Laszlo's Fire

By Richard A. Herman

Laszlo's Fire explores the lives of five severely damaged people, each haunted by unrelenting ghosts. It is a tale of love, loss and blind vengeance born in the fires of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution. The characters' lives intersect explosively three decades later in America's Heartland. This is a story of love, compassion and forgiveness, contrasting both sides of the human character. What the Critics Say “Your writing (of Laszlo) is alive with scents, sights and sounds that will bring readers deep into scenes. Also, your storytelling skills are considerable.” —Jim Fusilli, Author & former editor for Boston Globe “In Laszlo’s Fire, Herman proves himself to be a wonderful storyteller. His characters reach off the page and draw you into their lives. This is a novel well worth your time and emotions.” —Barbara Morris, Editor, Put Old On Hold

• Language: English
• Publisher: TheFictionWorks
• Release date: Dec 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781581245073

Book preview

Twelve")

What the Critics Say

Your writing (of Laszlo) is alive with scents, sights and sounds that will bring readers deep into scenes.  Also, your storytelling skills are considerable.

—Jim Fusilli, Author & former editor for Boston Globe

"In Laszlo’s Fire, Herman proves himself to be a wonderful storyteller.  His characters reach off the page and draw you into their lives.  This is a novel well worth your time and emotions."

—Barbara Morris, Editor, Put Old On Hold

Chapter 1

Budapest, Hungary, 1956

Major Fedor Petrovski sat in the turret of the Soviet T-54 tank; head, shoulders and upper body exposed above the open hatch. He squinted into the sun’s gleaming reflection off the Danube and contemplated the hopelessness of his situation.

It was Tuesday, October 30, and the Hungarian revolt against Soviet occupation was less than a week old, but both sides had already suffered stunning losses, with dead and wounded in the thousands. Early in the uprising, students of Lorand Etvos University had attempted unsuccessfully to topple a large bronze statue of Stalin, an ominous portend of things to come. Stalin’s image still stood, arms folded, scowling at the insurgents, and Soviet troops still controlled most of Hungary.

Petrovski’s assignment was to keep open the eastern approach to the century and a half old Chain Bridge that connected the Buda and Pest sections of the capital city. From his perch in the turret of the 36-ton steel behemoth, he observed the flow of Soviet armament and troops along the opposite shore. In the distance artillery fire flashed, followed shortly by the dull roar of the explosion. It brought back memories of the storms of his childhood in the Ukraine. First the lightning, then: one-and-a, two-and-a, three-and-boom, the thunder. The fighting had continued unabated since sunrise and Petrovski was thankful for the relative quiet on his side of the river.

Carefully, he folded back the waxed paper wrapping and bit into his sandwich, savoring the tang of the spiced meat, the coarse texture of the black bread, and the ever-present aroma of fresh garlic. As he slowly chewed, he closed his eyes, attempting to deal with the inescapable reality that the most cherished part of his life was over.

Soon, the Soviets would quell the revolt, probably within days, and he’d likely be shipped back to the cold bleak landscape of his former base, north of Moscow. Even if he remained in Budapest, the Hungarians would detest and shun him.

During his two-year posting in the Hungarian capital he had been accepted by most, and found himself drawn irresistibly to the warm, friendly Magyars. Unlike his fellow soldiers, these were people who lived life to the fullest. Everything they did was done with great gusto and spirit. Men playing cards would throw them down with a force that almost shook the table. He was completely captivated by their fervor and lust for life. Never in his thirty-four years had he felt as alive and vital as he did among the people of Budapest.

His time in the Army had been spent among fellow soldiers who were cold and self absorbed. They addressed each other as tavarish, but far from being comrades, they were schemers, swindlers, and liars; always searching for an advantage, a leverage, a way to cheat you.

Once the Soviets crushed the uprising, he would be separated forever from the only people he’d ever wished to be a part of. The prospect was so devastating he’d briefly considered deserting, but in a country controlled by the Soviets, desertion was not an option. His life was now a story without an acceptable ending. That which he valued most was lost, and could never be recovered.

For days he’d vacillated between depression and frustration, surrounded by the inescapable sights, sounds and smells of war. He took another bite of his sandwich and sighed heavily.

At noon, Petrovski was alerted by the sound of approaching tanks. The first of a column of eight T-34 medium tanks rounded a corner and headed for his bridge. The odor of their diesel exhaust and the acrid smell of cordite from the gunfire across the river combined to upset his stomach, and he dropped the remains of his sandwich onto the cobblestone street.

The ground trembled as the first seven tanks turned and, rumbled slowly past him onto the historic old bridge. The tank at the rear of the column did not turn, but continued south along the river. Petrovski noted the red star and B-11 on its turret and picked up his microphone to radio the errant commander to rejoin his unit. Suddenly the air was filled with the staccato crack of small arms fire. A shot ricocheted off the side of his tank with a piercing pang!

Shit, he muttered as he slipped down into the safety of the tank, closed the hatch and rotated the turret and its 85mm cannon in the direction of the gunfire. He’d already forgotten about tank B-11.

