5

THEY SKIP the Milk Bar the next day and meet instead in the Jewish Centre on Patrice Lumumba. Taking care to straggle in casually and separately (their conspiratorial juices are already flowing) they file past the English language sign just inside the main door (“Welcome to the Juish Centre — donations in any currency are thankful”), past an original “Dreyfus is Innocent” poster (a gift from Dancho), past the black marble Star of David about the size of a spread-eagled man with the eternal flame in the middle that has a habit of going out at the height of memorial services. One flight up they make their way through the Memorial Museum, a collection of photographs and paintings and etchings and maps glued on to plywood panels stretched between floor-to-ceiling metal poles. The display, which looks at first glance like a labyrinth of scaffolding, is meticulously organized. You come in one door to be confronted by a four-color map that shows where in Europe the concentration camps were. (Like sprinkles on ice cream cones, they were everywhere.) You follow the red footprints painted on the floor (children often ignore the walls and leap playfully from footprint to footprint) and wind up, eighty-eight footprints later, facing a tall, narrow photograph of a chimney with smoke coming out of it. At which point, as the Flag Holder put it, “You know everything there is to know about concentration camps — and nothing.”

As the Director of the Centre and the editor of Sofia’s only Jewish newspaper (a monthly, with a circulation of 5000), Lev Mendeleyev had a hand in setting up the Memorial Museum. He also survived seven months in Auschwitz. So when he spoke about concentration camps (which was rarely), it was with a certain amount of authority. “We are the custodians of terror,” he once told a group of American Jews who stopped off in Sofia on their way back from Israel, “terror lodged like a splinter in our memory; terror recollected in tranquillity; terror alphabetized, systematized, catalogued, sorted, arranged chronologically, indexed, numbered and codified. And not comprehended.”

The visitors, who felt more at home with abstractions such as “six million” than the Flag Holder, left for Yugoslavia a day earlier than their schedule called for.

Now the members of the October Circle gather in the large, bare room behind the Memorial Museum that serves the Director as an office. The two Jewish volunteers who put in a few hours a week “rolling psychological bandages” (Octobrina’s phrase) have been sent home for the day. Great flakes of paint are peeling away from the high ceiling. Three of the four windows in the room are wide open; the fourth, which is right above the ventilator for the only toilet in the building, has been nailed shut. Trolleys run back and forth beneath the window; the soft friction of their wheels cause the panes of glass to vibrate, as if from a distant earthquake. A small electric fan placed atop the bookcase with glass doors lifts loose papers with currents of warm air. The Flag Holder sits on a wooden desk chair, his jacket off, his tie loosened, his shirt sticking to his back, staring intently at the Cyrillic keyboard of his ancient Remington.

“I saw the Minister in front of the State Bank this morning,” he remarks. He pauses to light another Rodopi, and pulls on the new one. “His bodyguard was holding open the door of his limousine, but he stopped to chat anyhow. He talked about the weather. He talked about the German tourists flocking to the Black Sea. He talked about your Sofia-Athens bicycle race, Tacho; apparently he’s been assigned the chore of turning up at the frontier for the crossing ceremony. He mentioned the death of Alexander Denev, our former Flag Holder; he said he had just approved a pension for his widow. He asked about the Centre. He asked about my newspaper. He asked when I was taking a vacation and where. Not a word about Czechoslovakia.”

“Maybe he hasn’t heard about it yet,” sneers Mister Dancho. That brings a grim laugh.

“What’s more likely,” Octobrina quips, “he hasn’t worked out what the Party line is yet.” She puffs mischievously on her cigarette holder.

“All political parties have the same line,” the Racer reminds her. “ ‘You’ve never had it so good, and the best is yet to come.’ “

“Suspect every Party line,” declares the Flag Holder. And he adds almost reluctantly, in a voice that seems to come from the crusted lips of a man suddenly grown old:

“Watch out for vanguards that propose to make revolution on someone else’s behalf.”

Popov hasn’t heard a word, but the rest of them lower their eyes to the floor and the Racer, talking to the floor, says the obvious:

“We were the vanguard that made revolution on someone else’s behalf.”

“We joined the Party when the joining of the Party created the Party,” Octobrina appeals earnestly. “Surely that …” The thought trails off into silence, and the silence (broken only by a softly exhaled “Sssssssss” from Popov, so light and inaudible it seems to sail around the room on the current from the fan) puts them on new ground, and the newness of it makes them edgy. Dan-cho scrapes his chair around so that it faces the fan and opens his collar button to expose his neck to its breeze.

“It’s all a crock of—” Dancho cuts himself off and turns sheepishly to Octobrina. “Dear lady, excuse my gutter language.”

“But you didn’t say anything,” Octobrina assures him.

“He never says anything,” Valyo remarks.

Dancho wrenches around. “What do you mean by that?”

“Calm down, friend,” the Racer pleads. “He was only joking.”

“I was only joking,” echoes Valyo.

Dancho returns to the breeze.

Popov sits forward in his chair. “How about this one: ‘Can I be only a witness to history?’ “ He peers out over his pince-nez, waiting to see if anyone can identify the quote.

