10.

VIENNA, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1956.

THE DEPUTY DIRECTOR FOR OPERATIONS HAD LANDED RUNNING. Moving in with his old Georgetown chum, Llewellyn Thompson, now the American amba.s.sador to Austria, the Wiz had set up a war room in the emba.s.sy's paneled library and started poring over every sc.r.a.p of paper he could get his hands on. Millie Owen-Brack commandeered a tea wagon to ferry in the reams of Company and State Department cables and wire service ticker stories; pushing the wagon through the swinging double doors of the library, she would pile up the material on the table in front of Wisner until he disappeared behind the mountain of paper. Groggy from lack of sleep, his bloodshot eyes darting, his shirt damp with perspiration, the Wiz attacked each new pile with a melancholy intensity, as if merely reading about what was going on across a border a few dozen miles away would allow him to dominate the situation. The day before, Dwight Eisenhower had won a second term in a landslide but the Wiz had barely noticed. "Mongolian units are reportedly searching neighborhoods block by block, house by house, hunting for the ringleaders of the rebellion," he read aloud from one operational cable that had originated with the political officer at the Budapest emba.s.sy. "Thousands of freedom fighters are being thrown into boxcars and carried off in the direction of the Ukraine. Wisner crushed the cable in his fist and added it to the small mountain of crumpled messages on the floor. "Mother of G.o.d," he moaned, noisily sucking in air through his nostrils. "Here's another one from Ebbitt dated five November. 'Kilian Barracks still holding out. Teenagers are tying sticks of industrial dynamite around their waists and throwing themselves under the treads of Soviet tanks. Ammunition running low. Spirits also. Freedom fighters have propped up dead comrades next to windows to draw Russian fire in hopes they will run out of ammunition. Everyone asks where is United Nations, when will American aid arrive. What do I tell them?'"

Tears clouding his eyes, Wisner waved Ebbitt's cable at Owen-Brack. "For six years-six years!-we encouraged the suckers in the satellites to spy against their Soviet masters. We spent millions creating covert capabilities for just such an occasion-we stockpiled arms across Europe, we trained emigres by the thousands. My G.o.d, the Hungarians in Germany are breaking down the doors of their case officers to be sent in. And what do we ... What do we do, Millie? We offer them G.o.dd.a.m.n pious phrases from Eisenhower: 'The heart of America goes out to the people of Hungary.' Well, the heart may go out but the hand remains stashed in its pocket..."

"Suez changed the ball game," Owen-Brack said softly but the Wiz, plowing through the next message, didn't hear her.

"Oh, Jesus, listen to this one. It's a cable from the a.s.sociated Press correspondent in Budapest. 'UNDER HEAVY MACHINE GUN FIRE. ANY NEWS ABOUT HELP? QUICKLY, QUICKLY. NO TIME TO LOSE.' Here's another. 'SOS SOS. THE FIGHTING IS VERY CLOSE NOW. DON'T KNOW HOW LONG WE CAN RESIST. Sh.e.l.lS ARE EXPLODING NEARBY. RUMOR CIRCULATING THAT AMERICAN TROOPS WILL BE HERE WITHIN ONE OR TWO HOURS. IS IT TRUE?'"

Wisner threw the cables aside and plucked the next one off the stack, as if he couldn't wait to hear how the story would turn out. '"GOODBYE FRIENDS. G.o.d SAVE OUR SOULS. THE RUSSIANS ARE NEAR."' The Wiz rambled on, reading disjointed bits of messages, flinging them to the floor before he had finished them, starting new ones in the middle. '"Summary executions... flame throwers... charred corpses... dead washed with lime and buried in shallow graves in public parks... Nagy, hiding in Yugoslav emba.s.sy on Stalin Square, lured out with promise of amnesty and arrested..."

Amba.s.sador Thompson pushed through the doors into the library. "You need a break, Frank," he said, wading through the swamp of crumpled papers scattered on the floor, coming around the side of the table and putting an arm over the Wiz's shoulder. "You need a square meal under your belt, a few hours shut-eye. Then you'll be able to think more clearly."

