The cold was a physical presence. It seeped through wool coats and scarves, frosting the breath of the thousands gathered around the Vilnius television tower. The night of January 12th had been lit by bonfires, fueled by wood and song. The air smelled of pine smoke and damp wool. They were there to protect the tower, a symbol of their newly declared independence from Moscow. They linked arms. They sang. The songs were old, Lithuanian folk songs, their melodies cutting through the dark.
Then came the sound. Not first the tanks, but the low, diesel-thick rumble of armored personnel carriers. The crunch of treads on frozen asphalt and ice. The crowd noise shifted from song to a surge of shouts, a wave of human sound hitting a wall of mechanical noise. The sodium lights from the tower compound cast long, harsh shadows, turning the scene into a stark tableau.
A young man held a transistor radio to his ear, its tinny speaker reporting the Soviet parliament condemning the ‘nationalist extremists.’ He looked from the radio to the line of paratroopers advancing, their faces obscured by helmets. The disconnect was absolute. Here was the feel of a collective shiver, the sound of a woman pleading in Lithuanian, the taste of fear like metal on the tongue. There, in the radio, was the dry, official language of state power. The paratroopers moved forward. The tanks, hulking and dark, turned their turrets. The first percussion grenades exploded with a flash that left retinal ghosts, the sound a flat, hard crack. Then the real noise began.