Take care.
I had barely taken a step before my fingers, more or less healed, were fumbling through my pockets. The key and the Spider, my treasures, they were still there. I jogged across the rubble, slipping between the thistles and the nettles. I knew every blade of grass around here. I walked through Manege Gate, out of town, to the main road, and into the ditch. Not a soul around. I got a move on.
A cop car stops by the milestone.
I crouch right below it, blending in with the nettles.
I don’t move a muscle, taking care the bottle doesn’t clink. Hear a door slam, the radio crackles, cop gets out, pees in the ditch, the smell of wine, urine, and night. I don’t move. They leave.
The stream of cars is thinning out. I climb up on the road. Morning sun. And I see lights. Prague.
It’s daybreak.
I pull the piece of paper from my pocket with Mr Mára’s address. Just in case. It could come in handy, so I memorize it.
Where is your country anyway? I remember asking Alex.
Between Poland and Russia.
Now I take a step and WELCOME TO PRAGUE, WHERE YOUR LIFE IS GOOD, purrs a talking sign with the city seal. I smash the bottle against it, a few shards fall on the road, the rising sun leans into them, sparkling like it used to on my dad’s medals. That was a long time ago.
7
A rumbling. I open my eyes but I’m not yet awake. Blaring trumpets and the boom-tata-boom of drums. An army parade? First of May? V-Day? Review of troops? I spring to my feet. I want out of this dream. I twitch. Doesn’t work. I hear a blast of sound outside the window … open it, yep, troops parading down the street, far below. Military music, shiny trombones, drum corps, maybe a whole platoon, drums strapped across their chests, just like they’re supposed to be. Next the ranks of infantry, field uniforms and gleaming bayonets. I lean my head against the wall, breathe in, breathe out. The air from outside’s refreshing. I sit back down on the bed. Window, table, hotel room — I’ve been in one of these before.
Now I remember. Prague, me finally there, waving down a taxi, Sara taught me how to do that. Then the airport.
How did it happen?
Country boy scraped by thorns. Aching hands wrapped in rags. Nobody here cares. The airport’s huge, whole hall made of glass, full of light.
Lockers, luggage? There, someone waves.
I walk, squeezing the key Alex gave me tightly in my pocket. And the Spider.
Whoa, a uniform. I’m startled, scared. A minute ago I just ducked a whole row of police.
Brown, reddish hair. Big round eyes. It’s her.
Maruška takes my hand. Smiles. I feel like we’re connected.
She takes the key from me and opens the locker. Pants, jacket, boots, other stuff, just like Alex promised. I walk down the hall with the full plastic bag. She walks behind me. To the toilets.
Get in there and change!
What if somebody comes?
They won’t.
I clean myself up. Stinking of smoke, scratched, achy hands.
There’s a T-shirt in the bag too, dress shirt, all that stuff.
She walks in after me. All of a sudden it’s too much, her scent, the sweetness of her breath. And me in the hole, the fire, the long walk through the ditch. What now? Where am I going? I’ve hardly been anywhere.
She lifts my hands, looks at them closely. Reaches into a satchel she has over her shoulder.
Now she’s washing my hands. No one’s ever done that before. Gently, she spreads ointment on my hands, arms, the burned spots, then wraps them in a clean, dry bandage.
She rolls up my sleeve, gives me an injection. My knees wobble as the needle enters my arm.
She snaps the cuffs around my wrists.
Leave everything to me, she says, leading me down the corridor.
We passed through the checkpoints, I was like a ghost. She had all the papers, documents. I think I slept the whole time on the plane.
My memory of the hotel is also vague. We walked down some corridors. Went up in a lift. No more handcuffs.
And now I’m here alone. Where’s here? And where’s Alex?
I take a look around, run my bandaged palms over the hard walls. The carpet’s a little burned in places. Wrinkles, like somebody dragged something across it.
Bathroom: dirty, hair in the drain, stinks of chemicals. Some tools, tweezers, wires, on the floor, on a chair by the tub. Brown streaks on the curtain. Doesn’t bother me.
The room always smelled clean, though, when I was with Sara.
Ah, who cares. Maybe somebody’s doing business here too.
I go to the window just as the rumbling swallows up the music again. It’s getting closer.
And then it hits me.
I escaped the fortress town, I made it out of the ruins and the fire.
And they can’t get me now, that’s it, it’s over.
Good.
The rumbling’s closer, everything’s shaking.
I peek out again. I’ve never seen a street so wide in all my life, regiments marching past, soldiers swinging their legs.
Now I see, it’s a tank parade, there are tanks behind the infantry. The Terezín parades didn’t have any tanks, it would’ve disturbed the cobblestones, and my dad never took me to see a parade in Prague. I sit back down on the bed and wonder: What happened to Lebo? What happened to the aunts? What happened to the students? What happened to all my people?
The noise of an armoured vehicle comes through the open window, and the wind. A couple of snowflakes land on my face. Maruška walks in.
Get dressed, she says. It’s cold!
Where are we?
Minsk.
We eat in the hotel basement. Maruška’s face is smooth with sleep, her red hair falls across her shoulders. Fish, sausage, eggs, bread. There’s a queue at the table where the food is being served. But Maruška can take as much as she wants without having to wait. Must be the uniform.
There are no windows. Just a few chandeliers. TV in the corner. At the table next to ours some bullnecked guys in loud conversation, a couple of them with tattoos showing through their white polyester shirts, drinking beer, champagne. They speak Russian, or what sounds like it to me. No tourist types here, no families like you see in Terezín. Another table is occupied by young girls. Tall leather boots, shorts. Blouses. Leather vests over bare breasts. Make-up, jewellery. They don’t look like tourists either, they probably work here. They’re stuffing themselves.
You eat caviar? Maruška asks.
I nod. I eat everything.
You want pelmeni, or draniki?
Which one’s better?
Draniki are Belarusian, pelmeni are Russian.
They both taste great and there’s plenty of it. I start to relax.
Hey, Maruška! What was that injection you gave me back in Prague? And, thanks. I hold out my bandaged hands.
Something to calm you down.
She pulls a cloth pouch from her satchel on the chair next to her. Shakes out a blue pill and hands it to me.
What’s this?
Something to pick you up.
She eats one too.
Is that an army uniform? I examine the cloth. Touch her sleeve.
No, she shakes her head.
Are you a cop?
Of course I wanted to join the police or the army. But the bastards wouldn’t take me. This is from the Ministry of Tourism. I studied travel and tourism in Prague. That’s how I know Czech.
Interesting!
Are you still eating?
Yeah.
Hurry up, let’s go.
Where to?
You’ll see.
Will Alex be there?
You’ll see.
She gets up, pushes back her chair. Picks up the satchel, throws it over her shoulder. I follow her, peeking over at the table of girls. They’ve vanished into thin air, gone. Her satchel’s got a red cross on the corner. Aha, a nurse. And Alex is a medic, right, that fits.