Alison Littman - Radio Underground

“You bastard,” a soldier yelled at Boldiszar. “We will kill you. You think you deserve to be alive?”

Another soldier lit a cigarette and savored a long, first drag. He stooped down, holding the cigarette to Boldiszar’s lips. “Smoke your last little cigarette, boy.”

Boldiszar pursed his lips, refusing to part them.

“What? The commander doesn’t like to indulge?” the soldier laughed. He jammed the lit end of the cigarette into Boldiszar’s lips, sending a distinctive sizzle through the basement, and the faint smell of charred flesh.

Boldiszar’s face contorted. I wondered if I should try to save him, and how. I didn’t have a weapon. I could scream. Would it be loud enough for his friends to hear me outside? The old man reclined in a chair, watching the soldiers with total indifference. One of the soldiers went over to him, pulled out a wad of money, and placed it in his hand.

“Here’s your other half. Thanks for helping us out with him,” the soldier spat and shoved the old man out the door.

Some friend of Boldiszar’s, he was.

The soldier turned back to Boldiszar, pressing the sole of his boot on Boldiszar’s jaw. “You’re going to tell us everything we want to know. Who else are you working with? What are your plans? We know you know.”

The taller soldier lined up next to Boldiszar, swung his foot back and drove it into Boldiszar’s head.

Boldiszar moaned and curled deeper into his chest, “And what if I tell you nothing?”

Pointing a gun toward Boldiszar’s stomach, the taller soldier said, “You want the stomach, the neck, or the head? It’s your choice.”

Boldiszar’s eyes crossed each other as he looked at the barrel of the gun.

“I’ll never tell you.”

Shrinking behind the boxes, I pressed my cheek against their hard edges and wept in silence. The more I thought about it, the more I realized Antal created this situation, and so did I. Antal, the kindly old man who, despite spending eight hours a day working for the government, still had the energy and freedom to sneak out at night to help dissidents like me. He encouraged me to say the West was coming to our aid, and I fell for it. So intent on seeing my dreams come true, I ignored reality.

Laszlo was right. Antal didn’t have any real reason to work with us and undo the comfort of his life, unless he was, of course, working against us. And, if the Americans weren’t really coming, what would happen to the Freedom Fighters?

I wanted to asphyxiate myself with the guilt clamping down on my chest. I should have done something—scream, charge those soldiers, run upstairs for help—but my entire body turned to sludge. I tried to stand, but I couldn’t feel my bones. My mind failed to reason, my lungs wouldn’t breathe.

One of the soldiers peeled away from the group and walked toward the boxes. After delivering two more blows to Boldiszar, the others joined their comrade, standing above me. I tried to make my breathing shallow and scarce, willing my heart to slow too, terrified the soldiers would pick up on its frenetic drumming.

“Dmitry,” the shorter one said, “what should we do now?”

“If we kill him, our work here is done,” Dmitry said.

“But shouldn’t we get some information out of him first?” the third soldier chimed in. “If we find out where the other leaders are, we can kill them too.”

I felt a tiny drop of his spit land on the back of my neck.

“There’s no point, really. We don’t need to kill them to win. The tanks are going to roll in soon and obliterate all of them,” Dmitry said.

The soldiers started laughing.

“So what are we doing here then? Wasting our bullets on this loser?” the shorter one whined.

“If we don’t kill him, our commander will kill us.” Dmitry took out his gun. “I’ll take care of him. Go upstairs and watch his friends.”

Dmitry sighed and slunk back to where Boldiszar twisted on the floor. Towering over him, Dmitry aimed the gun at Boldiszar. Boldiszar uncurled his body, puffing out his chest and straightening his legs, despite his restraints. He looked up into Dmitry’s eyes.

I closed my eyes, and I covered my ears. I willed my brain to move faster. I tried to think. I tried to get my legs to carry me to Boldiszar or my voice to shout out and distract the soldier. I even opened my mouth to force out noise, but nothing came out. The only thing I heard was the screaming in my head— No. No. No.

I woke up, but I couldn’t see. I blinked. Black. I blinked again. Still, black. The smell of chalk and ashes rushed into my nose. My mind came back to me, but I wished it hadn’t. I realized I was smelling gunpowder, and I had passed out.

I had to find Boldiszar. I had to get help. I had to warn his friends outside, and Laszlo too. I felt cold and dizzy. I hoisted myself up and hobbled out of my hiding place. The blackness began to recede a little, like curtains drawing back on a still dark night. I saw dirty footprints on the floor, leading away from the room where they held Boldiszar. I traced them back to their origins, realizing they weren’t made of dirt, but blood. As I crept closer to the room, they got thicker and redder.

I pressed my ear against the door, now shut, and heard nothing. I nudged it open and, peeking in, saw a body lying on the floor. A pool of blood gathered beneath it.

“Boldiszar,” I whispered, dropping to my knees next to him. I could hear his breath forcing its way out in strained wheezes. “It’s okay. It’s me, Eszter.”

His eyes moved erratically, looking at, past, and around me. I couldn’t tell if he recognized me, or could even see at all.

“I’m here. I’m here,” I cried, unable to hold back the tears streaming down my cheeks. I wanted so badly to be in his place. He, of all people, didn’t deserve this. I had to fix him. I ripped off my scarf and wrapped it around the gunshot wound in his neck, but his blood overtook it in seconds. “Just hold on for a little longer. I’m going to go get help.”

“No…,” Boldiszar gasped, trying to take in as much air as possible. “Stay, please.”

Oh, God, he knew. He knew it was over. I hated that he knew. It felt like the end of my life too. I would die with him, even if my lungs and heart forced me to continue living.

“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be fine,” I told him, thinking I could somehow shelter him from his own death. Boldiszar had sheltered Dora from so many things, but most of all, from me. I quit being a mom for… for what? For the only real love my daughter ever knew to die in my arms.

I lay down next to him, pressing my cheek against his, as my tears mixed with his warm blood. I wanted to say something that would soothe him and bring him a final peace. Nothing seemed right. “Don’t be scared,” I started, hating myself for sounding so cliché. “Think about Dora, and the person she will become, because of you.”

“Tell her…,” Boldiszar said, his entire body shuddering at the effort required to finish the sentence. “… that I love her.”

“I promise,” I sobbed. “I am so proud of you.” I kissed him three times—once on the forehead and once on each cheek.

“You have to….”

“I will take care of her,” I held his hand. “I promise that too.”

I thought back to the times when I came close to making a connection with Dora, only to pull away for fear she would see through me. She’d see that I, at the core, cared more about myself than my child. I realized I had let Boldiszar parent Dora not because I was so engrossed in the revolution, but because I was too weak to be a mother.

A single tear fell down Boldiszar’s cheek, and as it did, I heard boots clunk down the stairs. I grabbed Boldiszar’s gun and faced the door.