September-October, 1944
Tashkent
Rachel felt a distant tugging that was like the insistent pull of the Volga. She tried to wrap herself in the thick blackness, but the tugging wouldn’t relent. Against her will she felt herself rising towards consciousness like a diver bobbing upward from the depths to the surface sheen of light. Her eyes were sealed and she didn’t want to try and open them. “Leave me alone, Grandpa,” she said.
Tug. Tug. Tug. She swatted at it and something caught her hand and she heard a giggle. She moved her head and her eyes opened. A young girl, perhaps twelve, was bending over her, staring wide-eyed. Yellow-skinned, with her black hair braided in two plaits, she wore a silk tunic and pants covered by a brilliantly colored silk robe. On top of her head was a red skullcap.
“I’m Safur,” she said, in Russian, her black eyes fixed on Rachel’s. She had a round face with Alisher’s features.
“You’re his daughter.”
The girl smiled. “Yes. And you are in his house.”
Rachel tried to move her head, but she couldn’t lift it. She touched her skull and discovered that thick bandages had been wrapped around her head, turban style. She was laying on a rope-mat on a hard clay floor. The walls of the room, also clay-brick, were hung with weavings. The room was lit by candles placed in ceramic holders. Without reason, Rachel began to cry.
Safur patted her hand. “You’ll get better. Our doctor fixed your head.” She wiped the tears away with a silk kerchief. “Let me get you some tea.”
The girl sprung up, looking to Rachel like a jack-in-the-box, and left the room through a doorway hung with a bead curtain. Rachel heard her speaking with another woman. She remembered then how Zip Uk had slammed her head against the wall. She felt his hand around her throat and she lifted her right hand in the air. It was fine. Mitya had somehow stopped him.
Safur returned, carrying a ceramic dish upon which sat two cups of tea.
“I’ll help you sit up.” The girl put the dish down and moved behind Rachel. She placed her hands below her shoulders and pushed. As if pulled by strings Rachel felt her upper body come up off the mat. Once upright, she shut her eyes and clung to Safur until the wave of dizziness passed.
“I’m alright now, thanks.” She smiled at the girl, who was watching her anxiously. Safur handed her one of the cups and she sipped, inhaling the mint fragrance.
“How long have I been here?”
“Only since last night.”
Rachel shuddered. Then it had happened only yesterday. Her body felt like she had been asleep for weeks. She drank more tea, savoring its warmth. Like it or not, her brief sojourn in the sun had ended. What would Avilov do? Search for her, or pretend she had never existed. The latter was more likely; after all, what had she done for the Soviet Union? A few posters and a portfolio of sketches that had been rejected. He would have no trouble avoiding embarrassment over her disappearance; and his conscience would rest easy as far as her father was concerned. Zip Uk, on the other hand, wouldn’t go away. He wouldn’t accept defeat without trying to find her and the paintings.
“You shouldn’t think so much,” Safur chided. “It’s too soon for you to worry.”
“I can’t help myself.”
“First you have to get better. Our doctor says that will take six weeks. Then you can worry about the Russians.”
Six weeks! It sounded like an eternity. Safur took the empty cup from her and helped her lower herself to the mat. She was overtaken by exhaustion.
“See?”
“Yes, Safur. I see.”
* * *
After two months in the hospital, Stephen finally felt strong enough to leave. Now, when the attacks came they didn’t last as long and he was able to shrug them off. He had eaten huge portions of the starchy food and as his strength had returned with his body weight, he began to take long walks and then the walks became runs and the muscle returned first to his legs and thighs. He avoided making demands on the medical staff and out of gratitude they took his side on the question of whether Illya Radek could return to active military duty.
“What do you want?” the doctor asked. It was only the second conversation Stephen had with him and it was now the week before he was to be discharged.
“To go to Tashkent. My sister is there waiting for me.”
“The desert will be good for you,” the doctor said.
“Along with the medicine.”
“Yes, you must keep taking it.”
