Chapter 1

 

Budapest, Hungary, 1956

Major Fedor Petrovski sat in the turret of the Soviet T-54 tank; head, shoulders and upper body exposed above the open hatch. He squinted into the sun’s gleaming reflection off the Danube and contemplated the hopelessness of his situation.

It was Tuesday, October 30, and the Hungarian revolt against Soviet occupation was less than a week old, but both sides had already suffered stunning losses, with dead and wounded in the thousands. Early in the uprising, students of Lorand Etvos University had attempted unsuccessfully to topple a large bronze statue of Stalin, an ominous portend of things to come. Stalin’s image still stood, arms folded, scowling at the insurgents, and Soviet troops still controlled most of Hungary.

Petrovski’s assignment was to keep open the eastern approach to the century and a half old Chain Bridge that connected the Buda and Pest sections of the capital city. From his perch in the turret of the 36-ton steel behemoth, he observed the flow of Soviet armament and troops along the opposite shore. In the distance artillery fire flashed, followed shortly by the dull roar of the explosion. It brought back memories of the storms of his childhood in the Ukraine. First the lightning, then: one-and-a, two-and-a, three-and-boom, the thunder. The fighting had continued unabated since sunrise and Petrovski was thankful for the relative quiet on his side of the river.

Carefully, he folded back the waxed paper wrapping and bit into his sandwich, savoring the tang of the spiced meat, the coarse texture of the black bread, and the ever-present aroma of fresh garlic. As he slowly chewed, he closed his eyes, attempting to deal with the inescapable reality that the most cherished part of his life was over.

Soon, the Soviets would quell the revolt, probably within days, and he’d likely be shipped back to the cold bleak landscape of his former base, north of Moscow. Even if he remained in Budapest, the Hungarians would detest and shun him.

During his two-year posting in the Hungarian capital he had been accepted by most, and found himself drawn irresistibly to the warm, friendly Magyars. Unlike his fellow soldiers, these were people who lived life to the fullest. Everything they did was done with great gusto and spirit. Men playing cards would throw them down with a force that almost shook the table. He was completely captivated by their fervor and lust for life. Never in his thirty-four years had he felt as alive and vital as he did among the people of Budapest.

His time in the Army had been spent among fellow soldiers who were cold and self absorbed. They addressed each other as “tavarish,” but far from being comrades, they were schemers, swindlers, and liars; always searching for an advantage, a leverage, a way to cheat you.

Once the Soviets crushed the uprising, he would be separated forever from the only people he’d ever wished to be a part of. The prospect was so devastating he’d briefly considered deserting, but in a country controlled by the Soviets, desertion was not an option. His life was now a story without an acceptable ending. That which he valued most was lost, and could never be recovered.

For days he’d vacillated between depression and frustration, surrounded by the inescapable sights, sounds and smells of war. He took another bite of his sandwich and sighed heavily.

At noon, Petrovski was alerted by the sound of approaching tanks. The first of a column of eight T-34 medium tanks rounded a corner and headed for his bridge. The odor of their diesel exhaust and the acrid smell of cordite from the gunfire across the river combined to upset his stomach, and he dropped the remains of his sandwich onto the cobblestone street.

The ground trembled as the first seven tanks turned and, rumbled slowly past him onto the historic old bridge. The tank at the rear of the column did not turn, but continued south along the river. Petrovski noted the red star and “B-11” on its turret and picked up his microphone to radio the errant commander to rejoin his unit. Suddenly the air was filled with the staccato crack of small arms fire. A shot ricocheted off the side of his tank with a piercing “pang”!

“Shit,” he muttered as he slipped down into the safety of the tank, closed the hatch and rotated the turret and its 85mm cannon in the direction of the gunfire. He’d already forgotten about tank B-11.

Petrovski did not see the lone tank continue for another mile along the river’s edge, then turn onto a narrow, tree lined street, knocking a piece off the corner of an old brick school building. No one saw that but Imre Weiszman, the elderly school custodian.

A hundred and fifty yards beyond the school, the tank turned into the parking lot of the Danube Banking Company, crossed the empty blacktop and rammed, at nearly full speed, into the side of the single story brick building.

Thirty-two tons of steel traveling at slightly over thirty miles an hour broke easily through the bank’s outer wall and penetrated the concrete vault up to its turret. The commander and his four crewmen climbed out of the forward hatch, tied wet cloths over their mouths and noses, to keep from choking on cement dust, and began loading the cash stored in the vault into canvas bags.. The safety deposit boxes yielded quickly and easily to their heavy hammers and star chisels, providing jewelry and additional cash.

The crew moved rapidly, with a choreographed smoothness born of practice and experience. In twenty minutes, their looting complete, they reentered the tank and backed out of the building.  
Three high explosive cannon rounds, fired at close range, completed demolished the building, obliterating all evidence of their visit. Two employees, trapped within the bank, perished. The tank commander then disabled his radio and headed farther south along the river, to conceal their plunder in a damaged fuel storage tank hidden in a dense stand of trees. Once done, they proceeded to rejoin their unit across the Danube.

With fighting intensifying throughout the city, the commander would have no problem explaining the expended cannon rounds or how, in all the confusion, they had become separated from their squadron and unable to establish contact because their radio had malfunctioned. But it was unlikely anyone had even noticed they’d been missing.

Only Major Petrovski had seen tank B-11 break ranks. Shortly after the full moon rose over the Danube, Petrovski’s concerns about his future, or tank B-11, or anything else, ended abruptly when a Hungarian engineering student lifted the tank’s hatch and dropped in a Molotov cocktail, incinerating the Major and his entire crew.