“He was a cretin,” said Beth, reminding Gavra of what Tomiak Pankov had called him.
“Let’s just say the man couldn’t keep his hands to himself,” said Harold. “Beth was something special in those days.”
“Still am,” said Beth.
Harold gave Gavra another wink. “Anyway, that led to visits by the Ministry. They, too, were working on a quota system. They never found anything, and that was their excuse to cart us off. We didn’t have a single portrait of Tomiak Pankov in our house. We didn’t buy those speeches of his they were just starting to bind and publish.” He shook his head. “That made us enemies of the state.”
Harold paused, then looked at his wife and squeezed her hand again. Gavra realized something. “Your children. Oskar and Itka. If you were sent to a labor camp, what happened to them?”
“Orphanage,” said Beth, tears in her eyes. Her hand beneath Harold’s trembled.
He didn’t realize Harold was on the edge of tears, too, until the old man cleared his throat. “We were released in 1962. Four years of hard labor. Lucky to survive, we were.” He swallowed. “First thing we did was try to find our kids, but it was no use. All we learned was they’d been adopted by different families. They’d been separated.”
He rubbed his big nose with a knuckle. “Can you imagine? Seven and eight years old, living together all their lives, never to see each other again? The orphanage refused to tell us where they were.”
“But we tried,” said Beth.
“Yes. We tried for the next two years. By sixty-four we had to give up. See, we were still being harassed. I was sent away for another three months for no reason at all, and then, when I got back, I found Beth talking to a friend from that first camp. He and some more friends had hatched an escape plan. They wanted us to come along.”
“That’s how you got out,” said Gavra.
“Broke our hearts,” said Harold, “but it was the only thing we could do.”
“How did you get to the States?”
Harold looked at Beth, who gave a noncommittal shrug. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
Harold agreed. He turned to Gavra. “They were still keeping internment camps in Germany back then, for the occasional easterner who’d get out. We ended up at one in Frankfurt. That’s where the Americans came to us.”
Gavra had heard of this before. “CIA.”
“Why not?” Beth said defensively. “They couldn’t get their people into our country, and they’ve got this camp full of people who know the language and the lay of the land. Who know everything there is to know, without looking like an American spy.”
“You were sent back in?” said Gavra.
Harold snorted a laugh. “I can’t tell you how many times we came back here over the next decade. All the way up to detente, whatever the hell that was supposed to be.” He put his hands on the table. “You should’ve seen us back then, Gavra. A sharp young man like yourself-I think we would’ve given you a run for your money. Ciphers, tooth caps full of cyanide, radio sets, and even a few disguises.” He laughed. “It was a riot.”
Beth wasn’t laughing. “It wasn’t a riot, Harold. It scared the hell out of you more than once.”
Harold’s smile faded, and he shrugged. He tapped his skull. “Nostalgia.”
“What about your kids?”
The smile was completely gone now. He shook his head. “We tried. Every time we went back, we tried. But we never found them.”
“Jerzy did,” said Beth solemnly. “He tracked them down.”
Harold sniffed. “Once this is over, we’re going to make a couple of house calls.”
It all made perfect sense now. “That’s how he got your cooperation.”
Beth shook her head. “We would’ve come anyway. This just makes it so much sweeter.”
Gavra pushed his chair back and stood up. He walked to the door. Through its window he saw Balint’s wide back and, beyond, officers passing. He turned to the old couple. They would believe anything Jerzy fed them, simply for the hope of seeing their children again. He imagined similar deals had been made with the others; their enthusiasm was only partly for the Pankovs’demise. Their personal desperations were what made them hysterical.
They watched him return to his seat and lean forward, lowering his voice as he spoke. “This is more complicated than you know. Jerzy Michalec is not who you think he is. He’s a murderer.”
They blinked at him but didn’t seem surprised.
“During the Second World War, he worked in the Gestapo. After the war, he killed others to protect this secret, and in 1949 he was convicted as a war criminal. Did you know that?”
