36 Yalta Boulevard

by Olen Steinhauer

  A hand pulled him, gasping, out of the water. Jan’s face was close to his. “Don’t drown, stupid,” he whispered.

  Brano blinked at him, the pain in his head sharp now.

  As they continued, the reeds thickened and the water lowered to their waists again. They could no longer make out the truck. Jan looked around, then said, “Now.”

  The frigid water swallowed Brano.

  Over the next years their raids became more frequent, and his rifle usually did not jam. He became familiar with the recoil against his shoulder and the uniformed Germans who crumpled quietly on the road. Sometimes they shouted and squealed, though usually they dropped in silence. Cerny said, You’ve got an eye, Sev. You’re a one-shot killer. He became known as that—“One-Shot”—by everyone in their mobile camp. He was respected for his efficiency and for his modesty.

  Perhaps that was why, in the summer of 1944, Cerny took Brano out into the woods and sat him down.

  It’s winding down now, you know.

  What?

  The war. The Americans are coming in from the west, but the Russians will be here first. You know what that means, don’t you?

  Brano didn’t want to disappoint. It means the dictatorship of the proletariat is upon us.

  Don’t give me dogma, Brano. What this means is that we are going to run things now. Orders have come in from Moscow. We’re to organize.

  Organize?

  Don’t pretend you don’t understand. Cerny ruffled Brano’s hair, and for the moment, Brano forgot that he was a twenty-seven-year-old man being treated like a twelve-year-old boy. The most important thing in an emerging socialist state is what?

  Brano shrugged.

  You know the answer.

  He did. Security against insurrectionists.

  Cerny smiled. Now, comrade, you’ll never be alone.

  And if Brano was angry about anything, it was for that one lie.

  Through his blurred, aching eyes he could see barren land ahead, past the reeds, and when the light swung across the water again, Jan said nothing. Because now they were beyond the reach of the spotlights; they were in Austria.

  At the bank, the upturned hull of a shattered blue rowboat stuck out of the water. Petre pointed at it as he struggled through the reeds, and whispered something to his mother. Lia told him to be quiet.

  “Don’t worry,” said Jan. “We’ve arrived.”

  “My God,” said Lia, but she whispered it.

  They were exhausted and cold when they staggered onto the muddy grass that sucked at their feet. They collapsed. They lay in silence, breathing heavily, shivering. Brano rubbed his temples to get rid of the pain, while Jan smiled blankly at the night sky.

  Brano forced a soft, slow laugh. The Sorokas looked at him.

  “What?” said Lia.

  He raised himself on his elbows and laughed again—it came from deep inside himself, a strong, convincing laugh, but nonetheless an act. “Now I’m the one who has to pee.”

  Maybe it was the stress finally rolling off their shoulders, but the Sorokas, after a second, laughed as well. Petre, delighted, said, “I can’t pee at all!”

  Brano wandered back to the broken rowboat and urinated into the water, watching the out-of-reach spotlight turn in the distance. The pain in his head was becoming manageable. He zipped himself up and reached into his soaking coat pocket. He took out Jakob Bieniek’s passport and wrapped it tightly in a handkerchief, then squatted. He glanced back, but the Sorokas were unaware, huddled together for warmth. Then he hid the package in a dry pocket under the hull of the boat.

  Brano returned, watching the faint western horizon. “They should’ve found us by now,” he said to Jan. “Where are the Austrian border guards?”

  “I don’t do the planning, but it doesn’t matter. We’re safe now.”

  “She said we go to the right?”

  “To a road,” he said, a grin playing on the corners of his lips. “From here it’s simple.”

  So they followed Jan across the grassy field. Brano caught up with him, hopping over occasional rocks. “You might as well tell me now.”

  “What should I tell you?”

  “What you sold the Americans. You opened a Viennese account with their money.”

  “Why should I tell you that now?”

  “Because in a few minutes I’m not going to be a problem anymore. Your friends will take me away, because I’m the reason they helped you get your family back. So you might as well tell me what information you sold them.”

