Voroshilovgrad Page 9

  “What’s so special about childhood friends?”

  “They still remember a whole lot.”

  “Herman, you’re too self-conscious.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m really self-conscious. Like about not being able to swim.”

  “I can’t swim, either, but I’m not self-conscious about it.” Olga’s voice was stern.

  “So you might drown, but you won’t be self-conscious about it.”

  “I won’t drown,” Olga said confidently. “You can’t drown in a river you’ve been going to your whole life.”

  “Sure you can. Plus I haven’t swum in it for a long time.”

  Bugs skirted across the surface of the water, like fishermen hurrying along wet gray ice.

  “What are you going to do?” Olga asked at last. “About the gas station, I mean.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve decided to sit on it for a little bit. I’ve got time. My brother may come back, after all.”

  “Gotcha. How long are you going to wait?”

  “I don’t know. Summer is long.”

  “You know, Herman,” she said, swatting some wasps away, “I’ll be here to help, if you need me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But don’t take it the wrong way—it’s just business.”

  “Got it.”

  “Then why are you staring at me like that again? Are you trying to make me feel self-conscious?”

  The current was carrying away some branches and twirling the black grass that ran along the river’s sandy bottom. Insects still hovered above the water, sticking to its pasty surface—the thick and clumpy afternoon river wasn’t flowing so much as simply continuing.

  A little while later, we climbed out onto the bank and started putting our clothes back on. Once again, Olga asked me not to look—she slipped off her wet panties in one swift motion, rolled them into a ball, and started pulling on her dress. We moved out, ascending the chalky cliffs, following the evening sun that had already rolled out behind the hills. Olga walked ahead of me, squeezing her panties tight in her left hand, her dress clinging to her wet body; trying not to look at her occupied most of my attention. At the gas station, she took the empty basket back from Kocha, discretely tossed her underwear into it, whispered something to Injured—who promptly glared at me—hopped on her scooter, and vanished into the evening air, as if she had never been there at all.

  In the evening, Kocha’s hoarse voice told me about his women, their treachery, their illogical behavior, and their tenderness—all the things he loved them for. Our canned food had run out, so I gave Kocha some money to get groceries. He hitched a ride with a guy in an old Ukraina car and went down into the valley. I stayed put in the chair, looking at the red currents flowing above the highway; the dust and twilight were weighing down the air, and the sky was starting to look like tomato sauce.

  These were strange days—I found myself surrounded by old friends and complete strangers both, all of whom looked at me apprehensively, expectantly, waiting for me to take some action—it was if they were frozen in place, forced to listen to what I would say and watch to see what I’d do next before they could make a move themselves. This made me particularly anxious. I was used to taking responsibility for my own actions, but now I faced a different level of responsibility. It had just fallen into my lap like a surprise visit by relatives; and it wasn’t even as though I absolutely had to assume this new role—it’s just that shirking my new responsibilities wouldn’t have sat right with me. I had been living my own life, sorting out my own problems, and trying not to give out my number to a lot of random acquaintances . . . and suddenly, I found myself among all these people, knowing that they wouldn’t let me go too easily. I’d have to find out where I stood, clear the air, and reach some sort of solution. It seemed as though people were really counting on me. Frankly, I didn’t like that one bit. All I really wanted was some hot pizza.

  Friday evening rolled around, bringing with it an odd new character. He zeroed right in on me, and I noticed him too, arriving in an old UAZ car—the type of car agronomists and warrant officers used to drive back in the day. He’d come in from the north, and was dressed just like me, in army pants and a camouflage T-shirt. He was also wearing a peaked cap with the SS lightning bolts on it. He looked at everyone suspiciously and inquisitively. He greeted Kocha silently, motioning for him to fill up his tank, saluted Injured, and walked with him to the garage. Around then he took notice of my Bundeswehr jacket, came over to me, and struck up a conversation.

  “Nice jacket,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s holding together pretty good,” I agreed.

  “That’s some fabric. Are you Herman?”

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “Korolyov? Yura’s brother?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You might not remember me. Your brother and I did some business together.”

