by Viktors Duks
_____________________________________
DIGGERS
by
Viktors Duks
_____________________________________
BOSON BOOKS
Raleigh
Published by Boson Books
ISBN 0-917990-47-1
An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc.
Copyright 2002 Viktors Duks
All rights reserved
For information contact
C&M Online Media Inc.
3905 Meadow Field Lane
Raleigh, NC 27606
Tel: (919) 233-8164
e-mail:[email protected]
URL: http://www.bosonbooks.com
“War—a diagnosis of the stupidity of politicians, a disease which mostly cannot be cured...”
Sometimes I sit and think about how stupid man is—what all will he think up in order to send someone else to the gods?
When I came out of the forest after the battles, our family was hiding there, I saw them here. At home there were fallen soldiers, around the house. They were blown up, and the smallest breeze brought an unbearable stink of rotting human flesh to the entire region. My father and I rolled them down the stairs, and we tossed them into the grenade-torn ditches that were all around.
I heard that story many years ago. I paid no attention then, but it stuck in my memory.
***
Riga District. November 13, 1999. Early morning.
Soldiers have been buried near a farmhouse. How many? From which army? We don’t know. We stand and look at a meadow. Approximately there. The possible location of the grave is somewhere in a territory that measures some 200 square meters. We make two control digs. The sand content of the second hole shows that the black earth has been mixed with yellow sand. Maybe here? Maybe? Someone? At some time? Dug? Something? At a depth of approximately 1.5 meters, the shovel hits against something hard. The black sole of a boot appears a moment later. So! It’s only a black edge looking at us from the hole of the ditch. We’ve found the place. Judging from the condition of the boot, we can make some judgments about the condition of the remains of the soldier. After 30 minutes we already can see five half-rotted boots, chaotically dumped. Undeniably these are Soviet soldiers. The tank protectors on their feet are not worn out, which suggests that the last owners of the footwear had just recently received it. We dig up a pile of cloth, pressed together, from a soldier’s uniform. We get the feeling that this cloth was thrown in separately. From rotted pieces of uniform three shells fall out, stuck together. Apparently there was a pocket there. Centimeter by centimeter we open up the grave. The sand that is tossed out is sifted once again. The tines of a rake dig out some teeth. There are no skulls, just a few pieces. On a black cellophane sack we gradually arrange black bones—one, two, several dozen. I look at the bones and think about the relatives of these men. Perhaps someone is still waiting for them? They are here, young boys whose still immature bones have in most cases already turned to dust. The unworn soles? Perhaps this was their first and last battle? Everyone says that it was their first battle. No matter—the stupid politicians, strategists and military leaders. A small, nasty piece of metal destroys you in a moment, destroys your thoughts, destroys the destinies of a few dozen other people.
After five hours the work is done. We’ve found the remains of three lost soldiers. Personal property? Six tank soles and a bit of rotted cloth. That’s it.
***
The same day.
We go deeper into the forest. We stand at the side of the road and look at a place where, according to legend, between five and ten soldiers were buried. There is also a second legend—over the last 30 years this hole has been used to dump everything that is not needed at home. This second story proved itself right away. Under a thin layer of moss I find an old metal bathtub, empty bottles and bricks that were right on top of an old milk centrifuge. There are hills of glass and rusted cans.
My colleagues view my work with skepticism. It cannot be that two stories will prove to be completely true in one single day. From the initial hole, the shovel brings out a Soviet-type hand grenade. I don’t mind saying that I became quite uncomfortable. I was replaced by the Communicator who had gained a certain level of professionalism. The next shovel produced another hand grenade, then fragments from a Soviet field engineer’s shovel, then a piece of backbone. “See—here they are,” the Communicator says quietly.
It’s too dark. The work will have to be continued tomorrow. In the bottom jaw of a skull there are eight unformed teeth—they never managed to grow.
***
Who are we? What are we called? Diggers of the Earth, or simply Diggers? I’d like to be known as a collector of war trophies. To women we are known simply as fools. What do we do during “free time”—we work in good companies, we hold various posts. In truth, we’re not much different from ordinary men.
Collectors of war trophies, those who rebury soldiers who have gone missing? Why? Looking for rusted pieces of metal, researching various stories—often we find out about tragedies that took place 50 years ago. Many decades ago a soldier’s relatives received the information that on such and such a date, your son, your husband, your brother disappeared. Shot, torn to pieces, finally tossed into a bomb crater and covered with a thin layer of soil. Latvian, Russian or German—the stink is the same. There they lie, the enemies, hurriedly tossed into a single ditch, without anything to indicate that there are PEOPLE in there. Bodies have been found! And then the most interesting part starts. One option is to leave the soldier lying there, with one nuance—the bones are scattered in a radius of ten meters. The second option—the skull goes to a snot-nosed student at a medical academy. The third option—the person who finds the skeletons tries to inform organizations that are directly involved in search and reburying schemes.