  Jan looked at him, for a moment stunned, then he snorted a half-laugh. “Information? Honestly, Brano, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” He squinted ahead to where a raised dirt road was just visible. A little to the left, Brano saw the silhouettes of two cars waiting in the darkness. He could make out the lights of the cigarettes held by men who leaned against the hoods. Five in all.

  One stepped on his cigarette and jogged out to greet them, holding towels under his arm. He was tall, with a gray Viennese suit and a big smile. “Grüß Gott,” he said, shaking Jan’s hand furiously, then gave them each a towel. He shook Brano’s hand, then kissed Lia’s with excited intensity. He crouched beside Petre and produced a bar of Toblerone chocolate wrapped in foil. “Been saving this for you, young man,” he said, and stood up. “Herzlich willkommen in Österreich! I’m Ludwig.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Lia, but with a flat, emotionless tone.

  Jan, one hand rubbing a towel over his hair, placed the other on the Austrian’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “My absolute pleasure, Jan. It’s time for a new life!” He took Lia’s limp hand and kissed it again. “I’m sorry about the sudden change in plan—you never really know how these things will turn out. But now it’s time to get you into the warmth.”

  As they approached the cars, the other four stepped on their cigarettes. They were all large men, their hats low, with significant bulges under their jackets.

  When they reached the cars and one man put a hand on his shoulder, Brano did not resist. This was no surprise. He didn’t even protest as another patted him down to be sure he was unarmed.

  He looked at Jan to see what expression he might have, but Jan was helping Lia into the back of a car. He went out of his way not to look at Brano as he followed her inside.

  PART TWO: THE JOWLS

  17 FEBRUARY 1967, FRIDAY

  •

  It had all been so predictable. The whole ride he didn’t ask a thing, because there was no point. He could imagine the scene in the American embassy those months ago. Jan Soroka, no longer able to live without his wife and son, asked for their help. Of course, the Americans told him. We are for freedom and the values of the family. Just one little thing you can do for us.

  Brano Sev wasn’t vain; he didn’t imagine they had desired him a long time. No, they simply looked at Jan Soroka’s file, and some smart office boy lined up Soroka’s family home with a list of known intelligence agents. It was simple; it was a given. No one helps without asking a price.

  But these men were not Americans; they were Austrian. Members of military counterintelligence, the Abwehramt, like the man he had knocked out in the Vienna Airport’s bathroom six months ago.

  After ten minutes of driving, they passed a sign that said they were entering Apetlon, and Ludwig turned in his seat. He asked Brano, in German, to please excuse them. Then everything went black because of the burlap bag placed over his sore head.

  So obvious. So predictable.

  They didn’t talk in the car, and when, after perhaps two hours, they stopped, the only thing said was a polite, “Right this way,” as a hand led him by the arm into the cold night.

  There was gravel beneath his feet and dirt. They were not in a city. The air through the burlap was fresh.

  “Watch your step, now.”

  He tripped over something, but they righted him—strong hands gripping his elbows. Someone cursed—Scheisse!—trying
to work a set of keys into a lock, then they walked into a warm, dry place. Light bled through the burlap, and he could smell old cigarettes.

  “Sit down, why don’t you?” someone said, then eased him back into a thick-padded chair. Soft, comfortable.

  The bag was taken off.

  It was a living room. Comfortable, bourgeois. His chair matched the gray Bauhaus sofa on the other side of a low coffee table stocked with periodicals—Der Standard, Stern, and the dissident Filip Lutz’s sounding board, Kurier. In the corner, between a large television and a cabinet of coffee cups and cocktail glasses, Ludwig whispered to one of the men, then checked his watch. He noticed Brano staring, and smiled.

  “It’s a relief to get that thing off, isn’t it? Can breathe a little better.”

  Brano glanced up at the fat man beside him with the bag in his hand. He was smiling as well. The third man walked out the front door and locked it behind himself.

  “Something to drink?” asked Ludwig as he opened the cabinet door to reveal rows of bottles. “Brandy to warm you up? It’s a fully stocked bar.”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  “How about some water?” As he spoke, he took out a plastic pitcher and began to pour a glass.