The Wiz shook off his arm. "Don't want to think more clearly," he shouted. Suddenly the energy seemed to drain from his body. "Don't want t0 think," he corrected himself in a harsh whisper. He drew another pile of papers toward him with both hands, as if they were a stack of chips he'd just won at a roulette table, and held up the first cable, this one with deciphered sentences pasted in strips across a blank form. It was from the Director of Central Intelligence, Allen Dulles. "Here's the word from Washington!" Wisner snarled. "'HEADQUARTERS ADVISING VIENNA STATION THAT COMPANY POLICY IS NOT TO INCITE TO ACTION.' Not to incite to action! We're witnessing the Mongol invasion of Western civilization but we're not to incite to action! The Hungarians were incited to action by our pledge to roll back Communism. The Russians were incited to action by the Hungarians taking us at our word. We're the only ones not incited to action, for Christ's sake."

Thompson looked at Owen-Brack. "Don't bring him any more paper," the amba.s.sador told her.

Wisner climbed to his feet and reared back and kicked the wire wastepaper filled with crumpled cables across the room. Thompson's mouth fell open. "You run the G.o.dd.a.m.n emba.s.sy," the Wiz told his friend icily, pointing at him with a forefinger as his hand curled around an imaginary pistol. I run the CIA operation here." He gestured with his chin toward the tea wagon. "Bring more cables," he ordered Owen-Brack. "Bring me everything you can put your hands on. I need to read into this... get a handle on it... find an angle." When Owen-Brack looked uncertainly at the amba.s.sador, Wisner glared at her. "Move your a.s.s!" he roared. He stumbled back into the chair. "For G.o.d's sake, bring me the paper," he pleaded, blinking his eyes rapidly, breathing hard, clutching the edge of the table to steady himself. Then he pitched forward and buried his head in a heap of cables and silently wept.

Out of the blue the Wiz announced that he wanted to see the Hungarian refugees streaming across the frontier into Austria for himself. Heartache, like the common cold, needed to be fed, he said. The chief of station, alerted by the amba.s.sador, gave him the runaround but finally provided wheels when the phone calls from the Wiz turned ugly. Millie Owen-Brack persuaded Jack McAuliffe, the officer who had laid in the screening operation at the Austrian Red Cross reception centers, to tag along as chaperon.

The exodus from Hungary had started out as a trickle but had quickly turned into a torrent when the Russians came back in force. Each night hundreds of Hungarians braved the minefields and the Russian paratroopers who, in some sectors, had replaced the regular Hungarian Army border patrols because they tended to look the other way when they spotted refugees.

Twenty-five minutes out of Vienna, the car-pool Chevy and its chase car (filled with Company security men) pulled up at the first in a string of detention centers. This particular one had been set up in the lunchroom of small-town Gymnasium. The roughly two hundred Hungarians who had come across the previous night-young men and woman for the most part, some with children, a few with aging parents-were stretched out on mattresses lined up on the floor. Many sucked absently on American cigarettes, others stared vacantly into s.p.a.ce. In a corner, Austrian Red Cross workers in white ap.r.o.ns handed out bowls of soup and bread, steaming cups of coffee and doughnuts. At the next table a nineteen-year-old American volunteer, wearing a nametag on his lapel that identified him as B. Redford, was helping refugees fill out emba.s.sy requests for political asylum. The Hungarian speakers that Jack had recruited wandered through the crowded lunchroom armed with clipboards and questionnaires, They knelt now and then to talk to the men in quiet whispers, jotting down tidbits on specific Soviet units or materiel, occasionally inviting someone who expressed an interest in "settling accounts with the Bolsheviks" to a private house across the street for a more thorough debriefing.

