forever.
Katja did a trick on the front-door lock that impressed both me and Gavra, and even Heinrich-he let out a disappointed gasp. We passed through the entryway, where a wall of punch cards was positioned beside a time clock, and quickly found the central distribution office, with small file-card drawers stacked to the ceiling.
Once we got going, I realized this wasn’t going to be quick. None of us-not even Heinrich-understood the filing system, so for the first hour it was a matter of opening drawers at random, examining the cards inside, and then
trying to infer what that set of cabinets was for. In each set, we looked for “Gorski,” and finally found a typewritten card: GORSKI, ROSTA 1957 QPC-203-2948B
“What the hell does that mean?” said Gavra.
I looked at the guard and was pleased to see he was no longer scared. “Heinrich?”
He shrugged. “Higher mathematics.”
I liked Heinrich.
After another hour, on the third floor we found a storage unit numbered 203, which contained an aisle marked c in section QP. Gavra held on to Heinrich as Katja and I walked the aisle, which was long enough so that the far end appeared very small. Toward the end, Katja said, “There,” and pointed. Eight feet up was a file drawer marked 2948. She found a stepladder on wheels, and I climbed it. There was nothing between the files for GORJAN and GORSKOV. In the front of the drawer I found a single-page notice that referred the researcher to the overflow file, 2948B, in the basement.
By three thirty, we found it. Rosta Gorski’s file was only a few pages long, mentioning Gorski’s mother-Irina Gorski, widow-his home in Stryy, and his profession: farmer. There were two Militia sheets on him, dealing with small-time crimes. He’d stolen someone’s cow in 1971 when he was fourteen and was jailed for a night. When he was nineteen, in 1976, he’d started a brawl in a local bar and spent another night in jail, charged with hooliganism and drunkenness.
The last sheet was a replica of the first one, dated February 1980. It restated his name, mother (deceased as of 1979), place of birth, and profession, but with a single additional line: Stryy Militia reported the disappearance of
R. Gorski on 12 September 1979. As of 28.2.80 he has not been located.
“Nothing here about the files,” I said, folding up the papers and slipping them into my coat pocket.
It wasn’t until after five in the morning, an hour before the first archive clerks would arrive for work, that we finally tracked down what we were interested in. By then, I was exhausted, feeling the heat of overpressured blood thumping under my skin, but I kept going. It wasn’t a measure of my loyalty to the job; Yuri Kolev hardly even entered my mind. It was a measure of the guilt slowly growing inside me. The explosive charges that killed Lena had been meant for me. I-in part because I’d never had her car fixed-was responsible for her murder. I couldn’t take that burden. I needed to know, without a doubt, the identity of the responsible person, so I wouldn’t have to carry that guilt alone.
That’s how I was able to stay awake.
We again began in the central distribution office but realized after a long time that we were in the wrong place. Behind the office was another door leading to a table with two computer terminals, two pencils, and a stack of notepaper cut from used printed sheets. On the shelf were folders of perforated computer printouts that listed file numbers followed by codes. It took a while, but we found Gorski’s QPC-203-2948B, which was followed by TR000293X.
By then, Katja had warmed up one of the computers and started a file-keeping program called Nutshell. She typed in the code and waited. After half a minute of hums and clicks, it gave us two names:
1. ROMEK, NIKOLAI
2. KOLEV, YURI
I was amazed; it was the first time I’d witnessed the speed of computers.
“These,” she said, “are the two people who’ve signed out Gorski’s file.”
Gavra made a noise. “This is why they killed Kolev. They saw he’d been looking into Gorski’s file. That made him a threat.”
I touched Katja’s shoulder. “Can you find out what other files Romek signed out?”
She didn’t know, but she tried typing “1,” followed by ENTER. After a minute and a half, we were presented with this list:
1. GORSKI, ROSTA
2. 10-3283-48 (RUTH)
3. VOLAN, DUSAN (RUTH)
4. SEV, BRANO (AUTH)
5. BROD, EMIL (AUTH)
6. PUT0N5KI, LEBED (AUTH)
7. MICHALEC, JERZY (AUTH)
8. ZOLTENKO, TATIANA (AUTH)
9. PREV TEAR5
“There’s your answer,” said Katja, leaning back in her chair. “Romek authorized the release of all the files.”
“Type four,” I said.
She did, and a few lines of letter-and-number codes came back. I wasn’t sure what they meant, but Katja was able to decipher the abbreviations. “Brano’s file is in the building,” she said.
“No. None of the files were returned.”
She pressed a finger to the screen. “Right here. Taken out December eighth. Brought back yesterday, at six in the evening.” She turned to Heinrich; we’d sat him down at the other terminal. “What time does the building close?”
He shrugged. “Open and close at six.”
“Then it hasn’t been filed yet,” said Katja.
It was nearly six o’clock by now, so Gavra waited by the front door, watching for arrivals, while Katja and I went to the deposit room, a simple counter with steel shelves covering the wall, filled with returned files. We finally had some luck, because the clerk, eager to get home, had simply placed the returned stack of six personnel files-the 1948 case file hadn’t been returned-behind the counter for the morning clerk to deal with.
We left Heinrich at his pillbox. I guessed he would stay quiet about his night’s adventure rather than be grilled on why he hadn’t shot any of us. We hadn’t destroyed anything, and six missing files was probably their daily quota.
We kept stifling yawns, but all three of us knew it wasn’t yet time for sleep. When your country is falling apart, time changes. Everything becomes equally urgent. Adrenaline kicks in, followed by something else, some undiscovered substance the body produces during national emergencies. Unlike Katja and Gavra, though, I was no longer young. My heart could only take so much of this before it would just give up.
I didn’t have to tell them where our next stop was, because Nikolai Romek’s house was the only place left to go. Gavra, who’d been at the colonel’s for a Ministry party last year, gave Katja directions.
Farther up Friendship, we saw a dead body outside an electrical shop. The woman, lying facedown, was alone on that vacant block. Katja slowed as we passed the blood-spattered body-she’d been shot in the back-then sped up, turning onto another street. None of us felt like talking about it, or even calling it in.
On Belgrade Avenue, the tower-lined road that would get us out of town, we saw an army roadblock at the intersection with Tisa Street. A jeep and a truck. Seven soldiers checking cars from each direction, Kalashnikovs strung over their shoulders.
“Can we make it?” said Gavra, leaning forward to see better.
“Pull over,” I told Katja.
She did so, and we squinted through the dim morning light. They weren’t bothering with the vehicles, instead asking each passenger for his papers. Katja and I would be fine, but I wasn’t sure about Gavra. I turned to him. “Let me see your documents.”
All he had on him were his passport, his Ministry certificate, and a driver’s license-but that, too, identified him as a Ministry employee. He’d left his Viktor Lukacs papers in his paint-smeared car.
