Tom Smith - The Secret Speech

She didn’t care if she was Russian. Home was here, among people who had suffered as she’d suffered and who understood oppression as she understood it.

Shorter than the men and women around her, Zoya strained on tiptoes. Suddenly she felt two hands clasp her waist as Fraera lifted her up, placing her onto her shoulders, giving her a view of the entire square. The crowd was larger than she’d supposed, stretching up to the Parliament building and the river behind it. There were people across roads and lawns, tram tracks, clambering onto pillars and statues.

Without warning the Parliament lights shut off, plunging the square into darkness. There was confusion among the crowd. There was power in the side streets. It must be a deliberate act against them, an attempt to drive them away, to break their resolve with darkness as a weapon. A cheer sounded out. Zoya saw a single burning torch, a newspaper rolled up. Quickly, more spots of fire appeared, improvised torches. They would make their own light! Fraera handed Zoya a rolled-up copy of the daily journal A Free People. A vory lit the end, turning it slowly, until the flame spread. Zoya held it above her head, the flames tinted blue-green by the ink. She waved it from side to side and a thousand burning torches waved back.

As Fraera lowered her to the ground, flush with emotion, Zoya strained forward and kissed her on the cheek. Fraera froze. Even though Zoya’s feet were on the ground, Fraera’s hands remained tight around her waist, not letting go. Zoya waited, holding her breath, fearful that she’d made a terrible mistake. In the darkness she was unable to see Fraera’s reaction until a nearby man lit a newspaper. The flickering red light revealed Fraera’s expression, shaken as if by the sight of a ghost.

FRAERA FELT THE KISS LINGERING ON HER CHEEK, burning hot. She pushed Zoya aside, touching the place where she’d been kissed. It had been a mistake to place Zoya on her shoulders. Unwittingly she’d allowed Anisya to return, her former self, mother and wife. Tenderness, affection, characteristics that she’d exorcised, had crept back. Drawing her knife, she raised the blade to the side of her face and pulled down, scraping the skin, shaving off the remains of the kiss. Feeling relieved, she wiped the edge of the blade and put the knife away.

Having regained her composure, she stared at the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, furious with Panin for failing to post snipers. Zsolt Polgar followed her glance, asking:

— What are you looking for?

— Where are the AVH?

Zsolt replied:

— You’re worried about our safety?

Fraera hid her scorn at his naiveté, replying:

— There’s no one to fight against.

— At the radio station students are trying to broadcast the sixteen points. Rumor is that the station management is refusing. The AVH is protecting the building to make sure it remains under Soviet control.

Fraera took hold of his shoulders:

— That’s it! That is where we will make our fight!

Elbowing through the crowd, Fraera worked her way free from the peaceful assembly, suffocated by their passivity. Farther away from Parliament Square the mood changed. Along Muzeum korut, toward the Nemzeti Muzeum, people were running in a chaos of directions, some scared, others angry, carrying slabs of rock, ripped-up paving stones. The focus of their activity was the radio station, situated along Brody Sandor ut, a narrow street that ran beside the museum. Whatever peaceful protest might have begun here had evolved into a violent mob — the radio station’s windows were smashed, glass shards on the street crunching underfoot like frozen puddles. A van lay overturned in the middle of the road, wheels spinning, the front crumpled. The radio station doors were shut and secure.

Zsolt questioned the nearby men and women and returned to Fraera, switching from Hungarian to Russian, speaking in hushed tones:

— The students demanded to read the sixteen points. The woman running the station—

Fraera interrupted:

— Who is she?

— Her name is Benke, a loyal Communist, but not too smart it seems. She proposed a compromise. They couldn’t have access to the station but she’d give them a mobile broadcasting van. The van arrived. The students read the points.

Fraera was already ahead of him:

— It was a trick?

— The van wasn’t transmitting. Instead, the station continued to broadcast orders for everyone to go home, condemning the disruption. The students flipped the van over and rammed it against the doors. Now they want the station, nothing less, they say it’s the national station and it belongs to them, not the Soviets.

Fraera glanced around, assessing the mob’s strength:

— Where are the AVH?

— Inside.

Fraera glanced up. Figures appeared at the top-floor windows— officers. There was a hissing noise, plumes of smoke unraveled within the confines of the street. Tear gas was twisting out of steel canisters like vengeful genies released from bottles, swelling in shape and size, rising up. Fraera pulled her men back, checking on Zoya and Malysh, retreating, clambering over the rails, toward the museum as the gas chased them, carpeting the grass like morning mist. Reaching the top of the museum steps, they turned. White wisps swirled around their ankles but posed no danger. The bulk of the tear gas had been funneled down the street, spewing onto the main road. Out of the chemical fog emerged men and women, dropping to their knees, retching.

As the gas began to thin Fraera moved closer, surveying the empty street. A gloomy stillness prevailed. The mob was broken. The fight had been extinguished. Fraera shook her head. If tonight passed without serious incident the authorities would regain initiative, control would be reasserted. Fraera strode toward the station:

— Follow me.

The gas hadn’t cleared. Fraera wasn’t going to wait, climbing the rails, walking into the middle of the street, plumes of gas hugging her. She covered her mouth and nose with her hand. Almost immediately she began to cough but she continued, staggering toward the radio station entrance, her eyes streaming.

Zoya grabbed Malysh’s arm:

— We have to follow her!

Malysh ripped his shirt, fashioning a mask for himself and Zoya. Climbing over the rails, they entered the street, the two of them standing beside her. The gas was lifting, circulating into the broken windows of the radio station, making it easier to breathe on the street and forcing the figures back from the windows. Slowly the mob reassembled around the nucleus of Zoya, Malysh, and Fraera. The vory returned with steel bars. They took to the doors, trying to splinter them open.

Zoya looked up. AVH officers were at the windows, this time armed with rifles. She grabbed Malysh, rushing forward. They pressed themselves flat against the wall just as a volley of shots rang out. Everyone in the street ducked, stooping, checking to see who’d been hit. No one had been hurt. The shots had been fired above their heads into the walls of the building opposite. The volley had been intended to cower them, timed exactly as the front doors to the station opened.

Puffed up with resolve, AVH officers stepped out, rifles ready, a Roman phalanx protecting the radio station. The officers divided into two lines, back to back — one line moving up the street, the other moving down, cutting the mob in half. With bayonets fixed to the end of the rifles they advanced. Malysh and Zoya were being pushed down, toward the museum, as the officers jabbed with their bayonets. Zoya looked at the young girl next to her, perhaps eighteen years old. Far from being scared, she grinned triumphantly at Zoya, locking arms with her. They’d stand together. She called out at the officers, cursing them. Inspired by the girl’s defiance, Zoya bent down, scooping up a rock no larger than her palm and throwing it, striking an officer on the cheek. Elated, she was still smiling when he swung his rifle in her direction.