Victory Square

by Olen Steinhauer

  It was all catching up to me by then. The exertion of the last days had put my back out, but until that train I’d been able to ignore it. I kept waking up, my lower spine tight and burning, and no position helped. Of course, it wasn’t just the physical discomfort. It was everything.

  The worst thing was Lena, knowing that I’d never really known her. If she’d survived, perhaps she would have told me on her own. A deathbed confession, or something less dramatic. A quiet talk over dinner. She was dead, though, and I was left without answers. A part of me was starting to hate her, and that only made me hate myself. If I had any reservations about what I would later do, that’s when they left me. When I started to hate myself.

  I’ve had time since to think about a lot of things, and it still surprises me I’m alive. When your personal life runs so sharply into the life of your country, there’s no place to rest. Not even in another country. And since you’re no longer young, your body balks at the things you have to do. It even denies you the escape of physical pleasure. Wherever you turn, there’s pain. It starts to drive you a little mad. Because people are not built to take this. Why should they be? Stories like mine are not supposed to happen.

  The sun was up by the time we reached the Austrian border. I’d assumed that my Militia pass would get me through there as well, but the border guard, a tall, blond young man who didn’t care what I’d been through, shook his head and led me out of the train at Nickelsdorf. So it’s over, I thought, and a part of me was happy to be turned back. At least my story would end. I listened as he spoke to his supervisor, explaining what I’d offered as identification. “Let me see,” said the supervisor.

  From his pocket he unfolded a telegram, then compared my ID to it. He returned my Militia certificate and nodded politely. “Welcome to Austria, Herr Brod. You may return to the train.”

  The guard who’d taken me off was annoyed, and he argued with his supervisor as I returned to my seat and stared out at them. My success left me feeling uncomfortable. The train lurched and started forward again.

  This was the first time since 1947 that I’d left the East. There was no difference outside my window—the sun wasn’t brighter, the fields weren’t more lush. I was soon asleep again, but my back still hurt.

  It was a little before ten in the morning when we pulled into the large block of stone and glass that was Vienna’s Sudbahnhof, in the Fa-voriten district. I helped a student wrestle his bags down to the bleak concrete platform, then waited, hands on my hips. Police and departing passengers wandered by, some pushing wheeled carts loaded with suitcases. Then, at the end of the platform, by the Sudbahnhof doors, I saw Brano Sev. He’d gotten fatter in retirement, but he wore the same cheap brown suit I remembered from his retirement party. I wondered if it had been refitted. He still had hair on top, but not much, and it was all white.

  He didn’t bother waving or showing any of the signs of excitement common to transportation hubs. He didn’t even move quickly, and I didn’t bother walking to meet him. As he approached, I saw those familiar three moles on his left cheek. I also saw I’d been wrong—it was a new suit, and it wasn’t cheap. It just appeared that way from a distance, because of the way he wore it. His face was the surprise. Up close, there was color in his cheeks, and the chronic bags under his eyes had shrunk. When he retired, he’d looked older than his sixty-nine years; now, at seventy-two, he looked sixty-five.

  “Emil,” he said, and we shook hands. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  “You always have a choice. I’m just pleased my telegram got you through the border.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Listen,” he began, then coughed into his fist. “My condolences. About Lena.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He peered past me. “No baggage?”

  I shook my head, then wondered if he meant it metaphorically.

  “Here’s something, then.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a stiff brick-colored passport. On the cover was an eagle with a crest and the words REPUBLIK OSTERREICH and REISEPASS. Inside, I found my photograph and name.

  “What’s this?”

  “What’s it look like?” He patted my back to encourage me to walk. “My friend helped put it together, very quickly. I figured you wouldn’t have your passport, and I don’t want the Austrian police stopping you.”

  He led the way down steps, through an underground passage, and up an escalator to a dirty station with high windows looking out onto the busy main street, Wiener Gurtel. We stood at the curb as shining Western cars flew by in the cold; then Brano raised a hand easily, and a black BMW pulled up. He opened the back door and nodded me in.

