Voroshilovgrad (13 page)

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.