Yalta Boulevard (18 page)

His wet shirt puffed around his neck, and he pushed it down, working hard to reach that stage that followed uncertainty, the one Jan Soroka had always seemed to inhabit—acceptance. He barely heard it when that same man whispered, “Now.”

Brano looked around, saw the light sliding over the water toward him, and realized he was alone, ripples spreading through the reeds where his companions had been. Then he dropped into the icy water.

Images flashed. Bóbrka. Childhood. A quiet, shy boy, who never raised his hand in class. Unexceptional in school, where they used beet juice in lieu of ink, he was neither poor nor impressive, and it seemed likely that he would farm the earth in the same way his father and grandfather had. And this is what he did, from the age of twelve, tilling potatoes alongside his father in the arid fields.

His one lasting friendship, with Marek Piotrowski, was temperamental, based on this loud oaf’s momentary whims. When dissatisfied, Marek could sometimes be found on a Bóbrka side street, kicking Brano Sev into the dust.

Then, in 1939, the Germans took over his country. He was twenty-two when the frantic soldiers marched into his house and handed his father a piece of paper, which told him he would no longer grow vegetables; he would spend his days in a factory, welding large strips of steel into antitank obstacles. Two nights later, with his friend’s encouragement, Brano and Marek disappeared, soon finding what they sought: the partisan camp.

He came up, stifling a cough with his fist. His cold head was pounding. The others looked at him, Petre’s wet face grinning. Black makeup dribbled from Lia’s eyes.

A breeze iced his wet hair as he glanced back to where, on the road some distance away, a jeep was parking behind the truck they’d left. A gathering headache pulsed behind his right eye.

They continued forward, stumbling sometimes over the stiff reeds. Petre fell; Lia righted him. They could still not see the far bank, but Jan walked with stiff confidence, glancing occasionally back at the activity on the gravel road. He turned again and paused, noticing a flicker. “
Now
.”

The partisan camp was not what they expected. It was makeshift, ready to be transported at any moment, and when they asked to be shown how to use a rifle, the commander, a shopkeeper from Dukla, Laszlo “Lion” Cerny (though he wore no stripes, he called himself a major), instead handed them a weathered book by Karl Marx.
Read this
, he told them.
Then we’ll teach you how to kill Germans
.

Will this teach us to kill the proper way?
asked Marek.

Shh
, said Brano.

While the partisans snuffed the fire and raided German convoys, Brano read.
History is economics in action … The philosophers have only interpreted the world … the point, however, is to change it
. Marek stood over him with a pine branch held like a rifle. He made shooting sounds with his mouth.
What the bourgeoisie … produces above all is its own gravediggers … The workers have nothing to lose but their chains
.

In the end, reading didn’t matter, because a failed raid on an officer’s tent turned out to be an ambush and cut the partisan camp in half.
Want to learn how to shoot?
asked Cerny.

The two of them nodded.

Let’s practice on Nazis
.

And that was the day Marek was killed by a bullet from a machine gun mounted on a personnel carrier. Brano lay beside him in the grass, trying to deal with his jammed rifle (he had fired only two shots), and when he heard the quiet sigh to his left, through the grass, he knew before looking that his friend was dead. But he looked anyway. He stared at the hole in Marek’s neck, which throbbed, producing an astounding amount of blood that glued the blades of grass together.

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.