  “Everyone in these parts did business with my brother,” I pointed out, annoyed with having to go through these preliminaries again.

  “We had a special relationship,” he said, placing special weight on the word “special.” “He used to buy fuel for airplanes from me and sell it someplace in Poland . . . to some farmers.”

  “What do you mean he used to buy it from you?”

  “Well, at the airport.”

  “So, you work at the airport?”

  “What’s left of it. Ernst,” he introduced himself, extending his hand.

  “What sort of name is that?”

  “It’s a nickname.”

  “Well, is that what you go by?”

  “Sure it is. I’m used to it already. What’d you major in?”

  “History.”

  At this, his expression changed completely. He sized me up, took me by the elbow gingerly, led me out of the garage, and guided me off to the side, away from Kocha and Injured, who both looked bewildered by this situation.

  “You know, Herman,” he said, continuing to hold onto my elbow and tugging me further away from the gas station, “I majored in history too. I just fell into the job at the airport. Where’d you get your degree?”

  “Kharkiv.”

  “History major?”

  “History major.”

  “Where’d you do your field work?”

  “The usual, just outside the city.”

  “Digging?”

  “Digging.”

  “What can you tell me about the Death’s Head?”

  “What head?”

  “The Death’s Head. That was the name of a German division.”

  “Well,” I hesitated, “nothing good.”

  “You know what, Herman,” he continued, pinching my elbow now enough to make me wince. “You have to come visit me at the airport. I’ll open your eyes.”

  “To what?” I asked.

  “A whole new world. You don’t get it yet.”

  “And you do?”

  “Sure I get it. Herman, I’ve dug up every field from here to the Donbass. So, I’ll be waiting for you on Monday. Why don’t ya stop by, all right?”

  “All right,” I agreed.

  “You’ll figure out how to get there?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He turned back decisively and headed toward his car. He walked up to Kocha, handed him some dough for the gas, and hopped inside.

  “Monday!” he yelled as he was leaving. He pulled out, kicking up clouds of dust. Then I walked over toward Kocha.

  “Who is that guy?” I asked.

  “Ernst Thälmann,” Kocha answered with a great sense of satisfaction.

  “What’s with his name?”

  “It’s a perfectly normal name,” Kocha chuckled. “He’s a mechanic at the airport. And he’s the namesake of the famous German Communist.”

  “I think I might know him from way back.”

  “Everybody here knows each other,” Kocha said, as though he was repeating someone else’s words.

 
“He used to give us grain alcohol. It was stored away somewhere at the airport. That was about twenty years ago.” I was starting to piece it together.

  “See?” Kocha said. “He’s dug up a good part of the valley. He’s looking for German tanks.”

  “Tanks?”

  “Yep.”

  “What does he need tanks for?”

  “I don’t know,” Kocha admitted. “Maybe it’s a self-esteem thing. He says that there are still a few tanks buried in our neck of the woods. Well, he’s looking for them. He’s got a bunch of fascist memorabilia at home—automatic weapons, shells, medals. But he’s not a fascist,” Kocha warned me. “Who ever heard of a fascist named Ernst Thälmann?”

  “Gotcha,” I said, comprehending at last.

  “A German tank would be worth a lot of money,” Injured added, coming over to us. “But it’s not like he’s gonna be fuckin’ digging one up anytime soon.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “Herman,” Injured said irritably, “it’s not some sack of potatoes. We’re talking sixty tons of metal. What’s he gonna dig it up with, a shovel? Come on, let’s get back to work.”

  Disgruntled as usual, Injured turned around and vanished into the garage. I followed him in. “Sixty tons,” I thought, “nope, that’s no sack of potatoes, that’s for sure.”

  I had discovered one thing—work can give you, if not a sense of satisfaction, really, then at least a sense of accomplishment. The last time I felt anything like it was in third grade, when they took us out to an orchard to gather apples for the collective farmers—searching conscientiously for heavy windfall fruits in the cold September grass. . .

  On Saturday, there were more cars than usual. They were heading north, toward Kharkiv. Kocha counted up our money gleefully, although he was concerned whether we would have enough gas to last us until next week’s delivery.