They didn’t answer at first, but from their expressions he could tell the information wasn’t swaying them.
“We all make mistakes,” said Beth. “Maybe this is how he’s making up for his. Did you ever consider that?”
Harold nodded his agreement. It was what they both wanted to believe.
Gavra persisted. “Over the last week, he’s also had five more people killed, because all of them knew about his past. One was the wife of a close friend of mine, a Militia chief.”
“Brod?” said Harold. “That was the work of those anarchists in Patak.”
Gavra shook his head. “No. They were scapegoats. Jerzy Michalec had her killed, and he’s still after two more people: the chief himself and an old friend of mine, Brano Sev.”
Simultaneously, Harold and Beth recoiled. “Brano Sev,” Harold said with evident disgust.
“You know him?”
Beth looked at her husband, then rubbed his arm. Harold was reddening.
“What?” said Gavra.
“Of course we know him,” Beth said coolly.
Harold patted her hand to show he was fine. “I met Brano Sev in 1965. The man tortured me.”
Gavra rubbed his forehead, cursing his mistake. He should have considered this. It didn’t matter, though, not anymore. “You’re both part of this too, aren’t you?”
They waited.
“You want me to kill the Pankovs so you can frame Brano for the murder.”
Harold shook his head and pressed a finger into the tabletop, speaking defiantly. “We want you to kill the Pankovs because that’s what they deserve. They took our children away and starved a beautiful country until it was ugly. I suppose you can’t hear from inside this room, but there are still terrorists out on the rooftops. As long as the Pankovs are alive, they’ll keep shooting innocent people. We’re going to kill them and show their corpses to the whole country. We’re going to bring back peace.”
“But why me7” Gavra insisted.
Harold looked at Beth, so she answered. “We don’t want just anyone to kill the Pankovs. We want someone who’s spent his life serving that wretched man’s interests. But not just anyone. Someone who has no political stake in the outcome.”
“Which is why you can’t hand a gun to Andras Todescu.”
Harold nodded.
Beth said, “Brano Sev is the right man for this. If he’s proven to be responsible for killing them, it will show that even the most dedicated servant couldn’t take it anymore.”
Harold grunted. “We’re giving that bastard much more than he deserves.”
“We’re making him, and you, into heroes. Historians will talk highly of the two of you.”
Gavra leaned back and tried to absorb this. It was hard. He traced back the steps that had brought him to this room: the trip to Virginia, the plane ride beside this couple, the phone call in the Militia office, his kidnapping, and then Karel’s. It felt like too many variables at work to have been planned ahead of time, too many to be believable. Then again, it wasn’t planned. Jerzy Michalec’s brilliance lay in his ability to bend with situations, to quickly take into account what had changed and what should be done next. Michalec was a master at thinking on his feet.
Gavra was left in awe. Not only did this plan help assure the success of the revolution; it also assured Michalec’s
safety. If Brano was tied to the murder of the Pankovs, then Brano was tied to Michalec, who had captured the First Couple and arranged the execution. If, next week, Brano told the international press about Michalec’s criminal history, he’d be accused of political backstabbing. There would be no evidence for him to cite, and he would be quickly marginalized. Brano Sev would become a nobody.
“You don’t understand,” said Gavra. “Jerzy is doing this-even this — to assure his past is ignored. He’s doing it to assure he can become president. You’re helping a murderer run our country.”
Beth shook her head. “But he doesn’t want to become president.”
“He says that now,” began Gavra, but Harold held up a finger to stop him.
“It’s true,” said Harold. “Jerzy wants his son to become president. He doesn’t want it for himself at all.”
Gavra stuttered just as Tomiak Pankov and I had stuttered. “S-son?”
“You didn’t know?” said Beth. “Sweet Rosta.”
“Rosta Gorski,” managed Gavra.
Just then, the door opened and Michalec stepped in. “I think my son’s ears are burning!”
