Zoya walked as fast as she could, on her way to the Operahaz, the drop point for her illicit cargo. Her pockets were brimming with bullets, one hundred rounds in total, each tip etched with a cross to ensure the bullet quartered upon entering the body. Though it was a cold night she felt hot and flustered. Wearing a knee-length coat tied at the waist, a black beret slanted across her forehead, she looked older than fourteen, more like a Hungarian student than a Russian orphan. Nervous, clammy with perspiration, she snatched the beret off her head, pressing it into her pocket, atop the bullets, muffling their telltale jingle.
Reaching the main boulevard Sztalin ut, not far from the Operahaz, Zoya paused, checking that no one was following. Taking her by surprise, someone grabbed her shoulders. She turned around, finding herself surrounded by a group of men, convinced that they were the Hungarian secret police. One man kissed her cheek, pressing a sheet of paper into her hand. It was a poster of some kind. The men were talking in rapid bursts. Having been in the city for four months she’d picked up only a handful of Hungarian phrases. Judging by their attire, the men were students or artisans, not officers, and she relaxed. Even so, she had to be careful: if they realized she was Russian there was no knowing how they’d behave. She smiled meekly, hoping they’d consider her shy and let her go. They were hardly interested in her anyway, unraveling another poster and plastering it to the front of a shop window. Zoya pulled away, hurrying to her destination.
Arriving at the Operahaz, climbing the stone stairs, she hid behind the pillars, out of view from the street. She checked her watch, a gift from Fraera. She was early and she pulled back into the shadows, nervously waiting for her contact to show up. This was the first task she’d handled alone. Normally she worked with Malysh. They were a team-a partnership forged in Moscow five months ago.
Taken from her cell that night, Zoya had been certain Fraera was going to execute her in order to punish Leo. Facing death, as she had done only days earlier, she had discovered that she was no longer indifferent to the prospect. She’d cried out:
– Malysh!
Fraera had set her down on the ground:
– Why did you call his name?
– Because I… like him.
Fraera had smiled, a smile turning into a laugh, slowly at first, then getting louder, her vory laughing beside her, a chorus of scorn. Zoya had blushed, her face burning with shame. Humiliated, she’d run at Fraera, arms raised, fists clenched. Before she’d landed a blow Fraera had caught hold of her hand:
– I will give you a chance, one chance. If you fail, I will kill you. If you succeed, you will become one of us. You and Malysh can remain together.
Driven to the middle of Bolshoy Krasnokholmskiy Bridge, that night had unfolded as Fraera predicted. Leo and Raisa had been waiting on the bridge. Soaked by the rain, they had climbed into the front of the car. Separated by a steel grate, Zoya had witnessed Raisa’s face crumple with distress. In that moment Zoya had experienced doubts. But it had been too late to change her mind. Pressing her hands against the grate, she’d bidden farewell to her unhappy life: a decision that necessitated leaving her little sister behind. She’d feigned resistance as she’d been dragged out of the car. Out of sight, she’d voluntarily climbed into the sack. Already inside, Malysh had been waiting for her.
The sack had been carried to the edge of the bridge while Zoya had continued to make a show of struggling until the vory had struck her, entirely unexpected. She’d collapsed. The sack had been zipped shut. In the darkness Malysh had wrapped his arms around her, supporting her as they’d been dropped. Briefly midair, in each other’s arms, in the darkness-then they’d crashed into the water.
Steel weights had carried the sack straight down. The waterproof, waxed canvas had shrouded them in a minute’s worth of air. The steel had thudded against the riverbed, toppling Malysh and Zoya to the side. Working blind, Malysh had flicked open his knife and cut through the material. Freezing water had rushed in as he’d sliced a gash, filling the sack in an instant. Malysh had helped Zoya out. Holding hands, they’d kicked their way back up to the surface. Swimming to the riverbank, they’d watched the final moments on the bridge as Leo and Raisa had jumped, mistakenly believing that they were going to save her.
Struggling upstream against the torrent, Zoya and Malysh had pulled themselves along the high stone sides of the riverbank. Reaching the timber jetty, they’d been reunited with Fraera as she listened to Raisa’s and Leo’s distant, desperate cries, savoring their grief for a child they thought was lost.
There was a man lingering at the bottom of the Operahaz steps. Zoya emerged from her hiding place. The man checked up and down Sztalin ut before moving toward her. Zoya emptied her pockets, filling his satchel with the customized bullets. He pulled out a handgun, loading the chamber. The bullets were a match. He filled the other chambers while Zoya continued to transfer the bullets from her pockets to his bag. Finished, the man hid his gun, dropping his head in a gesture of thanks before hurrying down the steps. Zoya counted to twenty before setting off again, making her way back home.
It was odd to think of this city as home. Five months ago Zoya had known nothing of Hungary except that it was a loyal ally of the Soviet Union, part of a brotherhood of nations, a frontline state in the global revolution. Fraera had corrected this classroom propaganda, explaining that Hungary had never been given any choice. Liberated from Fascist forces, it had been occupied and placed under Soviet rule. Hungary was a sovereign nation with no sovereignty. The leader for many years, Matyas Rakosi, had been appointed by Stalin and had imitated his master exactly, torturing and executing citizens. He’d created the AVH-the Hungarian secret police-modeled on the Soviet secret police. The language and location was different but the terror had been the same. With Stalin’s death, the struggle had begun for reform, electrified by dreams of independence. Zoya was a foreigner here, an outsider, yet not since her parents had died had she felt more at home here, in a country that, like her, had been adopted against its will.