  Both of us took the rear seat, and I saw that the driver was younger than Brano, late fifties, perhaps. He was clearly no taxi driver. In his breast pocket he wore a carnation. He smiled in the rearview as he merged into the traffic. “Good morning,” he said in our language, though it was awkward for him. “I’m Ludwig. A friend.”

  “German is fine,” I said in German.

  “Gut,” said Ludwig. He took a right at the next intersection, and we started driving out of town.

  Brano was gazing contentedly out the window. “So?” I said.

  He looked at me and blinked twice. “How rested are you?”

  “Not very, but I’ll manage.”

  “We can get you a change of clothes from my wardrobe. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping. Want to come, Ludwig?”

  The driver nodded. “Certainly.”

  “He makes all my fashion decisions,” said Brano, smiling.

  “Stop it,” I said.

  “Stop what?” Brano said it as if he didn’t know.

  “I just spent nine hours in a train, based on a KGB officer’s suggestion. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  Through the window, Habsburg buildings, so much cleaner than at home, sped by. Brano said, “We’re going to make things right.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Maybe I will be,” I said, “but I need to know everything. From the beginning.”

  Brano said to Ludwig, “Take the long way.” Then he turned back to me. “You know about Gavra’s trip to America?”

  “I know he went.”

  “Well, I sent him. I’d known for a while about Jerzy Michalec and Rosta Gorski’s plan to seize power at home. The Austrians,” he said, nodding at Ludwig, “were watching the emigres here in Vienna. Gorski met with them regularly. He was gathering men to put back in the country. As you can imagine, I wasn’t pleased about this.”

  “End of communism and all.”

  Brano stared blankly at me. “Yes. But more importantly, I learned that Jerzy Michalec’s group—the Galicia Committee—was being funded almost entirely by the Americans. That was more troubling to me than the demise of communism.”

  Ludwig made a turn and sped up; soon we were on a broad highway.

  “I got in touch with an old friend,” said Brano. “Yuri Kolev. He worked from the inside, I from the outside. We started to gain a picture of what was happening. It was his idea to bring in the Russians. He knew someone in Moscow he thought he could trust. Sarospatak seemed to be the flashpoint, so we agreed that Russian agents would be best sent there. To let Ferenc’s revolution follow its own course. We didn’t want the Galicia Committee taking control, and we didn’t want anyone killed unnecessarily. But the next part—” He tapped his head. “That was my stupidity.”

  “The files,” I said.

  He nodded. “Kolev didn’t know Jerzy Michalec. Their paths had never crossed. But I remembered the case and asked him to gather the files on it from the archives. They could be of use; they might be able to discredit him. Yuri called back, two weeks ago, and told me they were gone. Signed out by Rosta Gorski, authorized by Nikolai Romek.” He shook his head. “Romek was a surprise. I’d known him a long time ago—you might remember him from my retirement party. I thought he w
as better than that. Kolev and I realized they were going to doctor or destroy the files. We didn’t know they’d follow up by killing the witnesses.” He tapped his temple again. “My stupidity. I didn’t imagine they would be so thorough. Only a week ago, on Sunday, when Dusan Volan was found killed, did it occur to me that everyone was in danger.”

  “You knew on Sunday,” I said.

  “Late Sunday night, yes. Kolev called. In a panic. We knew that the people in the files were in danger. He sent Gavra to America to protect one of them, Lebed Putonski. But Gavra failed.”

  I rubbed my stinging eyes as the anger bled into me. Brano knew, from Sunday, that Lena’s life was in danger. “Why didn’t you warn us? Lena’s dead!”

  Brano seemed surprised by my emotion. “I told Yuri Kolev to guard you,” he said, then cleared his throat. “On Wednesday, I found out he was dead too. So I tried to get in touch with Gavra. He wasn’t in; then no one answered his phone.”

  That started to make sense, but then it didn’t. “You couldn’t have just called me?”

