A moment later, the street ends at another square, much larger than the previous one. It is rectangular, narrow at the base where we have entered, with two long sides running upward toward a large, gold-domed building. The National Museum, I recognize from the tour book in my hotel room I thumbed through last night when I could not sleep. This must be Wenceslas Square. As the group surges forward, they are joined by hundreds of others, appearing individually or in small groups. They seem to be mostly students, though I see a smattering of older people, too. Some carry crude homemade signs I cannot read from a distance. A political protest. The group swells and surges forward toward the museum building. At the top of the museum steps, a line of police stand shoulder to shoulder, forming a barricade.

I hang back as the crowd pushes forward around me. I cannot afford to get caught up in this, not now. “Democracy!” the protesters chant over and over. I inch forward, standing on the tips of my toes to get a better view. These are the very people we are trying to help, I realize, scanning the crowd. Perhaps Marek, or even Marcelitis himself, is here. But I do not see Marek, and I have no idea what Marcelitis looks like. They would be too smart to get caught in something so dangerously public, anyway. Someone a few meters in front of me starts singing the Czech national anthem. The song seems to catch fire throughout the crowd, until it seems that all of the protesters have joined in one enormous voice. Looking at the determined faces around me, I am reminded of our own resistance movement during the war. If only we’d had this kind of support from our people, things might have been different.

As the anthem concludes, the protesters surge closer to the museum building, pressing up the stairs. “No communism!” they chant in unison. “Democracy now!” The front of the crowd climbs the steps, reaches the barricade. Some of the protesters exchange heated words with the police. Though I cannot make out what they are saying, they seem to be demanding entry to the building. A policeman pushes a demonstrator roughly, sending the man flying backward down the steps onto the pavement. Shouts erupt in the crowd. Scuffles between the demonstrators and police break out. The rest of the throng, incensed by the conflict, presses forward.

Suddenly a shot rings out in the air, then another. The scuffling ceases and the protesters freeze. The police must have fired into the air to stop the fighting, I think. Then, at the top of the stairs, I spot something bright yellow on the ground. Hans’s jacket. He lies motionless, arms flung above his head as though surrendering.

“No!” I gasp. I hold my breath, stifling the urge to scream. The crowd, stunned by the shooting, stands motionless. But the police, having caught the protesters off guard, now take the initiative. They leap forward, brandishing nightsticks. I watch, horrified, as a number of young men are beaten to the ground. Others are dragged away by the police. A cloud of smoke rises from the front of the crowd. Tear gas, I realize, as some of the protesters begin to clutch at their eyes. The crowd begins to flee, police in close pursuit. I have to get out of here, I think, as the protesters stream back past me in the direction from which we came. If I stay here, I am going to be arrested, or worse. I turn around. A police truck has blocked the street from which we entered the square. We are trapped.

I scan the far side of the square, spotting an open alleyway. Quickly, I make my way toward it, expecting a policeman to grab me at any time. When I reach the shelter of the alley, I begin to run, crossing blindly through the backstreets, feeling for the Old Town Square. My lungs burn. At last, I reach the square. Slowing, I look up at the Astronomical Clock as I cross, thinking sadly of Hans.

But there is no time to linger. The chaos of the broken demonstration has begun to spill over here, too. Protesters, their eyes watering from the tear gas, dart across the square alone or in groups of two or three. One man clutches a bloody wound on his temple. In the distance, police sirens wail, as if to remind the protesters that the crackdown is not over. I make my way hurriedly from the square.

A few minutes later, I reach the block where the hotel is located. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window. My cheeks are flushed from running and my curls have sprung free from the knot. I should go upstairs and freshen up. I look at the clock above the hotel entrance. It is eleven, one hour until my meeting with Marek, and I have no idea how long it will take to reach the park. There is no time. I walk quickly to the bus stop at the corner.

A few minutes later the C bus arrives and I board. It is empty except for a few schoolchildren clustered in the rear. I drop into a seat a few rows behind the driver, then look out the window. As we wind our way through the Old Town, I think about the ruthlessness with which the police tore apart the demonstrators. A shiver runs through me. I had known that the Soviet-dominated communist regimes were oppressive, silencing ideas that were contrary to their own. But I had not imagined that they would actually open fire on their own people. They are no better than the Nazis. I grasp my bag more tightly. Suddenly my mission seems more urgent than ever.

The bus turns away from the Old Town, stopping every few minutes as it follows the river south. At the next stop, the schoolchildren get off the bus and two women board, talking rapidly in Czech about the price of potatoes. One carries a basket only half full with groceries, the other a small pail of coal. The road grows bumpier, the buildings farther-spaced as we make our way from the city center to the sprawling outskirts of Prague. The houses here are smaller, more dilapidated. The bus stops again and the women get off, trudging slowly down a dirt road. An underfed cow stares forlornly out over a fence.

I look around the now-empty bus as it begins to move again. “Riegrovy Park,” the driver calls a few minutes later, as though speaking to a large group. I walk to the front of the bus as it slows, looking at the driver out of the corner of my eye. Does he wonder what I am doing here? But he does not look up as I step off the bus. The door closes behind me and the bus drives away.

I pause, surveying the park. Flat fields stretch endlessly in all directions, the grass dead and brown. Several hundred meters off to the right sits a thatch of bare trees. I spot a stone fountain beneath them. Drawing my coat more closely around me, I walk toward the fountain. Closer, I can see that it is made up of several statues of small children, their hands reaching upward toward the heavens. Dead leaves lay in drifts in the dry marble basin below. I look around. The park is deserted, except for a cluster of crows, picking at the ground beneath the trees. Where is Marek? He looked so nervous last night. Part of me wonders if he is going to come at all.

It is early, I tell myself, walking toward the trees. The crows watch me with disinterest, not moving. On the far side of the trees, there is a children’s playground with swings and a metal slide. Two boys play on the swings. A few meters away from them, on the edge of the playground closest to me, a woman stands by a bench, watching them.

I hesitate, studying the woman’s back. I do not want to risk drawing attention to myself, but perhaps she has seen Marek. I walk toward her. “Excuse me,” I say softly, but she does not seem to hear me over the wind. I move closer. Suddenly, I freeze, a lump forming in my throat. There is something familiar about the honey-blond color of the woman’s hair, the way it hangs in a loose knot against her neck. An image flashes through my mind of Emma’s hair, bouncing as she ran from the railway bridge. It cannot possibly be. I reach out, touch the woman’s shoulder gently. “Excuse me,” I repeat, louder this time.