An Image of Death

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Deliriously happy when she broke the news to Sacha, only later did she realize that he didn’t seem quite as thrilled. Oh, he kissed her and held her and touched her, but, in retrospect, she realized his response was muted. She didn’t dwell on it, though, and threw herself into ordering furniture from Turkey, linens from Armenia, baby clothes from the West.

  As time passed, though, money began to be a problem. The rubles that flowed in from Moscow to support the troops slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Her father-in-law said it was temporary; once the transition was complete, all would be well. But, as months passed with no money for salaries, equipment, or supplies, conditions on the base deteriorated. Soldiers, many of whom had not been paid in months, grew desperate. Some scrambled for odd jobs to support their families. Others left the base.

  By July there wasn’t enough money to pay the rent on their apartment, and Arin and Sacha moved in with his parents. Arin was bitterly disappointed. She and Sacha and the baby would share a cramped room; plans for the nursery would have to wait. Still, she tried to keep her spirits high. She was six months pregnant, glowingly healthy, and the baby kicked all the time. This was only a temporary setback. Once the money rolled in from Moscow—and hadn’t the major general said it would?—life would return to the way it was.

  But the money never came, and the number of soldiers abandoning the army swelled. The day that Vlad left, with Mika tearfully following him, was one of the worst in Arin’s life. They were moving into town, Vlad said. They needed money to survive. Arin made Mika promise to stay in touch, but as days, and then weeks, passed without a word, Arin worried. Was Mika all right? Or was she angry at her, jealous, perhaps, that Arin was still on the base?

  It wasn’t long afterward that the stories surfaced: stories about supplies and materials disappearing from the base. In the beginning it was mostly uniforms and equipment, goods that could be quickly fenced. Soon, though, the rumors included small arms, grenades, and other munitions.

  Everyone knew former soldiers were ransacking the armory, but the major general said it was an insignificant problem. A little of that was to be expected in any military organization. Though unfortunate, it was something that had been condoned for ages. Especially in hard times.

  So Arin didn’t dwell on it—until Sacha started spending long periods of time off base, not coming home until late at night. When she asked where he’d been, he’d say he was visiting Vlad. But he never seemed to have any news about Mika, and he never told Arin what Vlad was doing.

  As his absences grew more frequent, Arin tried to convince herself Sacha wasn’t involved in the thefts. He was an officer, the son of the major general. He never wanted an army career in the first place. He wanted to be a musician. Perhaps that was what he was doing off base. Trying to find work in a band. Musicians kept late hours, didn’t they? Arin buoyed herself with the thought that any day now he would surprise her by becoming lead guitar in a band.

  When Sacha began staying out until dawn, though, Arin knew something was terribly wrong. His sour breath and bloodshot eyes were bad enough. But now, for the first time since their marriage, he turned away from her in bed. Arin knew some men were afraid to make love to a pregnant woman, but Sacha had never seemed uncomfortable before.

  She wondered if there was another woman—he was exhibiting the classic signs—but she was afraid to confront him. In the meantime, she vowed to get her figure back after the baby was born. She would not let herself wear the shapeless dresses and babushkas her mother-in-law did. Arin would stay young and beautiful and vital. Sacha would not need other women.

  Tomas was born during a gentle morning rain the last week of October. Sacha wasn’t home for Arin’s labor and didn’t see his son until a day later. Arin’s mother-in-law attended the birth, all the while telling her about the pain she’d endured in childbirth.

  But Tomas was robust and healthy, and he took to the breast right away. Her mother-in-law claimed babies didn’t smile until they were six weeks old, but Arin knew better. Tomas smiled at eight days and stole Arin’s heart. Over the next few weeks, as she regained her strength, Tomas became her only focus. Feeding him, bathing, rocking, walking. And if Sacha didn’t seem very interested in his son—or her—Arin didn’t mind. Tomas depended on her completely.

