The Fox of '56
Deception Lurks in the War-Torn Streets of Budapest
In 1956 as Hungarians mount their revolution against the Soviets, CIA agent Henry Caldwell is sent to Budapest to monitor activities. But when he sees Katalin, the love of his love who disappeared four years ago, he’s confused. Through the war-torn streets, Henry finds himself in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse where trust is scarce and survival uncertain.
Chapter 16
Before I made my way down to the main floor of the cinema building, Zsolt ran after me. “I’m coming with you.”
“No, Zsolt, I can’t take responsibility for you. I must do this alone.”
“Have you ever fired a gun, my friend?”
“I was trained in the U.S.”
“When was the last time you pulled the trigger and killed someone?”
That stopped me. “Uh, never.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
The euphoria and calmness in the streets was a welcome relief after two weeks of intense and brutal fighting. The shooting had been suspended and it felt like a giant hand had been lifted from the country. Aside from the smiles, the laughter, and dancing in the streets, there were the remains of hundreds of Hungarian bodies lying in the streets, some had been buried in shallow graves, and others in mass graves because there was no way to give them a proper burial during the chaos. I was reminded of the Ying and Yang of life. One side of the coin was life and happiness; the other side was death and grief.
Zsolt asked me what my plan was and I explained I hoped to ask people questions as I walked, I’d get an idea of where to find Orlov. Zsolt stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “My friend, listen to me. That is not a plan. I know where the Soviet command post is. Orlov is most likely at the Gresham Hotel, and if he’s planning to leave the country it will have to be by rail or flight. Follow me.”
As we wound our way around barricades and rubble, I asked Zsolt why he took up fighting when the odds were certainly stacked against him.
“Many are fighting for freedom from Soviet oppression. That is what I want also. But I’m fighting for revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“My family owned a stately villa in the Buda hills, a beautiful home with a garden and a majestic view of the Danube River. But my parents were executed because of their class. Not because of anything they said, or wrote, or did. Because they had worked hard and earned a good living. Then Soviet bureaucrats took over our house. My younger brother, Sandor, and I fled for our lives.”
“Where is Sandor? I don’t think I ever met him.”
Zsolt frowned. “I took him to the cinema house with me. I thought he would be safe there. I put him in a room where he read his beloved books. One day he asked me to help in the fight. It was not uncommon for young boys 10 or 12 to fight. So I gave him a rifle. He was a good shot. He would fire from the window, put down his rifle, and resume reading. And then, when more Soviets arrived, he’d shoot again. One day I went to his room and there was only his book. A secret police sniper must have seen him in the window and shot him in the head.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. Fighting for freedom is one thing, my friend, but when everything you have is taken from you, freedom is not a reason to fight. Freedom is fickle, like fog. You can’t hold it and it goes away.”
I had nothing I could add and we continued on in silence. We came to the wide boulevard by the Chain Bridge near the Gresham Hotel, a Soviet command post. The Danube River flowed past us merrily along indifferent to the strife on both its banks. We stood in the shadows of the storefronts and watched the comings and goings of Soviets in and out of the grand hotel. Then three Freedom Fighters came in behind us. Zsolt knew them. They conversed in Hungarian and left. Zsolt spat on the ground.
“What is it?”
“Shit. The Soviets are coming back. Coming from the eastern border with larger tanks and more soldiers. We must move fast.”
Freedom is like fog!