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into his stomach, doubling the German over. “Answer the question.”
    Adler took a few breaths. “These kinds of calls, I don’t question them. Yalta Boulevard has its own agenda, doesn’t it? We help liberation movements all over the world.”
    Gavra wasn’t sure what to believe. He leaned over the German. “These men. They arrived in town on Sunday. And you met them at the Metropol to give them the explosives. Didn’t you?”
    “No,” he said.
    Gavra grabbed his ears. He tried to pull away, but by then Gavra had put his knee into his face. His nose started to bleed, and his eyes were dripping as Gavra squatted again. “Tell me the truth.”
    “But I am,” he whispered, then wiped his nose and examined the blood on his fingers. “I wasn’t even here. I was in Sárospatak, in a hotel on the Bodrog River. With my wife. We came back late Tuesday. Ask her .” He coughed. “I swear I didn’t speak to anyone again after my phone call.”
    Brano shrugged and said, “Of course you were in the countryside. We have your hotel registration.”
    Gavra looked up. “What?”
    “Come on,” said Brano. Then, to Adler: “Remember, you’re being watched.”

Peter
     
    1968
     
    In the tram, looking over the tired faces of his people, Peter knew that Captain Poborsky was right—he had lied about what had happened in that field, and lying was something he was adept at. He’d learned it at home, with his father. But he hadn’t lied when he said he would never leave Czechoslovakia.
    He had followed his friends to the border out of a need to be with Ivana and knew that once they reached the border he would stop. Or he would cross but, after a few weeks or months, turn around again. He had grown up in this country, had known it all his life, and in this system he had studied music and built his modest world. To Peter, each system was as uncomfortable as the next; it only mattered which one you had become accustomed to.
    He was back at the dormitory in a half hour. The corridor was as smoky as the café had been, with faces he recognized lining the walls. A few nodded, but most ignored him. They were part of a steady undertone of conversation that, before the Russians arrived, had been an overtone. At least that was something positive about the Russians’ appearance: It was quieter now.
    When he opened the door to 305, a hand grabbed his shirt, pulled and threw him heavily on his cot. His head knocked against the wall. Josef stood over him, his dark features flushed. Behind Josef, Gustav from the medical school reclined on the other cot, watching calmly and scratching his beard.
    “What the hell’s going on?” said Peter, sitting up.
    Josef slammed the door shut. “Where were you, Peter?”
    “I was in town, with Jan.”
    “After that.”
    “I came here.”
    Josef stepped closer—he was very quick—and punched the side of Peter’s head. Ringing erupted in his ear.
    Gustav, from the cot, said, “Don’t lie to us. We know you met an StB agent in the Obecní Dům.”
    “The fucking Obecní Dům!” said Josef.
    Gustav said, “Jan saw you.”
    “Was I being followed?”
    “I could kill you,” said Josef.
    “What did you tell him?” asked Gustav.
    “I didn’t tell him anything.”
    Josef hit the side of his head again.
    Peter raised a hand. “Cut that out, okay? I’m telling you I didn’t say a thing. I don’t know anything.”
    “What did he want?” asked Gustav.
    Peter flinched when Josef moved closer. “He wanted to scare me. He wanted names, of course. But I’m telling you, I didn’t give him any.”
    “You were with him for a while,” said Josef.
    “Well, you don’t just stand up and walk out when you’re dealing with these men. Do you?”
    “I’d have strangled him.”
    “No you wouldn’t have,” said Gustav. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, scratched his beard again, then looked up when someone knocked at the door. “Yeah?”
    Jan poked his head in. “Josef, can we—” He noticed