Traffyck (57 page)

Yet in this nightmare, something was wrong. Vasily was her friend, her protector … Or she was his protector! His leg was injured, she had stayed with him, and now she could see two of the Chernobyl survivors crawling on top of Pyotr, trying to do something with their armless bodies.

Nadia crawled toward Vasily and Pyotr and saw that they were choking one another. She reached out and grasped Pyotr’s fingers, prying them away from Vasily’s neck with all her strength. She heard Vasily gasp for a breath of air. Pyotr stared at Nadia, wide-eyed, and she stared back. In spite of the blood in her eyes, she stared back without blinking, because now she knew. This was no nightmare. Facing this, facing Pyotr, who could not keep his eyes from her, made the nightmare real. By allowing Vasily to breathe and gather his strength, she stopped the breath of Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov—trafficker of children, masquerading as Chernobyl orphan guardian. As Smirnov stared through his binoculars, all was quiet. The only movement in the group was what appeared to be an argument among the soldiers. But suddenly, something broke the silence, and the men who had been arguing stood still.

A violin had begun playing in the distance beyond the hostages and soldiers. It came from beyond a small dune.

“What kind of music is it?” asked Izrael.

“The Hungarians call it a
prima
, or an unaccompanied violin,” said Smirnov.

“It sounds like Gypsy music.”

“They are related. Notice how sad it is becoming? I think someone over there has a plan. I know Janos Nagy plays the violin and is Hungarian, but he is back in the helicopter with the medic.”

“Do you think we should do something?”

“What could we possibly do? We don’t have any instruments.”

Izrael and the man beside him laughed.

The violin continued, slowly and sadly, a note here and there out of tune, making the music even sadder. Then, instead of Hungarian Gypsy music, bits of Ukrainian and Romanian and Russian were mixed in. And there was a Cossack song Smirnov recognized, music normally sung by the old Red Army Chorus.

“This is becoming very strange,” said Izrael.

“I agree,” said Smirnov. “We need to watch for opportunity. I think whoever is playing the violin has a plan. Have the men ready to run in there at a moment’s notice.”

“Hey,” said Izrael, “I recognize an old Byelorussian folk tune in the mix.”

And now, suddenly, a high-pitched woman’s voice joined the violin.

“‘The Magic Flute,’“ announced Izrael, removing his cap and scratching his mane of hair.

“It is magic,” said Smirnov, “Look at the soldiers now. None of them are even looking our way. This is beyond belief.”

“There’s another I recognize,” said Izrael. “It’s called ‘Beautiful Maiden.’ These songs are all mixed together. Now she’s singing ‘Dark Eyes,’ another Gypsy song.”

And then the music stopped and the man, who had apparently been playing the violin, spoke in a loud voice so all could hear.

Lazlo, Lena, and Guri had torn out the red lining of the violin case. Lazlo wore what was supposed to be a red Cossack hat, and a red vest beneath his jacket. Lena and Guri wore red headbands and red neckbands. They were not sure if these rather minor costumes would have any significance, but had agreed red was good and they looked very odd and other-worldly, which was the point.

Lazlo had played the violin out of sight down the mound so he could stand without being seen. He was close enough to touch Lena and Guri, both with their weapons at the ready. Lazlo still held the violin—Janos’ violin! He would speak. He was not certain how to begin but hoped the mercenaries were superstitious. He took deep breaths and spoke loudly, slowly, and deliberately in Russian, a language he assumed most of the men below would understand.

“Chernobyl! It sits forty kilometers to the northwest. My family once lived nearby. Five became four, became three, became two, and finally only one remains. Many of you must have relatives affected … Chernobyl is the defiler of children born and unborn! But Chernobyl is not alone. Men have become Chernobyls. Perhaps their testicles will fall off. Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of children, will rip them off! If you do not believe what I say, I curse you! I am inside your minds. If you defile children in the future, I am there, and I will have revenge! I am the Cossack who seeks justice. And now I come to my territory and see this? My music can tear your testicles off! Go in the boats, or I will do this! The music alone can do it, because my own daughter was defiled and she has come back from the grave this day!”

Lazlo cleared his throat, took a moment to catch his breath, glanced to Lena and Guri to be certain they were ready with their rifles. Then he put the violin in place, walked up the mound so he could be seen, and began playing a very slow version of a mournful song they would all know: “The Red Flower.” Its wilting in the valley symbolized everything decaying to ruin—countries, men, women, and even children. To the men below, Lazlo hoped it would mean death.

Between notes, he heard a commotion below: men shouting to one another, but in hushed tones. He glanced down, and when two of the men stood to take aim at him with their rifles, Lazlo stood his ground and waited for the shots.

Lena and Guri did their jobs perfectly. They fired off their sniper rifles, shooting the two men. Lazlo ducked back down behind the dune with them.

“The smoke came from his feet,” shouted a man.

“We are cursed!” shouted another.

“The patron saint of children!” shouted a man’s voice from far away, on the other side, where the helicopter had landed.