  After the morning rush, when the sun had rolled up to its apex, I took off my heavy gloves, told Kocha I was going to take a little break, and I headed out along the hill, turning off the highway. I had no clue where I was going—I probably just needed to get away from it all and take in the bucolic scenery. I descended into the gully then climbed up another hill. Soon I reached the endless cornfields that stretched out to the horizon (well, apparently they kept going even after the horizon). There wasn’t any road to guide me, so I simply kept moving forward, trying to keep the sun at my back and not in my eyes. The unripe corn made the landscape a light shade of green, tinted black by the dry earth between. I encountered some depressions here and there—the whole area looked like a golf course where someone had taken it into his head to plant corn. Suddenly, up ahead, about two hundred meters in front of me, I noticed some sort of silhouette. Somebody had stopped dead in their tracks, listening to the enveloping silence. I didn’t get a good look at whoever it was, and I thought that if someone saw the two of us out there, in the middle of a cornfield, in the middle of all those accumulations of black soil, we might make an odd picture—odd and suspicious. I approached the figure and recognized Katya. She was wearing denim overalls that must have felt smothering in this heat, with a bright yellow T-shirt on underneath and the same sandals as the last time I saw her. She had also noticed me—she was just standing there, waiting for me to come over.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded in place of hello.

  “Well, what are you doing here?” Yet it seemed she wasn’t too surprised to see me.

  “I was looking for you.”

  “Yeah, sure . . .” she said, eyeing me coldly.

  “Hi,” I replied, extending my hand to her. She hesitated for a second, then took it. She even threw in a smile, though it was more dismissive than friendly.

  “So what are you doing here?” I asked again.

  “I’m looking for Pakhmutova.”

  “For what?”

  “For Pakhmutova, my German shepherd. She’s always running off into the fields.”

  “She’ll turn up. Dogs are wise.”

  “She’s just so old. She’s forgetful. She’s already run onto the highway a few times . . . I was lucky I found her the last time. It’s just a good thing everybody around here knows her, so they just leave her alone.” Katya was beginning to show how upset she really was.

  “Why not tie her up—that way she won’t run away.”

  “How about I tie you up,” Katya said angrily. “That way you won’t run away.”

  “Okay, chill.” I did my best to sound conciliatory.

  But Katya wasn’t listening. She had turned her back on me and was calling for her German shepherd: “Pakhmutova!” she yelled out into the empty fields. “Pakhmutova-a-a!”

  When she stopped shouting, we noticed an odd sound. It grew increasingly distinct, breaking down into individual clanging notes as it slid through the air, cutting through the silence like an icebreaker through a frozen river. Katya tensed up immediately and looked into the sky. There was something there, moving toward us, and soon enough I realized it was a biplane, an An-2. Katya leaped toward me, dropping to the ground and yanking me down by my sleeve. I fell on top of her. “Well, how about that,” I thought. Katya whispered:

  “Lie flat and don’t move. And cover me up. My shirt is bright—they might spot it.”

  “Who might spot it?”

  “The corn guys.”

  “That’s their plane?”

  “Yeah. Make sure they don’t see you. They don’t like people coming on their land. There could be trouble.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I said, trying to get up.

  Truly frightened, Katya tugged me back onto her, repeating, “Don’t move!”

  I buried my face in her shoulder. The ground beneath her hair was dry and cracked; I could see ants scurrying up the nearby cornstalks, and Katya’s black hair was trapping the dust that floated past us, taking on its color, and her eyes were also the color of dust. It was as if she was trying to blend in with her surroundings. Meanwhile, the plane was still approaching, letting out its desperate and ominous roar. I was shielding Katya from view, but soon found my nose in her hair and my body pressing into her and the grass alike. Her breath was quick and nervous, and she was clinging to me, one hand slipping underneath my shirt.

  “You’re drenched in sweat,” she said, surprised.

  “That’s from the sun.”

  “Don’t move,” she repeated.

