My Own Revolution (12 page)

Finally we drive into the old medieval town, with its pale tan buildings and soft curving walls. The flags of Russia and Czechoslovakia hang from the buildings. I hold up my camera and pretend to shoot photos, though I’m still out of film. Maybe Tati will stop so I can buy some. But later. Right now we have to get the boat.

I look for signs of all that Bozek brags about, but see only a tattered poster advertising a local band. I spot just one man wearing blue jeans.

Tati consults his handwritten directions to the state-run store, the
tuzex.
He hands me the slip of paper, and, as he drives, I read aloud: “‘Left here, go straight, look for the gas station on the corner.’”

Another white VW. But that means nothing. Beetles are everywhere. I see a blue one. A brown one.

At last we arrive. The
tuzex
is a plain, flat-looking storefront with small windows. Tati parks the car and trailer, and we walk up to the entrance.

A small man with very red lips sits blocking the doorway. When our shadows fall across him, he looks up. “What are you here to buy?” he asks Tati.

“A fiberglass boat. I called ahead to order it.”

“The purpose of this boat?” The man purses his lips.

I fasten the bottom button of my shirt.

“It’s just for recreation,” Tati answers. “My family is going on vacation.”

“And where are your
bon
s for such a big purchase?”

Tati takes out his wallet and displays the special currency inside.

“And where did you get so many
bon
s?”

From the inside pocket of his jacket, Tati takes the letter from the hospital. He unfolds it carefully and hands it to the man.

The man purses his lips again, reading about the paper published in the West. At last he reluctantly waves us inside.

We enter into a heaven. The store is filled with fragrant coffees, gold-wrapped chocolates, imported cheeses, and nice clothes. While Tati goes into the little office in the back, I examine the reel-to-reel tape recorders. I look at the transistor radios that have all been fixed in the factory to prevent anyone from getting the Voice of America.

I look at the recorders again, running my fingertip over the big spools of brown recording tape. With one of these, I could record Emil’s Beatles music for myself. What is taking Tati so long? Is there a problem? Maybe there’s no boat available. Maybe it’s like my film. No boat to be found. Maybe we’ve come all this way for nothing.

Or maybe someone has discovered the real reason Tati wants the boat.

I walk back over to the radios, examining them as if I were a serious buyer. In Yugoslavia we’ll pretend to be just normal campers, like we were before. We’ll take our boat out every day, as if for fun. We’ll make campfires and gaze at the distant freedom of Italy, straining to make out the lights on the shore.

When we camped there, a woman set out swimming. She was towing her little daughter in an inner tube. The two got smaller and smaller until we couldn’t see them at all, even with binoculars. We never saw either of them again.

Tati finally does return, flourishing a piece of tan paper. It says he has paid for a boat and gives the Bratislava address where we are to get it. Beside the address, the man in the office has scribbled directions.

Back in the car, I again read off directions while Tati drives: “‘Right here, around the bend . . .’”

We pass a little store that might sell film, but I say nothing.

Finally we arrive outside town at a big parking lot. Beyond the barbed-wire fence, I see cars, trucks, boats, and trailers.

At the guard hut, a soldier looks over Tati’s tan paper. Then he picks up the phone.

“Who’s he calling?” I whisper to Tati.

“Probably the
tuzex.
To make sure we didn’t counterfeit the bill of sale.”

The man comes out, climbs into our backseat, and instructs: “Go on through the gate. . . . Turn here. . . . Now here.”

The trailer bumps along behind, clattering over the rutty dirt lot.

Finally, we pull up beside a turquoise boat, gleaming with newness. There’s a name painted along the side:
The Fancy Free.
The name makes me smile.

The three of us climb out, banging shut the Fiat’s doors.

While Tati and the soldier look back and forth between the paperwork and the boat itself, I stroke the hull’s glossy surface. I pat the bulk of the East German engine.

“We’re going on a trip to Yugoslavia,” Tati explains to the soldier.

Even now, if this man were to have suspicions, he could just call someone. The boat’s name suddenly seems to give everything away. It’s as if someone gave us a boat with this name on purpose.

“Here, Patrik, help me,” Tati says.

We winch the boat onto the trailer, the soldier helping. We secure it on with long cables.

When we drop the soldier at his hut, we all shake hands. And then we are out the gate with our prize.

“The name!” I say when we’re back on the road.

Tati slaps the steering wheel and laughs.

“It’s not funny,” I say. “Do you think that soldier guessed?”

“Who knows?” Tati glances in the rearview mirror. As he drives, I feel the tug of the boat behind us.

This time I see the car for sure. I see the rust.

On that half-moon of beach, we’ll have to watch out for that car. We’ll have to watch out for the Yugoslav patrol boats flying their red-white-and-blue flags. We’ll have to be careful of even fellow campers. On the final morning we’ll have to leave early, before the afternoon thunderstorms scroll along the horizon.

“What about the travel permission?” I ask Tati.

He sighs and taps the steering wheel, saying, “One thing at a time, Patrik.”

In the past, whenever we traveled out of the country for vacation, Tati went to the downtown office and got travel papers. But he won’t be able to do that anymore. Without that slip of paper, the Czech guards at the border will turn us back. This journey to fetch the boat will be all for nothing.

Tati taps the steering wheel again, accidentally honking the horn. “Things will work out.”

But things might not work out. We may never leave. Someone may figure out what we’re up to.

At that point, would they send soldiers or only police? Would we hear sirens?

If only I were old enough to take charge, even in a small way. “How about letting me drive, Tati?”

“
You?
But you’ve never . . .”

“I want to try. This is as good a time as any.”

“But the boat . . .” he protests. Yet, at the spot where we stopped for lunch, Tati pulls off the road. He gets out, gesturing for me to switch places with him. The motor is still running.

