on the edge of the Eighth District, where he shared his apartment with his close friend Karel Wollenchak. Near the front door, one of the neighborhood drunks, a hairy man named Mujo, noticed him. He stood up, clutching a bottle of rakija, and said to his fat friend, “Hey, Haso! Look who’s here!”
Haso stood as well. There were three other drunks with them, and they all came to meet him. Mujo said, “You get the news, comrade?”
Gavra’s stomach hurt, but he didn’t panic-it was all about math, spatial relations, escape paths. “I saw it all, Mujo.”
“You couldn’t keep them down?” said Haso.
“It’s over, comrade,” said Mujo.
Gavra, unlike some others, had never made a secret of his employer. It was sometimes useful. Once, he’d helped an old woman living below him get a gall bladder operation at Pasha Medical, the private Ministry hospital. But at a time like this, no one would remember his generosity.
“Enjoy your drink,” he said, pushing past them, but one of the drunks grabbed his shoulder.
“Hey,” said a slurred voice.
Gavra snatched the hand and quickly turned, twisting the arm high so it hurt. The drunk moaned.
“Hold on,” said Mujo.
“Just keep your hands off me,” said Gavra. He released the man and continued into the building.
The foyer was empty, but there were more neighbors on the stairwell, all men, clutching bottles of cheap liquor. Everyone knew him, but they didn’t say a word, preferring to lean back against the wall and watch him pass. When he reached the third floor, a wet dollop of spit struck the back of his neck. He didn’t slow down.
Karel was peering out the window when he came in, while on the television a news commentator reported on crop yields. “Listen to that,” said Karel. “This year’s was the highest wheat yield in history. What do you think of that?”
“We’ve got to go.”
Karel, he could see, was hysterical. His dark, fleshy cheeks were perspiring heavily. “We can stay, you know. They’re going to show a repeat of last April’s birthday parade. That’s always a treat.”
Gavra grabbed his friend’s shoulders. “Listen, Karel. We can’t stay here; it’s dangerous, and it’ll only get worse. Pack a bag right now, and we’ll leave.”
“What should I pack?”
“Clothes. Money. And your documents. Now go.”
While Karel went through his wardrobe, singing to himself, Gavra crouched in the bathroom, where he kept a Makarov pistol and thirty rounds of 9mm ammunition hidden under the drain, wrapped in a plastic bag. Then he went through his extensive record collection and picked out a few things to save. The Velvet Underground, Pink Floyd, and Elton John. He threw them into Karel’s suitcase.
“What about my records?” said Karel.
“Do you need them?”
“Wow.” Karel almost laughed. “I really don’t.”
The men were still in the stairwell, but they had shifted up closer to the third floor, so Gavra and Karel had to push through them. Karel, toting his suitcase, said hello a few times, but no one answered. Karel wasn’t a member of the Ministry for State Security, but his guilt was by association. Someone behind them said, “The faggots are running!”
Another: “You better walk fast.”
Gavra used one hand to clear the way, the other in his coat pocket, gripping the Makarov.
He didn’t have to use it. Despite shoulders thrown in his path and a sore kidney from someone’s knee, they reached the foyer without bloodshed. Mujo, Haso, and their friends were back beside the entrance, drinking again. “Have a nice trip,” said Mujo.
Haso raised his bottle. “Drive safe!”
When Gavra and Karel reached the car, the laughter followed them, but the drunks stayed where they were- they’d had their fun. One side of the Citroen was covered in red paint that said MINISTRY FAGS.
“Who did that?” said Karel.
Gavra took off his coat and rubbed the still-wet paint until all that could be made out was the letter M.
TWELVE
I couldn’t move. The red screen had been followed by a report on agricultural yields and then a replay of the 28 April parade in honor of Tomiak Pankov’s seventy-first birthday. Katja finally got up to turn it off. “Use the remote,” I said.
“What remote?”
“What?” My ears were humming.
“What remote?”
“The television’s remote controlled.”
“Tell me where it is, and I’ll use it.”
Of course, I didn’t know. It was Lena who watched television, not me, and she’d hidden the little box somewhere only she knew. I started to cry, then stopped myself.
We heard more voices from the street. Katja opened the window and leaned out to look. She said, “Come see.”
I didn’t want to see anything. I pulled my robe tighter and stared at the black television screen.
She said, “The street’s full of people.”
“Good for them.” Through the open window, I could hear their chants- Ole, ole, the dictator has fled! — as if they were at a soccer game.
“I hope Aron’s all right.”
“What?”
She’d told me this before, but I’d missed it. After Lena’s murder, she called her husband again and told him to meet her at my apartment, so she could give him the pass for the roadblocks. She reminded me of this, but without annoyance. I, on the other hand, was annoyed by everything she said. It was eight-Aron’s shift had ended at five- and there was still no sign of him.
I got up but didn’t join her at the window. Instead, I went to the kitchen and examined the cabinet where we kept our alcohol. Where I kept my alcohol. I took down a bottle of vodka and filled a shot glass. I didn’t put the bottle away. The shot went down and was followed by another. It was the only way I could think of to get rid of the pain that stiffened every muscle in me.
I heard a gunshot. A long-barreled rifle. Katja jumped back from the window and looked at me standing in my robe, the glass in my fist.
“What was that?” I said.
“It wasn’t a Karpat.”
Another shot, and a few screams from the street. Katja stood to the side of the window and slowly tilted her head to look out. I turned off the lights and joined her. Down in the street, the crowd was panicking, splitting down the middle and running to the sidewalks for cover. The shots came from above us, and at one point I saw a muzzle flash from a rooftop on the other side of Friendship Street.
Then silence. The marchers were squeezed into doorways, while in the darkness on the other rooftop we saw a shadow, hunched, running across to other roofs.
For just an instant, I stopped thinking about Lena. “What was that?”
“Ministry, I bet.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Not even they would…” I didn’t finish the thought, because someone started banging on my door.
“Aron,” said Katja. She flipped on the light and hurried to the door but found Gavra standing in the corridor beside a small, heavyset man with dark skin. He looked like a Gypsy, and his battered suitcase convinced me he was. Katja was stunned to see them. “Gavra. Karel.”