The Atkinses laughed.
TWENTY-THREE
I reached Tisakarad a little after two. The low winter sun tried to break through gray clouds, and trees in the fields around me made bleak shadows. The Citroen’s heater had started sputtering halfway through the journey, then died soon after. I’d zipped up my coat against the cold, but my fingers felt like ice. I took two Captopril, then turned off a side road before the city limits, following a bumpy path through fields and taking more turns past the cooperative offices that ruled over the farms in the northeastern quadrant outside Tisakarad. I soon reached the Kolyeszar farmhouse.
When Ferenc was shipped off to a labor camp in Vatrina in 1956, charged with treason, Magda brought little Agota out to the countryside. They waited for him in her parents’Pocspetri farmhouse.
I was the one who picked him up from Work Camp #480 upon his release early the next year, and I remember being shocked by his appearance. He was a lice-ridden skeleton, covered in sores, and seemed in a perpetual state of shock. I probably wasn’t much help, as Lena had just suffered her first miscarriage, but I took him to a Vatrina hotel where he washed and ate and dressed in fresh clothes Magda had given me to bring along. By the time I got him to the Pocspetri farmhouse, he was just starting to become human again.
That was a long time ago. Since then, Magda’s parents had died, and they’d been transferred to this smaller farmhouse in Tisakarad. While tending his hectares of apple orchards, Ferenc had produced a series of samizdat novels that over the years, and largely by the work of Georgi Radevych (during his sober hours), found their way westward. By the midseventies, French papers were writing about this “genius” living behind the Iron Curtain, whose books could not be published at home. That was true, but the crudely bound manuscripts still found their way into our hands. I’d read all five of his books and was always deeply impressed by my friend.
When I parked in front of the house, next to the Russian flatbed, the door opened, and Magda came out holding a Kalashnikov rifle. The sight stunned me. “Get out!” she shouted.
“It’s me!” I called, rolling down the window so she could hear. “Emil!”
She lowered the rifle, confused. “Emil? Where’d you get that car?”
I climbed out and went over to hug her, but the Kalashnikov kept getting in the way, so I gave up. “Jesus, Magda. That’s some firepower.”
“This?” She took it off her shoulder and looked at it. “No bullets. But it’s still scary, isn’t it?”
“You’re alone?”
“Everyone’s in Patak making trouble. With the roads the way they are, it’s an hour each way, but they seem to think it’s worth it.”
I gave a hug another try, pressing into her gray hair that had once been so dark and rich. She squeezed me tight, whispering, “I’m sorry about her.” She kissed my cheek hard, then pulled back to look into my face. “How’re you dealing?”
“Not well,” I said, because it was true.
“It’s only been a couple of days.”
That was also true, but my sense of time was all wrong. It felt as if Lena had been killed just a few hours ago, but with everything that had happened since then, it seemed that a month must have passed. I think that’s what happens when you go mad. Time stops agreeing.
Magda and Lena had never been particularly close, despite Fe-renc’s and my efforts. We stuck them in the same room during visits, while we stepped onto the back porch to drink beer and reminisce, with plenty of lies, about the old days in the Militia. The women suffered each other, but I knew that Magda had always found Lena an unbearable snob, and Lena often told me what a prole Magda was. But what can you expect from a farm girl?
Despite this, I was always fond of Ferenc’s wife. Like anyone else, they had their problems, and during that nasty year, 1956, they nearly divorced. I was glad they hadn’t.
She boiled tea in the kitchen, whispering because Sanja was asleep in the bedroom. I watched her move instinctively between the stove and the cabinets; she’d gained weight, but on her it looked like health.
“What’re they doing in Patak?”
“Getting things working again. It’s a real chore.”
“Isn’t there help from the Capital?”
She grunted as she poured my cup. “The Galicia Committee? They’ve got their hands busy getting the Capital in working order. And the snipers.” She paused. “Did you see any?”
“I saw some of their work.”