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “It’s not drugged, Brano. Here—” Ludwig drank half the glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then placed it on the coffee table and settled into the sofa. “See? I feel fine. That’s mountain spring water, pure and simple.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Well, then. Want to change out of that?”

  Brano looked down at his soaked clothes. “My clothes are supposed to be in transit.”

  “No worries.” Ludwig nodded at the fat man. “Get that robe, will you?”

  He brought a thick yellow robe from the bathroom and handed it to Brano, who stood, then hesitated. “Here?”

  Ludwig grinned. “We’re not queer, Brano.”

  So he undressed and put on the robe, watched carefully by both men.

  “I suppose we should get to it, shouldn’t we?”

  Brano sat down again. “If you’d like.”

  Ludwig examined his nails, which were clean, like his long face and close-cropped hair. “Let’s establish some facts first. You have entered Austrian territory of your own free will. You don’t have a visa, and there is no record of your entry. Bureaucratically, my friend, you do not exist.”

  Brano’s hands were on his knees, squeezing through the robe.

  “We’re going to talk. How long our conversation lasts is up to you. You can cooperate or not. That’s your prerogative. But it will have a bearing on how long we keep you here.”

  “I understand,” said Brano.

  “Good. Good. Tell me, then, why you have entered Austria.”

  Decades ago, when Brano Sev began his tenure at Yalta, then-Major Cerny put him through a mock interrogation that would prepare him for this kind of situation. As he left his apartment one evening, two men jumped out of a bread truck, placed a burlap sack over his head, and took him to an old farmhouse. They told him to squat and hold out his arms, as if he were preparing to launch into flight. He was ordered not to move. After a while, his arms became heavy and sank, and they smacked his elbows with truncheons. When exhaustion overcame him and he started to doze, they lifted him by his armpits and dragged him outside—his numb legs could no longer move—and threw him in a lake, then dragged him back again. After a day of this, he was placed in a chair, a bright light shining in his face, and asked questions.

  What is your mission?

  I cannot answer that.

  Who are your superiors?

  I cannot answer that.

  What is your name?

  Brano Oleksy Sev.

  And your mother’s name?

  I cannot answer that.

  How about your girlfriend, Brano Sev? You’ve got a girlfriend, don’t you?

  I cannot answer that.

  You’re not queer, are you?

  I cannot answer that.

  Come on, Brano. This is just between us. You can at least deny it, can’t you?

  I cannot answer that.

  Look, I’m just trying to help you. If I tell those boys outside that you’re a shirt-lifter, you know what they’re going to do, don’t you? They’re going to beat the shit out of you. So are you queer or not?

  “I cannot answer that,” he told the Austrian.

  Ludwig winked at the fat man with the bag. “Looks like we’re going to be here for a while.”

  Brano had met Ludwig’s kind often over the years. Well fed, confident, with a sense of something they thought was style. They played nice men because they believed themselves to be nice men who were in the unfortunate position of having to commit certain acts that, in themselves, were not nice.

  The effect was accentuated by the fact that this man was Austrian—a race not known for its casual demeanor.

  But for now, there were no prison cells, no truncheons, no electrical wires—this was unexpected. Just a living room, smiles, and questions. And that made it all the more difficult. Brano wanted to understand what was going on, and with understanding would come the acceptance he needed. He tried to hide his consternation as Ludwig leaned forward and smiled.

  “Let’s start with what we know about you, Brano. You’re half a century old, and in that time you’ve had your successes. After the war you even had some fame—your picture appeared in The Spark now and then when you uncovered another ‘fascist’”—he marked the quotes with the long fingers of his left hand—“hiding in the hills. You have a good record. But the question I wondered about for a while was, Why is a man as accomplished as this working in a factory now?”

  Brano blinked at him.