We dig around in libraries and archives, we buy expensive books at antique shops, we study the press of the day, we collect memories. Like professionally trained dogs we throw ourselves into history and sniff out things, which are, of course, of interest to few people, but which are to us endlessly interesting.
***
Next day. Morning.
The deeper we dig, the less is clear—The Legend
This has almost become our slogan. There is no logic in places that have been crossed by war. There is virtually no point in posing questions to yourself and then trying to answer them. Why, for example, in places where a tank once exploded do we find fragments of an engine that is not from a tank? Why do dead pilots not have parachutes with them?
The continuation of the grave passes under the roots of a large, 50-year-old birch tree. We dig a tunnel. New bone fragments emerge from the earth. We find a skull with shattered temples, and a piece of bone falls from it. A skull? In the lower jaw there are signs of the person’s eighth teeth—they did not manage to grow in. In a piece of a coat the size of a man’s palm, we find crumbled Soviet bullets. We find the stand for a shaver and rubber shoulder—strap holders that Soviet soldiers used. That’s all. We have put five black bags alongside the ditch.
When the work is done, the Classicist will again count and compare the bones, and then we will put them in the bags. They will remain there until May 9 of next year. Then the Communicator will put them in wooden coffins, lay Russian flags on top, and put each coffin in its final yellow sand resting place.
After a week of honest work, my brain gradually went into relaxation. My car rolled into a rural farmstead. The farm was run by a woman who was around 70 years old. This amazing person had been bent virtually in half by age. This is a sure thing—no generation understands those who are older, but no generation of a certain age will ever forget to say, “When we were growing up—sorry, but things like this did not happen.”
I wanted to talk about some serious things—the buried weapons, other materiel. I had to meet with her brother.
***
November 27, 1999
“Yes, it was right here.” The old man points to a place in the middle of the field. “The trenches come out of the woods and then twist around here, you see.”
It’s a crazy autumn day—it’s snowing and raining on us all at once. Large drops of water fall from the bill of my baseball cap. I’m wearing two windbreakers, but it seems like the wind is blowing right through me anyway.
“I remember when I was little,” the old man is saying. “There was a German officer lying dead at the bottom of the trench. He was maybe 50 years old, and I remember that he had a nice face and round glasses. My father buried him here.”
The Classicist and I are semi-soaked, but our work is not yet done. The old man has promised to show us another place where between three and five soldiers are buried. We drive into the forest and stop at the crossing of two forest roads.
“It was right here on this corner. I remember that there were white crosses here, but I don’t remember how many.” I listen to the old man and wonder how many anonymous graves of soldiers there are in all.
The place where the graves are supposed to be is grown over with shrubbery, and there are deep tire tracks in the earth.
“We have to dig them up,” says the Classicist. “We can’t leave them here, no matter what army.”
“We have to register them with the Germans. Let them come. We’ll help them dig.”
The old man says his farewells. The Classicist and I exchange glances.
“I know a place we should check out,” I say to the Classicist. “I think that a tank exploded there.”
“You know I’m always ready!”
We arm ourselves with a metal detector, shovels and a few other things and tramp deep into the woods. The wind and rain have calmed down. Perhaps the first fall snowstorm is somewhere up in the trees. We are in complete silence. Nobody is going to come running up to me to announce that the work has not been on time, that the money has not been transferred to the bank—nobody. The metal detector is turned out. Click…click…click. It quietly reports to us. And then it goes faster—click, click, click—beep! The equipment screams for help. We’ve found something! But what? I slowly poke my probe into the forest moss, pull it away carefully and find empty shells. Judging from everything, at one time somebody was here, shooting from a Soviet machine gun. We keep going. Again! Here it is! Oh, this is something bigger. We dig up a bowl-shaped piece of metal which I have trouble lifting. It’s not bigger than a soup bowl, but it is amazingly heavy.
“The ventilation shaft of a tank,” the Classicist announces. “From a Russian tank!”
While I look at my trophy, the Classicist has beeped up another location.
“Come look—what’s this?”
After a few minutes, with joy in my heart, I lift out a German machine gun, an MG-34. Stop, stop—I know what you’re seeing in your head right now with respect to this gun. It was a fragment of a machine gun that had suffered through an explosion, had rusted and had been covered by the roots of various plants. But one thing makes this item attractive. A fragment of the cartridge belt was still there, and an empty shell was, too. A true military trophy!
The forest quickly becomes dark. We feel it, we can barely see the tip of the shovel. With our hands we find a large sheet of metal, five centimeters thick. Truly, this has been a tank, but what kind of tank? Nothing there really indicated that there was military equipment at the site. After the war larger equipment was picked up, and the fragments that were lying around were collected by local farmers. We have to make do with that which is still under the ground, but there is so much of it! Loaded down with trophies we go out of the forest and have to admit that the weapon we found is heavy on our shoulders. How ever did someone fight with it in this place?