  It was during their walks in a borrowed stroller that Arin noticed how ragged the base had become. Part of it was the frigid winter, but there was something else, too. No one was trying to keep up pretenses any more. Even her father-in-law, a fastidious man with a crisply pressed uniform and well-shined medals, was looking disheveled.

  A snowstorm swept in during the night Sacha didn’t come home, and they couldn’t search for him until the next afternoon. When they did, they found his body at the end of an alley in Old Town. No one knew how he died, or if they did, they weren’t saying. He’d been beaten, the police admitted, but they couldn’t determine if that had caused his death. One of the officers tried to shift the blame back to the army, claiming Sacha died from dyedovschina, the fierce hazing of new recruits. But Sacha had been an officer for years. Another officer tried to say it was suicide—a growing problem in the military—until he was apprised of Sacha’s bruises and blows.

  Arin knew it was all a cover. She’d heard the rumors, whispered on the wind, about soldiers forced to borrow money from “commercial interests.” When they were unable to pay it back, it was said, these commercial interests thought nothing of taking the soldier’s life in exchange. In the wake of the government’s collapse and the ensuing chaos, they had become powerful forces.

  Curiously, the major general didn’t pursue the investigation into Sacha’s death. He skulked around the base, tight-lipped and morose, but he didn’t intervene with the police. Nor did he assign any military investigators to the case. Arin assumed it was because of his grief. Sacha was his only child. Nothing could bring him back, he said. Why prolong the agony?

  So Sacha’s death was officially ruled a mugging. At first Arin thought it was better that way. Her memories would remain unsullied and pure. When they buried him, Arin placed her cassette of Tattoo You in the coffin.

  She was surprised when Vlad came to the house after the funeral. She was more surprised when he and the general went behind closed doors. Then she recalled a conversation with the major general at dinner months before. He had said what a good officer Vladik was: strong, decisive, and smart. She’d had the feeling her father-in-law wanted Sacha to be more like Vlad.

  Vlad looked relieved when he emerged an hour later. He even flashed her his crooked smile. Arin asked about Mika. Vlad said she was fine.

  “She hasn’t seen the baby yet,” Arin said. “Please tell her to visit.”

  Vlad said he would pass along the message, and when he showed up again a few weeks later, Arin expected Mika to be with him. But Vlad was alone. After he spent another hour closeted with the major general, she walked him to the door. He seemed reluctant to leave.

  “How are you, Arin?” His pale eyes bored into her. “You’re looking well, you know.”

  She shrugged.

  “I understand.” He hesitated. “If you ever need anything, anything at all…all you need do is ask. You know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded, but as he gazed at her, a sense of disquiet washed over her. She felt like he could see her naked. She opened the door, eager for him to be gone.

  As time passed, Vlad’s visits became more frequent. Arin grew puzzled. What business did he have with her father-in-law? Why hadn’t he come around when Sacha was alive? Something wasn’t right.

  She was strolling Tomas around the base one sunny day, a day that made her think the worst of winter was over, when she heard someone softly call her name. She spun around. Mika emerged from behind a tree.

  Arin barely recognized her friend. Mika’s clothes were dirty and tattered; dark circles ringed her eyes. Her blond hair was stringy, and Arin saw grime under her fingernails.

  “I heard about Sacha.”
Mika embraced her. “I am so sorry.”

  Fighting back tears, Arin hugged her back. They stood with their hands on each other’s shoulders. “What has happened, Mika?”

  Mika shook her head but said nothing. Arin thought she might burst into tears. But then she bent over the stroller, and a smile broke over her face. “He’s beautiful!” She cooed.

  Arin dragged Mika back to the house. Her in-laws were gone for the afternoon and, after putting Tomas down for a nap, she made lunch for her friend. Mika wolfed it down, and as her stomach filled, her tongue loosened. Things were not well, she confessed. She and Vlad had separated.

  Arin’s hand flew to her mouth. “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mika muttered, but her face was shadowed with pain. “I—I have not seen him since…since before Sacha.…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Then you don’t know he’s been coming here.”

