Read Online My Own Revolution by Carolyn Marsden - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carolyn Marsden
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every two people, there’s one agent. We never know who. As Mami likes to say, it could be the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
Three police vans, their windows blacked out, are parked at the corner.
At school, Mami leads Bela by the hand, helping her find a spot at the front of the parade. The younger kids are dressed in their white shirts, the older in blue. Of course, all of us sport the pointy red scarves. Mami blows a kiss to Bela, then hurries off to find the other nurses.
Mr. Babicak, Mr. Noll, Mrs. Jakim, and the other teachers stand with clipboards and pens. The principal calls out names, and we take our places in formation. I’m next to Bozek. He stands serious, his haircut shorter than before. For this special day, he’s wearing a pair of blue jeans. I move toward the boy on my left.
Through a gap in the buildings, I see a caravan of Gypsy wagons winding along a distant hillside. They don’t have to march in this stupid parade but are making their own. Even the Communist Party has no hold over them.
Outside of proper society,
people say.
A shifty, restless feeling grows among us. Some of us are eager to begin the celebration; others want to get it done with. It’s hard to know who feels what.
Four boys and four girls carry the banners that stretch the width of the street. When Mr. Babicak finally blows the whistle, they unfurl and we set off.
The parade has begun. We’re a few steps closer to the end.
As the parade moves out of range of the teachers’ control, some of us break formation, edging nearer to friends. I sidle close to Emil and Karel. Together we march behind a flag with dangling red fringe.
On each street corner, bands play the Communist anthem, “The Internationale.” “Arise, ye workers from your slumber . . .” Loudspeakers blare: “Soviet Union forever!” We wave — we have to wave — at those lining the streets, mostly the mothers. Although they have no official group to march with, they have to be here.
Since I also have to be here, I wish I was at least marching with Danika. If she was my girlfriend, I could put up with this. Just as I think that, I catch sight of her. She’s not far ahead.
She’s walking with Bozek. Two good Commies marching together. So it’s come to this. I bite the inside of my cheek on one side, then the other.
“Don’t look,” says Karel. “Don’t get yourself upset.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t look. Not with that black mark on my record.
Emil presses something small into my hand. I open my fingers to his plastic cigarette lighter.
Walking on tiptoe, I see that those two are not only marching together. They’re holding hands.
Karel points at the red fringe on the flag ahead of us.
I glance toward the giant faces of famous Communists. All but one — Lumumba — are facing away. I flick the tiny wheel of the lighter. It takes a few seconds for the fringe to catch. I hold the lighter steady, my thumb firm. Finally, the fire ripples along.
Karel and Emil dash off, but I stick around. I raise my camera to the flag on fire and shoot, capturing the glorious moment.
The man holding the flag touches the back of his neck. He whips the flag around and drops it to the ground. He stamps out the flames.
A bunch of people stare, one shouts, and then the parade goes on, the man carrying the blackened flag in his arms.
I move away, looking around for anyone who might know me. That man over there — is he the one from the castle, the one with the beige jacket and the VW Beetle? Now he’s wearing a dark-blue jacket, so it’s hard to be sure.
The parade makes a turn onto a side street where no one’s watching. The marching bands play a few more bars of melody and fall silent. Thank God the marching peters out.
I run across Mr. Ninzik, who is not with any group. He hasn’t been sent to the wastelands of Siberia after all. He’s not shoveling rocks and ice. At least not yet. “Mr. Ninzik!” I call.
He looks around, hands shoved
Three police vans, their windows blacked out, are parked at the corner.
At school, Mami leads Bela by the hand, helping her find a spot at the front of the parade. The younger kids are dressed in their white shirts, the older in blue. Of course, all of us sport the pointy red scarves. Mami blows a kiss to Bela, then hurries off to find the other nurses.
Mr. Babicak, Mr. Noll, Mrs. Jakim, and the other teachers stand with clipboards and pens. The principal calls out names, and we take our places in formation. I’m next to Bozek. He stands serious, his haircut shorter than before. For this special day, he’s wearing a pair of blue jeans. I move toward the boy on my left.
Through a gap in the buildings, I see a caravan of Gypsy wagons winding along a distant hillside. They don’t have to march in this stupid parade but are making their own. Even the Communist Party has no hold over them.
Outside of proper society,
people say.
A shifty, restless feeling grows among us. Some of us are eager to begin the celebration; others want to get it done with. It’s hard to know who feels what.
Four boys and four girls carry the banners that stretch the width of the street. When Mr. Babicak finally blows the whistle, they unfurl and we set off.
The parade has begun. We’re a few steps closer to the end.
As the parade moves out of range of the teachers’ control, some of us break formation, edging nearer to friends. I sidle close to Emil and Karel. Together we march behind a flag with dangling red fringe.
On each street corner, bands play the Communist anthem, “The Internationale.” “Arise, ye workers from your slumber . . .” Loudspeakers blare: “Soviet Union forever!” We wave — we have to wave — at those lining the streets, mostly the mothers. Although they have no official group to march with, they have to be here.
Since I also have to be here, I wish I was at least marching with Danika. If she was my girlfriend, I could put up with this. Just as I think that, I catch sight of her. She’s not far ahead.
She’s walking with Bozek. Two good Commies marching together. So it’s come to this. I bite the inside of my cheek on one side, then the other.
“Don’t look,” says Karel. “Don’t get yourself upset.”
He’s right. I shouldn’t look. Not with that black mark on my record.
Emil presses something small into my hand. I open my fingers to his plastic cigarette lighter.
Walking on tiptoe, I see that those two are not only marching together. They’re holding hands.
Karel points at the red fringe on the flag ahead of us.
I glance toward the giant faces of famous Communists. All but one — Lumumba — are facing away. I flick the tiny wheel of the lighter. It takes a few seconds for the fringe to catch. I hold the lighter steady, my thumb firm. Finally, the fire ripples along.
Karel and Emil dash off, but I stick around. I raise my camera to the flag on fire and shoot, capturing the glorious moment.
The man holding the flag touches the back of his neck. He whips the flag around and drops it to the ground. He stamps out the flames.
A bunch of people stare, one shouts, and then the parade goes on, the man carrying the blackened flag in his arms.
I move away, looking around for anyone who might know me. That man over there — is he the one from the castle, the one with the beige jacket and the VW Beetle? Now he’s wearing a dark-blue jacket, so it’s hard to be sure.
The parade makes a turn onto a side street where no one’s watching. The marching bands play a few more bars of melody and fall silent. Thank God the marching peters out.
I run across Mr. Ninzik, who is not with any group. He hasn’t been sent to the wastelands of Siberia after all. He’s not shoveling rocks and ice. At least not yet. “Mr. Ninzik!” I call.
He looks around, hands shoved
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