Gunfire erupted from below, and when Lazlo glanced over the side, he saw that two of the young men held captive had grabbed AK-47s from their guards and mowed down several men, doubling them over like dominos. A few mercenaries ran to the boats and Lazlo, Lena, and Guri opened fire and hit four of them. From the other side of the beach, several armed men from the helicopter ran and opened fire on the running men, while snipers from the helicopter stationed in the distance picked off others who stood confused. It was complete chaos, and Lazlo pulled Guri and Lena with him to the ground, their cheeks on the sand. Lazlo prayed in his own way, to his own God, to the dead of his family, that none of the young people had been shot.

When the shooting finally stopped, Lazlo looked up and saw the ragtag soldiers who had not been shot standing with their hands above their heads, looking about in all directions to make certain shooters on all sides knew they had given up.

Once all the mercenaries were facedown on the beach and all weapons had been collected, a man with a Stechkin machine pistol held down at his side ran across the beach to meet Lazlo, the old man with the violin who stood with a young woman and a boy. Lazlo, Lena, and Guri had put their weapons on the ground and taken off the red felt decorations.

The man with the Stechkin was out of breath. “So … you are the American … who comes to solve Ukraine’s trafficking problem … I am Yuri Smirnov.”

“I am Lazlo Horvath, here on holiday to visit friends.” Lazlo shook hands with Smirnov but looked beyond him, wondering about Janos and Mariya.

“The medic has your friends Janos Nagy and Mariya Nemeth in the helicopter. More helicopters and medics are on the way.”

“Okay, good.” Lazlo turned back toward the woods beyond the dune. “Yuri Smirnov, please hurry with me and bring men. We left survivors in the woods.”

Because Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov continued to stare at him, Vasily assumed both he and Pyotr were dead. But if they were dead, why was there such pain in his head?

Suddenly, another face intervened. One of the Chernobyl refugees was there, at this side, rolling him onto his back. He saw Nadia above him, wiping blood from her face with her sleeve. Next came footfalls nearby, and Lena was there with Guri and the old man, Lazlo, and other men who picked him up and carried him through the woods. The sun sparkled through the trees, and more men ran in and out of the slanting shade of afternoon. He saw a maple tree, brilliant yellow, as if about to explode its leaves onto the ground. It was fall already, and soon winter would come and ice would clog the Rivers Dnepr, Pripyat, and Teteriv.

Winter would be cool and calm on the peninsula. A good time to sleep. A good time to close one’s eyes to the bright explosion of sunlight. But he could not sleep. He heard shouts of triumph and screams of joy. He smelled diesel fumes and heard the sounds of helicopters. A man’s voice said, “You will be all right.” And then, finally, he blacked out.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR

Winter, Kiev, Ukraine

Every morning, Sofya Adamivna Kulinich got out of bed and looked out her window at the very beginning of dawn—the “crack of dawn” her young friends had taught her to say. Sofya no longer lived in the village of Opachychi, because her new young friends, especially Lyudmilla, had convinced her to move to a Kiev apartment. She lived with Lyudmilla, who was now at a more proper weight, although Sofya still wanted to fatten her up; with Lena, who was energetic and strong; and with Nadia, the youngest. All three needed the love of a grandmother. All three had gotten jobs in Kiev with the help of Eva Polenkaya from La Strada. At the beginning of workdays, Sofya prepared breakfast and bag lunches, and at the end of workdays, she prepared a hot meal, especially now with winter at its peak.

Outside Sofya’s second-floor apartment window, she could see the beginnings of traffic and several men shoveling snow. She cracked the window slightly and could smell the bakery a few doors down at street level. She decided to dress and go to the bakery for fresh bread for her lunch visitors.

Sofya’s three girls had been gone more than a week, but she did not mind. All three had gone on holiday to America to visit Lazlo Horvath and others in Chicago, and she had a feeling this was why visitors were coming. Yuri Smirnov and his wife would stop at the university and pick up Ilonka Horvath, Lazlo’s niece. It was obvious to Sofya they were coming to check up on her. It was always busy in her apartment with the three girls about, and today there would be no peace and quiet as there had been in Opachychi. She missed Opachychi, especially the visits from her neighbor, Tatiana. She had already taken the bus twice that took tourists to the Chernobyl Zone, and while tourists visited the sights, she visited Tatiana and the other widows. Each time, they asked why she had moved to Kiev. And each time, she told them her three girls needed her.

Sofya pulled on her stockings, put on her housedress, and was about to get her coat and scarf, when the phone rang.

“Grandmother, it is me, Lyudmilla.”

“Lyudmilla, where are you? Isn’t it the middle of the night there?”

“No, it’s only nine, and we are going dancing.”

“With boys or men?”

“We go alone, and men ask us to dance.”

“Promise me you will be careful, Lyudmilla, or I will cry my eyes out onto the floor.”

Lyudmilla laughed. “We will be careful, Grandmother.”

“Did you have dinner? Did you eat all of yours?”

“Yes, yes, I ate everything on my plate.”

“When will you return? I cannot remember.”

“Five days and we will be home and back to work. Lena and Nadia send love.”

“Tell them I send love back. But mostly to you Lyudmilla. You are my love. You are my child. I carried you.”

“I know, Grandmother. You carried me as no mother could.”

After she was off the phone, Sofya wept tears of joy, washed her face, finished dressing, and hurried out to the bakery for bread. Already, out in the street, she could hear the increase in traffic. After living in Opachychi, the sounds of Kiev had become music, especially the hourly tolling of the bells in cathedrals.