My Own Revolution Page 3

  “Here,” I say, taking off my jacket. But instead of handing it over, I tuck the jacket around her shoulders. Suddenly I don’t feel merely brotherly. My arms linger. They don’t want to pull back. They want to enfold her in the jacket.

  But I’ve never touched a girl like that before. Never wanted to. I draw away and press my legs tight. Without my jacket, I’m the one shivering.

  If we can’t see the Beatles, at least we can be them. With the record player turned low for Mrs. Zeman’s sake, we line up in a little group by Emil’s closet. Karel, shorter than any of us, beats a pot while Emil and Danika take turns pretending to strum an old guitar. I’m technically the singer, holding a can of green beans for a microphone, but we all sing along at the good parts.

  Emil, who never dresses up, wears his Sunday jacket, trying to look like John Lennon. He’s punched the lenses out of an old pair of glasses and wears the empty frames.

  In spite of her short hair, Danika looks nothing like a Beatle, nothing like a boy. Since Shindliar, the feeling of just being friends has vanished. Every word is loaded with meaning. Each tiny glance sets my body humming.

  The songs themselves set me humming. They get inside me and tear apart all I ever was. They break me free.

  Soft as the music is, Mrs. Zeman’s broom handle starts rapping against the floorboards.

  “Hell’s bells,” says Emil. “What a toad.”

  “It’s all the fault of the stupid party,” Karel says. “If it wasn’t for the party, we could play all the music we wanted.” Karel has only started caring about music. Up until recently, he’s spent his whole life with model trains, the tracks winding over his bedroom floor. But now he wants to listen to the Beatles all the time.

  “We could buy whatever we wanted,” I add. “We wouldn’t have to share photos of the record jacket. We could each have our own.” Saying this, I realize I still haven’t printed the promised copies.

  “The kids of those party members have everything,” Emil says. “Their parents drive fancy Russian Volga cars.”

  “The mothers wear diamonds like ice cubes,” says Karel.

  “They don’t care about the proletariat breaking loose from their chains,” I add.

  We’re shouting now, trying to outdo one another. We’re even louder than the music Mrs. Zeman pounded her broomstick about.

  “They don’t care about the fall of the ruling class.”

  “They want to be the ruling class.”

  “The party goes on and on about how Western music undermines the family,” Karel says, “but their own kids listen anyway.”

  “They’re all undermined,” I add.

  Only Danika has said nothing. Sitting on the edge of Emil’s bed, she’s grown quiet. She picks up a candy bar wrapper from the floor and folds it smaller and smaller.

  “Stupid party.” Karel punches the air.

  “Hypocrites,” Emil adds.

  “Someone is always trodding us down,” I say.

  Suddenly, Danika throws aside the candy wrapper. It lands on the floor, springing loose from the tight folds. Then, her lower lip trembling, she says, “It’s not trodding. It’s treading. Treading us down. Trodding isn’t even a word.”

  “So?” asks Emil.

  “It should be right.”

  Karel laughs awkwardly.

  Emil and I exchange glances.

  I reach over and lay a hand on Danika’s shoulder. “What is it?” The words my darling spring to mind. I want to add those two lovely words but don’t dare.

  “It’s nothing. Nothing to do with you.” She shrugs off my hand.

  “Something to do with the Beatles?” She could be hopelessly in love, as so many girls are.

  She shakes her head, her short hair wisping out.

  “Sure you don’t have a crush on Paul McCartney?” I say lightly, trying to make a joke.

  She shakes her head again, harder.

  If only she were cold, I could offer my jacket again. This time I’d be brave. I’d put my arms around her pretty shoulders, driving away her troubles. At the thought, my heart does a quick somersault.

  Emil goes very quietly to the record player. He lifts off the single and slips it into the jacket.

  Karel picks up the old guitar and begins to pluck the strings.

  Danika turns to him, saying, “Don’t do that. Just don’t.”

  “Danika.” I get up from my chair and lower myself onto the bed, sitting next to her. She’s pale, and her blue eyes are moist. Maybe it’s her monthly time. I consider drawing her close, even without the excuse of the jacket.