“It sounds like Count Tolstoy,” Octobrina says absently.

“Lenin, before he rode that sealed railroad car across Germany to join the revolutionaries,” Valyo guesses.

“Our one only Georgi Dimitrov, when he being in trial for putting fire to that Nazi Reichstag,” says the Dwarf. An automobile horn sounds and the dog, Dog, lifts his sightless eyes to listen.

“You’re way off,” Mister Dancho maintains. “It smells Western. Freud maybe. Or Nietzsche. Or Spinoza or Kant or Aquinas — someone like that.”

“No, no,” Popov announces happily. “It is the Frenchman Camus.”

“I was closest,” alleges Dancho.

“How did you decide that?” Valyo challenges.

Dancho looks as if he is about to jump down his throat again, then shrugs and lets it drop. To the Dwarf, he says:

“What about the Mime last night? Is he the one you knew from the circus — what’s his name again?”

“Dreschko,” the Flag Holder supplies.

“Is he this Dreschko?” Dancho inquires.

“Not thinking so,” Angel shakes his head. “Fat Lady she says she remembering Dreschko very good, and the Mime from last night he too short for him. She says he being Mime who committed to be in insane asylum about eight, maybe ten years ago. Name of Drumev, she says.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Octobrina breaks in. “Poleon’s going around telling everyone the Mime is the crazy half brother of that general who defected a few years ago — “

“Bonev?” the Racer asks.

“That’s the one: Bonev. Poleon says he went to school with Bonev and met the half brother once. The family kept him locked in the attic until the housing authority expropriated it. Then they sent him away to work on a collective farm in the South.”

Tacho is shaking his head. “I’d bet my life on it — it’s Dreschko.”

“Fat Lady, she got a good memory,” Angel argues. For sure it’s that crazy Drumev fellow.”

“Poleon seemed quite certain,” Octobrina offers, baffled.

The Racer stands up to unstick his trousers from the chair, and then sits down again. “You’re sure the Rabbit knows to come here?”

“She knows,” the Flag Holder says.

There are footfalls in the Memorial Museum next door; someone is following the eighty-eight red footprints. “Ah, at last,” sighs Octobrina. The Rabbit hurries into the room.

“You won’t believe how many militiamen there are in Sofia,” she says breathlessly. “I swear there is one on every corner.”

“But how is that possible,” Dancho jokes grimly. “We haven’t taken any decision yet.”

“In a police state,” the Dwarf says, “police know what you going do before you know what you going do.”

“Poleon’s just done a film entitled Police State” Dancho remembers. “The censors are dining on it now.”

“Something about Poleon rubs me the wrong way,” the Flag Holder confesses. To the Rabbit, he says:

“Tell us what you’ve heard.”

The Rabbit settles into a chair and wipes the perspiration from her forehead. Octobrina pulls a delicate accordion fan from her pocketbook and hands it to Elisabeta. The Rabbit flips it open and begins fanning herself.

“There was fighting around the radio station last night,” she reports, “but nothing that looks like organized resistance.”

“Where is the Czech army?” the Racer asks.

“In their pubs probably,” sneers Dancho.

The Rabbit shakes her head. “The army’s been confined to barracks.”

“On whose orders?” The Flag Holder leans forward. “The Russians?”

“Apparently the Czechs,” replies the Rabbit. “Their military people issued orders saying that resistance would be futile. They claim there are half a million soldiers involved in the invasion, mostly Russian, but with units from the German Democratic Republic, Poland, Hungary and” — she flashes a look at Lev — “our paratroopers. The whole thing was planned down to the last detail. They took the airport at Prague first, and then started bringing in troop transports at the rate of one a minute for hours. The Soviet military attache here is very pleased with himself. He was boasting that nobody ever credited the Russians with an airlift capability. He said they surrounded most of the government and Party buildings before the Czechs knew they were even in the country.”

“Bully for the bastards,” Dancho groans. The Racer observes:

“It doesn’t look much like a spur-of-the-moment affair, does it? Which means that all the time they were talking to the Czechs — at Cierna had Tisou, at Bratislava — they knew they were going in.”

The Rabbit hands the fan back to Octobrina with a damp smile. “Dubek’s been taken to Moscow,” she continues. “Nobody knows anything on him for sure, but our people assume he’ll be tried for treason and shot as soon as things quiet down. Czech Radio says — “

“I thought Russians they occupied Radio — “ the Dwarf interrupts.

“They did,” Elisabeta explains, “but Dubek’s people must have hidden transmitters around the country, because the reformers are still broadcasting bulletins. The Russians are flying in jamming equipment, but that will take a day or so to set up. Anyhow, Czech Radio has called a general strike for noon tomorrow. And they’ve warned everyone to remove all street and house number signs to make it more difficult for the Russians to find people they want to arrest.”

The Flag Holder and the Racer exchanged looks. “So it is starting,” Tacho comments.

Valyo asks whether the Russians have been able to field a collaborationist government.

