The Confession by Olen Steinhauer Page A

on his glass, his fingers tapping. “Then people in the other offices were sent away—suddenly, with no warning, their desks were empty. Remember that?”
    We all remembered that.
    “Only then did I start to understand. She always knew. She saved me.”
    She had saved herself as well. An old woman who knows how to survive knows that her son had better stay employed. Back then it was truer than ever. We all learned a degree of blindness—first during the Occupation, and then after the Liberation.
    The door banged open, and five laughing students barged in. They had pink faces and shoddy clothes. “Five brandies!” shouted the first one, with an attempted mustache shadowing his lip. They gathered around the bar, talking animatedly. The workers looked at them a moment, then went back to their drinks.
    “School must be going well,” said Leonek.
    “Demonstrators,” I told him. “They were in Victory Square today.”
    “How about that.” He turned in his seat to face them. “This is something, isn’t it?”
    I shrugged.
    “Remember how it used to be? No one would think to demonstrate. And look at them now!” His face pulsed as he considered it. “God, I wish I was young.”
    “You are young.”
    “We’re both young,” he said. “We should be out there too, standing next to them.”
    It was good to see him pleased by this thought. “You going to make up a sign?”
    “Why not?”
    “What would it say?”
    He put his chin in his palms, elbows on the table—he really did look young. “I don’t know. Isn’t that amazing? I’ve got no idea. What about you?”
    “I’m not the demonstrating kind.”
    “What does that mean?”
    He was waiting, eyes big. “I have a wife and a daughter,” I said. “If I get thrown into jail, how would they fare? I don’t want my girl to grow up fatherless.”
    He opened his mouth—something was ready to pop out—but then he shut it. He said, “Maybe that’s why I should do something. No one depends on me anymore.”
    “Maybe.” But then I remembered what men like Mikhail Kaminski and Brano Sev would use to keep demonstrators from forcing Russian tanks to roll down our streets: interrogations, informers, secret police, and prison camps.

19
     

     
    I drove us through the busy evening streets, stopping for busses and trams and bicycles, until we were back among the unfinished towers of the Ninth District. We parked half in a ditch, and I worried that I wouldn’t be able to make it out later on. Claudia was outside with her chickens again—she stopped to give me a severe nod. She was still waiting for me to pick up her drunkard brother, and no doubt Magda had been filling her head with advice to pester me. But this time she chose silence.
    Ágnes opened the door. She wore a knee-length dress I had never seen before, with a pattern of purple-and-yellow flowers. She stood on her toes to kiss my lowered cheek. “Do you remember Leonek?” I said. “Leonek, Ágnes.”
    Leonek kissed her hand, and, over his head, she winked at me.
    “Where’s your mother?” I asked.
    She nodded toward the kitchen, then Pavel trotted in from the bedroom and gave Leonek two high barks.
    Magda’s hair hung over her face as she brushed a plate of chicken bones into the trash can. When she looked up at me, I could hardly see her through the strands. She brushed them away with her wrist and smiled. It was the first time we’d really seen each other for a while, and momentarily it was as if nothing bad had ever passed between us in the provinces.
    Then it came back to me: Stefan, his choking breaths beating out of him as he writhed over her breasts, her clean smooth belly, her face.
    “You’re late,” she said.
    “How was the train?”
    “Well, it got me here.”
    I went to a cabinet for the wine as she washed the plate off in the sink and set it with other dishes on a towel. “You know Leonek, right?”
    “Sure, yeah. I don’t remember the last time I saw him. A year