Liberation Movements

Peter
1968

He could not walk. The occasional soldier watched him jog past in the darkness, and a few even seemed to consider stopping him, though none did. Soon he was running through vacant streets, the evening humidity choking his nostrils and eyes, so that when he stopped at a doorway not far from where Jungmannova crossed Jungmannovo Square, he could hardly make out the large, flat facade of the Church of Our Lady of the Snows. Through the arched doorway leading from the church courtyard, shapes stumbled out, and beyond the thumping in his head he heard voices. Come on, you bastards. Hooligans. The sound of bodies being thrown to the ground. The crack of a truncheon against bone. One scream, but just one. By the time his vision cleared it was a surprisingly quiet scene. Two white trucks and a white Mercedes. Twenty gloomy students. Jan. Gustav. And a black-robed old priest. Josef was probably already inside the trucks the soldiers were leading everyone into.

Peter stepped back, farther into the darkness, and measured out his breaths. It helped to remember that Emperor Charles IV had built this massive church to remind him of his coronation. What an ego. Despite the humidity, Peter felt the August night turning cold.

When he looked again, the back door of the Mercedes opened, and that man stepped out to light a cigarette. He didn’t seem proud, not as proud as he’d seemed in the interrogation room or later in the cafe. He instead looked like a man at the end of a long day of factory work, the weight of repetitive motion bearing on him. But strong. Bald, tall, and strong.

“Now you look like you’ve been hit by a train. Where do you keep running off to?”

He tried on a smile as he sat down. “I’ve had enough beer.”

Stanislav folded the letter into his pocket again. “Listen, this is my last night to be foolish. Once I’m back…well, I’ll have responsibilities. You up for a final blast?”

Peter felt his special talent-the one the StB officer had been so impressed by-bring on a big, authentic smile. “I don’t want to let you down.”

So they bought a bottle of Becherovka liquor and began again to drink. “Did you fight?” asked Peter.

“When?”

“Here. You’ve only said you ended up being stationed here. You never told me what you did.”

Stanislav shifted, then peered into his shot glass. “Most of the time, no. We were all quite pleased no one wanted to fight us. These girls-pretty girls, and what short skirts they had-they gave us flowers and told us to go home.” He shook his head. “As if we had a choice in the matter. But they were nice. At the beginning, though, there was some fighting.” He finished his glass and refilled it. “It was the twenty-first. We’d just gotten here, and half of us didn’t even know where we were. Then we were sent over to the radio building, over on Stalinova Street. A big crowd outside. I think the radio station had called them all there to protest. Well, it got out of hand. They threw rocks, someone started shooting, and, well…” He lifted the dark liquor to his chin. “Yeah, there were dead people.”

“Did you kill anyone?”

“I hope not. In the confusion, I couldn’t tell. But the station-” He grunted. “Those guys are clever. Radio Prague still broadcasts from different areas of town. They change frequencies and give out news for ten minutes, then move on. I doubt anyone will be able to stop them.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Me?” Stanislav peered at the dark liquor in his glass. “You think any of us want to be here? You think any of us are here because we want to defend socialism?”

Peter raised his own glass. “To going home.”

They swallowed what they had and then poured more.

Katja

As the plane descends toward Ataturk International, I yawn to pop my ears. Beside me, the young electric-fan salesman rubs his eyes and smiles. “Did I sleep the whole way?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“I can’t seem to sleep these days.”

“Well, you won’t sleep in Istanbul. Very un restful place. Where are you staying?”

His thin hair lies flat on his scalp, and in a few years he’ll be bald. He has bright eyes.

“I didn’t make a reservation,” I say, and it occurs to me how sudden this trip is. How ill planned. This afternoon, taking the long taxi ride from the Hotel Metropol to the airport, fingering my crisp new passport, it felt like the only option. But that was the fatigue confusing me. The fatigue and the buzzing in my ears that muted all other sounds.

“Well, you’ve got to make a reservation,” he says. “It’s a popular city. I’m staying at the Pera Palas. Why don’t you come into town with me and we’ll see if we can get you a room?”

“Yes,” I say, trying on a smile. “That’s a good idea.”

“I’m Istvan. Istvan Farkas.”

I make a smile with teeth and take his hand. “Good to meet you, Istvan.”

Then I notice the fat man looking at me again. When I catch him he turns away.

Waiting for Brano Sev at the Metropol earlier today, I also felt watched-a woman on her own at the half-empty bar, male eyes converging on my back. So I ordered vodka from a lanky bartender who set the glass down and smiled. “You waiting for someone?”

“Don’t give me trouble,” I said. He grunted and moved on to another customer.

Brano arrived, sweating in his too heavy jacket, and stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette. He moved quickly for an old man. The bartender, recognizing him, slipped back. “Comrade Sev, so good-”

“Zywiec.”

“Of course.”

Brano took off his jacket and climbed onto a stool. There were sweat stains all over his shirt. “As I told you on the telephone, Katja, I don’t know where Gavra is. He-”

“That’s not why I asked you here.”

“Okay.” The bartender set down a glass of beer and disappeared again. “Then why am I here?”

I took a breath. “Two days ago, on Monday, you and Gavra met a man in the Seventh District, on Tolar. He’s young, like me. He has a little mustache now. His name is Peter Husak. Where is he now?”

Brano’s face, unused to expressing emotion, let slip an instant of surprise. “Peter Husak?”

“Yes. Where is he?”

“Why are you interested in this man?”

“It’s personal.”

“Nothing’s personal.”

I considered my words. With Brano Sev, a misplaced syllable could end all discussion. “I knew him, once. Some years ago. In 1968.”

“How well did you know him?”

“He was-” I paused. “He told me he was a friend of my old boyfriend. That he knew him in Prague.”

“Why was your boyfriend in Prague?”

“He was in the army. He died there. He helped put down their revolution.”

“Their counterrevolution.”

“Whatever.”

“And that’s how Peter Husak knew your boyfriend?”

“He told me he worked with our soldiers, that they became close.”

“Your boyfriend’s name?”

“Stanislav Klym.”

Brano touched his glass but didn’t lift it. He nodded. “Right.”

“What?”

He stood up. “I have to go now, but…” He frowned, considering something. “Can you meet me back here at five?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at five.”

Then he was gone.