  But she abruptly tilts away from me and flings herself down on the bed. “It’s no use,” she says. “This isn’t something you can fix, Patrik.”

  In the school gymnasium, we’re marching with our knees high, our hands behind our backs. Suddenly, as we’re drilling to make us better Young Pioneers, training to take on challengers of the Communist state, there’s a stranger among us. His curly hair covers his ears. Like a Beatle. Like the way I sometimes imagine my own hair. I run my hand over my close-trimmed head. “Who’s that?” I ask Karel without moving my lips.

  “Bozek Estochin. From Bratislava.”

  Bratislava is the big city where anything can happen. Whereas Trencin is like the tiny moon of some far-out planet like Neptune, Bratislava is like the sun. Someone new and exotic has landed in our midst.

  After school, Bozek comes down the steps while Karel is bragging about how we got our Beatles single on the black market. Bozek doesn’t walk like he’s the new kid. He’s not shy at all. His legs move loose and jaunty as he comes to us, saying, “I have that single. And I have ‘Please Mr. Postman.’ I even have a Monkees album.”

  We shut up and look hard at this guy.

  “I even know where in Bratislava people can get real American blue jeans,” he says. “The price is high, of course. The lines are long. But you can get them.”

  Emil squints.

  I squint, too. What kind of life does this city boy lead?

  Karel leans against the railing, frowning. Maybe he’s thinking that Bozek could get him the model-train parts he can’t find in Trencin.

  Even though people are trying to get by, Bozek stands with his hands in his pockets, his elbows jutting out, taking up space. “In Bratislava, I listened to three Beatles songs in a row. Just waiting around outside a Bratislava apartment window I heard that.”

  I shade my eyes to better see this guy. Maybe he’s for real. Or maybe he’s only bragging.

  Bozek glances around. “The girls in Bratislava even wear miniskirts. Of course there would be none of that here,” he says. “Nothing like that here in an out-of-the-way place like Trencin.”

  “Then why did you come here?” I can’t help but ask.

  He shrugs, says from the corner of his mouth, “It’s just for a little while.”

  “How long?” Emil asks. Maybe he wants another Beatles single. Maybe a whole album.

  “As long as my father is assigned here.”

  “And what does your father do?” I ask.

  “Can’t say.” Bozek lifts his eyes to Lenin’s statue.

  Can’t say means he’s a party member. His father is one of the boots that trods on us. Treads on us. I tread down a step, backing away.

  Behind Bozek, along the wall, the repaired slogan blares: LONG LIVE THE USSR!

  A group of girls has gathered at the bottom of the stairs, huddling and giggling. Over the tops of the piles of books in their arms, they peer up at the new boy. One of the girls is Danika. She’s staring at Bozek as if he’s dropped from the heavens.

  Danika, my very own Gypsy. My sweetheart.

  Bozek pauses in his storytelling. His eyes shift to the girls. His eyes glide over them. Will he really care about Trencin girls when the ones in Bratislava are wearing miniskirts? He settles on one girl.

  He raises his hand, as if about to wave at her.

  She blushes.

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  And then, in a flash, my whole world changes. I look at Danika and see Janosik’s lovely sweetheart. Or a Beatle’s girlfriend. I see a beautiful girl who could be, should be, my girlfriend.

  I step back onto the next step, level with Bozek. “Stay away from her,” I say quietly.

  “Oh, really,” he says, not seeming to care that I tower over him.

  Now he’s more interested than ever.

  I drop my books and grab the red Young Pioneer scarf around his neck.

  Karel pries my fingers loose. “Don’t, Patrik.”

  “You don’t want to get in trouble,” Emil says.

  Karel takes me by the forearm. Even though I loom over him, he leads me away. Emil gathers my books off the steps.

  Everyone is staring. “Let me go.”

  “Not yet,” says Karel.

  Not until we get to the street does he release me.

  When I look back, Bozek is moving down the steps toward Danika.