I’ve sat behind the wheel of a car before, but never with the engine turned on. I don’t know what to do with my arms and legs.

“Push in the clutch, and move the gearshift forward and toward you,” Tati instructs.

I do as he says, and the Fiat lurches.

“Take it easy.”

I move the car onto the road, into the golden late afternoon. We’re almost the only travelers headed for Trencin. This may be the last time we’ll drive into town from Bratislava. The last time I’ll see these canvas-backed trucks trudging along the farm roads, the row of neat white houses, the cows grazing against the factory smokestacks.

But these thoughts are mere whispers. Mostly I’m focused on gripping the hard plastic steering wheel with the ridges that fit my fingers. I’m gauging the pressure of my foot on the pedal, focused on not hitting that donkey cart with its load of vegetables. As I take the curve just right, our boat rattling behind, a delicious feeling of power surges through me. I’m bringing home
The Fancy Free
for all of us. If only we could snatch up Mami and Bela, if only I could drive us all the way to America . . .

On our final morning in the campground, Tati and I will go early to the store to buy extra gas. Mami will pack a normal picnic — nothing extra to arouse suspicion. We won’t tell blabbermouth Bela a thing. The sky will be clear, the olive-green horizon of Italy beckoning like a promise.

On the outskirts of Trencin, Tati takes the wheel again, saying, “Nice work, son. You’re a good driver.” Just then, we pass a police motorcycle parked by the side of the road.

As we go by, the motorcycle roars into action. The siren sounds:
Wawawa!

Swearing, Tati pulls over, bringing the boat to a bumpy halt.

I clutch the armrest.

The officer comes to the window, the pistol on his waist at eye level. Reaching out a meaty hand, he asks to see Tati’s driver’s license. Studying the license, he asks, “Where did you get such a new boat, Mr. Chrobak?”

“It’s
Doctor.
Dr. Chrobak.”

“Doctor, then. Please answer my question, Doctor.”

“I bought it in Bratislava. The bill of sale is right here.” Tati opens the glove compartment and pulls out the tan paper.

After the policeman looks at the paper, he disappears, going back to the boat. Out the side window, I see him kick the trailer tires. Once he sees the name, we’ll be done for.

Finally, the officer returns to the window. He hands back Tati’s license and the bill of sale. “All seems to be in order, Mr. Chrobak. You are free to go.”

Tati eases back onto the road, muttering, “Close call.”

“What could he have done?” I hold my thumb on my wrist, feeling the thud of pulse.

“Depends on how tight the net is.”

“They’ve cast a net?” My pulse beats harder.

“Only time will tell,” Tati says slowly.

I think of Mr. Holub talking to the walkie-talkie men. That’s the net. That’s how it’s cast.

I think again of my future in the dark cave. My headlamp may go out. Smothering on darkness, I’ll have no batteries. I’ll have to scramble to find the way. Scramble and fall. I’ll batter my way with the pickax.

Tati drives to the parking lot, where he lines the boat up next to a pole. “Stay here,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

I get out and lean against the Fiat. In the dusky light, I make out Danika headed toward me. This is the first time we’ve been alone since she came to my darkroom looking for the photo of herself with Bozek.

Her eyes grow round at the sight of the boat. “Is this
yours
?”

I nod, my heart rolling loose.

“What’s it for?”

“A trip to Yugoslavia.”

“Isn’t it early to go on vacation? School isn’t out for a long time.”

I shrug. “My father wants to go before the summer crowds.”

“
The Fancy Free,
” she says, tracing the script with her fingertip. “That’s a nice name.”

A name that gives it all away.

“My father let me drive,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen again. “All by yourself?”

“Of course. It was easy.”

Her eyes brighten. Probably even Bozek hasn’t driven a car with a boat in tow.

Tati returns with cables and two padlocks. We tie the boat to the pole, Danika threading a cable through the metal rings.

When the boat is secured, Tati goes inside, leaving Danika and me behind. The lights in the parking lot come on, turning the air from gray to orange. The nighttime crickets begin to whir.

“I have something to tell you,” Danika says. She edges close and I flinch at her familiar scent. She pauses, then says, “My father joined.”

It’s like a padlock snapping shut. “Fantastic. That’s fantastic news.”

“I know you don’t approve, Patrik. I know”— she drops her voice —“that your family isn’t pro-party. But just think what this will mean for
my
family.” Her gaze outlines our escape vessel. “I thought you should know.”

“Okay. You’ve done your duty. Now I know.” I lean against the boat’s revealing name. “I ask just one thing, Danika. Leave us alone. Leave my family alone.”

“Why, Patrik, I’d never . . .”

“The damage is done. Just imagine me working deep under the dark ground.”

She passes one hand over her forehead, saying, “My father had nothing to do with that.”

“Save it,” I mutter, striding away.

Upstairs, Tati has folded up the tan bill of sale and is tucking it into his wallet. Mami busily smoothes the doilies on the arms of the chairs. Bela plays with her doll, the miniature furniture made of boxes strewn across the floor.

I approach Tati, pulling up a chair until it rests arm to arm with his. I place my hand over the doily. I feel the neat pattern against my palm, then whisper, “We have to be careful. Mr. Holub has joined the party.”

Tati shuts his wallet, grips it with both hands. “How long have you known this, Patrik?”

“I just learned.” Which is not technically a lie.

Mami begins to straighten the doilies all over again.

“What are we going to do?” I ask. Already shadows are crisscrossing the windows.

Tati slaps the wallet against his open palm. “We’ll have to leave very soon,” he says. “We’ll begin preparations.”

“Can’t we go right away?”

“We’re not even packed, Patrik. There are matters to be attended to.”

“Like the travel permission.”

“Exactly.”

“And what other matters?”

“There are some patients I have to see.”