The Wiz, bundled into an old winter coat, the collar turned up against nonexistent drafts, a University of Virginia scarf wound around his neck, took it all in. Shaking his head, he uttered the words deja vu-he'd seen it all before, he said. It had been at the end of the war. He'd been the OSS chief in Bucharest when the Red Army had started rounding up Rumanians who had fought against them and shipping them in cattle cars to Siberian concentration camps. Did anyone here know Harvey Torriti? he inquired, looking around with his twitching eyes. When Jack said he worked for the Sorcerer, the Wiz perked up. Good man, Torriti. Thick-skinned. Needed thick skin to survive in this business, though there were times when thick skin didn't help you all that much. Harvey and he had winced when the screams of the Rumanians reached their ears; with their own hands Harvey and he had buried prisoners who had killed themselves rather than board the trains. Deja vu, Wisner murmured. History was repeating itself. America was abandoning good people to a fate literally worse than death. Rumanians. Poles. East Germans. Now Hungarians. The list was obscenely long.

A small boy wearing a tattered coat several sizes to large for him came up to the Wiz and held out a small hand. "A nevem Lorinc," he said.

One of Jack's Hungarian-speakers translated. "He tells to you his name is Lorinc."

The Wiz crouched down and shook the boy's hand. "My name is Spink."

"Melyik foci csapatnak drukkolsz?"

"He asks to you which football team you support?"

"Football team? I don't get to follow football much. I suppose if I had to pick one team I'd pick the New York Giants. Tell him the New York Giants are my favorite team. And Frank Gifford is my favorite player."

Wisner searched his pockets for something to give to the boy. The only thing he could come up with was a package of Smith Brothers cough drops. Forcing one of his gap-toothed smiles onto his stiff lips, he held out the box. The boy, his eyes wide and serious, took it.

"He'll think it's candy," Wisner said. "Won't hurt him any, will it? h.e.l.l, we can't hurt him more than we already have."

The smile faded and the Wiz, rolling his head from side to side as if the heartache was more than he could bear, straightened up. Jack and Millie Owen-Brack exchanged anxious looks. The Wiz glanced around in panic. "I can't breath in here," he announced with compelling lucidity. "Could someone kindly show me how one gets outside?"

The Hungarian restaurant, in a gla.s.s-domed garden off Prinz Eugenstra.s.se, one of Vienna's main drags, was abuzz with the usual after-theater crowd when the Wiz and his party turned up after the tour of the border. Corks popped. Champagne flowed, the cash register next to the cloakroom clanged. Viennese women in Parisian dresses with plunging necklines, their musical laughter pealing above the din of conversation, leaned over candle flames to light thin cigars while the men pretended not to notice the swell of their bosoms. The Wiz, presiding over an L-shaped table in the corner, knew Vienna well enough to remind his guests-they included Amba.s.sador Thompson, Millie Owen-Brack, Jack McAuliffe, a correspondent from the Knight-Ridder newspapers whose name n.o.body could remember and several CIA station underlings-where they were: where they were, Wisner announced, stifling a belch with the back of his hand, was a stone s throw from the infamous Kammer fur Arbeiter und Angestellte, where Adolf Eichmann ran what the n.a.z.is euphemistically called the "Central Office for Jewish Emigration." The Wiz swayed to his feet and rapped a knife against a bottle of wine to propose a toast.

"I've had too much to drink, or not enough, not sure which," he began and was rewarded with nervous laughter. "Let's drink to Eisenhower's victory over Stevenson-may Ike's second four years turn out to be gutsier than his first four." Amba.s.sador Thompson began to climb to his feet to deliver a toast but Wisner said, "I'm not finished yet." He collected his thoughts.

"Drinking their health may violate State Department guidelines but what the h.e.l.l-here's to the mad Magyars," he cried, raising his gla.s.s along with his voice. "It'll be a great wonder if any of them are left alive."

"The mad Magyars," the guests around Wisner's table repeated, sipping, hoping that would be the end of it; the Wiz's sudden shifts in mood had them all worried.

Several of the diners at nearby tables glanced uncomfortably in the direction of the boorish Americans.

Wisner c.o.c.ked his head and squinted up at the dome, searching for inspiration. "Here's to a commodity in short supply these days," he plunged on. "Different folks call it by different names-coolness under fire, gallantry, mettle, courage of one's convictions, stoutness of one's heart but, h.e.l.l, in the end it all boils down to the same thing." Stretching the vowel, Southern-style, he offered up the word in a gleeful bellow. "b.a.l.l.s!"