  “Vlad here? To the base?”

  “He’s been meeting with the general.”

  Mika’s lips tightened.

  “Why? What is it? What do you know?”

  Mika bowed her head and told her. Arin felt as if an earthquake had suddenly torn open a hole in the ground, and she was teetering on its edge. But it was a quiet cataclysm. No one proclaimed the world had shifted. Still, as she struggled to take it all in, she knew her worst fears had been realized.

  “Vlad made me swear not to tell,” Mika said. “He said he would hurt me if you found out.”

  “He threatened you?”

  “More than that.” Mika looked down.

  Arin shivered and put her arms around her friend. “What are you going to do?”

  “I—I have been thinking I will go to America.”

  “America?” Arin’s stomach clenched. “But it is so far away.”

  “I have a cousin there. She will help me.”

  Arin nodded. Money. Jobs. America was the land of opportunity. And Mika couldn’t stay here. Vlad would destroy her. As he had Sacha. Arin laid her hand on Mika’s arm. “Please. Do not go without saying good-bye.”

  Mika just looked at Arin.

  Arin’s eyes filled as she realized what her friend’s silence meant. “Oh, Mika. I will miss you.”

  After Mika left, Arin dried her tears and started to clean the kitchen. Before Sacha died, when things were first coming apart, she’d suggested they move back to Armenia. It wasn’t far away, there would be job opportunities for Sacha, and with the baby coming, she could use her mother’s help. Sacha had refused. But that was then. This was no place to live, to raise a child. She could smell the decay.

  When Vlad showed up a few days later, Arin waited for him in the kitchen. He ambled in, wearing American jeans and cowboy boots, his jeans so tight, Arin couldn’t help but think he wanted her to notice.

  “You are looking beautiful, Arin.” He shot her one of his smiles.

  That was one of his weapons, she realized. That charming, crooked smile. She rose from the table. “You killed him!”

  His smile faded. “Killed who?”

  “Sacha. Maybe you didn’t do it yourself, but you let it happen.”

  A steely look came into his eyes.

  “You betrayed him. Pushed him into a deal, and when it went bad, he was the one who paid.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “What was it, weapons? Did you have him stealing weapons for you? Selling them, too?”

  He shifted. “Does it matter?”

  “It all matters. He was your best friend.”

  He gazed at her with those pale eyes. “It did not need to happen, Arin. He panicked. Fell apart at the wrong time.”

  A swell of fury swept over her. “You should never have put him in that position. He was your friend. He trusted you.”

  “He made the contacts. With the wrong men. I tried to warn him.”

  She felt her eyes narrow as she weighed whether to believe him.

  “He wanted to break away from his father—from all this. He thought this was the way. He said you wanted him to.”

  She couldn’t disagree. They had talked. But she had never insisted. Never demanded. “Not like this.”

  “If I said I was sorry, would you believe me?”

  She didn’t answer, but Vlad must have misinterpreted it. He moved in close and brushed his fingers across her cheek. “You never belonged with him, you know.”

  Her stomach knotted.

  “He did not have the same passion, the same ambition as you, Arin. Everyone knew. Even his father.” He paused. “We are the same, you and me. We are a good match.”

  “You have a wife.”

  He blew out his breath, as if it was just a trifling problem. “She was a whore when I met her, and she is today.”

  A spit of fury shot through her. “If she is, you forced her into it.”

  His eyes grew cold. “You saw her.”

  Arin bit her lip. She’d hadn’t meant to say that. She’d promised Mika. She tried to twist away, but Vlad grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. “You belong with me, Arin.”

  He pulled her close and buried his mouth on hers. She struggled, pushing hard on his chest. When she broke away, she drew back her hand and slapped him. He tried to block it with his arm, but the blow landed on the side of his cheek.

  “Monster!” Arin cried. “It will never happen!”

