Liberation Movements

Katja

“A militiawoman,” Istvan says once we’re back upstairs. He’s in the bedroom, and I’m in the bathroom, removing makeup in the mirror. “You’re not on a case, are you?”

“I’ve got no authority outside our lovely country.”

“I see,” he says, then stands in the doorway. “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

I can see him in the reflection, and my face is up close. Perhaps he’s right-I have the requisite cheekbones, blond hair, dark eyes-but age is setting in early and I’m wondering what I’ll look like at thirty, thirty-five. I’ll look fifty, I know it. “It’s a temporary beauty,” I tell him.

“Where do you want to sleep?”

“In the bed.”

His smile is huge.

“And you’ll be a gentleman and take the sofa.”

He retains the smile another few seconds, but that’s only decorum. “Of course, of course. You want another drink? There’s a minibar in the cabinet.”

“I’m really tired.”

“It’ll help you sleep.”

I stop fooling with my face and turn to look at him. “Really, Istvan. Thanks, but all I want now is a proper rest.”

When I come out, he’s lying on the sofa in the other room, and I tell him good night as I close the adjoining doors. His Good night sounds distinctively frustrated.

Before turning off the light, I call down to the front desk and ask in stilted, stumbling English if they have a reel-to-reel tape player in the hotel. “I believe we do, bayan. ”

“I can use tomorrow?”

“Of course, bayan. What time?”

I returned to the Metropol bar an hour before my appointment with Brano Sev because I couldn’t stand the sunlight anymore. How can I explain it? The sunlight wasn’t a metaphor for anything. No. There are no metaphors in life, simply things. Things that undermine you or give you strength. The sunlight undermined me.

I drank two waters and was rude to one bearded man who tried to start a conversation. Disappointed, he returned to his dim corner table and watched from a distance.

Brano arrived at precisely five. Under his arm was a bulky envelope that he placed on the bar as he climbed onto his stool. He asked the bartender for a beer.

“Comrade Drdova.”

“Comrade Sev.”

He looked at the glass the bartender placed before him. “Comrade Drdova, this man you call Peter Husak no longer goes by that name. He was…well, he came to my attention in 1968, the year you knew him. But when I met him, he wasn’t using that name. He went by the name Stanislav Klym.”

Up until then I’d had my elbow on the table, my forehead resting in a palm. I dropped my hand slowly. “He used my Stanislav’s name?”

“This is why he came to my attention. The real Stanislav Klym had proved himself brave and steadfast during the troubles in Czechoslovakia, an intelligent young man, and I wanted to recruit him. I didn’t know, at the time, that he had died in Prague.”

“Recruit him for what?”

“For the kind of work I do.”

I waited.

“Once I learned Stanislav had returned from Prague, I visited his apartment and found this man who answered to his name. I made the offer of work, and he accepted.” Brano took a sip of his beer, then set it down. “The truth came out later, during a week-long interview session. It’s something we do to new recruits. We talk with them intensely over the space of a week to be sure they are the kind of people we can work with. This Husak was an adept liar-quite talented, you could say-but over days I began to see that elements of his story didn’t fit together. He knew nothing about Pacin, your and Stanislav’s hometown, and he could not accurately piece together his time in Czechoslovakia.” Brano shrugged. “So the truth finally came out. His real name was the one he gave you, Peter Husak, and he was a Slovak from the border region, which explained why he knew our language so well. He’d gotten into trouble during the counterrevolution and assumed your boyfriend’s identity in order to escape the country.”

“But,” I began, then paused. I looked in my bag until I found a cigarette, then stuck it in my mouth. I didn’t light it. “You mean he stole his papers off a dead man?”

Brano took a lighter from his pocket and lit my cigarette for me. He watched me suck on it. “Peter Husak killed Stanislav Klym. For his papers.”

His face, through the smoke, was so neutral, and at that moment I wanted nothing more than to press my fingernails into his eyes. But I spoke calmly. “What is his name now?”

Brano squinted. “This is something that remains between us. You understand?”

“Just tell me his name.”

“Ludvik Mas. After he joined the Ministry we gave him a new identity. We didn’t want the Czechs to know who he was.”

“Ludvik Mas,” I said.

“You’re not curious why I’m telling you?”

I shook my head. “I don’t care. Is he here? Is he in the Capital?”

“He’s in Istanbul.”

“Istanbul?”

“He left this morning.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I don’t know why I didn’t ask more. Sitting there with Brano Sev, my desire for simplicity was acute. Ludvik Mas, or Peter Husak, was in Istanbul. That was all I needed to know. Brano opened his envelope and slid a roll of audiotape to me.

“This is a record of part of my conversation with Peter Husak back in 1968. You may find it of interest.”

But all I wanted was simplicity. “I don’t need it.”

“I think you’ll find it useful for understanding.”

“Understanding what?”

“The why of your boyfriend’s death, Katja. And perhaps more. We are sometimes faced with inexplicable moments in our past, and they plague us over the years until we’re no longer able to function. But if we find an explanation…”

“I didn’t think Ministry officers subscribed to psychology, Comrade Sev.”

Brano actually smiled. “Not officially, Comrade Drdova. Here.”

From the envelope he also took a small bundle of koronas and a fresh maroon passport. An external passport.

“Take this,” he said.

On the front page of the passport was an old photograph of me, with my name.

“Comrade Drdova, do you have any travel plans?”

I wasn’t sure what to say. At that point I honestly didn’t know. “I might.”

“Well, if you do, remember that time is of the essence. Also, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay in touch. Give me a call.”

“I don’t know if I can promise that.”

“A call is only a call, Katja. Over a telephone you don’t have to say anything you don’t wish to say, whereas I can be particularly helpful. I’ll be sure to remain near my desk.”

“Okay, Brano.”

With those words, something moved in me. Though it would soon return, the confusion left, and I felt like a worker receiving instructions that made my entire life a simple matter of obedience.

For that one instant, I felt good.