Tom Smith - The Secret Speech

Malysh caught up with her, grabbing her hand:

— Let’s go back.

— Not yet.

Zoya pulled free, passing through the crowd, walking straight up to Stalin’s face and spitting at his huge, smooth eye. After having run so fast her mouth was dry and very little spit came out. It didn’t matter. There was laughter. Pleased, she was ready to leave. But before she could retreat Zoya was lifted up and placed on top of Stalin’s head, mounted on his bronze hair. A discussion broke out in the crowd. They addressed her directly. Without any idea what they were saying she nodded. Two men hurried to the truck, talking to the driver while another man handed her the newly modified Hungarian flag. The truck started its engine, slowly driving forward. The slack chains running from the back of the truck to Stalin’s head rose up from the street. As soon as the chains were taut the head shifted position, rotating round, as though it were coming to life. Zoya grabbed the protruding 15KM sign, steadying herself. Everyone was talking at once: she understood they were asking if she was okay. She nodded. They signaled to the driver. He accelerated. Stalin’s head lurched forward, bumping over the tramlines.

Trying to figure out how to stop the giant head from bucking her off, she positioned her feet wide, riding the crest of Stalin’s hair, hands clasped around the protruding street sign. Zoya gained confidence, standing up straight. Spotting Malysh’s concerned face, she smiled to reassure him, ushering him forward, wanting him to join her, but he refused, crossing his arms, staying back, annoyed at her recklessness. Ignoring his grumpiness, she played to the crowd, pointing forward like an empress atop her chariot. The truck was moving at a steady pace: Stalin’s head dragged at walking speed, the Hungarian flag lank behind her, trailing along the ground. She gestured to the driver — faster.

The truck accelerated. Sparks crackled from the bottom of Stalin’s jaw. Zoya’s hair was flapping. Picking up enough speed, the flag began to flap as well, spreading out behind her. In that second, she became an emblem of their defiance, Stalin’s head under her feet, the new Hungarian flag sweeping out. She looked around, hoping to see admiration in the crowd’s eyes, hoping a camera might capture this moment.

Her audience had disappeared.

At the end of Jozsef korut there was a tank, turret pointed directly at them, caterpillar tracks grinding over the street, advancing at speed. The truck braked. The chains fell slack. Stalin’s head stopped so suddenly it flipped forward, nose hitting the street, throwing Zoya off. Dazed, winded, she lay sprawled in the middle of the square.

Malysh grabbed her. She sat up, winded, bruised, seeing the tank rolling straight toward them, only a couple of hundred meters away. Leaning on Malysh, she stood up, staggering away. Trying to find cover, they hurried toward the nearest shop. She looked back. The tank fired: a burst of yellow, a whistling noise. The shell hit the street behind them — a cloud of smoke, fragments of stone, streaks of fire. Zoya and Malysh were smashed down.

Appearing out of the cloud, Stalin’s giant head appeared, blasted off the ground and swinging like a ball at the end of a chain, arching toward them, as if taking revenge for its desecration. Zoya pushed Malysh flat just as Stalin’s head passed over, his jagged neck only centimeters above them before crashing through the shop window, showering them with glass. Where the head traveled, the truck followed, dragged by the chains, flipped over onto its back, rotating round, crunching into the street, the driver hanging upside down.

Before they could get up, the tank appeared out of the smoke, a metallic monster. They crawled backward, reaching the devastated pharmacy window. There was nowhere to go, no way to escape. But the tank didn’t fire. The hatch was opened. A soldier appeared, taking up control of the mounted machine gun. Paralyzed by fear, they remained stationary. As the soldier spun the machine gun toward them a bullet struck his jaw. More bullets struck the tank, fired from every side of the square. Under bombardment the dead soldier was pulled down into the compartment. Before he could close the hatch two men ran at the tank arms raised high, holding glass bottles, a rag burning in each. They tossed them inside, filling the tank with fire.

Malysh grabbed Zoya:

— We have to go.

For once, Zoya didn’t disagree.

LEO HAD BECOME FRUSTRATED at their guide’s apparent lack of urgency. They had been making slow progress. It had taken two days to travel a thousand kilometers to the Hungarian border and yet three days to travel the remaining three hundred kilometers to Budapest. Not until Karoly had heard radio broadcasts announcing that disturbances were breaking out in Budapest had he seemed to pick up the pace. Quizzed, Karoly could offer no more than a translation of the radio reports— minor civil unrest perpetrated by bands of fascists . From those words it was impossible to judge the scale of the unrest. The radio broadcasts were censored and almost certainly underplaying the disruption. The request for the troublemakers to go home suggested the authorities were no longer in control. With insufficient information, Karoly decided it was too dangerous to enter the city directly, driving in a circular route, avoiding several Soviet army blockades. They’d looped around to the residential Buda district, bypassing the center, the civic buildings, and Communist headquarters — flashpoints for an insurgency.

It was sunrise by the time Karoly parked the car on the vantage point of Buda Hill, several hundred meters above the city. The adjacent streets were deserted. At the bottom of the hills the Danube passed through the city, dividing it into two halves — Buda and Pest. While the Buda half remained largely quiet, on the other side of the river there was the crackle of gunfire. Thin wisps of smoke rose from several buildings. Leo asked:

— Have Soviet troops stormed the city yet? Is the insurgency beaten?

Karoly shrugged:

— I know as much as you.

Raisa turned to Karoly:

— This is your home. These are your people. Panin is using both to settle a political dispute. How can you work for him?

Karoly became annoyed:

— My people would be wise to put aside dreams of freedom. They will only get us killed. If this flushes those troublemakers out, so much the better for the rest of us… Whatever you may think of me, I wish only to live in peace.

Abandoning the car, Karoly set off down the hill:

— First, we go to my apartment.

Karoly’s apartment was nearby, just below the castle on the slopes overlooking the Danube. Climbing the stairs to the top floor, Leo asked:

— Do you live alone?

— I live with my son.

Karoly had made no previous mention of his family and offered nothing more, entering the apartment, pacing from room to room. Finally, he called out:

— Victor?

Raisa asked:

— How old is your son?

— He’s twenty-three.

Raisa offered:

— I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for where he might be.

Leo added:

— What does he do?

Karoly hesitated before replying:

— He recently joined the AVH.

Leo and Raisa remained silent, belatedly understanding their guide’s apprehension. Karoly stared out the window, speaking more to himself than Leo or Raisa:

— There’s nothing to worry about. The AVH would have called all officers into their headquarters at the onset of the uprising. He is there, for sure.