“Am I going to die from this?”
The doctor shrugged. “It’s possible. We may have gotten to you too late. Right now, the drugs are working.”
“But you can’t tell me for sure.”
The doctor shook his head. “Certainty is for children and you’re not a child. Take your drugs and live. If it happens—”
* * *
Stephen arrived in Tashkent by train on October 4th. He had a room waiting for him at the only luxurious hotel in the city, but he went from the train station to the building where Mitya Vodogolin’s artists worked. He had been given the address by his father’s old friend, Vladimir Avilov, who headed up a commission in Moscow that would be responsible for building war monuments once the war was over.
He had seen Avilov’s name in Pravda—the war memorial commission was the subject of a long article replete with photographs of the new chairman. Stephen had written Avilov a letter claiming that they had a mutual friend, including details about his father that would, at a minimum, wet Avilov’s curiosity.
Avilov obviously saw through the artifice and sent a note to the hospital, hand delivered by an aide, inviting him to dinner. They had met in a restaurant off-limits to all but Party officials. Entering it, Stephen had been ushered to an alcove, protected by curtains. Stephen had gained back half of the weight he had lost, but compared to Avilov, he was thin as a rake.
You’ve had a good war, Stephen thought.
The portly artist-turned-administrator smiled in recognition. “Well, well, Mr. Hirschfeld, I presume.”
Stephen nodded.
“So you’re the son.”
“The one without the talent.”
Avilov gave him a knowing look. “Your father meant well, but he was an artistic snob of the first rank. If you weren’t a genius, he treated you like shit.”
“Even his own son,” Stephen said.
“David was a great artist, but a lousy friend. I loved him, but he could never forgive me for not being as talented as he was.”
They had consumed mountains of food, all of it delicious, although Stephen had wondered if he would have felt that way had he not been eating hospital food all those months. They also drank bottles of vodka and wine. But Stephen was still hungry for dessert at the end.
“You have a good appetite. Not many men can keep up with me,” Avilov said.
“I’ve had a long war.”
Avilov met his eyes and Stephen heard himself laugh out loud; Avilov joined him.
“I like you, kid,” Avilov said. “You’re not anything like your old man was.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They had several desserts, sweet wine, and then an aperitif.
Avilov leaned back in his chair and patted his protruding belly.
“Rachel has become very well known,” Avilov said. “After the war, she can write her own ticket as far as I’m concerned.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ll get her a position overseeing the design and construction of all the memorials in the country. She’ll be set for life.”
“Why do you need me?”
“I met with Rachel in Tashkent. She agreed to do a project for me. But now I can’t locate her. Her old boss, Vodogolin claims not to know where she is.”
“You get me out there, and I’ll deliver the message.”
“Agreed.”
“But for all I know she and her fiancé found each other and they’ve already left the country.”
Avilov sighed. “No way you could know—her betrothed is dead.”
Stephen stopped himself from asking any questions. Better to let Avilov tell him what he knew.
“He was killed during the initial invasion of Latvia. Rachel thought there was a possibility he died—I’ve now confirmed it.”
“How was he killed?”
“I don’t know. The Nazis found him and killed him.”
Stephen couldn’t think of anything to say. He suspected Avilov was lying, that the N.K.V.D. had something to do with Michael’s death. But what if they did? He’d never learn the truth anyhow.
“You’ll tell Rachel, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
By the time they parted, Avilov had offered Stephen a job as well on the commission as his personal assistant.
“Let me find my sister. I’ll write to you from Tashkent.”
“Just remember, if you and Rachel decide to try and leave the country, and you don’t make it, I’ll deny knowing you were anyone but what’s-his-name.”
“Radek.”
“Like I said, what’s-his-name.”
True to his word, Avilov had gotten him a travel pass and train ticket—first class—and he had enjoyed a spectacular trip across Russia. Feted with all the food, liquor and wine that he could consume, occupying his own compartment replete with a private toilet, Stephen had hated to see his trip come to an end.