Petrovski did not see the lone tank continue for another mile along the river’s edge, then turn onto a narrow, tree lined street, knocking a piece off the corner of an old brick school building. No one saw that but Imre Weiszman, the elderly school custodian.

A hundred and fifty yards beyond the school, the tank turned into the parking lot of the Danube Banking Company, crossed the empty blacktop and rammed, at nearly full speed, into the side of the single story brick building.

Thirty-two tons of steel traveling at slightly over thirty miles an hour broke easily through the bank’s outer wall and penetrated the concrete vault up to its turret. The commander and his four crewmen climbed out of the forward hatch, tied wet cloths over their mouths and noses, to keep from choking on cement dust, and began loading the cash stored in the vault into canvas bags.. The safety deposit boxes yielded quickly and easily to their heavy hammers and star chisels, providing jewelry and additional cash.

The crew moved rapidly, with a choreographed smoothness born of practice and experience. In twenty minutes, their looting complete, they reentered the tank and backed out of the building.  

Three high explosive cannon rounds, fired at close range, completed demolished the building, obliterating all evidence of their visit. Two employees, trapped within the bank, perished. The tank commander then disabled his radio and headed farther south along the river, to conceal their plunder in a damaged fuel storage tank hidden in a dense stand of trees. Once done, they proceeded to rejoin their unit across the Danube.

With fighting intensifying throughout the city, the commander would have no problem explaining the expended cannon rounds or how, in all the confusion, they had become separated from their squadron and unable to establish contact because their radio had malfunctioned. But it was unlikely anyone had even noticed they’d been missing.

Only Major Petrovski had seen tank B-11 break ranks. Shortly after the full moon rose over the Danube, Petrovski’s concerns about his future, or tank B-11, or anything else, ended abruptly when a Hungarian engineering student lifted the tank’s hatch and dropped in a Molotov cocktail, incinerating the Major and his entire crew.

Chapter 2

Cincinnati, Ohio - 1986

The building had seen better days and better years. It was a decaying tenement in a squalid neighborhood populated predominantly by decaying tenements, all substantially closer to the end of their useful lives than the beginning. The area, less than a mile from the Ohio River, had become home to the Babinskis upon their arrival from the Soviet Union eighteen months earlier. In the past quarter hour the temperature in their ground floor apartment had risen to almost ninety degrees, and was still climbing. Kira Babinski shifted restlessly, her sheet and light cotton pajamas soaked with sweat. Her tired body fought to stay asleep. Four-month-old Tanya was a nocturnal infant who did most of her sleeping during the day. The baby had finally cried herself into an exhausted sleep an hour earlier, but in only a few hours would awaken, fully refreshed and demanding food and fondling, with a shrill constant cry.

Kira, an inventory clerk at Midwest Beer & Wine Distributors, worked the day shift, from eight-thirty until five. Her husband, Evgenii, operated a forklift at Valley Trucking, from nine at night until six in the morning. One of the Babinskis was always at home to care for Tanya.  

Kira and Evgenii were employed by businesses owned by Caspian Enterprises. A Caspian recruiter had discovered them while they honeymooned at a shabby Black Sea resort. He considered them excellent prospects: young, strong, and not overly smart.

Kira’s was a natural beauty needing no enhancement from makeup. She was large boned, but her well proportioned body was feminine and attractive. Evgenii’s hard, heavily muscled physique was the product of the years of farm labor he’d performed since childhood. The recruiter, who had never traveled more than a few hundred miles from the village of his birth, and whose only interest was his commission for recruiting the couple, painted a seductive but fictitious picture of the marvelous life awaiting them in the United States and the breathtaking beauty of the Ohio Valley.

He did his job well, and the Babinskis happily signed themselves into financial bondage to live in a faraway land of endless opportunity. Four months later, they unpacked their few possessions in the small, unattractive apartment in Cincinnati. Neither had ever regretted the move.

Kira kicked off her sheet as she awakened. She was instantly aware of the sweltering heat and the sweat that soaked her pajamas and bed. The apartment was becoming unbearable. The acrid smell of smoke assailed her eyes and nose and jolted her fully awake. She panicked, and the resulting tightness in her chest made breathing difficult. After a few seconds, she forced down a deep breath, but her lungs rejected the vile smoke-laden air, and she coughed violently. She then took a series of short shallow breaths and was able to stop the coughing. Her eyes watered, distorting her vision. Even with her diminished sight she could see well enough to snatch Tanya from her crib and press the infant hard against her chest.

Oh my God, she gasped, clutching the startled, crying infant as she ran to the apartment foyer, and attempted to open the door. The steel knob was so hot it instantly burned the skin from the palm of her hand. The intense pain almost caused her to lose consciousness, but she fought it and pulled the door open. She gasped as she looked out at the sea of flames filling the hallway. Instinctively, she turned her back to the inferno, placing her body between her child and the flames. Thick gray smoke billowed into the apartment.

Without pausing to close the already burning door, Kira stumbled back to the perceived safety of her bedroom. She fumbled momentarily with the window lock before realizing her badly damaged hand lacked the dexterity to open it. Through the unyielding window she saw salvation–the street. The dim glow of the street light beckoned her to safety.

