The Choice

places.
Béla is in a cell by himself. He’s wearing his regular clothes—no
uniform—and he jumps up from the cot when he sees us, reaching for
Marianne’s hands through the bars.
“Marchuka,” he says. “Do you see my funny little bed?”
He thinks we are here for a visit. One of his eyes is black. ere’s
blood on his lip. I see him wearing two faces—the innocent and happy
one for Marianne, the quizzical one for me. Why have I brought a
child into a prison? Why am I giving Marianne this image that she will
always know by heart, even if she can’t call it by its name? I try not to
feel defensive. I try to make my eyes tell him he can trust me. And I
try to shower him with love, the only thing bigger than fear. I have
never loved him more than I do at this moment, when he knows
instinctively how to make a game for Marianne, to reduce this bleak
and terrifying place into something harmless.
e warden unlocks the cell. “Five minutes!” he yells loudly. He
pats the pocket that holds the diamond ring. And then he retreats
down the corridor, his back toward us.
I tug Béla through the cell door and I don’t breathe until we are on
the street again, Béla, Marianne, me. I help Béla wipe the blood off his
lip with his dirty handkerchief. We begin walking toward the train
station. We don’t have to discuss it. It’s as though we have planned it
all, his arrest, our sudden escape. We are making everything up as we
go along, but there’s the giddy feeling of moving quickly through deep
snow, stepping into leover footprints, the surprise of ĕnding that the
tracks already laid out ĕt our feet and our speed. It’s as though we
have already taken this journey in another life and now we operate on
memory. I am glad Béla can carry Marianne. My arms are almost
numb.
e important thing is to get out of the country. To get away from
the Communists. To get to the closest place where the Allies have a