Jack said solemnly, "d.a.m.nation, I'll drink to b.a.l.l.s."

"Me, too," Millie agreed.

Wisner leaned across the table to clink gla.s.ses with them. Jack and Millie toasted each other; the three of them were on the same wavelength. Nodding bitterly, the Wiz tossed off the last of his wine. "Where was I?" he inquired, his eyes clouding over as he slipped into a darker mood.

Amba.s.sador Thompson signalled for the bill. "I think we ought to call it a day," he said.

"Let's do that," Wisner agreed. "Let's call it a day. And what a day it's been! A Day at the Races, featuring the brothers Marx-no relation to Karl, Senator McCarthy. A day in the life of Dennis Day. A day that will live in infamy." He melted back into his seat and turned the long stem of a wine gla.s.s between his fingers. "Problem with the world," he muttered, talking to himself, slurring his words, "men think, for their ship to come in, all they need to do is put to sea. Lost the capacity for celestial navigation. Lost true north."

11.

BUDAPEST, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1956.

IN THE SMALL CHAPEL OFF THE CENTRAL COURTYARD OF THE KILIAN Barracks, Elizabet, gaunt and drawn, wearing woolen gloves with the fingertips cut off, stirred the cauldron simmering over an open fire. Every once in a while she would feed pieces of furniture into the flames to keep them going. This was the third soup she had made from the same chicken bones. From time to time, one or two of the eighty-odd survivors would make their way down to the "Kilian Kitchen" and fill their tin cups from the cauldron. Crouching next to the fire to absorb some of its warmth, they would sip the thin broth and crack jokes about the restaurant Elizabet would open once the Russians had been kicked out of Budapest. The day before they had killed the last dog in the barracks, a pye-mongrel nicknamed Szuszi; one of the boys had held its front paws while another cut its throat so as not to waste a bullet. A soldier who had been raised on a farm skinned and eviscerated it, and roasted the meat on a grill. Talk of trapping rats in the sub-bas.e.m.e.nts under Kilian ended when the soldiers discovered that the Russians had flooded the tunnels with sewage. Elizabet was just as glad. She could barely swallow the dog meat, she said.

In an inside room under the roof, Ebby scratched out another message for Vienna on a blank page torn from a manual on close order drill and pa.s.sed it to Zoltan, who tuned the radio to the weak carrier signal. The car battery was running down and the gypsy radioman figured this would be their last dispatch. In any case it was clear that Kilian-completely ringed by Russian paratroopers, pounded by tank cannon, raked by machine gun fire- could not hold out much longer. Zoltan began working the Morse key: situation no longer desperate now hopeless sc.r.a.ping barrel bottom for food ammunition pain killers russian loudspeakers promising amnesty for those who lay down arms survivors debating whether to fight to finish or negotiate surrender everyone agrees russians after betrayal of nagy maleter not trustable but options narrowing if they surrender I plan to pa.s.s myself off-"

The power indicator on Zoltan's transceiver flickered for a moment and then blinked out; the battery had run dry. The gypsy picked it up and shook it and tightened the contacts, and then tried the Morse key again. He shook his head grimly. "G.o.dd.a.m.n battery gone dead on us, okay," he announced.

From the avenue outside came the whine of a single high-powered sniper bullet. On the hour, the nine tanks facing the barracks fired off two rounds each at the thick walls and then, backing and filling in the wide avenue, ceded their places to another line of tanks; given the thickness of the barrack walls, the Russians had long since abandoned the idea of bringing the structure down on the heads of the defenders but they wanted to make sure that none of them got any sleep. Which was why, when they weren't shooting, they continued broadcasting appeals to surrender from a loudspeaker mounted on one of the tanks.

While sharpshooters kept the Russian paratroopers at bay by firing at anything that moved in the street, most of the survivors, including the walking wounded, a.s.sembled in the courtyard outside the chapel. His thick hair matted, his eyes receding into his skull with fatigue, Arpad pa.s.sed out cigarettes to those who wanted a smoke, and rolled one for himself with the last of his tobacco. Lighting up, he hoisted himself onto a railing and searched the anxious faces. Then, speaking quietly in Hungarian, he summarized the situation.

