position, wasn’t much of one either. At least with this solution, Ferenc’s people wouldn’t be completely marginalized. They could represent the western part of the country in parliament, and even put forth their own candidate for president.
Malevich didn’t gloat when Ferenc admitted he had no alternatives. Instead, the Russian cocked his head and said, “You know, Brano never thought it would come to this either. I told him from the beginning this is where it would go, but he refused to believe me. That man, he’s as idealistic as the rest of you. He’s an eternal optimist.”
Ferenc frowned at him. “I never took Brano for an optimist.”
Neither had I.
“Oh,” said the Russian. “One more message from Brano Sev, then I take Comrade Brod to the train station.”
“What’s that?” said Ferenc.
“He wishes you all a happy Christmas.”
25 DECEMBER 1989
MONDAY
THIRTY-THREE
Of course, I went. Like Gavra, I was starting to realize there was nothing for me at home anymore. The life of Militia Chief Emil Brod, at sixty-four years, had ended with an automobile explosion. And what had that life been anyway, when I’d never even known my wife? It had been an illusion. Whether my final days were eked out at home or in Austria, it made no difference. I just didn’t want anyone else to die because of my stupidity.
When Magda kissed me good-bye, she was out of threats. She squeezed my face in her hands and told me to come back soon, because Austria would be too much for a simple man like me. She meant it as a compliment. As thanks, I handed her Gavra’s Makarov and told her to bury it.
In the car, Fyodor Malevich became serious. For a moment I wondered if this was all a trap. Maybe Brano hadn’t sent him; maybe I would be the last witness to die, quietly on a frigid evening roadside. But he just wanted to tell me, in private, how sorry he was about Lena. His own wife had been killed five years before when he was stationed in Paris, a hit-and-run. Though it was never solved, he believed the English had done it in retaliation for an agent of theirs he’d had to kill months before. As we crossed the Bodrog, entering Sarospatak, he said, “Get prepared, my friend, because you’ll never get over it.”
The train was packed, and though my ticket gave me rights to a window seat, I found it occupied by a pregnant woman and her baby, so I spent the hour until the Hungarian border smoking in the corridor. It occurred to me as we pulled into Szerencs that I didn’t have a passport and would be turned back, but it was a different time then, fraternal borders briefly open to all newly freed peoples-my Militia card sufficed. We stopped for a couple of hours in Budapest, where the train emptied. I found a window seat and peered out at Deli Station, its platform still shrouded in predawn gloom, then dozed until a Hungarian man woke me in Tatabanya, insisting my seat was his. I had to change trains there anyway. I found my new train, tracked another empty seat, took some Captopril, and went back to sleep.
It was all catching up to me by then. The exertion of the last days had put my back out, but until that train I’d been able to ignore it. I kept waking up, my lower spine tight and burning, and no position helped. Of course, it wasn’t just the physical discomfort. It was everything.
The worst thing was Lena, knowing that I’d never really known her. If she’d survived, perhaps she would have told me on her own. A deathbed confession, or something less dramatic. A quiet talk over dinner. She was dead, though, and I was left without answers. A part of me was starting to hate her, and that only made me hate myself. If I had any reservations about what I would later do, that’s when they left me. When I started to hate myself.
I’ve had time since to think about a lot of things, and it still surprises me I’m alive. When your personal life runs so sharply into the life of your country, there’s no place to rest. Not even in another country. And since you’re no longer young, your body balks at the things you have to do. It even denies you the escape of physical pleasure. Wherever you turn, there’s pain. It starts to drive you a little mad. Because people are not built to take this. Why should they be? Stories like mine are not supposed to happen.
The sun was up by the time we reached the Austrian border. I’d assumed that my Militia pass would get me through there as well, but the border guard, a tall, blond young man who didn’t care what I’d been through, shook his head and led me out of the train at Nickelsdorf. So it’s over, I thought, and a part of me was happy to be turned back. At least my story would end. I listened as he spoke to his supervisor, explaining what I’d offered as identification. “Let me see,” said the supervisor.
From his pocket he unfolded a telegram, then compared my ID to it. He returned my Militia certificate and nodded politely. “Welcome to Austria, Herr Brod. You may return to the train.”
The guard who’d taken me off was annoyed, and he argued with his supervisor as I returned to my seat and stared out at them. My success left me feeling uncomfortable. The train lurched and started forward again.
This was the first time since 1947 that I’d left the East. There was no difference outside my window-the sun wasn’t brighter, the fields weren’t more lush. I was soon asleep again, but my back still hurt.
It was a little before ten in the morning when we pulled into the large block of stone and glass that was Vienna’s Sudbahnhof, in the Fa-voriten district. I helped a student wrestle his bags down to the bleak concrete platform, then waited, hands on my hips. Police and departing passengers wandered by, some pushing wheeled carts loaded with suitcases. Then, at the end of the platform, by the Sudbahnhof doors, I saw Brano Sev. He’d gotten fatter in retirement, but he wore the same cheap brown suit I remembered from his retirement party. I wondered if it had been refitted. He still had hair on top, but not much, and it was all white.
He didn’t bother waving or showing any of the signs of excitement common to transportation hubs. He didn’t even move quickly, and I didn’t bother walking to meet him. As he approached, I saw those familiar three moles on his left cheek. I also saw I’d been wrong-it was a new suit, and it wasn’t cheap. It just appeared that way from a distance, because of the way he wore it. His face was the surprise. Up close, there was color in his cheeks, and the chronic bags under his eyes had shrunk. When he retired, he’d looked older than his sixty-nine years; now, at seventy-two, he looked sixty-five.
“Emil,” he said, and we shook hands. “Thanks for coming.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“You always have a choice. I’m just pleased my telegram got you through the border.”
“Me, too.”
“Listen,” he began, then coughed into his fist. “My condolences. About Lena.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He peered past me. “No baggage?”
I shook my head, then wondered if he meant it metaphorically.
“Here’s something, then.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a stiff brick-colored passport. On the cover was an eagle with a crest and the words REPUBLIK OSTERREICH and REISEPASS. Inside, I found my photograph and name.
“What’s this?”
“What’s it look like?” He patted my back to encourage me to walk. “My friend helped put it together, very quickly. I figured you wouldn’t have your passport, and I don’t want the Austrian police stopping you.”
He led the way down steps, through an underground passage, and up an escalator to a dirty station with high windows looking out onto the busy main street, Wiener Gurtel. We stood at the curb as shining Western cars flew by in the cold; then Brano raised a hand easily, and a black BMW pulled up. He opened the back door and nodded me in.
Both of us took the rear seat, and I saw that the driver was younger than Brano, late fifties, perhaps. He was clearly no taxi driver. In his breast pocket he wore a carnation. He smiled in the rearview as he merged into the
