My Own Revolution Read online

  I press my forehead against the hard, cool window glass. I think of how, with the patrols on our tail, the rain will drop down in gray sheets. It will blow over all of us with great blinding sweeps. Only our orange life vests will be visible.

  The car jerks as my father pulls off the road. He parks at a wooded spot where picnickers sometimes stop. Thankfully, we’re alone.

  “Keep watch, Patrik,” he says.

  Standing outside the car, I glance up and down the road. The pines sway, as if they, too, are keeping a lookout. Informants can come from any direction. They dig in the leaves for secrets.

  With a screwdriver, Tati pries loose one corner of the door panel. Then he stuffs the American money — I get a glimpse of the dull-green roll — deep into the body of the car.

  When we get back, Mr. Holub is standing in the parking lot with his hands on his hips. A lit cigarette glows like the jewel of a fiery topaz.

  He’s been waiting for our return. He knows about the wad of dollars.

  “Evening,” Tati says, going straight up to him.

  Mr. Holub is the one the trees look out for.

  “Just come in from a drive?” Mr. Holub takes another cigarette from his pocket, lights it off the first one, and tosses the butt. He sounds friendly enough, natural enough.

  I clench my fists in my pockets.

  “Yes, Patrik and I were just . . .” Tati leans down to tie his shoe. “We went up to the castle to watch the sunset.”

  Mr. Holub nods, taking a long pull on the new cigarette. “Danika says you’re going to Yugoslavia.” He releases the smoke through his nose, then steps close to The Fancy Free. He wipes at the road dust with the flat of his hand.

  “We are,” I say firmly. “We’re looking forward to testing out our boat.”

  Still amiable, Mr. Holub says, “This would be a good boat to leave with, Rumer.” He crushes the butt of the first cigarette. “You know”— he narrows his eyes —“you could use a boat like this to get out of the country.”

  Tati musters a laugh. He slaps the boat. “Ha! Get out? Why would I want to do that? Where would I go?”

  “Sometimes people have problems. . . .”

  Tati and Mr. Holub lock gazes.

  I head away from them. I head into the building, up the grimy stairwell, and into the apartment. Mami’s nurse cap is hung on the peg, and I smell meat stew cooking.

  In my room I listen for Tati’s footsteps on the stairs. Maybe right now Mr. Holub is arresting him. I’m fretting and pacing when a note comes down on a string. I blink. But yes, it’s a note. Is Danika about to apologize? Now, when it’s too late? I open the window and pull in her message. I unfold the paper to read: My father knows.

  Ice water slithers down my back. I run my finger over the words. This could be a trap. Yet I scrawl Knows what? I tie the note back onto the string and give a yank.

  Right off, another note falls. The previous messages are scratched out and three new words are written very small: That you’re leaving.

  Again, a chill freezes my bones. I hear the front door open, then shut. Should we stay? I write. I hear Tati’s voice. I jerk on the string.

  A brand-new note drops. Go!

  I write: Thank you.

  I pace the room, waiting for more from Danika.

  Out in the sea, suddenly all three patrols will turn around. But then a huge green blanket of a wave will sweep toward us. It’ll crash over the boat, making the engine sputter. Leaving, it’ll drag my envelope of photos and drawings into the sea. Everything will be gone. Danika. My entire old life.

  The next wave may take our picnic. And the one after that will grab Bela’s doll right out of her arms. Bela will throw up her breakfast into the bottom of the boat.

  The rain will be falling more slowly by then. The sky will be lightening, so that I’ll see my family instead of only their orange vests.

  Suddenly, two objects will rise and fall in front of the boat. Getting closer, we’ll spot two people swimming way out there, two lucky ones who survived the storm without a boat.

  It will be the woman who years ago swam out to sea with her child in an inner tube. We’ll have found them at last.

  The woman will call out, raising one arm.

  We’ll move the boat alongside. Tati will pull the child into the boat first, inner tube and all. The mother will climb in, causing the boat to tip sideways, taking on water. By then The Fancy Free will be riding dangerously low.

  All of us will be shivering hard.

  There’s nothing more from Danika. I go to the kitchen, where Tati is standing close to Mami and her pot of stew. He has not been arrested after all. “Mr. Holub knows our plans,” I say from the doorway.

  Mami puts a finger to her lips and points to Bela, who is putting shoes on her doll.

  Tati closes his eyes, squeezes them tight. Then he opens them again, saying, “I guessed as much.”

  “We have to get out of here,” I say. “Now.”

  “How can we go if Mr. Holub knows?” Mami asks, her big spoon dripping gravy onto the floor.

  “We’ll have to try,” Tati says. “We don’t have any choice.”

  “We should leave tonight,” I say.

  “Impossible,” says Tati.

  “We could sneak away.”

  “Impossible,” Tati repeats.

  “Right away in the morning, then. We have to try.”

  Mami drops the spoon onto the kitchen table. She goes to Bela and takes her onto her lap. She brings yarn from her pocket and laces it over Bela’s fingers, then begins to play a game of cat’s cradle.

  Tati casts a glance at Bela. “All right, then. Tomorrow we are going on vacation. In the meanwhile,” he says, beginning to pace the length of the kitchen, “we’ll act perfectly friendly toward the Holubs. As if nothing is wrong.”

  I go into the darkroom. I have no film to develop. I have nothing to do in here. I lock the door. The red light shines softly. The chemicals lie still in their baths.

  We’ll motor on, all of us drenched. We’ll shudder with cold. The storm will have passed, but night will arrive. Once, we’ll stop to pour gasoline from one of the red cans, and the stinking stuff will spill on my feet.

  In the morning, I help Tati carry down the four suitcases, the big canvas tent, and the sleeping bags. Tati even manages to whistle. Mami pushes a box of canned food into the hallway, saying, “Find a place for this in the boat. Food in Yugoslavia will be too expensive for us.”