"He is telling them that the Corvin Cinema fell to the Russians last "tglit," Elizabet translated for Ebby. "Firing can be heard in the city, which suggests that hit-and-run squads are still operating out of bas.e.m.e.nts, though with each pa.s.sing hour there seems to be less shooting. He says to us falls the honor of being the last pocket of organized resistance in the city. We have run out of food. We have hundreds of Molotov c.o.c.ktails left but only twelve rounds of ammunition for each fighter. The inevitable question can no longer be put off. With the tunnels flooded, escape is cut off. Which narrows the choices down to fighting to the end or taking the Russians at their word and seeking amnesty."

There was an angry exchange between several of the young soldiers which Elizabet didn't bother translating-it was clear from the tone that some of them thought the time had come to lay down their arms while the others wanted to go on fighting. Two of the soldiers almost came to blows and had to be separated. Arpad kept his own council, watching the young fighters through the haunted eyes of someone who had made tragic miscalculations. Finally he signaled for quiet. "He is calling for a show of hands," Elizabet explained. By twos and threes the hands went up. Arpad concentrated on his cigarette; he was obviously against surrendering. Elizabet kept her hands tightly at her sides; she had no illusions about the Russians and preferred a fight to the finish to a Communist prison.

Arpad looked over at Ebby. "You have earned the right to vote here," he said.

Ebby raised his hand. "I belong to the live-to-fight-another-day school." One of the young soldiers climbed onto a crate and counted the votes. "The majority wants to test the Russians," Elizabet told Ebby; it was clear that she was bitterly disappointed. "Arpad will go out under a white flag and negotiate the terms of the amnesty. Then he'll take out the wounded. If all pa.s.ses well the rest of us will surrender tomorrow."

From the far corners of the enormous barracks, the wounded were brought to the arched entrance leading to the narrow pa.s.sageway with the steel door set in a bend, back from the street. Many limped along on makeshift crutches. Those who could walk aided those who couldn't. Arpad attached a soiled white undershirt to a pole. Several of the freedom fighters, blinded by tears, turned away as Arpad, with a last ferocious glance at Elizabet, threw the bolts on the armor-plated door and slipped around the bend in the pa.s.sageway, out into the street.

Ebby and Elizabet hurried up to the third floor to watch through a narrow slit in the wall. A Russian officer wearing a long gray greatcoat with gold glittering on the shoulder boards stepped out from behind a tank and met Arpad halfway. The Russian offered the poet a cigarette, then shrugged when he refused. The two men talked for several minutes, with the Russian shaking his head again and again; he obviously wasn't giving ground. Finally the poet nodded his a.s.sent. The Russian held out his hand. Arpad looked at it for a long moment in disgust, then, thrusting his own hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, turned on a heel and made his way back to the barracks. Moments later he emerged into the street again, this time at the head of a straggly procession of wounded fighters, some of them carried on chairs, others dragging their feet as comrades pulled them toward the line of Russian tanks. The gray-bearded priest, his head swathed in b.l.o.o.d.y bandages leaned on a girl wearing a Red Cross armband. Halfway to the line of tanks Arpad stopped in his tracks and the others drew up behind him. Several sank to the pavement in exhaustion. From the slit in the wall, Ebby could see Arpad angrily stabbing the air in the direction of the Russians on the roofs across the avenue; several dozen of them could be seen steadying rifles fitted with telescopic sights on the parapets. Arpad shook his head violently, as if he were awakening from a deep sleep. He tugged the heavy naval pistol from a jacket pocket and stepped forward and pressed the tip of the long barrel to his forehead. "Eljen!" he cried out hoa.r.s.ely. "Long life!"And he jerked the trigger. A hollow shot rang out, blowing away the lobe of the poet's brain where speech originated. Arpad sprawled backward into the gutter, one ankle folded under his body at a grotesque angle, blood gushing from the ma.s.sive wound in his head. The wounded milling around him started to back away from the body. From the roof across the street a whistle shrilled. Then a sharp volley of sniper fire cut them all down. The several who were sitting on chairs were knocked over backward. It was over in a moment. Elizabet, too stunned to utter a word, turned away from the slit and stood with her back pressed against the wall, white and trembling. There was a moment of deathly silence. Then a primal animal howl emerged from the slits and windows of the barracks. Several of the young Hungarians began shooting at the snipers on the roof until someone yelled for them not to waste ammunition.