“Oh.”
She told me that after the massacre on Wednesday night, the only violent deaths in Sarospatak had been Tatiana Zoltenko and, on Thursday evening, Mayor Natan Pankov. I hadn’t heard.
“It was a mob. Hundred or so people. Broke into his place up in the Castle District. Didn’t touch the wife or any of his three kids, though-I suppose that’s something-but they got hold of him and dragged him out into the street and beat him to death, then hung his body up on a lamppost so everyone could see.” She set the cups down and settled opposite me. “Some miserable stuff. But I guess it’s to be expected. No one else dead that I’ve heard of. And last night, the army officially announced it was with us.”
“No Russians?”
She shook her head. “Ferenc was terrified they’d show up in army uniforms and start shooting, but it didn’t happen. That guy they found before, Malevich-there’s been no sign of him since.” Magda peered into her cup. “You going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“It’s all over the news, you know. Rosta Gorski and that woman.”
I knew there would be some report on Gorski’s shooting, but I didn’t know if they’d use my name. Then her words sank in. “What woman?”
“The Frenchwoman. They say you shot her.”
My hand jerked, and I spilled my tea. “Gisele Sully? Is she all right?”
“They say you killed her.”
“No!” The word came out involuntarily, then I had trouble breathing. “She had nothing to do with it!”
Magda looked at the puddle of tea on the floor, then at me. She spoke calmly. “I don’t know, Emil. I’m just telling you what they said. They said you kidnapped her and tried to kill Rosta Gorski. You only got him in the leg, but on the way out you shot and killed this Sully woman.”
I got up. My knees weren’t working right, and I nearly fell, but I used the wall to right myself and walked out the back to the screened-in porch, then through the door onto the cold, hard earth. The Capto-pril wasn’t doing its job; I could feel every one of my stiff veins. I paced for a while in the fresh darkness, my anger building, and when Magda came out, holding my coat, I could tell she was very uncomfortable.
“I didn’t shoot her,” I said, “but I did trick her. I’m the reason she’s dead.”
Magda didn’t speak, just handed me the coat and waited.
I wa
s crying again. “I used her to get into the Central Committee Building because I wanted to kill Rosta Gorski. He and his father killed Lena.” I looked at her; she was blurry through my tears. “You understand? But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just kill the man. So I made sure Gisele was safe and I put a bullet in Gorski’s leg because I had to do something. Anything. And now“-I turned away from her steady gaze-”now she’s dead, too.”
Lena was right-Magda was a prole. But Lena never understood what a good thing this could be. The proles of the world understand misery. They know misery because it comes to visit every day. Magda knew it had to be kicked, and kicked hard, before it would leave.
She grabbed my shoulders. “You’re right, Emil. She’s dead because of you. You screwed up. Right?”
I nodded like a weepy child.
“Now cry and then get over it. Figure out what you did wrong and make sure you don’t do it again.”
She spoke with such sternness and strength that I was almost frightened of her.
“I’m going inside to make dinner. When you’ve figured it out, come in and eat. But I don’t want you inside until you’ve figured it out.”
I nodded.
“Because my family’s here. If you fuck up again, and someone I love is killed, I will kill you without hesitation. You understand?”
I blinked at her. She meant it, and she was right to mean it. “Okay,” I said breathlessly.
She gave me a soft pat on the cheek. “I don’t want to kill you, Emil Brod, because I love you, too. Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”
Then she went inside to make her family dinner.
An hour later I was still outside, freezing, when I heard the others arrive in the coughing Militia Karpat Bernard had stolen from the station. I’d figured out my mistake, just as Magda had ordered, but didn’t come in because I had more to face. Lena’s death was also my fault. While I had killed Gisele Sully by using the poor woman to get my revenge, I had killed Lena by not taking care of Jerzy Michalec back in 1948. I could have, but the fact was that I’d never been the kind of man who could simply commit murder. It’s much more difficult than pulp novels make it out to be.
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