a shift in his position. His grip around her mouth loosened. She was right. This was about Zoya: the boy was worried about losing her. Raisa said:
—Listen to me. She’s in danger. You are too. Come with us.
—She’s not yours!
—You’re right. She’s not mine. But I care about her a great deal. And if you do too you’ll find a way to get her out of here. You hear the difference between my voice and Fraera’s voice, don’t you? You hear that I care? You know that she doesn’t.
The boy removed the knife from her neck. He seemed uncertain. Raisa guessed his thoughts:
—Come back with us. You’re the reason she’s happy, not Fraera.
The boy got to his feet, hurrying out, shutting the door and then opening it again. Remembering the lock was broken, he whispered:
—Pretend you were trying to break out. If you don’t they’ll kill me.
The boy disappeared. Raisa called out:
—Wait!
The boy reappeared:
—What’s your name?
He hesitated:
—Malysh.
28 OCTOBER
LEO COUNTED AT LEAST THIRTY TANKS, a column advancing along the main boulevard into the city. A deployment of this size, mobilizing at six in the morning, meant a full-scale Soviet invasion was imminent. The insurgency was about to be wiped out.
Leo hastened down the hill, running back to Karoly’s apartment. Climbing the stairs, two at a time, he reached the top floor landing, pushing open the door. Karoly was seated at the table, reading a leaflet. Leo explained:
—The Soviets have mobilized over thirty tanks. They’re entering the city. We have to find Zoya and Raisa immediately.
Karoly handed him the leaflet. Impatient, Leo glanced at it. At the top there was a photograph. It was of Leo. Karoly translated the text:
—This man is a Soviet spy. He is disguised as one of us. Report his whereabouts to the nearest revolutionary stronghold.
Leo placed the leaflet down:
—If Fraera’s looking for me, it’s proof that Raisa has been captured.
Karoly remarked:
—Leo, it’s no longer safe for you to go outside.
Leo opened the door, ready to go:
—No one is going to care about one Russian spy when there are Russian tanks on every street corner.
The door to the apartment opposite was ajar. A slice of the neighbor’s face was visible. They held eye contact. Then the neighbor shut the door.
SAME DAY
TWO VORY ENTERED RAISA’S ROOM, grabbing her by the arms, leading her into the hallway, out the front door, and onto the balcony. The courtyard below was crowded. Fraera stood at the center. Seeing Raisa arrive she waved her men aside. They parted, revealing Leo and Karoly on their knees, their arms bound in front of them like slaves ready for sale. Zoya was in among the crowd of onlookers.
Leo stood up. Guns were directed at him. Fraera gestured for them to be put away:
—Let him speak.
—Fraera, we don’t have much time. There are over thirty T-34s in the city right now. The Soviets are going to crush this resistance. They’re going to kill every man and woman and child holding a gun. There is no chance of victory.
—I disagree.
—Frol Panin is laughing at you. This uprising is a sham. This isn’t about the future of Hungary. You’re being exploited.
—Maxim, you see everything upside down. I am not being exploited: I am exploiting Panin. I could never have done this on my own. My revenge would have finished in Moscow. Instead of merely being able to take revenge on the men and women involved in my arrest, as I originally planned, he has presented me with an opportunity to take revenge upon the very State that destroyed my life. Here, I am hurting Russia.
—No, you’re not. The Soviet forces can lose a hundred tanks and a thousand soldiers and it won’t matter. They won’t care.
—Panin has underestimated the depth of hatred here.
—Hatred isn’t enough.
Fraera turned her attention to Karoly:
—You’re his translator? An appointment arranged by Frol Panin?
—Yes.
—You have instructions to kill me?
Karoly considered, then replied:
—Either myself or Leo was supposed to kill you. Once the uprising began.
Leo was shocked. Fraera shook her head dismissively:
—Did you not realize your true purpose, Leo? You are an unwitting assassin. You are working for Panin, not me.
—I didn’t know.