"But why?" Elizabet breathed. "Where is the logic to all this death?"

"The Russians must have panicked when they heard the shot," Ebby guessed grimly.

Hugging herself tightly, Elizabet stared out at the body of Arpad lying on the gutter in a pool of blood. She recalled the line of Persian poetry that had inspired one of his early poems, and sought what comfort was to be had in the words. "The rose blooms reddest where some buried Caesar bled," she murmured. She pulled the ancient Webley-Fosbery from her belt and spun the cylinder. "I have four bullets left-three are for the Russians, the last is for me. I could not face torture again..."

Ebby went over to a body covered with pages of newspaper and retrieved the rifle next to it. He batted away flies as he searched the pockets of the dead soldier for bullets. He found two, inserted one and, working the bolt, drove it home. "I will fight alongside you," he said.

From somewhere above their heads came the melancholy moan of al gypsy violin; it was Zoltan, summoning the Hungarian freedom fighters in the Kilian Barracks to the last stand against the invading Mongols.

Somewhere around two forty-five in the morning Ebby, dozing fitfully with his back against a wall and the rifle across his thighs, felt a hand gently shake his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he discovered Zoltan crouching next to him.

"There is a way to escape," the gypsy whispered excitedly. "Through the tunnels."

Curled up in a blanket on the cement floor next to Ebby, Elizabet came awake with a start. "Why do you wake us?" she said angrily. "The tanks haven't fired off their three o'clock rounds."

"Zoltan thinks we can get out," Ebby whispered.

"The boys and me, we been working with crowbars for hours," Zoltan said. His white teeth flashed in a proud grin. "We broke through the bricks at the lowest point in one of the narrow back tunnels and drained off most of the sewage into the bas.e.m.e.nts, okay. In a quarter of an hour it will be possible to pa.s.s through. Everyone is getting ready to slip away in the night. How did you say it when we voted, Mr. Ebbitt? We will all live to fight a different day, right? Don't make noise. Follow me."

Feeling his way in the darkness, Zoltan led them down a series of winding steel staircases into the bowels of the barracks, and then through a hatch and down a wooden ladder into what had been the Kilian magazine when the barracks was first constructed. The cavernous hall, illuminated by several railroad kerosene lamps, was bare except for wooden crates once used to transport cannon powder. The brick walls were green with moisture. Gradually the last of the Kilian defenders made their way down to the magazine. Twelve Russian deserters who had been hiding in an oubliette used for prisoners at the turn of the century were brought over; each had been given civilian clothing stripped from dead fighters, Hungarian ident.i.ty cards and money, along with road maps marked with routes to the Yugoslav frontier. The Russians, their eyes dark with dread, leapt at the chance to make a run for Yugoslavia; they would certainly be put before firing squads if they were captured alive.

Dividing into groups of five and moving at five-minute intervals, the surviving fighters and the Russian deserters climbed down what looked like a brick-walled well at one end of the magazine. From the avenue outside the barracks came the dull crump of the Russians firing off their three A.M. rounds. Zoltan, Ebby, Elizabet and two deserters made up the next-to-last group. Descending hand over hand into the well, Zoltan came out into a runnel awash with thick ankle-deep sewage that reeked of feces. Elizabet, sandwiched between Zoltan and Ebby, covered her mouth and nose with her forearm but the stench made her dizzy. Ebby noticed her reeling from side to side, her shoulders slamming into the brick walls, and took a firm grip on her belt to steady her. Zoltan, up ahead with a kerosene lamp, the curved knife tucked into his belt, the violin case slung across his back on a rope, continued on. They must have gone a hundred and fifty meters when the level of the sewage began mounting. Elizabet cried out in fear. Zoltan quickened the pace, wading through the slop that had now risen to his knees. From behind them came the panicky gasps of the last group pushing through the rising waters.