***
We are back at our cars.
“At the edge of the field he said that there was ammunition buried there.” I look thoughtfully at the Classicist.
“Let’s go!” It is not yet dark on the open field.
The Classicist turns on his metal detector. Clicking way, clicking away. There is nothing to suggest that there is so much as a rusted nail under the ground.
“There’s nothing here.” The Classicist is disappointed.
“Keep looking—it’s there,” I tell him, because I know that the legend is true. It came from the original source.
The Classicist keeps walking.
Time passes, but we have found nothing. It’s getting darker. And then, suddenly—an unusual sound!
“Let me make a test dig.” I can’t calm down.
My shovel digs into the ground, and along with the earth, I bring up various roots. I think that we are closer to the metal that we have been waiting for. The Classicist brings the metal detector closer. The signal is far clearer now.
“It’s here!” I’m delighted.
“Man, you’ve got a nose,” the Classicist says. “I knew that you could sniff out buried soldiers, but metal? You don’t even need the metal detector.”
We dig deep, in a place where the last man was seen around 55 years ago. We feel success that even Jack London, who found gold, could understand. My shovel hits other metal. At last! The Classicist reaches deep down into the control dig, and in a minute we are looking at…a rusty nail.
“I think that it’s from a box that held weapons,” the Classicist says. I agree.
“So the next thing might be more interesting, huh? But what if it is something that might explode?” Even as I’m talking, we realize that autumn is a time of year when it gets dark out while it’s still daytime. Our hearts are happy, of course, but the fact is that tomorrow we have to go to work, and then we’re going to spend five whole days in the city. This thought is repugnant to me.
***
A week later.
I call the Classicist. “Are you ready?”
“I’m always ready.”
It is far later in the fall. We are once again at the side of our ditch, which is half-filled with water. No problem. We bail it out in five minutes and continue our work. We know that we are going to find something that we will bring home, and then we will ask our friends whether they have something like it. No, they will say. But we do, we will say. Nails are emerging from the ditch. This is the first layer. Soon we’ll have the next one. I could spend some time on this masochism. Let me skip over it, though, and get to the payoff. We ended up digging a pretty big hole. The content, of course, was nothing modern. Fine! But I can’t really bring my fingers to type what it was. It was a garbage dump! There was a part of the roof of some old house, there were some broken dishes. Shit happens.
“Never mind,” says the Classicist quietly. “You can’t always come up with a machine gun.”
Yeah, I forgot. A while back we found a German MG-42 machine gun. It’s at my office, soaking in various liquids. What a beauty! If you saw Saving Private Ryan, you could see the shattering effectiveness of this gun at the very beginning.
***
It’s 2000!
Fifty years have passed since the Latvian Legionnaires left their trenches in Kurzeme. Some disappeared into the forests, some went to the West, some others suffered their fate in the gulags of Siberia. Today I sat at the wheel of my roaring friend the automobile, and as fast as Latvia’s traffic rules allowed me to go, I drove home from Latvia’s seaside city. I was on the Kurzeme highway not as a digger, but as a company employee. My white shirt with ring around the co
llar, my knotted tie pulled down to half-chest—those were signs that the workday was over. I felt like a winner. Oh, how long I spent pretending that I’m some kind of super salesman, but how little it took to get the steely businessperson before me to turn into a gentle and tempting woman. She radiated such sex appeal that my hair almost stood on end.
“I have a proposal to make.” I sensed that the director of the company was working with one of my competitors and that she had absolutely no desire to work with mine. “Have you had lunch yet? If not, perhaps you would accompany me? I don’t know where you can get a good meal around here.” I beamed. The woman agreed, and I could launch a new attack on her brain. My eyes focused underneath her white blouse to evaluate her fine white lingerie.
“Just a second…”—the businesswoman lifted her eyes from a steak that was so rare that the beef almost seemed to be breathing and focused her attention on a song that was playing in the background. “Sorry, I really love this song.” My eyes watched the face of the woman who was sitting before me.
***
It’s 1997.
“Help me! Please compose some music for my company’s advertising jingle! I’m in a hurry!” I rushed in to see my friend, upsetting the decibels of his sound recording student.
“Fuck, what are you talking about?” The musician was half-crazy. “We have a disk to put out! I need lyrics for a song, but you’re here with your motherfucking advertising jingle!”
“Aigars, you know that I’m no poet. I write screenplays—for me. You understand, for me.”
“Viktors, I do understand, but please try to write some lyrics for this melody,” the Composer tried to calm me down. “We’ll record the melody on a cassette right away, and later we’ll talk about your jingle. Bye!”
A moment later I was standing on the other side of the studio door, stunned. I was still stunned when I got home.
“Robbie, let’s go—father is pretending to be a poet today.” I heard this sentence from my better half all weekend long. Robbie is my son. My better half is my wife.