Victory Square (11 page)

“Comrade Chief Brod?” I heard—but it wasn’t the clerk. It was a man.

“Yes?”

“Comrade Chief, you know the regulations. As much as we respect your tenure, I’m afraid you’ll have to go through proper channels for your information.”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Chief Administrator Zoran Aspitan.”

“Comrade Aspitan,” I said, making no effort to hide my annoyance, “you’re obstructing a murder investigation, which comes under the direct supervision of Comrade Colonel Nikolai Romek of the Ministry for State Security. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

There was a pause as Aspitan tried to gauge my conviction. Perhaps I wasn’t much of an actor, because he said, “Comrade, I seriously doubt the truth of what you say.”

“Do you?”

“If you like,” he said, “please have Colonel Romek contact me, and I’ll discuss it with him. Or, if you prefer, I’ll call him directly to sort this out.”

I was astonished by the chief administrator’s bravery. In those days, it was a rare virtue. “You’ll hear from him,” I said. “Very soon.” I slammed the phone down.

Katja was surprised by my anger. “What happened?”

Because mine was empty, I took her cup and drank the last of her coffee. Then I explained why I initially called the Central Archives— Gavra’s news, from Zagreb, that a man named Lebed Putonski had been killed. She said, “A Yugoslav?”

“No, one of ours. Ex-Ministry.”

“What was he doing in Zagreb?”

“I don’t know.”

As I told the rest, she rubbed her nose, which was something she did when deep in thought. “You’re telling me that a man named Rosta Gorski took out one case file and the files of six people. Two of them—Volan and Putonski—are recently killed, one of them is the first criminal you put away, one is Brano, and one is you?”

I nodded obliquely. “The last one—Tatiana Zoltenko—I don’t know her.”

“Kolev’s not on the list.”

“Gavra insists he’s connected.”

“But why your file? Why Brano’s?”

“Because you’re probably right.”

“About what?”

“All us retirees are in trouble.”

The stolen case file was, of course, my first one from 1948. When I fell in love with my wife; when she was kidnapped by Jerzy Michalec; when Michalec was sentenced to a life of hard labor. The case file linked Jerzy Michalec, me, and even Brano Sev, who made the final arrest.

But what about the others—Dusan Volan, Lebed Putonski, and Tatiana Zoltenko? Were they connected to the old case? I couldn’t recall their names, and without the original case file, I might never know.

I told Katja to sign out a Militia Karpat and pick me up in front of the central post office. Then we’d go talk to Volan’s wife. “You’ve got some mail to send?” she asked, puzzled.

“I’ve got a call to make.”

She decided not to ask anything further, so I grabbed my hat and headed out, down past the understaffed front desk, and out the front door. Lenin Avenue was also underpopulated for eight thirty in the morning, and at the post office only one window was open. A woman with dyed black hair and a sleepy expression watched me enter—I was the only visitor—and cross to the four bubble-enclosed pay phones against the faux-marble wall. I stuck in a two-hundred-korona coin, peering behind myself to be sure I was still alone. I was, but my fingers had trouble dialing the six-digit number Agota had given me.

“Hello?” said a man’s voice, wary.

“A message,” I said.

“Yes?”

“From Patak.” Go on.

I tried to remember the exact words. “There’s no time to waste. The apples must be harvested by six o’clock.”

“Really?”

“That’s what I heard,” I told him. I didn’t know exactly what the phrase meant, nor what it would lead to, but I had to trust that Agota’s friends here in the Capital wouldn’t make a mess of my country.

“And why am I hearing from you, not from the farmer?”

In my nervousness I almost laughed aloud at the extended metaphor. “The farmer,” I said, “is busy harvesting her own apples.”

I’m sure I said it wrong—there was probably something about applesauce or barren trees that was more appropriate—but he seemed to understand. Although her family’s phone was clean—they had begun checking it nightly—Agota suspected her friend’s phone line was being listened to by the Ministry, and she didn’t want the call to be traced back to her family’s house. Further, she knew that in Sarospatak and Tisakarad, she and her family were being watched, and any visit to a pay phone would be noted. I accepted her paranoia as truth and used this phone to make sure nothing could be traced back to my own house, or to Lena.

“Thank you,” said the man. His tone had changed. It was almost giddy. “Thank you very, very much.”

Dusan Volan’s Thirteenth District house was far to the north, beyond the Ninth and its clusters of block towers. Out here, among large swaths of poorly managed wheat fields that had been cut from thick forests, one could find the mansions of Politburo members and those who were close to the Central Committee and its Grand National Assembly. There was a time, long ago, when Lena lived out here as well. Her father had been a coal baron before the Russians marched in, and he’d made a deal with the new government to keep hold of his foreign investments, and pass them on to Lena, while they nationalized his business. But after the death of her father, and then her husband’s murder, there was nothing left for her out here, so she sold the land to some up-and-coming Central Committee member and moved into town with me.

One thing that surprised everyone was that her father’s deal held strong. Lena was allowed to keep her father’s foreign investments—in an English bank, Austrian land, and a Dutch shipping concern— which paid for her frequent trips to Europe’s capitals, and the various perfumes and stockings and gourmet foods that always filled her luggage when she returned. Her money was why we both drove German cars when everyone else drove our national excuse for an automobile, the Karpat.

So, unlike Katja, I wasn’t intimidated by the high iron gate, the long, curving driveway lined with poplars, nor the large villa we parked in front of. For me, being among these trappings of luxury was like revisiting that period when I was young and knew nothing—when knowing nothing made me brave.

At least, that’s how I like to remember those days.

“Are you doing the talking?” she asked as she turned off the engine.

“Want me to?”