  “I did, Emil.” He paused. “I called your house. I talked to Lena.”

  “But—” I began, then understood. Outside the window, rolling countryside eased past. “You were her handler. In the Ministry. Lena worked for you.”

  That, too, seemed to surprise him. He scratched the corners of his mouth. “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “You bastard.”

  In the rearview, Ludwig’s eyes flashed at me, but he drove on without comment.

  Brano said, “Lena told me you two were going to your place in Ruscova. I thought she was taking care of it.”

  I rubbed my eyes, remembering her attempts to get me to leave with her. She’d been angry, frustrated by my resolve. Now I knew why. “You should have told me.”

  “You’re probably right, Emil. I’m sorry about that.”

  Now I was the one left surprised, because I couldn’t remember when, during the three decades he worked in the Militia station, Brano had ever apologized.

  The road hummed beneath us.

  “What about Gavra?” I said. “You saw the tape, right?”

  Brano scratched his nose and looked out the window again. “I don’t know about Gavra. I imagine he was coerced.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of me. Michalec probably thought it would shut me up.” Brano let a little smile appear in the corners of his lips. “Michalec’s wrong.”

  “But there’s nothing else to do,” I said. “Even your Russian friend admitted that.”

  Brano shook his head. “A lot of the Galicia Committee are good people, no matter who’s funding them. Earnest. Interested in giving the government back to the people. The problem is at the top. Michalec, Gorski, Romek, Andras Todescu, and some other old communists who don’t want to lose their influence. The rest of them, the ones doing the work, they’re good people. The problem is, how do you get rid of the bad eggs?”

  I said the first thing that came to me. “You kill them.”

  “I suppose that’s one way, Emil. But it might be more effective to slander them. That’s where our friend Ludwig comes in.”

  On cue, the driver waved his hand proudly.

  Brano said, “You’ll be thanking this man a lot in the next days. He’s gotten Michalec to come to us.”

  I had to slow down. My simple militiaman’s head wanted to take in each little bit and turn it over in my hands until it was familiar before moving on to the next bit. Brano, unlike me, had had plenty of time to learn, and when I told him to stop I saw the irritation in his face. This was why he’d brought me here, and I needed to listen. “Okay,” I said. “Go on.”

  As it turned out, once the trial and execution had been broadcast, Brano’s friend Ludwig got in touch with a friend in Austrian chancellor Franz Vranitzky’s cabinet. The cabinet member then contacted our embassy on EbendorferstraBe to invite Michalec to Vienna.

  “Why?”

  Ludwig answered joyfully, “So the chancellor can congratulate him on his revolution and discuss monetary loans. No one could turn down an offer like that.”

  “You’ve got some influence,” I told him.

  “I’ve got friends all over,” said Ludwig. “Even old commies.”

  “Of course,” said Brano, “the chancellor knows nothing about this, because Michalec will never meet with him.”

  I still didn’t understand. “Then why are you bringing him here?”

  Brano paused. “When Jerzy was released from prison in 1956, after fathering Rosta Gorski, he went to work for the Ministry. He still had friends there, and they put him to work. Over time, he became a surveillance technician. He was too weak for any tough work. They sent him to bug rooms and set up cameras in a lot of cities, in particular Vienna. He came here five times during the seventies under different names. He just didn’t know the Austrians were aware of it every time. His visits were all documented. So, as soon as he arrives, we’ll arrest him as a Ministry spy.”

  Finally—something unambiguous and simple. Something I could understand. I even managed a smile. “But how did the Austrians know this? That he was a spy.”

  “Because I told them.”

  I stared at Brano. With only four words, he’d made it complicated again. I remembered that old, militant Brano Sev, who protected socialism at any cost. Who let Imre’s murderer go unpunished and left Imre’s wife without an explanation. “Wait,” I began, then stopped. “You were working for the Ministry. You …” I rubbed my suddenly dry lips. “You were spying for the Austrians, too?”

