“Szemét gyilkosok,” the woman in the park had said. Filthy murderers. Was she speaking of the ÁVH men rotting in the sun? Or the lynch mob? Perhaps it didn’t matter. There was pain in her gaunt face, and she tried to cover the eyes of her children.

The fat priest came forward in the stillness of the church. He spoke little English, and he was arrogant. He didn’t like the auburn-haired, troublesome American. She didn’t like him. She’d met him during her first days in Budapest, when the ancient city—the Paris of the East—was filled with hope and energy, and Hungarians still believed they could oust the Soviets from their country.

How far they’d all plunged in just two weeks!

What had begun spontaneously—without any real plan, without any real leaders—was ending in tragedy, violence and broken dreams. Thousands had died, and now many thousands were being arrested and tens of thousands were fleeing their homeland. It was all so pathetically clear now. There would be no help from the West. There would be no formation of a multiparty coalition government that would lead Hungary into the future. No withdrawal of Hungary from the Warsaw Pact. No declaration of Hungarian neutrality.

Hungary was back in the Soviet bloc: a satellite.

Lithe and unconventionally beautiful, the American smiled nervously at the red-faced priest, and suddenly she had to choke back her guilt, for she knew he had been right about her, after all. He had told the others she was silly and dangerous, and she was. She had come to Budapest as a lark.

Now she was in danger of losing everything.

Dipping into the pocket of her grimy cashmere coat, she withdrew the tiny replica of an ornate gold crown. She didn’t know what kind of crown it was, or what it meant, only that she had been told not to lose it. “It’s your path to freedom...” That had sounded so melodramatic.

She handed the crown to the priest, and spoke in a whisper. “I wish to see orült szerzetes.” The mad monk. She had fancied him as a latter-day Scarlet Pimpernel, a romantic hero. Oh, Lord, how naive could she have been!

The priest nodded reluctantly toward the confessional. She mumbled her thanks and slipped behind the faded velvet curtain.

She felt weak. Slowly she knelt.

The screen slid back. Behind it, she could only see shadows. But he was there. She felt his presence.

A voice said in quiet, careful English, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to.”

She hated the quaver in her voice. She had been afraid—was afraid, now—but exhilarated, too. She thrived on challenge, adventure, excitement. Having babies, redecorating houses, devoting herself to the right charities, the right friends, the right man—that was all right for other women, but not for her. This was for her.

Licking her lips, she rushed on. “They said you won’t be coming with us. It’s not true, is it?”

There was no hesitation. “Yes. It’s true.”

“But you have to come! If you stay here you’ll be killed!”