Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Fifteen: Prague Spring

We heard of more disturbances, within the bands of our region; most uprisings of the people.

They clad us with bulletproof vests; boarded to our chests. They padded our arms and legs and uniformed us in proud dehumanising unity. We were all flying the same stripes; trousers, blazers and berets, embed with the colours of the Soviet flag, plastered with pins and patches of the hammer and sickles. The boots were heavy duty, made for marching; strapped up to beneath the knee. Our arms were loaded with hunting rifles and our utility belts crammed with rounds. The gear made my mind jump to conclusions about what kind of threat we were going to come eye to eye with.

They loaded us into rattling canisters they passed off as vehicles, claustrophobically compacted in like sardines in a tin. No one spoke a word. The firearms clutched in clammy palms chinked, bouncing around on the bumpy terrain made the vehicle clunk. I didn’t question the distance we rambled, but I knew it wasn’t near. In the cold, the tent like material that housed us in the back of the trucks flapped in the wind, revealing the world through the cracks. The engine chugged out billowing black clouds that fogged into the back, the stench staining our suits.

A noise picked up as we slowed, closing in on our destination. And through the pinprick holes where mice had eaten the canvas, I could see tanks. They sluggishly rolled forwards on their caterpillar tracks, arms of artillery protruding from the front, clattering as they negotiated the bumpy surface.

There was a cacophony up ahead; a dissonant chorus of voices. A mob of people had gathered and they rumbled furiously, their hollers full of vitriol. It got louder as we approached. Like a stormy sea, they frothed about, unpredictable and raging. The sound was non-stop.

We had to part the red sea of people to gain entry to the town. The vehicles were shown disdain: pelted with rotten tomatoes, juice spewing sludge through the material, stones denting the metalwork. A tin can hit the back of my head through the material; I flinched and emitted a small choked noise of pain. To most, it was uninteresting, but Yelena looked. And Yelena laughed. Patronisingly.

It was then, when we made our journey to the front lines in a fleet, that the car pulled to a halt and the flimsy fabric flaps were unbuttoned and the town came into view.

We were bellowed at to get out and we filed out precisely. It was a scramble of feet into the light, and I felt a flush blossom across my skin and perspiration break out along my hairline. The itchy blazer suddenly felt tight on my skin, like another skin. My toes, crammed into my boots were uncomfortably hot, and collected heat like hot coals. The air was too humid to breathe.

I was ushered in formation, hands slapping me on the back to make it to the front line.

A wall of tanks headed the depot of vehicles, a line drawn between us and the group of protesters. We were shoved forwards, made to form the front line behind the tanks; shoulder to shoulder with many other men. We were the only select group of women.

And our duty was to hold the line, to fire at anyone who tried to cross.

The sea was of protesters. They flapped their flags, waved their banners, raised their signs. The flags that were on the horizon; the red with the golden tools to build – they were burnt; fiery fabric flailing in the wind. Shreds of it floated away, still alight.

DOWN WITH BREZHNEV.

DISBAND THE USSR.  

WHERE IS OUR FREEDOM?

They screamed, roared and shouted. The demonstration was loud and proud – but not violent. And our arrival, kitted out with artillery seemed to upset them further. People tried to weave through our ranks, and bullets popped from the nozzles of rifles; sending bodies scattering backwards, blasted raw by the bullets.