INSIDE THE REMAINS of an abandoned cafe with tablecloths wrapped around his hands to protect himself from the glass, Leo lay flat, waiting for the tanks to pass. He lifted his head, peering out of the broken window. There were three tanks, their turrets swiveling from side to side, examining the buildings — searching out targets. The Red Army was no longer deploying isolated units of clumsy, vulnerable T-34s. These were the larger, heavily armored T-54s. From what Leo had seen so far, the Soviet strategy had changed. Deployed in columns, they responded with disproportionate force — a single bullet would be answered with the destruction of the entire building. The tanks moved on only after the devastation was complete.
It had taken two hours to travel less than one kilometer, forced to seek refuge at almost every junction. Now, at dawn, they were no longer sheltered by darkness and their progress had slowed yet further, trapped in a city being systematically destroyed. Staying indoors was no longer any guarantee of safety. The tanks were equipped with armor-piercing shells that traveled three rooms deep before detonating in the very center of the house, causing the structure to collapse.
Witnessing the display of military might, Leo could only speculate as to whether the initial failure to regain control had been deliberate. Not only did it undercut the moderate position of restraint, it illustrated the ineffectiveness of the older armor, defeated by a mere mob. Now the latest hardware strutted on the streets of Budapest like a military propaganda reel. A Moscow audience could draw only one conclusion: plans to scale back the conventional army were flawed. More money was needed, not less, more weapons development — the strength of the Union depended upon it.
Out of the corner of his eye Leo saw a flicker of bright orange, startling among the gray stone rubble and gray morning light. Three young men across the street were readying Molotov cocktails. Leo tried to get their attention, waving at them. The homemade bombs wouldn’t work since the cooling units on the T-54s didn’t suffer from the same weakness as the T-34s. They were fighting an entirely different generation of weapons. Their crude devices were useless. One of the men saw him and, misunderstanding his wave, made a defiant fist.
The three men stood up, running at the rear tank — they threw the bombs, perfect shots, all three hitting their target, covering the rear of the T-54 with burning fuel. Flames soared. They fled, glancing over their shoulders, expecting an explosion that would never come. The fire roaring on the tank’s armor was irrelevant. The men increased their pace, running to shelter. Leo ducked. The tank turned and fired. The cafe shook, the remaining glass shards in the window fell to the ground, smashing all around. Dust and smoke rolled in through the window. Shielded by the cloud, Leo pulled back, coughing, crawling through the smashed crockery to the kitchen where Raisa, Zoya, and Malysh were crouched behind the steel units:
Pointing to the roof, Malysh remarked:
Leo considered:
Raisa remarked:
On the top-floor landing there were two windows: one onto the main boulevard, the other onto a narrow back street, not large enough for a T-54. Leo opened the back window, studying the climb. There was no drainpipe, no foothold, no easy way of reaching the roof. Malysh tapped his leg:
Leo allowed Malysh onto the ledge. Briefly assessing the gap, he jumped up, his legs dangling as he hung from the edge. Leo moved to support him, but he said:
He pulled himself up, swinging a foot onto the edge, then the other foot. He said:
Raisa glanced down at the drop, some fifteen meters:
Raisa picked up the tablecloths that Leo had tied around his hands, knotting them together. She wrapped them round Zoya’s waist. Zoya was annoyed:
Raisa kissed her on the cheek, commenting:
Zoya suppressed a smile, squashing it into a frown.
Standing on the window ledge, Leo lifted her up. She took hold of the roof:
Reluctantly Leo let go, watching as she swung her leg up onto the roof. Malysh caught her, pulling her up. The tablecloth safety cord was at full stretch.
Raisa released the cloths, allowing Zoya to pull up her improvised safety line. Raisa was next. Leo was the last to make the climb.
The roof rose to a narrow ridge, on which Malysh and Zoya were straddled. Raisa was behind, forming a single file. Clambering up, Leo’s feet slipped on the tiles, dislodging one — it rattled down the roof before falling off the edge. There was a pause before the tile could be heard smashing on the back street. The four of them froze, remaining flat against the roof. If a tile fell on the other side, onto the boulevard, their position would be given away to the patrolling tanks.
Leo took in the view. Across the city, smoke rose in thick lines. Rooftops were smashed. There were gaps where buildings had once stood. Fighter jets — MIGs — cut low over the city, dropping into attack position, strafing targets. Even on the roof they were exposed. Leo commented:
Crawling on all fours, bypassing the dangers below, they were, at last, able to make progress.
Up ahead the houses came to an end: they’d reached the end of the block. Malysh commented:
The tiles began to rattle. Leo moved to the edge of the roof, peering down at the main boulevard. Four tanks were passing directly underneath. One by one they turned off the boulevard. To Leo’s dismay the fourth tank stopped. It seemed to be guarding the crossroads. They were going to have to sneak around it.
About to return with the bad news, Leo caught sight of movement in the apartment window directly below him. He craned his neck over the edge, watching as two women hung the modified Hungarian flag, the flag with the hammer and sickle cut out, from the top-floor window. The tank had seen the protestors. Leo bolted up the roof, gesturing to the others:
They scrambled as far from the boulevard as they could.
The section of roof behind them mushroomed into the air, debris showering down. The shockwave caused all the tiles to slide. Malysh, closest to the edge, lost his foothold, slipping down, everything giving way beneath him. Zoya threw him the end of the tablecloth. He caught it just as the matrix of tiles avalanched off the roof, taking him with them.
As Malysh fell Zoya was pulled down; she tried to grab on to something and found nothing. Leo reached out, missing her hand but snatching the trail of tablecloths. He managed to steady them — Zoya was on the edge, Malysh was hanging off. If the tank saw Malysh it would fire, killing them all. Leo heaved the sheets up. Raisa reached down:
Grabbing Malysh’s hand, she pulled him up, the two of them lying side by side. Leo rolled over to the edge, glancing down at the tank. The turret was swinging toward them.
On their feet, they ran back across the roof, toward the collapsed apartment on the other side. The shell impacted behind them, at the spot where Malysh had slipped — the corner of the building. All four of them were
