Free My Own Revolution by Carolyn Marsden Page B

Mami, examining the seal, which has obviously been broken and glued back together. She needs Mr. Babicak’s sharp letter opener.
    “I did, Patrik. I’m so sorry. But I couldn’t stand the suspense. It’s an order to appear.”
    I rip open the envelope. The letter contains just one line. As Mami said, I’m to go at ten o’clock the next morning to room 129 of the downtown police station. It doesn’t say what about.
    That evening, while Mami is putting Bela to bed, I wash my plate, then my silverware and drinking glass. I take my time, sudsing up, rinsing, even drying. At last, with nothing possible left to do, I go to the living room.
    Tati is reading the newspaper. Beside my ripped-open summons, his pipe lies idle in the ashtray, with his little pouch of tobacco nearby.
    Putting my hands on my hips, I get the announcement over with: “I know why I’ve been called in.”
    Tati looks up from the newspaper.
    “During the May Day parade, I set fire to a flag.” And there, I’ve said it. The words fall like tiny grenades into the lemony light.
    Tati blinks, then says, “You can’t be serious, Patrik. Please tell me this is a joke.”
    “It’s not.”
    His face grows as red as the Communist flag. “I thought . . . I thought I cautioned you about that damn parade.”
    “You did. I couldn’t help myself.”
    “Couldn’t help yourself! What is that supposed to mean?” Tati stands up, the newspaper falling to the floor, the pages skittering loose.
    “I was upset.”
    He kicks the newspaper into a pile. “What kind of upset would make you do such an idiotic thing?”
    “A girl.”
    “A girl? You’d do something like that over a
girl
?” He paces to the window, then back, saying, “This comes at a terrible time for me. I’m being pressured on all sides. And now this . . . this terrible news.”
    A silence falls between us. I melt into my shame. In the other room, Mami is singing lullabies to Bela.
    When Mami’s lullaby comes to an end, Tati says, “You’ll wish you hadn’t done that. Now there will be hell to pay. Pure hell.”
    With the back of my hand, I wipe my forehead.
    Tati sits back down. He lights his pipe and turns the radio to the Voice of America. The language of the evening is perhaps Russian. But that’s okay. What matters is that these broadcasters are on our side and against the Trencin police.
    The broadcast ends, and music begins to play. I always hope for rock ’n’ roll — the Beatles, or maybe the Rolling Stones — but it’s jazz.
    I sit down in the chair across from Tati’s. The broadcast turns back to talk, this time in Slovakian. Tati twists the dial a teeny bit, making the words louder. But as usual, a loud
wowoowowoo
sound blocks the broadcaster’s voice.
    I lean close but can’t make out a thing.
    Suddenly I say, “Don’t talk in front of Danika. Don’t say political things in front of her.”
    Tati raises his eyebrows.
    “She wears her red scarf when she doesn’t have to. She even wears it on weekends.”
    “I’ve never noticed her doing that,” Tati says.
    “It’s only lately.”
    “We hardly see Danika anymore,” Tati goes on. “Is she busy with school?”
    “Very,” I answer. I want to tell him about Mr. Holub. I really do.
    In the morning, with the usual sour-faced driver at the wheel, Tati and I ride the bus downtown. We sit right up front, stiff in our good suits. As if nice clothes will do the trick. My hands sweat all over the letter.
    Dirty washcloths of rain clouds heap together.
    The police station is located in a big squarish building with flags flying. Eyeing the police vans packed together, I follow Tati. We mount the slick marble steps.
    Inside, the building isn’t so stately. Our footsteps echo under high ceilings with peeling, flag-size strips of paint. I wipe my hand along walls grubby with the handprints of others who’ve wiped along them. As we pass a janitor pushing a wide broom, I wonder if the man has always been a janitor, or