  “Well, I wouldn’t ask a question like that unless I thought I had the answer, would I?” He touched his chin. “You’re not a young man, Brano, but you think like one. You’re an idealist. Perhaps you even believe that tripe your General Secretary Tomiak Pankov likes to mutter about international peace. When you did your job, you did it well, and you stayed clean. You were even approached—twice that we know of—to turn to the side of right; each time you refused unequivocally, even when the price was good. You are clean, Brano, in your own way. And because of that, someone finally gave you the shaft. But even before that, you were never allowed to progress.”

  Brano opened his mouth, paused, then said, “That’s not exactly true. I moved up in rank.”

  Ludwig grinned. “That’s just uniform decoration, Brano! Look at the facts. You were sent on short trips to a lot of places. Tel Aviv, Athens, Belgrade, Moscow. But other than one instance, you weren’t trusted to do any long-term work. And we both know that one exception: Free Berlin.”

  “You mean West Berlin?”

  “As you like, Brano. West Berlin. But even there, you weren’t a rezident; you weren’t controlling anyone. You were controlled. Because, in the end, you’re not corrupt enough to be trusted by your Ministry. And so, after one year, they brought you back. And that was that, until …” He crossed his legs and gripped a knee. “Until six, seven months ago, in July, when you visited Vienna. A month-and-a-half stay. That’s it. Though your tenure was supposed to be a lot longer.”

  “I was here as a temporary cultural attaché,” he said. “I didn’t need to stay long.”

  “Cultural attaché—these labels they come up with for rezidents are wonderful!” Ludwig slapped his thigh, then shook his head. “The day you left, a certain Bertrand Richter, another known spy, was found dead in the Volksgarten. You know anything about this?”

  Brano blinked again.

  “Perhaps you do, perhaps you don’t. But spies don’t end up dead in Vienna for no reason. And he was one of your men. Certainly you’re concerned about what happened to Bertrand.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “And you don’t care?”

  “It’s not my problem.”

  “Well, it
obviously was at the time, because you were stripped of your uniform and packed off to assemble tractor gauges.” Ludwig checked his watch again and rubbed his thighs. “We’ll get back to this, okay? Right now, I have some things to attend to, but in the meantime I have something for you to consider. A deal, if you will. See, I don’t expect something for nothing. Others have different opinions, but today you’re dealing with me, and I’m a realist. I can give you something if you give me something.”

  Brano looked at his hands and waited.

  “It’s no secret you made a blunder back in your hometown. You’re a murderer, Brano, and as soon as you set foot back in your country, you’re going to be arrested.”

  Brano didn’t answer, because there had been no question.

  “So you can talk to us, and we’ll not only give you asylum, we’ll set you up with a nice apartment in downtown Vienna. But if you don’t talk to us, we’ll put you on a plane back home. I’m sure your friends would be happy to meet you.”

  Brano settled deeper into his chair.

  Ludwig grinned. “Why don’t you think about it awhile? We’re in no hurry. While I’m gone, my men will be happy to listen if you feel like talking.” The fat man, beside Brano, nodded his agreement.

  FEBRUARY TO MARCH 1967

  •

  Ludwig did not return that night, nor the next day. Brano took a bath and then slept in a bedroom with boards nailed over the windows. The lock on the door worked only from the outside, and each morning the guard who unlocked it was different from the one who had locked it the previous night.

  His guards seemed never to tire. They stood with their hands crossed over their groins and watched him. This was how it worked. Time was a formidable tool, and it could be used in many ways. In the morning, the fat guard opened a cardboard box filled with pastries and coffee, and Brano ate with him. The tall one arrived much later with dinner. On the third day, the fat guard opened a second box as well: Brano’s clothes, cleaned and pressed. No one spoke. Time and silence.

  At first Ludwig’s offer had shocked him—not the fact that a deal had been offered (he’d suspected something in exchange for his cooperation), but the nature of the deal itself. In all his worries and predictions of the last week, it had never occurred to him that he would want to stay in the West, particularly in Vienna. It was a cold city, all charm removed by the flagrant displays of capital: the bankers, international corporations, the trite exploitation of their musical history. It was a city without a soul, and it was the scene of his greatest failure.