  “These damn overalls,” I said, trying to undo her side buttons and slide my hand underneath her shirt, but all I was managing to do was jerk vainly at the catches and pull her against me. I started getting anxious and angry as she went on touching my skin softly and disinterestedly, not even looking at me. She was focused solely on the plane whipping by and casting a deep shadow over our bodies—its roar becoming deafening before the machine finally soared away, leaving behind smoke, fumes, and emptiness. By this time, I’d even managed to undo one of Katya’s buttons, but she evidently felt the coast was clear, so she pulled her hand out from under my shirt and lightly pushed me away.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” she said and got up.

  “Wait a second. Where are you going?”

  “Get up.”

  “Where are you going? Wait up.”

  “That’s enough,” she said calmly and did up the button I had been struggling with for so long.

  “Damn,” I thought, but was immediately distracted by a new sound: heavy breathing just over my head. I got up and saw a German shepherd had materialized next to me without my noticing. It was Grandma Pakhmutova, standing there and looking at me, seemingly asking, “What do you want from us, anyway?” And I didn’t know how to respond.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Katya said, and headed toward the TV tower sticking up from beyond the horizon. Pakhmutova trotted happily behind Katya. I picked myself up, dusted off my shirt, and fell in behind them with a bit of a hangdog expression on my face.

  Katya kept quiet all the way back, paying no attention to my feeble attempts at
striking up a conversation, either muttering to herself or talking to Pakhmutova. She stopped by the gate of the TV tower and extended her hand to say good-bye.

  “Thanks,” I said, “sorry if things got . . .”

  “Whatever,” she said calmly, “everything’s fine. Make sure not to wander into the cornfields again.”

  “Are you that afraid of them?”

  “I’m not afraid of them,” she answered. “I just know what they’re like. All right, I’m outta here.”

  “Wait. What are you doing tonight?”

  “Tonight? I’ll be doing my homework. And tomorrow morning, too,” she added, turning and heading inside. The German shepherd sniffed my shoes in farewell, then followed.

  “Hard day’s night,” I thought.

  Injured looked at me even more suspiciously than usual when I got back, as though he knew exactly what had happened, but he kept quiet. Just as he was about to leave he came up to me and said:

  “Herman, here’s the thing,” his tone was flat, though not unsympathetic. “We’re going to need you tomorrow.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “You’ll see,” he said. “We’re gonna stop by around eleven. Make sure you’re ready. This is some serious stuff. Can we count on you?”

  “You bet your ass you can, Injured.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” He hopped into his car and pulled out onto the highway.

  “Here we go,” I told myself. “And don’t even try to say you weren’t expecting this.”

  5

  I thought long and hard about the whole situation. How did they wind up dragging me into this turf war of theirs? What was I doing there anyway? Why hadn’t I left yet? Most importantly, what was Injured cooking up? Knowing him as I did, and given his somewhat loose relationship with reality, one could expect just about anything. But just how far was he willing to go? “We’re talking about holding on to our business here,” I thought, “so how willing is he to take a stand?” And what part has he cast me for in this script of his? What was in store for me the next afternoon? Would I live to see tomorrow evening? Should I just have hightailed it out of there right away? Who could say what might happen, whether things could be resolved without any bloodshed; it seemed to me that everyone in this part of the country was all too willing to fight for their principles. Injured and the biplane pilots were far too determined and stubborn to find a solution that didn’t involve body bags to what were, after all, just some administrative problems. It seemed as though it was all coming back to me—my school days and the real, adult world that was right there beside me. It felt as though somebody had opened a door, and now I couldn’t help but see what was going on in the next room. Most importantly, I could see that there was nothing good about it, but since the door had been opened, I was involved in the whole mess. And it was terrible, mulling all of this over—I needed some sort of solution, and told myself that I shouldn’t be the only one responsible for finding it. A solution would only be found when your brothers in arms were standing alongside you. But where are my brothers, I wondered, and who are they anyway? I was standing alone in the dark, but I could already feel apprehensive breathing and the fiery beating of warriors’ hearts. The night was heating up like fresh asphalt. I had run out of time and patience—I told myself I couldn’t afford to wait till morning to make a decision. That may have been my one real chance to go. And I slept right through it.