Read Online My Own Revolution by Carolyn Marsden - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolyn Marsden
Ads: Link
recorder.
“How about you?” Emil asks, dislodging a rock with his shoe.
“I’m fine. Except for Danika.”
“Hmm,” Emil muses, blowing three perfect gray halos. He pushes the rock, and it clatters all the way down.
He wants to talk more. I can tell. I also want to talk. I want to tell him how Danika’s father is joining the party. But then Emil wouldn’t like her anymore. I want to tell him that my parents are feeling their way through a labyrinth, looking for a way out, bumping against dead ends.
But even Emil could change in the blink of an eye. I think of Dr. Machovik. Even Emil could turn against me.
Bela and Mami sit at the kitchen table, a pile of paper flowers stacked in front of them. Bela wears one of the flowers behind her ear. All morning they’ve been cutting and twisting the paper, preparing the decorations. On the day before May Day, a person like Bozek will walk the streets with a clipboard, marking down which windows are bare.
Someone knocks on our front door, and I open up to see Bozek, a pile of flags draped over one arm, a bag slung over the other. Bozek of all people. He puts a foot in the doorway, as if I might close him out.
“Is your family ready?” he asks.
“We’re working on it.” I move closer, using my beanpole height against him. I reach down for a flag of each country, thinking that later Mami can clean the furniture with the Russian one.
“Make sure you hang the Russian flag,” Bozek says. “It doesn’t matter so much about the Czechoslovakian, but do hang the Russian flag.”
“I know.” He thinks I’m a moron.
Bozek lifts the paper bag, and I hear the clank of metal. “Do you have flag holders?”
“Of course we do. From last year and the year before and before . . .” He thinks we’re all morons.
He lingers. He’s no doubt looking for something suspicious. Like my photo of the painted-out letters. Maybe he suspects that Danika is here.
“Do you have something else to give us?” I ask.
He shrugs.
Thwack,
I close the door on him. I open it again and look out. But he’s already at old Mr. and Mrs. Smutny’s door.
“I hate to think of who made these,” says Mami, stretching out the flags.
“Who?” Bela wants to know.
“Prisoners,” Mami answers. “And not even criminals. Ordinary people. Anyone who says boo to the state.”
“That’s sad,” Bela says, taking the flower out of her hair and adding it to the others.
“It is indeed,” Mami agrees. “Help me, Patrik. Let’s get these flags hung.”
“Be sure to go today, Patrik. Don’t hide out. And sing. Don’t just mouth the words,” Tati advises me. “It’s hard to stomach, I know . . . but for the sake of all of us . . .” He straightens my red scarf, making sure it lies neatly. “There will be a lot of secret agents milling about,” he says. “Ready to pounce on anyone who doesn’t look enthused.”
“I promise to look enthused,” I assure him. Babicak will certainly have his eye on me.
Out in the street, the crowd has already gathered. Lining up are the steelworkers, with Danika’s father and Emil’s parents among them, the workers from the local spa, those who bottle the spa’s water, the professors from the university, the Communist militia, Tati and the other psychiatrists of Western Slovakia, and the doctors from the hospital. But not Dr. Csider, who told one too many jokes.
Tractors decked out with red flags have arrived from the collective farms. If I knew Eduard Bagin by sight, I’d look for him. Party members carry more red flags, raising the poles high. Women in Slovakian dancing costumes look ready to lift their embroidered skirts, kick up their legs, and prance.
High above the crowd float big photo portraits of famous Communists: Lenin, Karl Marx, Fidel Castro, and Lumumba of the Congo. The giant faces stare down on us, watching. Watching for those who might pee on them.
Secret agents are certainly mixed into the crowd. Rumor has it that for
“How about you?” Emil asks, dislodging a rock with his shoe.
“I’m fine. Except for Danika.”
“Hmm,” Emil muses, blowing three perfect gray halos. He pushes the rock, and it clatters all the way down.
He wants to talk more. I can tell. I also want to talk. I want to tell him how Danika’s father is joining the party. But then Emil wouldn’t like her anymore. I want to tell him that my parents are feeling their way through a labyrinth, looking for a way out, bumping against dead ends.
But even Emil could change in the blink of an eye. I think of Dr. Machovik. Even Emil could turn against me.
Bela and Mami sit at the kitchen table, a pile of paper flowers stacked in front of them. Bela wears one of the flowers behind her ear. All morning they’ve been cutting and twisting the paper, preparing the decorations. On the day before May Day, a person like Bozek will walk the streets with a clipboard, marking down which windows are bare.
Someone knocks on our front door, and I open up to see Bozek, a pile of flags draped over one arm, a bag slung over the other. Bozek of all people. He puts a foot in the doorway, as if I might close him out.
“Is your family ready?” he asks.
“We’re working on it.” I move closer, using my beanpole height against him. I reach down for a flag of each country, thinking that later Mami can clean the furniture with the Russian one.
“Make sure you hang the Russian flag,” Bozek says. “It doesn’t matter so much about the Czechoslovakian, but do hang the Russian flag.”
“I know.” He thinks I’m a moron.
Bozek lifts the paper bag, and I hear the clank of metal. “Do you have flag holders?”
“Of course we do. From last year and the year before and before . . .” He thinks we’re all morons.
He lingers. He’s no doubt looking for something suspicious. Like my photo of the painted-out letters. Maybe he suspects that Danika is here.
“Do you have something else to give us?” I ask.
He shrugs.
Thwack,
I close the door on him. I open it again and look out. But he’s already at old Mr. and Mrs. Smutny’s door.
“I hate to think of who made these,” says Mami, stretching out the flags.
“Who?” Bela wants to know.
“Prisoners,” Mami answers. “And not even criminals. Ordinary people. Anyone who says boo to the state.”
“That’s sad,” Bela says, taking the flower out of her hair and adding it to the others.
“It is indeed,” Mami agrees. “Help me, Patrik. Let’s get these flags hung.”
“Be sure to go today, Patrik. Don’t hide out. And sing. Don’t just mouth the words,” Tati advises me. “It’s hard to stomach, I know . . . but for the sake of all of us . . .” He straightens my red scarf, making sure it lies neatly. “There will be a lot of secret agents milling about,” he says. “Ready to pounce on anyone who doesn’t look enthused.”
“I promise to look enthused,” I assure him. Babicak will certainly have his eye on me.
Out in the street, the crowd has already gathered. Lining up are the steelworkers, with Danika’s father and Emil’s parents among them, the workers from the local spa, those who bottle the spa’s water, the professors from the university, the Communist militia, Tati and the other psychiatrists of Western Slovakia, and the doctors from the hospital. But not Dr. Csider, who told one too many jokes.
Tractors decked out with red flags have arrived from the collective farms. If I knew Eduard Bagin by sight, I’d look for him. Party members carry more red flags, raising the poles high. Women in Slovakian dancing costumes look ready to lift their embroidered skirts, kick up their legs, and prance.
High above the crowd float big photo portraits of famous Communists: Lenin, Karl Marx, Fidel Castro, and Lumumba of the Congo. The giant faces stare down on us, watching. Watching for those who might pee on them.
Secret agents are certainly mixed into the crowd. Rumor has it that for
Similar Books