  “You can’t do anything about it, Patrik. Nothing,” says Karel. “Don’t make an idiot of yourself.”

  “Forget her,” says Emil. “There are plenty of other girls.”

  Not like her, I want to shout. But I force myself to look away, saying, “Okay, okay. But leave me alone now. I promise I won’t go back. I won’t.”

  Wandering into a clump of trees, I sit down with my back against the trunk.

  My friends stand around.

  “You don’t have to babysit me.”

  “Then don’t do anything stupid,” says Emil. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  And then they’re off and I’m left with a pile of chewing-gum wrappers and old beer bottles. Behind me, Bozek, the son of a party member, is moving in on Danika.

  I take off my red Young Pioneer scarf and knot and unknot it. Any minute now, Danika will pass by here. When she does, I’ll step out and walk her home.

  But she doesn’t come. I wait for her until the tree shadows grow heavy.

  Has she —? The thought makes my stomach flip. Has she gone off with Bozek?

  I have to find her. I check out hiding places in the lanes, behind bushes. A place where a boy could pull in a girl for a quick kiss. But there’s nobody.

  I go back to our building and up the 115 steps to our apartment to lie in wait.

  I position myself at the open window, my heart doing cartwheels.

  Sure enough, when she comes, she’s with him. They come up the walk together. My heart twists. I peer out, but keep hidden. She mustn’t think I’m spying on her.

  She and Bozek are standing close. The schoolbooks in their arms almost touch. They’re both still wearing their red scarves. They’re still wearing those even though it’s after school and they no longer have to demonstrate party loyalty.

  They’re idling on the walk, which is edged with flowers that Mrs. Smutny planted, kneeling in those cold fall days, pressing bulbs into the soil with her arthritic fingers. They’re looking into each other’s eyes right where Danika and I have played jump rope and hopscotch.

  I lift my camera over the windowsill and, without sighting, snap a photo of her. At the last second, before I can lift my finger, Bozek moves into the frame. Now I have mistakenly photographed not just Danika, but Danika and Bozek.

  “Patrik!” Mami calls. “Come for supper.”

  “In a minute,” I call back. “I’m finishing some homework.”

  I can’t leave while Danika is down there. I have to know what happens. I can’t just leave these two unobserved. Maybe she’ll come up when the light falls. And Bozek will go away. Far away to wherever he lives. And then I can eat.

  At last he leans a little closer. The books touch. Is she holding hers like a barrier? Or does she tilt them just to the side so that Bozek can edge closer? I lean farther out.

  Too far. Danika looks up, sees me, waves. She calls out, “I see you up there, Patrik!”

  But she doesn’t guiltily draw back from him. She doesn’t think I care.

  Shielding his eyes with one hand, Bozek looks up, too. He waves as well. I wave back. But I’m not waving to him.

  Finally they whisper something together, laugh together, and Bozek goes off down the walk, looking back once, then again. I hear the big door of our building slam. Danika is inside at last.

  I go out and race down the stairs.

  Coming up, she’s a little breathless, her short hair ruffled. I want to toss aside her books and tell her everything.

  But she speaks first, her cheeks flushing. “I saw you take a picture of us, Patrik. Can you develop that photo tonight? I want to show my friends.”

  I stare at her. And stare some more. How could she ask such a thing? How could she dream of asking?

  “You don’t have to blow it up big,” she goes on. “Small is fine.”

  “Not tonight,” I tell her. “There’s too much film left on the roll.”

  I turn up the stairs, away from her. I fly up the stairs and into our apartment.

  Mami has put on the burgundy cloth and the lace place mats under the plates. Bela is already sitting at the round table, eating applesauce alone instead of with her pork chop. She spoons it in, and it runs down the sides of her mouth.

  Danika is probably at the door to her apartment. She is fitting the key into the lock since no one is home. I should go on up. I should apologize.

  Mami goes to the window and looks out at the path that Bozek just walked down. Bozek, going away. She’s waiting to see Tati walk up it.

  I take a pork chop and dollop on some applesauce. I fork a pile of sauerkraut onto my plate, and then Mami cries out and hurries to the front door.