  Patches of red flared on his cheek, and a bright anger suffused his face. Arin sensed he was waging a fierce internal struggle to control himself. Then, without warning, the anger retreated. Almost as if he’d flipped a switch. The old crooked smile reappeared. “Never is a long time,” he said lazily.

  Her hands clenched into fists. “You will pay.” She seethed. “Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, or the day after. But you will. I will make sure of it.”

  She ran from the kitchen. When she reached her own room, she slammed the door. She could still hear Vlad laugh through the walls.

  ***

  In bed that night, Arin stared at a spider crawling across the ceiling. She’d assumed she would live as an officer’s wife, then the wife of a musician. She had been wrong. She pulled the scratchy covers over Tomas, curled up peacefully beside her. Brushing the tips of her fingers across his downy hair, she glanced at the tattoo on her wrist. She traced the outline of the stars and the torch. Sacha was dead; she was alive. But what kind of life was ahead for her? She was a mother, a widow, and she was not yet twenty years old.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The storm dumped five new inches of snow on the ground, but the streets were clear by ten. So was my driveway, thanks to Fouad, who must have plowed before dawn. I was grateful. I was nursing a wicked hangover; I doubted I could have picked up a shovel. Turning onto Happ Road, I had to shade my eyes. Winter on the North Shore can look like one of those Currier & Ives scenes you see on cookie tin lids. Today, though, the sun shot bursts of light through the trees like artillery fire. Everything was too bright, too intense, too loud.

  I headed down to Skokie to pick up Dad. He’d been having heart palpitations again, and I was taking him to a different battlefield, the managed-care clinic.

  One of the reasons Dad had moved into an assisted living situation was the availability of a comprehensive health plan. I’d encouraged him; at the time, it seemed like the solution to a host of problems. But after three years of endless waits, frustrated doctors, harried nurses, and anger from all sides, I lost my enthusiasm for managed care. Still, you don’t mess around with your heart.

  I dropped him at the door to the clinic, then parked a block away. My boots crunched on packed snow as I rounded the corner. They plow the streets right away in Chicago—mayoral elections depend on it—but shoveling the sidewalks is another matter. As I pushed through the door, I caught my reflection in the glass: bundled up and bowed against the cold.

  Inside, I took a number and tried to steel myself for the experience. Dad took out his pocket chess set and arched his eyebrow at me.
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  “Do you really feel the need to humiliate me?” I asked. He knows I can’t play chess.

  He shrugged. “A win is a win.”

  “You can’t wait for Rachel?” She can give my father a real game.

  “Not today.” A subtle look, part grimace, part fear, passed across his face. That’s when I realized he was as worried as I was.

  “Okay.” I yielded. “Rack ’em up.”

  “Rack ’em up?”

  I shrugged.

  Dad shook his head and fiddled with the board, slotting tiny pegs into the appropriate spaces. It was only mid-morning, but the waiting room was full. Most of the patients were young children with runny noses and phlegmy coughs. Some had red cheeks, fever, perhaps, or worse. I did see two seniors: a man who didn’t seem to know where he was, and a woman with a tired expression next to him.

  I smiled at an infant in a stroller across from us. His eyes had tracked mine as I signed in and walked across the room. The strings from a red woolen cap were tied in a bow under his chin. He didn’t smile back, but continued to stare at me with that wise, knowing look infants are born with. I wondered what was going through his young mind. Probably just flashes, impulses, a disjointed stream of consciousness. I kept smiling. Maybe he’d think the world was a friendly place.

  ***

  Three hours later, Dad and I were digging into soup and sandwiches at Karl’s, a deli in Skokie.

  “That wasn’t so bad.”

  “If you don’t mind waiting for Godot.” I pointed to his chin. “You missed a spot.”

  He ran the napkin over his chin. “I thought Godot never came.”

  “Neither did the doctor.” I paused. “Almost.” I took a bite of my turkey sandwich. “When we’re done here, I’ll run you home and get the prescription filled.”