  Hauling down the cans, I trip on the bottom step. When everything crashes to the floor, my legs fold under me and my knees bump onto the hard concrete. With my bones screaming, I want to lie here and never get up.

  But I pick myself up off the steps, pack the crate, and go on.

  When the car is full, I take a last stroll through our apartment. It looks as if we still lived here, as if we’ve truly just gone on a vacation. But really, everything is up for grabs. Someone will get Mami’s silver candlesticks. Someone will get Tati’s diploma and pretend to be a doctor. Someone will help himself to my darkroom chemicals and will develop the pictures I can’t take.

  When I go down the stairs for the last time, a small group of people has gathered, the early morning light yellowing their faces. There is Mr. and Mrs. Holub, along with Mami’s friend Jarmila, from the fifth floor. No Danika. It’s not a big send-off, since the official story is that we’ll be back in two weeks. But if we do return, it’ll be as captives. It won’t be to these people, nor to the lives we live now.

  Standing on the back staircase, still out of everyone’s sight, I look for signs on Mr. Holub’s face. Shifty eyes, an unconvincing smile. But he looks completely normal and is even helping Tati with the last bit of packing. I glance toward the big gate. I look for someone standing outside, ready to stop us. Someone with handcuffs. I examine the sky, where a helicopter might suddenly appear.

  I hear footsteps. It’s Danika coming down, wearing a green dress with daisies around the hem. Seeing her redde
ned eyes, I take a chance and hold out my arms.

  She comes into those arms, sinking her weight against my chest.

  My insides twist like wrung-out washing. Breathing in her mix of soap and honey, I grit my teeth against a stupid gush of tears. With words no louder than breath, I ask, “Are we going to make it, Danika? Are we going to get away?”

  She gives the tiniest of shrugs, her shoulder blades moving under my hands.

  Outside, Tati honks the horn.

  “Time to go,” I murmur.

  She tilts back her head, squinting her lovely blue eyes, as if seeing me for the first time. “I’m sorry. So sorry . . . for everything.”

  “Me, too. I’m sorry, too.”

  “So we can be friends? In spite of it all?”

  I only nod, not trusting my voice.

  The horn sounds again, and the world tumbles back to me.

  “Just a minute,” she says. “Wait just a minute.” Very solemnly, she pretends to hand me something. “Take this. Please take it.”

  I hold out my hand.

  “It’s your staff,” she says.

  I close my hand around the air, almost feeling the grain of the wood.

  In an old familiar gesture, Danika reaches over me, saying, “Bend down a little.” It’s as if she’s putting on a shirt. My magical one. She slips the magical belt around my waist, then stands back to announce: “Now you have the power to escape all traps.”

  “Oh, Danika . . .” I pretend to cinch the belt tighter.

  She laughs a little at that and slips her hand into mine.

  Together we walk into the morning, to where the blue Fiat, The Fancy Free, and my family await me.

  In the backseat, Bela has already made a little nest for herself and her doll. Tati is double-checking the trailer hitch. Mami wipes tears with her sleeve.

  I squeeze Danika’s hand, squeeze again, then let go.

  Tati climbs into the car and starts it up. I climb in, too, and shut the door. Danika is crying now. Too openly, I think. I blink hard, forcing back my own gush. While the little gathering stands waving, Tati backs up, aiming the Fiat toward the road. He angles it back and forth, the boat trailer thrashing like a caught fish.

  Mami presses a handkerchief to her damp face.

  Bela dances her doll at the window.

  Finally we’re on the road, lined up to go. No one has stopped us. No one has handcuffed or shackled us. Then, without warning, Bela calls out the window: “Good-bye forever, everyone!”

  I knew it. I knew Bela would blab.

  “Bela!” Tati exclaims. “You know it’s not forever.”

  I study their faces. No change. None at all. They are all just waving.

  I will be the first to see the lights of Italy. Twinkling like yellow stars, they’ll drift behind shreds of cloud. The lights will grow bigger, brighter. I’ll make out buildings, a pier extending into the water toward us.

  Without hindrance, I’ll steer The Fancy Free to the Italian pier, one step closer to the wondrous freedom of Scranton, Pennsylvania.

  Now Mr. and Mrs. Holub and Jarmila give one last wave and turn away, moving toward the building. I catch a glimpse of Danika in her green dress.

  As Tati turns the car, I get up on my knees. I thrust aside the camping gear, shoving it heedlessly, until the back window is clear.

  With my camera that still has no film, I aim and focus, then push the silver button. I shoot one last beautiful photograph.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge Milan Smolko, who escaped from Czechoslovakia as a teen and inspired this story; Mirek Sykora and Ann Brownlee Sykora, who assisted with anecdotes and cultural accuracy; my two critique groups — the Snail Society and the Flaming Tulips — for their careful reading and insights; Kelly Sonnack, my agent, who supported me throughout the process; and finally, my editor, Deborah Noyes Wayshak, for her unerring guidance and faith in me.

  Carolyn Marsden is the acclaimed author of numerous multicultural novels. She continues to enjoy writing about children from various countries. About My Own Revolution, she says, “I came upon the inspiration for the story when I met a Czechoslovakian surgeon who described escaping the country when he was fourteen years old. Right away, I knew that this was a story I wanted to write.” Carolyn Marsden has an MFA in writing for children from Vermont College.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2012 by Carolyn Marsden

  Cover photographs: copyright © 2012 by Simon Roberts/Gallery Stock (Lenin statue); copyright © 2012 by Ivonne/Veer (teens)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First electronic edition 2012

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2012942296

  ISBN 978-0-7636-5395-8 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-7636-6212-7 (electronic)

  Candlewick Press

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  Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

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