My Own Revolution (11 page)

Leaning his forearms across his knees, Tati clasps his hands tightly and sighs. He jiggles his folded hands up and down.

A few years ago, we went camping in Yugoslavia. I remember the border with its brown-uniformed guards. I remember driving down by the giant mirror of Lake Balaton, the little hotel that smelled like old rain and had a portrait of the Hungarian president hung too high. Then we crossed the next border and came to a town on the cliff, with donkey carts and bougainvillea and a bust of Lenin in the square. We finally arrived at the campground of towering trees, tents under the trees, and a half-moon of beach.

As I’m about to change into my pajamas, I notice something white hanging outside my open window. Could it be? Yes, it’s a note from Danika, the first since Bozek came along. Maybe she’s changed her mind about me. With my heart beating like Ringo Starr’s drums, I reel in the scrap of paper.

Unfolding the square, my fingers tremble. My vision trembles across the words. But the note reads:
I heard you got called to the police station.

How did Danika learn this? Who spread the news? I smash up the paper and throw it on the floor.

But then I pick up the note and smooth it out. Maybe she doesn’t really care about the stupid police. Maybe she’s trying to be friendly. Maybe things aren’t working out with Bozek.

But this is obviously no love note. Danika is just being nosy. I consider writing something rude back, like
None of your business.

A small voice tells me to be careful. In the end, Janosik was betrayed by his sweetheart. When she fell in love with another, she craftily destroyed his three gifts. First she destroyed his magical staff. Then she destroyed his magical shirt and his magical belt. She left him defenseless.

Danika’s violin music begins to wander into my bedroom. Vivaldi winds through the air like vines.

I take a box of matches from my drawer. Lighting one, I hold the tiny flame to the edge of Danika’s note.

In history class, Mr. Noll surveys me over the top of his glasses. What does he know? Maybe he’s a spy for Babicak, on a mission to get me to miner school right away. I imagine the news spreading from the police station in all directions, like the ripples from a rock thrown into a pond.

As Libena reads aloud, I gaze at the page, the words a blur. It no longer matters if I memorize dates or battles. Come fall, there will be no more Peloponnesian Wars for me. Instead I’ll be learning to sling a pickax alongside other boys who torched the flag.

In botany class, Mrs. Jakim now suspects me of sending bottle caps instead of coins to the poor Cubans. Come fall, there will be no more Bazima Forest for me, no more identifying trees. I’ll be on field trips under the earth, identifying veins of ore.

As a miner, I may not be allowed to have a camera. I might not even want one. Working so hard, I might not care about taking pictures.

During marching drill in the gymnasium, I watch out for knowing looks.
Patrik Chrobak, the future miner.
Ha, ha.

As Danika passes me, going the other way with knees lifted high, she raises her eyebrows at me inquiringly.

I meet her bright-blue eyes, then turn away. Her father must have told her about me. Who has
she
told? By now surely Bozek knows.

After school, I invite Karel and Emil to join me in the shade of the nearby clump of trees.

“I have something to tell you,” I say, picking up a stick. “Something you probably already know.”

They glance at each other, then both shrug. Karel holds out his hands, palms up.

“Spit it out,” says Emil.

So, doodling in the dirt with my stick, pushing aside bits of trash, I tell all about my summons, the interrogation, and how I’m to become a miner.

They listen, Karel with an open mouth, both giving astonished grunts.

At the end, I draw a big
X
in the dirt, saying, “So that’s that. That’s the story.”

Emil puts his foot squarely on the
X.
“They say the workers of the world should throw off their chains,” he says. “But now they’ll put
you
in chains.”

There’s a silence, long and deep, until Karel says, “Guess we won’t see you around next year.”

“Guess not.” I throw down the stick and lean back against a tree trunk. “Guess not.”

“Do you want to take the Beatles single for a while?” Emil asks, pulling a cigarette from his satchel.

“Thanks, but no. I don’t have a record player.”

“Plus Patrik can’t risk getting caught with something like a record,” Karel says.

I look upon my band of loyal men — Emil striking a match, Karel doodling with the stick I threw down. Like Janosik, I won’t take this lying down. “My father and I are going to Bratislava tomorrow to pick up a boat,” I tell them. “We’re going to Yugoslavia.”

“You’re going on vacation at a time like this?” Karel asks.

I don’t say a single word. A long look is enough.

Emil moves the flame toward his cigarette, then stops. “Oh,” he says, letting the match burn out.

“I get it,” Karel says.

“This may be our only real good-bye,” I say.

Emil puts the cigarette into his pocket and tucks it safely out of sight, taking longer than he needs to. Then he holds out his hand, palm down. Karel places his on top, and I put my hand over Karel’s. Three layers of our hands. This used to be our ritual before going into battle for Janosik. Under my palm, I feel the pulsing warmth of Karel’s skin. “I’ll write to you guys,” I say. “I’ll find a way.”

“Sure,” says Emil.

“Sure thing,” says Karel.

But we all know that mail is a very iffy proposition between America and here.

After I leave them, I wander through Cherub Pee Park, moving toward the exact spot where Danika told me no. Shadows shift across the flagstones, and I think again of being a miner. Most of my life will be spent underground, in darkness. I’ll enjoy this kind of sunshine only on weekends. If there are weekends. . . .

Then I look up and see them. Sitting on the fountain where Danika and I sat. But instead of having a confusing conversation, they’re kissing. Bozek has one hand on Danika’s smooth cheek. Behind them, the stone cherub pees on and on without stopping.

