the back of the skull-was remarkably similar, suggesting the possibility that a single right-handed individual carried out the execution, although he no doubt had accomplices.
“Fifth, the victims’ teeth showed generally good care and no German amalgam fillings.
“Sixth, one skeleton wore a leg brace. I was able to remove rust from the maker’s plate, which gave an address in Warsaw. Other objects found in the accompanying soil included a silver locket, perhaps once secreted in a body cavity, that expressed romantic sentiments in Polish; a jeweler’s loupe engraved with the name of a stamp dealer in Krakow; a pillbox with a view of the Tatra Mountains, and Polish coins of the prewar era.
“In sum, not enough information is yet available for us to draw firm conclusions, but indications are that the victims were Polish nationals…”
Where there was nostalgia there was amnesia. People tended to forget that when Hitler and Stalin carved up Poland, Stalin took the precaution of executing twenty thousand Polish Army officers, police, professors, writers, doctors, anyone who might form a political or military opposition. At least half were killed in Tver. Buried beneath the trees was the cream of Polish society.
The Diggers exhibited deflation and confusion. This was not the outcome the men had expected, not the laurels for a mission accomplished, not the bonding they had planned. This was a definite fuckup. Someone had sent them to the wrong dig and Rudi Rudenko, the Black Digger, the so-called professional, had suddenly disappeared. If Big Rudi said he saw Stalin one more time someone was going to lay him out with a shovel.
Sofia Andreyeva drew herself up and asked, “Did you hear me in the back? Was it clear enough for you? The victims are Poles, killed and buried here on Stalin’s orders. Do you understand?”
The Digger crew leaders convened under an umbrella. Understand? They understood that she was a fucking, Polish whore of a doctor. They should have made sure and gotten a Russian. They also knew that it was no fun to camp in the rain. Kids sniffled in camos that had resisted rain all day and were now soaked through on a cold evening that was getting colder when a hot bath and pepper vodka was what the doctor ordered. Not this doctor. A Russian doctor. A thunderclap decided it. They were breaking camp.
In a flurry of flashlight beams the tents came down, crews rolled tarps up from the trenches, boys stuffed Wehrmacht helmets into pillow cases. Unwieldy items like metal detectors, coolers and grills were cursed as they were portered in the dark, and cursed a second time surrounded by milling vehicles attempting to reverse direction over the ruts of a one-lane dirt road. Thunder and the smoke of campfires lent an aspect of retreat under fire.
Yura backed up the television truck to the pathology tent. Lydia dove in and shook her hair. A Mercedes eased its way to Wiley and Pacheco.
“That’s it? You’re quitting?” Arkady asked.
Wiley said, “The son of a bitch said he was afraid of this. He knew something.”
“Who?”
“Detective Nikolai Isakov, our candidate. He said he’d been waiting years for this.”
“This what?”
“Something about his father. Believe me, it no longer matters.”
Pacheco said, “No one is going to put on the air what we just saw. A Russian atrocity? They’d hang us by our heels first.”
“Say good-bye to Nikolai for us,” Wiley said.
“We had fun,” said Pacheco. “If Stalin shows up, say hello for me.”
Zhenya’s wet hair was plastered to his forehead because he refused to pull up his hood no matter what Arkady said. Together, they helped Sofia Andreyeva put a skeleton in a body bag. She was laughing and crying at the same time.
“Did you see them run? Poof, the mighty encampment is gone. Stuffed into their cars with someone, I hope, feeling nauseous. What a shame. They came to glorify the past and the past serves up the wrong victim. Some days I curse God for letting me live so long, but today it was worth it. Everybody has a fantasy. Professor Golovanov dreams of a beautiful Frenchman. I dream of a Polish boy, a medical student.”
The rain fell heavier. Arkady was on the verge of shouting just to be heard.
“Do you have a ride back to the city?”
“I borrowed a car, thank you. I’m just going to sit here for a while with my compatriots. I have a camp chair. I have cigarettes. I even…” She allowed him a glimpse of a silver flask. “In case of a chill.”
“The road will be mud soon, don’t wait too long.”
“It will turn to snow. I much prefer snow; it has panache.”
“Where is Isakov?”
“I don’t know. His friend headed back to the fir trees for more bodies. He claims that there are Russian remains and that you didn’t dig deep enough or in the right place.”
Zhenya said, “I bet he’s right. Marat’s a soldier; he should know. I don’t see why we couldn’t help.”
Arkady said, “Stumbling around explosives in the dark is not a good idea.”
“If you’re afraid to get into the dig yourself, you could hold a flashlight for someone else. I have a flashlight in my backpack.”
“You’ve come prepared for anything.”
“Someone has to.”
“No. We’re going home. We’re going to Moscow tonight.”
It felt to Arkady as if it had been night for days. Nothing had worked out as expected. Instead of winning Eva he had lost her. And in Tver there was no way he could escape Marat and Isakov.
Zhenya said, “I’m going to Lake Brosno with Nikolai and then we’re going to Swan Lake.”
“Swan Lake? Like the ballet?”
Sofia Andreyeva said, “It’s a local myth, a haven that does not exist for swans that do not exist.”
“Swans, monsters, weeping virgins. And dragons.”
“I’m sorry, no dragons,” Sofia Andreyeva said.
“You said there were dragons when I took the apartment.”
“So you take your shoes off, yes. You walk on an old dragon softly.”
It took Arkady a moment. “It’s a rug.”
A shadow moved across the campground, levitating over paper wrappers and empty bottles left in the Diggers’ hasty departure. Closer, the figure became a black and shiny ghost that billowed and snapped in the rain. Arkady watched for Stalin’s bristling mustache, greatcoat, yellow eyes. Instead it was Big Rudi in a plastic bag with holes for his head and arms and his cap jammed on his head. Rudi followed with the sort of box flashlight a mechanic might set on a fender. The beam was off.
“Granddad is still looking for Stalin. He’s in his own world.”
Sofia Andreyeva allowed Big Rudi a sip of brandy using the cap of her flask as a cup. “I don’t want to see him in the morning on a slab.”
“Any vodka?” Big Rudi inquired.
“I think he’s back in our world.” She said to Rudi, “I noticed you when I was describing the remains. You stood out.”
“Thank you.” Rudi was flattered.
“You are a Black Digger, a professional.”
“Yes.”
“You dig to make money.”
“I’m a businessman, yes.”
“I wonder how much money would you demand to go into those trees tonight?”
“You couldn’t give me enough.”
“Why not?” Arkady asked. “Don’t you think the mines are harmless?”
“Every year a ‘harmless’ mine blows off someone’s leg.”
“But a professional like you would see the mine.”
“Maybe.”
Arkady looked to see Zhenya’s reaction, but the boy was gone. A flap at the back of the tent was untied.
“May I borrow your flashlight for a moment?”
Arkady stepped out into the rain, turned on the beam and did a 360-degree sweep of trenches, smoldering