Tanya’s travel bag, containing diapers, bottles and other items was on the chair below the window. Fighting through her pain, Kira picked it up, never loosening her grip on Tanya, and smashed it, hard as she could, against the window, shattering, glass and frame and opening a clear path from the apartment to the street. 

The draft produced by the missing window instantly drew the flames through the tiny apartment and into the bedroom. In a moment, all that remained of Kira’s world was scorching, flesh-cooking heat. Caustic air destroyed the membranes in her nose and throat. The conflagration, accompanied by the hiss and whoosh of the cascading flames, sucked the air from her lungs. What had begun as a scream deep in her chest emerged as a choked gurgle. Kira died quickly, still tightly clutching her already dead infant daughter to her chest.

It was eleven fifteen. Barton Weiss, an insurance investigator, and Harry Tallman, the head of Ohio’s State Police Arson Squad, had just finished a leisurely dinner and discussion of the recent spate of arson fires. As they rose to leave the restaurant, Tallman’s pager sounded. He excused himself and strode quickly to the pay phone in the vestibule.  

Moments later he returned.

We’ve got another one, Bart, right here in Cincinnati. Meet me. He handed Bart a page torn from his notepad with an address scribbled on it.

By the time Bart left the restaurant, Tallman’s unmarked car was screeching out of the parking lot, its red dashboard light flashing.

Chapter 3

The driver of the old Mercury was driving north from Cincinnati when he looked in his rear view mirror and saw flashing red and blue lights closing rapidly. He tensed and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. He knew running was not an option. His old car could never escape a police cruiser. Instead, he snapped on his right turn signal, lifted his foot off the gas pedal, and drifted onto the right shoulder of Interstate 71. The cruiser pulled in behind him and aimed its spotlight through his rear window, brilliantly illuminating the vehicle’s interior. The driver sat motionless in the pool of light as Sergeant Carl Klein approached. Klein stopped a step behind the driver’s open window, and carefully studied the vehicle’s interior, then looked at the reflection of the driver’s face in the rearview mirror.

May I see your license, registration, and insurance card, sir?

The driver spoke with a heavy Middle European accent, What is wrong, officer?  

Let me see your documents, then I’ll inform you why I stopped you.

Klein tensed and edged his right hand closer to the holster on his belt as the driver reached into the rear pocket of his jeans. He was never comfortable with late night traffic stops. He relaxed when the man withdrew his wallet and handed it out the window.

Just remove your license and let me have it, sir.

I am sorry, officer. Here.

Klein turned on his flashlight and studied the license.

And your registration and insurance card, please.

Again, Klein was alert as the driver opened the glove box and withdrew a small blue vinyl folder and handed it out the window.

The officer reviewed the documents. I see you’re not the owner of this vehicle.

No, the car belongs to my wife. She said it is okay for me to use it. She is at home if you wish to check.

Are you aware that both of your tail lights are out?

N-no, sir, the driver said.

It’s a dangerous condition. Someone can run into the rear of your vehicle if you have no lights showing back there. I’m going to issue you a summons, and I want you to have those lights fixed by tomorrow. Understand?

Yes, sir.

Klein returned to his car, wrote the ticket and radioed his dispatcher to check for any wants or warrants on the vehicle, its owner or the driver. All checks came back negative, and he returned the documents to the driver, along with a summons.

Are you headed home to Loveland now, sir?

Yes. That is where I was going when you stopped me.

Good. Don’t drive anymore than you have to until you get those lights fixed. If you get stopped again on your way home, show the officer the ticket I issued. That way you won’t get a second one. And on the drive home, tap your brakes frequently so other drivers can see your brake lights. Have a good evening, sir.

Once the cruiser departed, the driver closed his eyes for a few seconds to steady his nerves before getting back onto the interstate and continuing north. He remained tense until he was parked in his driveway, with the engine and lights turned off.

Chapter 4

In the area around the fire, virtually all the buildings were old, poorly maintained, wooden tenements. All the fire crews could do was attempt to contain the blaze, which unchecked could decimate several blocks of similar structures.

By the time Bart arrived, the fire had devoured the interiors of two adjacent buildings. The voracious flames were continuing to feed on the remnants of the tinder-dry wood. Firefighters, in cherry picker booms, were extinguishing several small fires set by airborne debris that landed on the roofs of adjacent buildings.

Bart was stopped by a police officer as he approached the burning buildings.

I’m sorry sir, you’ll have to stay farther back. It’s not safe here.

Bart identified himself and asked if the officer would locate Detective Tallman. The officer left and returned shortly, followed by Tallman.

Looks like more of the same, Bart. We haven’t been able to establish ownership yet, but all of the tenants are speaking Russian, so there’s not much doubt that one or both of the buildings belong to Caspian.

Any casualties?

"It’s too early to tell, but it’s that kind of fire. This one’s a carbon copy of the others. Once it got started it spread rapidly throughout both buildings. When they sort through the ashes, I’d