“That’s the strange part,” the Rabbit says. “The Russians haven’t formed one yet. It’s apparently the only flaw in the operation. The Russians must have a collaborationist government to support their story about being invited in. I saw some mimeographed material this morning for distribution to regional Party leaders. It comes straight from the Soviet Embassy by the feel of it. The paper makes the case that Moscow has the moral right to intervene anywhere in the Socialist Commonwealth to prevent counterrevolution — “

“Counter — that’s a laugh,” snorts Dancho.

“And they claim that a counterrevolutionary situation existed in Czechoslovakia.”

“But how can they say that?” cries Octobrina. “It wasn’t at all like Hungary. There were no hostilities — “

“They’ve taken care of that small inconsistency,” the Rabbit replies. “They’ve invented what they call a ‘new phenomenon of history.’ Are you ready for this? It’s called ‘peaceful counterrevolution!’ “

“Peaceful counterrevolution!” echoes Mister Dancho, dum-founded.

“Peaceful counterrevolution,” Elisabeta repeats. “That’s going to be their ticket for this trip. The line hasn’t been authorized for mass consumption yet, but it will probably be used as soon as the political situation in Prague is straightened out.”

“My god,” moans Valyo.

“Say what you want about them,” Mister Dancho observes. “They’re creative bastards.”

The Dwarf shakes his head and mutters some dark phrases in Hungarian.

“It is just not possible for anyone to be that cynical,” declares Octobrina.

“What about the Americans?” asks the Racer. “Is there any word on their reactions?”

Mister Dancho shakes his head in despair. “You still think the Americans will save the day, don’t you?”

The Rabbit turns to Tacho:

“One of the men I work with says he heard from his brother-in-law, who is over at the Ministry of Defense, who got it from a Russian major general, who said he saw a limited distribution memo which said that the Americans had quietly let the Russians know that they would make appropriate noises but take no action in the event of a military move against Czechoslovakia.”

Another trolley goes by and the window rattles slightly in its pane. “The central question,” the Flag Holder asserts quietly, “is what are we going to do.”

Valyo jumps up. “We must consider seriously the possibility of making some sort of protest.”

“And end up in jail for our troubles,” Octobrina cries in alarm. She flicks her cigarette ash nervously and it floats around in the breeze from the fan.

The Racer says:

“You forget we have our photographs — “

“Then it is agreed we must do something?” Valyo persists.

His feet dangling from the chair, the Dwarf smiles his mocking smile and nods slowly.

“But what will we do?” demands the Rabbit.

“There is no possibility of your taking part in this,” the Flag Holder announces matter-of-factly. When Elisabeta starts to protest, he cuts her off sharply. “It is out of the question. You have no photograph to protect you. You are vulnerable. We are not.”

Octobrina smiles at Elisabeta. “The very least they’ll do is take away your job. And then we will lose our source of information.”

“We will have to resort to the newspapers to find out what is happening,” jokes Dancho.

Popov coughs nervously. “I could try to write a poem,” he offers. “Something obscure enough to get past the censors. It is easier, you know, to get poetry past them than prose. In poetry, you can hide what you want to say between the words.” He looks around shyly.

“That’s very generous of you, Atanas, and very brave too,” Octobrina says. “We all know what it would mean for you to write poetry again. But I think we had something more— “ She looks around for help.

“Immediate,” Dancho prompts.

“More immediate in mind,” Octobrina continues.

“Something in the nature of a protest letter perhaps,” Valyo suggests.

“But to whom sending it?” demands the Dwarf.

The Rabbit reminds them that the Russian dissidents always send their letters to the New York Times.

The Racer begins pacing back and forth in front of the open window. “They send their letters to somebody, with a copy to the New York Times” he notes.

“How about the Minister?” Valyo ventures. “We could send it to him. ‘We, the undersigned’ — that sort of thing.” He glances around hopefully.

“I have it,” Dancho interrupts excitedly. “What about boycotting the nine September parade. My god, what could be more appropriate: protest against the Soviet liberation of Czechoslovakia by boycotting the parade marking the twenty-fourth anniversary of the Soviet liberation of Bulgaria!”

“But that’s almost three weeks from now,” the Racer reminds him. “In three weeks everyone may have forgotten about Czec hoslovakia.”

“If we’re going to send a letter,” Octobrina insists, on a wavelength of her own, “we might as well go all the way and send it to the United Nations.”

“Or Soviet Politburo,” the Dwarf throws in. “Or Brezhnev.”

“We should consider other possibilities,” the Racer suggests from the window.

“Like for instance?” asks Dancho.

“I don’t know, for god’s sake. We could all refuse to pay our dues, or quit the Party altogether. That would shake them up.”

The Flag Holder rests his hands on the keyboard of the Remington and stares for a moment at his fingertips. “Look, friends,” he says, “we must begin by facing reality. And the reality that we must face first is that we have no access to the press or to the people. Even the articles in my little newspaper must have a Central Committee stamp on them before the Lamplighter will set them in type. No, friends, there is only one way that we can protest.”

The Flag Holder bends his head and sucks another Rodopi into life. “We must give them theater.”