My heart pedals furiously. Forward. Backward. I want to run away, pretend I’ve seen nothing. I want to run toward them, tear them away from each other.

I march across the flagstones, scattering a group of ducks. My shadow falls across the love of my life and this . . . this thief. Their arms drop and they stare up at me, blinking.

“What is it, Patrik?” Danika asks. “You look so . . .”

I interrupt her: “You know what it is.”

She turns her face away from Bozek.
The police station?
she mouths silently, exaggerating the words.

Bozek knits his eyebrows and tugs on his red scarf.

I step closer, my heart tumbling in circles. “I’ve loved you all my life. That’s what.” I bite the inside of my cheek, forbidding myself to cry.

“Oh!” Danika says, her voice breathy.

I want to seize her, press my lips to hers.

Bozek scuffs at a weed with the tip of his shoe. “I didn’t know. . . . I had no idea. . . .”

“You didn’t know that Danika and I were practically sweethearts before you came along? If you’d never come to Trencin, we’d be fine!” I glare at the cherub.

“Patrik!” Danika cries.

Bozek takes her hand and grips it hard. “You said that you and Patrik were good friends. Very good friends. But that was all.”

The skin by Danika’s left eye twitches.

“You got Danika interested in the party so she’d like you better,” I accuse.

“Me?” Bozek touches his chest with one fingertip. He stands up, shielding his eyes against the lowering sun. I see that his American jeans are a little too short. “That had nothing to do with
me.
Danika’s father was already set to join.”

I sit down on the edge of a fountain, away from Danika. Away from both of them. Bozek is right. I lean my elbows on my legs and drop my head.

In the long pause, the ducks return, lowering their beaks to nibble the grass.

“I’m going to become a miner,” I suddenly blurt out. I don’t mean to say this — the words just come.

Danika asks, “What, Patrik? What did you say?”

“Next year I’m going to a different school. To become an apprentice.”

“A miner school?”

“Was that your idea?” Bozek asks.

“Yes, and of course not.”

Awkwardly, Danika slides closer to me, the fabric of her skirt catching on the stone fountain. “Tell me this isn’t true, Patrik. Tell me you’re just joking.”

“It’s . . .” Now I can’t help the tears. Like the words, they flow out of me. I wipe my eyes on my sleeves. “You already knew.” I manage at last.

“Of course I didn’t,” she says, shaking her head. “I knew about the police station but not the rest. How would I?”

“From your father.”

She looks puzzled, then shakes her head again. “He didn’t tell me.”

“A miner. That’s a bummer,” says Bozek softly. “A real bummer.”

Danika moves still nearer. Placing her hand over mine, she says, “I didn’t think . . .”

“You didn’t think the party would send kids to be miners? Is that it? You didn’t think . . .” I stand up and the ducks take off, beating the air with their brown wings.

As Tati and I leave for Bratislava, towing a trailer that used to be a farm cart, the men with the walkie-talkies patrol the street in front of our building. This time, Danika’s father is out there, too, and they’re all talking together.

“Who are those men?” Tati asks.

“They’ve been watching us.”

“Why is Mr. Holub with them?” he asks, peering into the rearview mirror.

“Dunno. . . .”

Tati drums his fingers on the steering wheel. But the men make no move to follow us. Even when we drive out of town, no one chases us down. No one stops us. The flat two-lane road of the countryside begins to wind through villages, then past enormous collective farms. I roll down the window and take a deep breath of the river grasses. Soon I won’t see this again. I’ll be far away. Where, I don’t know.

When we camped in Yugoslavia, I met a boy my age who was also vacationing there from Czechoslovakia. His family had a bright-red boat called the
Wave Rider.
We rode bikes together and skipped stones across the water toward Italy. One morning, the Yugoslav patrol boats raced toward shore, white foam frothing behind them. They were bringing in the
Wave Rider.
Alexej and his family sat with bowed heads, two uniformed Yugoslav guards at the helm.

“Alexej!”
I called out.

He didn’t look at me. In fact, he turned his head away. The
Wave Rider
scraped the cement ramp. One by one, each member of the family got out, wading the last few feet: the father and mother, Alexej and his two little brothers. Flecks of red paint drifted in the water.

Without a word, the guards handcuffed the parents. Then they marched the whole family — those of us watching had to step aside — to a police van puffing tailpipe exhaust.

At noon, Tati stops the car to eat the picnic lunch Mami packed. There’s cold sausage, some bread, a tomato and pear for each of us. In the distance, the Bratislava castle rises above the city. Unlike ours in Trencin, it doesn’t teeter on a precipice, but perches comfortably on its hilltop.

I watch the cars on the road. A dirty white VW goes by. I squint, looking for rust.

“Let’s fetch our boat, Patrik,” says Tati as we finish up. “Let’s get it over with.” He lifts the lid of the picnic basket, and we pack everything back in.

We enter the town and drive through the steep gray canyons of Soviet apartment buildings.

“See how the statues of Stalin are all gone?” Tati asks.

“Guess so. I never saw them.”

“Ever since he killed millions of people after the Second World War, he’s been pretty unpopular.” Tati laughs, but not as if he thinks anything is funny.

There are still plenty of Lenin statues. All waiting to be pissed upon.

Red-painted slogans scream:
Workers of the World,
Unite!
and
Down with the Bourgeoisie!
There’s also a small handwritten scrawl:
Freedom from the Russian occupation. Now!