But here he was, at long last, in the desert city half way around the world from Latvia. Avilov had also burnished his identity papers, providing documents that showed Radek to be a war hero, a veteran who had fought bravely for his country, suffered permanent damage to his health, and documented that he had received a medical discharge. He also provided Stephen with fifty thousand rubles in cash.
“It’s just a taste of what waits for you and your sister on the other side of the war if you come back to me.”
Although Stephen felt his papers could now withstand the closest scrutiny, he still wore a uniform—why attract unwanted attention. He still barely recognized the person he saw reflected in the window of the train. With Avilov’s money he had transformed himself into a man who appeared to be wealthy and powerful. His red hair and beard were neatly trimmed, his boots had been hand-made of the softest leather. All trace of youth was gone from his face, weathered by his years in the marsh. He now spoke very softly and thought about what he should say before he spoke.
He had thought for hours about what he should say to Mitya Vodogolin. In the end, he had simply walked into the studio unannounced, asked one of the artists for the boss and then approached Vodogolin as he reviewed a pile of sketches in his small office.
Mitya glanced up at him but said nothing.
“We should have met years ago,” Stephen said. “I’m Rachel’s brother.”
“I don’t believe you,” Mitya said. “Besides, her brother’s dead.”
“In a manner of speaking, you’re right.” Stephen sat down in a chair opposite Vodogolin’s desk. “What can I say to you to convince you I am who I say I am?”
“Nothing. I don’t know how much Zip Uk knows.”
“Zip Uk?”
“You had better leave. I have nothing to tell you.”
“I’m not leaving until you and I think of a way to resolve this.” Stephen said. “I once thought my only problem would be getting here. He looked at Mitya. “I got your name from Avilov. He told me my sister is missing.”
Vodogolin returned to the pile of sketches. “I have no idea where she is.”
Stephen got up. He turned toward Vodogolin, pulled the pistol from his waist and jammed it against his temple. “I don’t have any more time to waste, Mitya. I blew my last chance years ago in Moscow. But here I am. If you don’t give me a name, or a clue, I’m going to blow your brains out. No one will ever see me again and from what you say about this Zip Uk, no one will bother to investigate your untimely death.”
Stephen felt Mitya’s eyes on his. “Put the gun away, Stephen,” he said. “We have some planning to do.”
* * *
Stephen caught sight of her as she walked along the single road into Samarkand. It was dawn and the surrounding desert was a pale turquoise. She was covered with dust, her back bent from the weight of sacks of grain. Mitya had told him that he had given her an Armenian name, for they controlled the black market in Samarkand. He had learned from the Armenians, who sold information as readily as they sold any other commodity, that she had quickly found a niche as a “mule,” carrying illegal goods throughout the night and sleeping most of the day.
As the sun bobbed up at the horizon he saw that she had reached the pick-up point. Other “mules” waited there as well. Stephen could tell they had no fear of arrest, for the Armenians controlled the road. Soon, he knew, trucks would arrive to pick up the freight. After only a week in the desert, this was the time of the day Stephen liked best, before it grew too hot.
He turned to the Armenian guide who rode beside him.
“That’s her,” he said.
As they rode toward the road he saw her turn as someone pointed to the east. She would see a cloud of dust moving across the desert. She would make out horsemen, and then, as they drew closer she would see that they had a spare horse.
Stephen couldn’t hold himself back; he rode ahead.
She was staring into the rising sun now so he knew she wouldn’t recognize him. He rode faster, gaining ground as she seemed to fly to him without moving at all, a tall figure poised with her hand up blocking the sun.
He was just a few hundred yards away now and he wondered if she could make out his face. But she remained as she was, waiting.
He slowed down and then dismounted. He started to walk but when he saw the look of disbelief on her face he began to run. She was running now and he thought she was shouting his name as the ground separating them melted away.
They came together and he held onto Lily as though he would fall off the earth if he let go.