“That woman hates me”

The villa had been built in the thirties, during the regime of late Bauhaus. While the foundation was constructed of stones, the walls were reinforced white concrete, which rose and curved to form elegant terraces on the second and third floors. From our angle, we could just make out the treetops of a roof garden and half of a small satellite dish pointing at the sky.

Since Katja wasn’t going to do it, I pressed the buzzer, and instead of a buzz we heard a soft melody play from inside the house. Then footsteps, and a pause as someone peered through the door’s spy hole. The door opened. A small, heavy woman around thirty looked back at us. She was dressed all in black. “Is Comrade Csilla Volan in?” I said.

Katja made a noise behind me as the woman smiled thinly.”I am Comrade Csilla Volan.”

I hid my embarrassment by showing my Militia certificate. “Chief Emil Brod. You know Comrade Lieutenant Drdova?”

She looked past me at Katja, her face showing nothing pleasant. “Come to ask about my husband’s mistresses again?” she said. “Maybe you’d like to know their sexual positions?”

1 tried to get her attention: “I’d like to speak to you about your husband.”

“Comrade Drdova didn’t do her job well enough?”

“Comrade Drdova did a fine job. There’ve been new developments.”

“Yes?”

“Please, can you let us in?”

She shrugged and stepped aside. “Not long, though. I’ve got an appointment.”

I took off my hat as we entered a large foyer that was two stories high. “What kind of appointment?”

“My husband’s funeral, Comrade Chief.”

“Oh.”

She led us past framed paintings that matched the design of the house—large geometric abstracts in primary colors. Squares, triangles, octagons. The furniture in the living room was similar—white cushions shaped in rigid cubes and rectangles. A minimalist steel chandelier lit the room. Against the far wall sat the largest television I’d ever seen. Though the sound was off, bright, clear images flickered across the screen selling breakfast cereals, and from the occasional text that popped up I saw it was a German station.

Katja and I settled on one of the two long couches as Csilla Volan sat on an aluminum chair. “Should I be offering you coffee?”

I shook my head no.

“Good,” she said. “I don’t want to waste my Colombian.”

I began to suspect that Katja had, in fact, done her job poorly— she’d made her suspicions obvious during their first interview.

“Want me to turn it up?” said Csilla Volan.

I wondered what she meant, then saw she was talking to Katja, who was mesmerized by two dancing cartoon bears on the television. Katja shook her head but said, “How do you get this?”

“The magic of satellites,” said Csilla Volan.

I took out my notepad, flipped to the last page, and leaned over the coffee table to hand it to her. “Any of those names familiar?”

She squinted at it, then reached for a pair of reading glasses on the table. “Your handwriting’s atrocious,” she said, putting on the glasses and tilting the pad to get better light. She blinked a few times. “Pu-tonski. I know that name.”

“Yes?”

She nodded slowly. “And—yes!” Despite herself, she was getting excited. “Jerzy Michalec. Of course I know about him.” She looked at us. “That was one of Dusan’s first big cases. He sentenced the man to death.”

That’s what I’d been waiting to hear. “It was commuted,” I told her. “Sentenced to a labor camp instead.”

She shrugged. “No matter.”

“What about Putonski?”

“I know the name but not the man. They knew each other long ago. Not sure how. Dusan brought up Putonski’s name because he heard the man had defected. To America, I think.” She snorted softly. “Lebed Putonski was no fool.”

“And the others?” said Katja.

She went back to the sheet, reading with her lips. “Me. Yes, I know me.” She smiled. “And of course everyone’s heard of Brano Sev. He disappeared, didn’t he?” When we didn’t answer, she arched a brow. “What’s this about?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“You think my Dusan was murdered because of these people?”

I reached out to take back the pad, but she wouldn’t let it go that easily.

“Answer me, Comrade Brod. I’m not just a little fat woman who takes it lying down.”

“Please,” I said, waving at the pad.

She held it to her breast. “Answer me first.”

I glanced at Katja, but she just shrugged. “Yes,” I said. “We believe there’s a connection between these people. Two people on the list, including your husband, have been killed in the last three days. We believe a third murder is also connected.”

She looked again at the list. It was a different list now, because two of them were corpses. “Who.” She said this quietly.

“Your husband, Lebed Putonski, and Yuri Kolev—he’s not on the list. Did you know Kolev?”

She shook her head and returned the pad without a word, then peered past me at the television. She reached for a slim remote control on the coffee table and started pressing buttons. “Look.”

On the screen were nighttime shots of crowds, the video grainy. I recognized a few buildings, so I didn’t need the German voice to know it was Sarospatak. I listened anyway.

“This footage of last night’s massacre comes from the Yugoslav news agency, Tanjug.”

It looked less like footage of a massacre than pictures taken by someone who was very frightened. The camera jerked and jumped,and we heard a cacophony of voices punctuated by the low thump of gunshots. Screams, the video smear of flashlights in darkness, and a very quiet Serbo-Croatian voice reporting what was translated by a louder German voice:

“A peaceful demonstration against the wrongful imprisonment of a priest, which grew over four nights to also protest the economic and human rights policies of the Pankov government, was disrupted last night when members of the Militia, mixed with regiments of the Ministry for State Security, fired on the crowd in 25 August Square. Official estimates are that six died in the shootout, though unofficial estimates place the death toll as high as sixty. In a city where nightly blackouts are common, any hard estimate is difficult to ascertain.”

It cut to a morning shot of 25 August Square. The camera was inside a building, looking out, fragments of broken glass framing the image. In the center of the square was a single old man with a broom, scrubbing a spot.

“By morning,” said the German translator, “the government had cleaned the square, making sure that there was nothing left to contradict its official estimates.”

The news turned then to China, something about arms treaties, and Csilla lowered the volume. It had all given me a headache, and I realized I’d forgotten to take my medication that morning. I grabbed my hat and stood. “Thank you for your help, Comrade Volan.”