—That is your answer to everything… You didn’t know. Let me explain. I didn’t start this uprising. All I did was to encourage it. You could kill me. It wouldn’t make any difference.
Leo turned to Zoya. She had a gun over her shoulder, grenades on her belt. Her clothes were torn; her hands were scratched. She held his glance, an expression rigid with hatred as if fearful any other emotion might creep through. The boy who’d murdered the patriarch was beside her. He was holding her hand.
—If you fight, you will die.
Fraera addressed Zoya:
—Zoya? What do you say? Leo is speaking to you.
Zoya punched the air with her gun:
—We fight!
SAME DAY
THOUGH RAISA WANTED TO TALK, Leo’s body language was set against it. He’d not spoken since being manhandled into the cell. On the other side of the room, Karoly lay sprawled on the bedding, his eyes closed. His leg had been injured during his capture. Breaking the silence, Raisa said:
—Leo, I’m sorry.
Leo looked up at her:
—I made one mistake, Raisa. I should’ve told you about Zoya. I should’ve told you about her holding the knife over me.
Still lying down, his eyes closed, Karoly interjected:
—The daughter we’re trying to rescue, she stands over you with a knife?
Karoly opened an eye, looking at Raisa, then at Leo.
Leo lowered his voice, trying to cut Karoly out of the conversation:
—The only way we’re going to escape is if we trust each other.
Raisa nodded:
—Trust is not going to break us out of this room.
Leo asked:
—Do you have any idea how we’re going to get Zoya out of here?
—She’s in love.
Leo pulled back in surprise:
—In love with who?
—A vory, he’s young—the same age as her, his name is Malysh.
—That boy is a murderer. I watched him kill the patriarch. He decapitated a seventy-five-year-old man with a length of wire.
Karoly sat up:
—They sound like a good match.
Raisa took hold of Leo’s hands:
—Malysh might be our only hope.
SAME DAY
ZOYA LAY AT THE CRUMBLING EDGE of the house. Damaged by shellfire, the entire front had collapsed. Flat on her stomach, with the rifle stretched out before her, Zoya’s eye was pressed up against the scope. There were two tanks at the mouth of the Kossuth-hid, the bridge near Parliament, no doubt waiting for orders to advance into the city as Leo had predicted.
She’d never expected to see Leo again. She couldn’t concentrate, seeing h
is face. Restless, she needed to pee. Checking on the tanks, seeing no movement, she left her rifle and examined the remains of the bedroom. Since the entire front of the house had fallen down the room was exposed. The wardrobe offered the only privacy without going too far from her post. She slipped inside and shut the doors, squatting. She felt guilty about dabbing dry with the sleeve of a coat, an odd kind of guilt considering she was about to shoot a man. She’d fired her gun on numerous occasions and it was possible she’d already killed, although she hadn’t seen anyone die or fall down. Without warning, grabbing a nearby shoe, she threw up, filling the shoe to the toe.
Unsteady, she stepped out of the wardrobe, shutting the doors. The rifle was as she’d left it, lying across the bricks. Shaking, she slowly returned to her position. A Soviet soldier was staggering toward the two tanks. Zoya lined up the injured officer in her crosshairs. She couldn’t see his face, only his back—his brown hair. The other officers might come to his aid. Fraera had taught her that these were the officers to shoot, the real prize, before finishing off the injured man.
The wounded soldier fell ten paces from the tank, unable to walk any farther. Zoya moved the crosshairs toward the hatch, waiting to see if they’d take the bait. The tank came to life, edging forward, moving as close to the wounded man as possible. They were going to save him. The hatch opened. A soldier cautiously lifted the steel lid, peering out, waiting to see if he’d be shot, ready to duck back down. After a pause, he climbed out, hurrying to the aid of his injured comrade. Zoya had the man in her sights. If she didn’t pull the trigger he would help his comrade back into the tank, then they would advance into the city and kill more innocent families and what good would her guilt be then? She was here to fight. They were the enemy. They’d killed children and mothers and fathers.
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