The sewage had risen to their waists by the time the tunnel curled to the right and a steel ladder appeared in the sallow beams of Zoltan's kerosene lamp. The rungs, driven individually into the bricks of the wall, disappeared into the darkness high above their heads. Zoltan threw himself onto the ladder and reached back to tug Elizabet onto the first rung visible above the water level in the tunnel. One by one the five of them began to claw their way up the ladder. Every time they came to a rung that had rusted away, Zoltan reached back to pull Elizabet over the gap. From far below came the spluttering gasps of other escapees struggling through the sewage, and then frantic splashing and sounds of choking.

Resting on a rung, Zoltan hollered down in Hungarian. A rasping voice shouted back. Zoltan said, "Only two made it out," then turned and continued climbing.

Above their heads, a light flickered and soft voices called encouragement in Hungarian. Strong arms reached down and pulled them over the top and they collapsed onto a dirt floor. The two young Russian deserters-so young it was impossible to tell they hadn't shaved in weeks-settled down next to them. Around the room the surviving freedom fighters who had arrived before them from the Kilian Barracks rested with their backs against the walls. "Where are we?" Ebby asked.

One of the fighters who spoke some English said, "We come out to subbas.e.m.e.nt of old building converted to industrial bakery. Listen."

Sure enough, from above came the low rumble of machinery. Zoltan consulted with several of the fighters, then returned to sit with Ebby and Elizabet. "They say we have two and a half hours left of darkness, okay. We going to catch our breath for a minute, then split up into small groups and put s.p.a.ce between us and Kilian before the Russians figure out we are escaped. Students who know Pest will guide us out."

"Where are we going?" Elizabet asked.

Zoltan grinned. "Austria."

She turned to Ebby. "Surely you can take refuge in the American emba.s.sy."

He shook his head. "The Russians will have circled it with troops to prevent Hungarians from seeking asylum there." He smiled at her. "My best bet is to go with you to Austria."

The twelve Russian deserters, who had the most to lose if they were captured, started out first. One of them turned back at the door to deliver a quick speech in Russian. Bowing from the waist to the freedom fighters, he managed a brave half-smile before turning away and disappearing up a wooden staircase. Minutes later Ebby and Elizabet and Zoltan joined a group and made their way out a loading ramp, then climbed over a wall into a soccer field behind a school. A cold dry wind was blowing in from the Danube, and Elizabet angled her face toward it, inhaling in deep gulps. In the distance flames licked at the night sky over the city. The National Archives building across the river on Castle Hill in Buda was ablaze. The Rokus Hospital was a smoldering ruins. Fires raged over Csepel, Ujpest and Kobanya. The student leading their group, a thin-faced bespectacled young man with an old rifle slung over a bony shoulder, led them through a maze of back alleys toward the southern suburbs of Pest. The trek took them across well-kept gardens behind mansions, over brick walls and chain-link fences, through warehouses filled with silent women and children, down narrow streets. At one point they came to the main avenue leading, further up, to a square. As far as the eye could see apartment houses on both sides of the avenue had been reduced to heaps of rubble. The pavement underfoot was strewn with debris and dry yellow autumn leaves. Peering around the corner of a building, they could make out Russian paratroopers in short capes warming their hands around a fire blazing in the middle of the street near the square. Close by, the branches of trees were stark against the matte red of the blistering sky.

Hanging from the branches, twisting slowly in the currents of air from the Danube, were the bodies of twelve freedom fighters. In the street near the bodies was a human figure, his arms splayed, one leg tucked underneath the other awry at the knee. On first glance it looked as if a large rag doll had been flattened onto the gutter by the treads of a Russian tank. But it quickly became obvious that the figure had once consisted of flesh and bones.

Ebby realized the horrible truth before the others. "Don't look," he whispered fiercely, dragging Elizabet back.

Sick at heart, she lurched against the side of a building and held her head in her hands.

