The Hammer of God by Tom Avitabile

started and grew progressively more sibilant. It was the air valve on the steam radiator; the whistling would stop when the unit was hot. It took twenty minutes but the warm silence commenced. Tony had won tonight’s war with the pipes. Maybe the old wop was listening. For Tony and his family, that was life in the Northeast Bronx in 1956.
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    Suddenly, it was the horror of 1939 all over again. Hungarians were being arrested and others were being beaten into submission. Like then, many congregated secretly in the basements and tunnels trying to find a way out. Tonight seven men – seven scientists, who escaped the Nazis by luck, were huddled in the basement of a church awaiting their savior. He was a freedom fighter during the last war and had made a name for himself. He was fearless, striking the enemy silently and then disappearing. Now that the heel of the Soviet boot was on top of them, Hungarians only whispered the legends about him.
    The group of men had only the warm clothes on their backs and one small suitcase each. The Monsignor who ran the church was a member of the newly formed Underground Railroad that sprung up as the Russians took more and more prisoners. Not just laborers, but also the intelligentsia. Those people whose fertile minds alone posed a threat to the great irrationalism of the Soviet State. The aim of the apparatchik was a “re-education” campaign to convert these Hungarian national treasures into right-thinking communists. The last lesson, if all else failed, was a bullet to the brain.
    â€œWhere is he?” Dr. Brodenchy asked.
    â€œHe cannot very well take the tram, Doctor,” the Monsignor said. “He must make his way through alleys and back roads. They know his face.”
    Brodenchy’s hand was shaking. Not in anticipation of the dangers that lay ahead, but in concern for his father and sisters who he would be leaving behind. Surely, the Russians would treat his father, an Imam, with the respect due a member of the clergy. Still, the worry mounted, but he could not get past the army, back to his hometown. He was caught here when the Russians came. They will be all right. They will be all right.
    There were two knocks, then three, then one at the storm cellar door to the church’s basement – the pre-arranged signal for Kasiko Halman, the one who would shepherd them from the red menace. The men were surprised when they saw him. He was smaller and dirtier than his legend and the Kalashnikov machine gun that was slung around his torso, was held there by a frayed rope.
    â€œHow many?” Kasiko asked curtly.
    â€œSeven.”
    He spun and turned to the Priest. “You said six.”
    â€œErr, it’s my fault,” Dr. Brodenchy said, stepping forward. “My brother was caught staying with us when the tanks came…. I promised our father.”
    Kasiko walked up to Dr. Brodenchy, his cold stare frosting the doctor’s graying temples.
    It was as if Kasiko peered into his soul, “You. You are Muslim?”
    â€œYes.” He tried not to flinch, doing the best an academician could in the face of this hired killer.
    Kasiko continued his stare. Suddenly the doctor realized there was a new calculus at work here. He could almost hear Kasiko deciding if risking his life for a Muslim was worth it. The fear of being left behind welled up inside the older brother. His mouth went dry and swallowing was hard. He stuttered and mumbled, “My broth…brother was away in school but suddenly he came....”
    â€œFine.” Kasiko’s contemplative mood seemed to switch off like an electric light. “All of you give me all your money!”
    â€œWhat? Why?” a tall member of the group asked.
    â€œYou can stay,” was Kasiko’s icy response that stabbed at the stunned scientist, who instantly became very compliant.
    In single file, they exited the cellar of the church. A small relief to the Brodenchy