Relieved that the night was almost over and that she was no longer carrying bullets, Zoya swung down Nagymezo ut. Directly ahead, a small crowd had gathered. At its center were the same men she’d bumped into previously, sitting on each other’s shoulders in order to transform the entire height of a streetlight into a totem pole of postered text. A woman in the crowd saw Zoya approach. In her thirties, stout and stocky, the woman was drunk-her cheeks were red. Wrapped around her, like an enormous shawl, was the Hungarian flag. Zoya glanced at the streetlight and pulled the same crumpled poster from her pocket as if to say- I know, I know! Not content with this gesture, the woman pulled her into the throng, talking good-naturedly, nothing of which Zoya could understand. The woman began to dance and sing. The others joined in, all of them knowing the words, except for Zoya. She could only laugh and smile in the hope that they would eventually let her go. Keen to leave before they noticed she wasn’t speaking, she attempted to extricate herself from the stranger’s affections. But the woman was no longer flushed with happiness. A van had swung off the main boulevard and was accelerating toward them. It skidded to a halt. Two AVH officers jumped out.
The crowd closed ranks around the streetlight as though it were territory to be defended. One of the officers grabbed the flag, which was wrapped around Zoya, pulling it free, holding it up contemptuously. It was only now that Zoya noticed the Communist hammer and sickle in the center had been cut out, a gaping hole in the middle of the material. The AVH officer sounded like a barking dog, Zoya unable to understand a word he was saying. He searched Zoya’s pockets, infuriated by her silence. Finding nothing apart from the beret he threw it back at her. A single bullet trapped inside the material fell to the street.
The officer picked up the bullet, staring directly at Zoya. Before he could speak the drunk woman reached down and grabbed the beret from the street, placing it proudly on her head. It looked ridiculous, too small for her. The officer turned to the woman and Zoya didn’t need to speak Hungarian to understand that he was asking if the beret belonged to her. The officer raised the bullet to the woman’s face. Did this also belong to her? he must have asked. In reply, she spat in his face. While the officer wiped the glob of phlegm from his cheek, the woman flicked Zoya a glance: run!
Cutting a diagonal across the street, Zoya ran. Mid-sprint, she turned around, peering over her shoulder. She saw the AVH officer swing a punch, connecting with the side of the woman’s face. As if the punch had connected with her own face, Zoya’s legs crumbled and she collapsed, her hands scraping across the ground. Rolling onto her back, looking over the tips of her shoes, she saw the woman fall. A man jumped forward, grabbing the officer. A second man joined the fray. Scrambling to her feet, Zoya lurched into another run, this time reaching the side street. Out of sight, she didn’t stop. She had to get help. Fraera would know what to do.
Fraera and her vory occupied several apartments within a small courtyard set back from Rakoczi ut. Accessed by a narrow passageway, the apartments couldn’t be seen or spied upon from the main street. Reaching them, Zoya stopped running. No one was following her. In the unlit passageway, relieved to be off the street, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Malysh. They hugged. He said:
– Are you okay?
She shook her head.
They entered the courtyard. There were six floors of apartments. Fraera had occupied several apartments, spread across various floors, each put to a different use. There was a small printing press, producing leaflets and posters. In another apartment there were stocks of guns and munitions. A third apartment served as a meeting place, to eat and sleep and discuss. Entering the communal apartment, Zoya was surprised by the number of people-far more than usual. On one side were Hungarian men and women, most aged in their twenties, arguing passionately. On the other side were the vory. Most had not made the journey from Moscow to Budapest, remaining behind, preferring the certainty of the criminal underworld. They didn’t understand the deal Fraera had made with Panin. They couldn’t conceive of a life outside of Russia. Only a small number of her most ardent supports had followed her, partly out of loyalty, mostly because they knew no other vory gang in Moscow would want them. From fifteen, only four remained.
Fraera was in the middle of the room, in between the two groups, listening even when Hungarian was being spoken, sensitive to body language and gestures. She saw Zoya immediately, spotting her distress:
– What happened?
Zoya explained. Fraera’s eyes came alive, turning around, addressing her translator, a Hungarian student named Zsolt Polgar:
– Find as many Hungarian flags as you can. Cut the hammer and sickle out of them, so that there is a hole in the middle. This is the symbol we’ve been waiting for!
Fraera had no interest in the woman who’d risked her life to save Zoya. Upset, Zoya left the apartment. She leaned against the balcony rail. Malysh joined her. He lit a cigarette, a habit he’d copied from the other vory. She took the cigarette from his lips, stubbing it out under her foot:
– It makes you smell.
She regretted her words. The smoke did make him smell: it made him smell like all the other vory. But she hadn’t meant to embarrass him. Hurt, he slid off the rail, sulking back inside the apartment. She needed to remember that he was not her little sister to boss around.
At the memory of Elena guilt clutched her throat like a hand. She’d contemplated her decision countless times-had she not joined Fraera, she would’ve been killed. Yet the truth was that she had wanted to leave, to run away, and had there been a free choice, had Fraera offered her a chance to go home or come with her-she would’ve left her little sister behind.
– You’re angry?
Startled, she faced Fraera. Although they’d lived together for five months, Fraera remained intimidating and inaccessible, more like a source of energy than a person. Zoya composed herself:
– The woman with the flag saved me. There’s a chance she’ll die for it.
– Zoya, you should prepare yourself… many innocent people are about to lose their lives.