  Instead of using my knife and fork, I pick up the pork chop and take a bite.

  “Patrik!” Bela says, and I stick out my tongue at her.

  “Yuck,” she says, “your mouth has chewed-up pork chop inside.”

  I laugh, teasing her.

  Tati comes up the stairs. He comes inside but doesn’t greet any of us. He sits and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “Jakub Machovik has joined the party,” he says.

  Mami’s eyes grow wide. “No!” she exclaims.

  “Yes,” Tati says simply.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  I too think Tati must be joking. How could our family doctor have done such a thing? Not long ago, we were all together at his vacation house in the pines. And Tati was even telling him about Mr. Bagin. . . . My mind flits away from that terrible thought. Instead I wonder if now Mr. Machovik will report all his vegetables and honey and give half to the government.

  He won’t. All party guys get rotten to the core. Even I know that. The party is like a worm working its way into a crisp red apple. It gets at your soul. I wonder what’s become of the newborn bunnies.

  “How did you learn this news?” asks Mami.

  “It’s official. He’s closed his office and moved downtown.” Tati glances at Bela, who is scraping up the last of her applesauce, then goes on: “He’s evidently in a position of power. Probably because they snared a doctor they did that for him right away. Word has it that he’s demoted Dr. Csider. For the way he joked about how the building materials for the new post office got carted away and sold on the black market.”

  “What’s happened to Dr. Csider?” I ask, Mami’s food now funny in my stomach.

  Tati spears a pork chop and lands it on his plate with a little thud. “Dr. Csider,” he says, “is no longer working as a doctor. He’s been sent to do roadwork way up by Prikra.”

  Mami gasps, and Bela looks at her sharply.

  Everyone is getting demoted these days. Lawyers become window washers. Teachers go to factories. And Adam Uherco, a kid just like me, is locked up.

  But I can hardly imagine Dr. Machovik making skinny old Dr. Csider work with asphalt. Just for cracking a joke.

  Will something now happen to Tati?

  Will something happen to all of us?

  “Why would Dr. Machovik join up?”
I ask.

  Tati shrugs. “For the money.”

  “But he’s a doctor,” Mami says. “Surely he’s got a decent income.”

  “For the power, then. For even more income.”

  A cold shadow falls across us.

  “But a little while ago, he was on our side,” I say. “He was bragging about how he cheats the government.”

  “Becoming a party member doesn’t mean he likes the government any better than he did before.” Tati cuts the pork chop off the bone. “He just sees an opportunity to use that government.”

  “Against us?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  I finish eating and rinse my plate. “More homework,” I say, excusing myself. I go to my room and into the closet, which is my darkroom.

  I shut the door, and the room goes black. I can’t stand having a picture of Bozek with Danika in my camera. Even though the film isn’t completely used and film is sometimes hard to get, I take it out and roll it onto the reel.

  I plunge the reel into the baths and go to work. At the end, I turn on the red light and look at the strip of negatives. Only the last shot is important. It shows Danika and Bozek on the walkway, leaning close with their books almost touching. Even though the negatives aren’t completely dry, I make a print of the shot. Before the paper even dries, I take a pair of scissors and cut Bozek out of the shot. I cut him away from her so that she is separate from him. I hang the image of just her on the inside of the door, then hesitate over Bozek’s image. I could burn it. Or cut it into a million pieces. But I just drop his face — smiling over his red scarf, which is just dark gray now — into the wastebasket.

  Danika lives two floors up in an identical apartment. Years ago we lined up our beds so hers was right on top of mine. At this moment, she may be exactly above me. Is she lying up there daydreaming of Bozek?

  When we were little, Danika and I started the note dropping, and we’ve kept it up all these years. She lowers a note on a string until it dangles where I can see it. She used to tell me how her teddy bear lost its button eye or ask things like what Mami made for dessert. Now she tells me different things. She tells me when she’s had a fight with her friend, asks my advice on how to make up. After I read her note, I always scribble a response. When I yank on the string, she pulls the message to her window.