  Brano’s smile—a rare thing—blew across his face. “Yes, Emil. I was a double agent. A traitor. But the Austrians, and Ludwig in particular, offered me something I couldn’t refuse. Something even you could appreciate.”

  “What?”

  “They watched over my family.”

  I started to ask how the Austrians could watch over his mother and sister, who lived in our country, but didn’t. Even after a week of shocks, this one somehow topped them all.

  The evidence was presented to me when we reached a maple-shaded farmhouse outside Vienna and parked beside a very clean pale-blue Volkswagen Bug. The front door opened, and a pretty, dark-haired woman stepped out with flowers in her hand, rosy-cheeked, waving at us.

  “Oh Jesus,” I said.

  Brano patted my leg. “Come meet my wife.”

  Dijana Frankovic (Brano told me, almost embarrassed, that she had kept her maiden name) was remarkable. Somewhere in her late forties, she was a Yugoslav who’d lived in Vienna for decades but had learned to speak our language like a native. “Merry Christmas,” she said. She handed the bundle of lilacs to me, then kissed my cheeks. I couldn’t find my tongue. She said, very seriously, “I hope the flowers are right. It’s the custom in your country, correct? When you lose a loved one.”

  I actually wasn’t sure, but I nodded.

  “Please,” she said. “Welcome to my house.”

  Brano, standing behind her, beamed in a way I’d never seen. Lud-wig said, “Dijana, you’re looking ravishing.”

  She winked at me. “That man’s been after me since 1967.”

  Inside, Brano called up the stairs to the second floor. “Jelena! Come meet our guests!”

  A woman’s voice floated back. “Be right down.”

  Stiffly, I settled on one of the leather sofas surrounding a large television. Against the wall a fireplace burned logs. Ludwig produced a pack of cigarettes and offered me one; I accepted. So did Brano. Soon all three of us were puffing away in this comfortable place. Dijana emerged from somewhere carrying a tray of cut meats and water. “Put out those filthy things and eat.”

  I was the only one who followed her command. The meats were delicious.

  Then my surprise was complete. A tall, lovely young woman in her early twenties came down the steps. Brano smiled at her, and she even smiled back as she fitted an earring under her long, straight auburn hair. I stood involuntarily as she leaned over the tabl
e and offered a hand. She had wide brown eyes. “I’m Jelena,” she said in our language.

  “My daughter,” Brano said proudly.

  Her hand was soft, and her smile was full of white teeth.

  As I settled down again, she disappeared into the kitchen, and Di-jana sat beside me. She patted my leg. “Anything you want, just ask.”

  I couldn’t think straight enough to ask for anything. I just stared at Brano. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “Like I said, I wanted to protect them. How do you think my old employers would have reacted if they knew I had a family here? They would’ve made sure I couldn’t leave the country anymore, for one. Two: They would’ve figured out I was passing information to the Austrians. Thirdly, they would’ve hassled my family for information.” He shook his head. “Almost no one knew.”

  “Lena?”

  He took a slice of ham from the tray and delivered it to his mouth.

  “Did you wash your hands?” Dijana said firmly.

  He ignored her and looked at me. “Don’t blame Lena. Never blame her. I made her swear not to tell you about this.”

  “And her work?” I said, my cheeks growing warm. “Did you tell her to hide that from me, too?”

  “That was her idea,” he told me. “At first, she was afraid. She didn’t know how you’d take it. But the lie troubled her. It made her drinking worse. Remember that time she ended up in the hospital? When she quit?”

  My face was burning up; I nodded.

  “She called me from the hospital. She was very proud of herself. She was going to stop making your life hell. And she did this by quitting the drinking, and quitting the Ministry. That’s the day she told me it was over. She wouldn’t work for us anymore.”

  Whatever new understanding I’d had of my wife changed again. I wanted to cry. “What did she do?” I said. “Tell me that, at least.”

  “Nothing dangerous. Well, usually nothing dangerous. She was smart. She could talk to anyone, get in anywhere. Her job was simply to visit people who knew things, listen, and pass on the information to me.”