Bent low and running, the Kilian survivors crossed the avenue in twos and threes without attracting the attention of the Russians around the fire. After a while Elizabet, short of breath and pushing herself through a fog of nervous exhaustion, began to lag behind. Ebby threw an arm around her waist and pulled her along. By the time the first wisps of gray were visible in the east, they were deep into the southern suburbs of Pest. To the left the first fields appeared, the dark earth plowed and glistening with dew. Below Csepel, they found tourist pedal boats chained to a pier. They broke the locks and slid the chains free and pedaled the boats over to the other bank of the Danube, then started down a dirt road that ran parallel to the river. Two kilometers on they came to the crude wooden arch marking the entrance to the Red Banner Farm, a dairy collective known to be sympathetic to the rebels. With the sky completely light now, a bearded night watchman hustled them into a storage shed. Within minutes everyone was stretched out on bales of hay, sound asleep.

During the day more refugees joined the group in the shed: an aging university professor and his emaciated wife, the conductor of Budapest Philharmonic, a puppeteer carrying two enormous suitcases filled with marionettes, a famous sportscaster with his blonde girlfriend, and the equally famous goalie of the Hungarian national soccer team with his wife and baby. At midday several women from the collective carried over hampers filled with bread and cheese, which the refugees attacked ravenously; for many it was their first meal in days. At dusk the collective's ancient Skoda diesel truck was brought around. Elizabet took the driver aside and whispered to him in urgent undertones for a moment. When he seemed to hesitate, she found a roadmap in the glove compartment and, flattening it against the hood of the truck, traced the route for him. Folding the map away, she took his hand in hers and repeated the request. The driver glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch and nodded without enthusiasm and Elizabet, blinking tears out of her eyes, thanked him profusely.

The nineteen refugees crowded into a cavity hollowed out of the load of hay in the back of the truck. The farmers set planks over their heads and then lowered bales of hay onto the planks. In the darkness Elizabet, drained despite having slept for most of the day, leaned her head on Ebby's shoulder. He put an arm around her and pulled her closer. Huddled against each other, they heard the Skodas motor backfire and finally crank over.

For the better part of three hours the truck meandered across the countryside in a westerly direction, skirting towns and villages as it jounced over dirt roads. Shifting from side to side inside their hiding place to ease their cramps, the refugees clung to each other. The professor, who turned out to be a Talmudic scholar, muttered an occasional prayer in Hebrew under his breath. The conductor took out a small pocket flashlight and an orchestral score and distracted himself by reading through the music; every once in while he would hum a particularly melodic pa.s.sage in a strained falsetto.

Around ten the pa.s.sengers could feel the truck swerve sharply onto a paved road and, moments later, pull up. The motor died. Men could be heard climbing up the sides of the truck. Hands pulled away the bales of hay overhead, and then the planks. Suddenly a cloudless sky riddled with stars became visible, the Milky Way cutting a broad swath across it. The pa.s.sengers climbed out to stretch their limbs for a few minutes. Several disappeared into the darkness to urinate. The truck was parked inside the hangar of a collective farm; workers in overalls formed a chain and began filling plastic jerry cans from an overhead diesel reservoir, pouring the contents into the truck's gas tank. Elizabet looked around anxiously. A thickset woman appeared at the door of the hangar. She was clutching the hand of a slim little girl with cropped dirty-blonde hair. The girl, dressed in a boy's overcoat and clutching a doll, spotted Elizabet and, crying out, bolted into her arms. The two hugged each other tightly. As soon as the fuel tank was topped off, the driver announced that they had no time to lose; they had to be at the border-crossing rendezvous no later than three. The heavy woman dropped to one knee and hugged the little girl to her. Then she and Elizabet embraced. Ebby lifted the girl onto the truck and lowered her into the hollow s.p.a.ce in the middle of the hay. As the last of the bales were set over their heads, Elizabet leaned toward Ebby and whispered, "This is my daughter, Nellie. Nellie, sweet pea, this is a very nice man called Elliott."

Nellie hugged the doll to her. "Hi," she said shyly. "Do you like hiding in hay?"

"It's great fun," Ebby replied.

"Will the bad people find us?"

Ebby took her small hand in his. He could feel her tenseness. "Not much chance of that," he told her.

"What if they do?"

"They won't."