to the corner of his eye, a move that I found over-the-top. From this man, this admiral, I did not buy an excess of emotion that drove him to tears. And I was slightly insulted that he thought it would work.
We left the visiting officers quarters in one of those ubiquitous black Zil limousines that are the hallmark of power and prestige in this part of Russia. I heard that Mercedes-Benz were replacing them in Moscow and other large cities, but that innovation had not made it this far north yet. Besides, there were no doubt more Zil automotive technicians than Mercedes this far north. There was something about the native Russian construction of the engine and the suspension that was peculiarly more adapted to this harsh northern climate.
Traffic was light, as it always is in most Russian cities. The average Russian citizen does not own a car, uses public transportation, and traffic jams are one of the innovations of the late twentieth century that had not yet come to Russian cities. Not that the roads would have supported them. Except for main thoroughfares, the roads were generally in bad repair, potholed and tortured by the brutal winter climate.
The buildings on either side, apart from the military installations, had a dirty, neglected look to them. Row after row of featureless cinder-block apartments, some looking half-occupied. There were few signs of human habitation ? no plants in the windows, no decorative curtains, nothing to indicate who actually lived there. Combined with a lack of traffic on the roads, it gave the entire area a deserted, forlorn look.
And why should the average citizen do anything to personalize his or her living quarters? After all, they didn't own them ? didn't even pay any rent, at least not in most areas. The facilities were owned by the state, provided to the citizen along with food ? scarce and in poor quality ? and utilities ? intermittent at best and sometimes consisting only of dirty-burning coal ? as a benefit of Russian citizenship. As much as anything, that is the difference between a communist economy and our own system of free enterprise. In America, you decide who you want to be and then work to earn it. In Russia, the state decided.
Finally, we pulled to a stop in front of a building only slightly less derelict than the others. It was constructed of a lighter shade of concrete, with the same small windows and forbidding construction as the apartment buildings. A Russian bus was parked in front, rust streaking the sides and with two windows missing. It pulled away belching dark smoke, the jerky motion indicating that the transmission was barely operating.
The admiral pointed at it and said, 'What you call mass transit. Very highly developed here in Russia. You notice how clean the air is? We do not have your reliance on Middle East oil for private automobiles.'
'And your domestic resources are sufficient for all of your heating and industrial purposes, I take it?' I asked. Bragging. The Russian economy was in an abysmal state. The oil producing fields around the Black Sea hardly made Russia self-sustaining. Indeed, if anything, their reliance on foreign oil was even stronger than our own. And with the recent construction of a pipeline between a few independent former Soviet Union states and Turkey, with Turkey undertaking refining of the crude, Russia was surely to be hit worse than before. Only several years ago, utilities to most major naval installations had been terminated in Ukraine when Russia failed to pay for heating oil. Critical in the south ? deadly here in the north.
'Our distribution system is most efficient,' the admiral replied, and left it at that.
The car pulled to a stop directly opposite the entrance, taking the place of the bus I'd seen pull away. A man darted out and opened the back door for us to disembark.
The wind was muted here, undoubtedly blocked by the massive rows of buildings. The cold still bit immediately, and I could feel it etching lines in my face.
It was but a few short steps into the building. I passed through a double layer of doors intended to retain as much of the building heat as possible against the icy climate, and was immediately uncomfortably warm in a long winter coat. I shucked it off and was then conscious of the thickness under my arm and the pistol snuggled there. Was it noticeable?
I slid my hands over my body, as though checking for wrinkles in my jacket.
Yes, I could feel it ? it would be immediately discernible to anyone who wanted to pat me down, but the odds of that happening in a Russian hospital were not high. Or so I hoped.
We were met by a Russian civil servant, one of the institutions that Russia shares with us. In some strange way, he resembled his building ? an institutionalized look, closed off and inaccessible. There was no telling how long he had held the position. Russian civil servants earn their positions by party membership and political patronage and, once in place, tend to be as long-lived as their American counterparts. Even in the post-Soviet Union era, party membership still counted for something.
Introductions were exchanged, the translator moving quickly to my side. I murmured something polite about the facilities. It was as though I could feel my father's presence radiating down from the floors above, calling to me, insisting that I see him. I glanced up involuntarily, almost expected to see the summons flooding in the air.
After I refused the traditional offer of tea and refreshments, the hospital administrator nodded understandingly. He said something quietly to the admiral, which my translator did not repeat. I turned to him. 'I'd like to see my father now.' I did not have to force the note of real longing in my voice ? not for the man they were going to try to pass off as my father, but for the man I'd barely known as a child.
One elevator out of four worked. I boarded it with some trepidation, noting that most of the staff opted for the stairs. The hospital administrator punched a button, and, after a moment of indecision, the doors slid shut. With a shudder and mechanical groan, the elevator jerked upward.
Two minutes, much longer than the trip would have taken at an American hospital. Finally, the doors slid back, to reveal that the elevator was almost even with the floor. I stepped out hastily amid nightmares of the elevator cable breaking and plummeting to my death in that dingy hospital.
The hospital administrator said something that could only be 'This way,' and then led us down the passageway to a nursing station, notably cheerful and efficient-looking in the midst of so much disrepair. Both male and female nurses were standing there, evidently staged in position by an advance party. They wore stark black name tags on their shirts, quasi-military white jumpsuits. A professional-looking organization. I noted a bouquet cut out of construction paper pasted on one wall, the sole evidence of an attempt to make their surroundings look more human and less institutional.
It smelled clean and like a hospital, and the medical equipment I saw all seemed to be in good repair. There were rooms lining the corridor, not the large, open ward I expected. Perhaps just for my sake?
The hospital administrator rapped out a question to the admiral, who shook his head in reply. The administrator turned his eyes to me, his look warm and oddly full of compassion. He spoke a few sentences in a gentle voice, and waited for the translator.
'Your father is not well, sir,' the translator said, speaking softly.
'He suffers from dementia, the type associated with advanced age. The years have not been gentle to him.' The translator paused, waiting for more. Another burst of quiet words, and a guilty, half-apologetic look from the administrator. 'His injuries when he arrived in our care so long ago, they were considerable,' the translator continued. 'You must understand, there are some things that are very difficult to recover from.
Mentally, he is often confused.'
The anger again, harder and demanding now. No matter that it might not be my father, the idea that they'd expect me to understand, perhaps even forgive, the unspeakable acts they'd committed.
It took all my self-control to keep my face neutral and composed. I took a deep breath, and said, 'Tell him I understand. And I am most grateful that he has warned me, and he has given my father excellent care here. There are some things even the finest medical science cannot cure, I know.' Like the sickness in your soul that could allow them to break bones, listen to the screams, and then pretend that it was simply a normal Part of warfare. Nothing personal, you understand.
They were wrong. This was very personal.
The hospital administrator nodded, a ghost of relief crossing his face, so I must have succeeded in keeping my thoughts from my expression.
Ilanovich scowled, but made no comment.
Without further remarks, the administrator pushed open the door. He called out a soft greeting in Russian, then stepped aside, holding the door open with his body to allow us to precede him into the room. Ilanovich motioned me forward.
I stepped into the room.
It was warmer air, distinctly warmer than the hallway outside. I spotted a small space heater in the corner. The walls were blank, clean and pristine. The hospital bed itself looked new, the metal shiny and unmarked. The room smelled of starch and disinfectant. The sheets on the bed were gleaming white, partially covered by a light
