Warhead

by Jeff Henigson

  “What does ‘the moment’ mean, exactly?”

  “That’s where we are, like, right now. That’s where we live. Sure, my cancer might come back in a month or a year or never, and I definitely worry about it, but I’m not going to let my worry stop me from doing the things I want to do now. It’s like that Buddhist thing—you know, living in the moment.”

  It struck me then that I could spend the whole trip worrying about whether I’d meet Mr. Gorbachev, or I could enjoy it along with everyone else, and be exceptionally happy if the meeting went through. I drew in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. For the first time in a while, I felt completely calm.

  Just then, I heard a knock on the bathroom door. Mike was awake. “What’s up?” I said.

  “I just wanted to make sure you haven’t drowned.”

  “I’m all good.”

  “One other thing, then, considering you’ve got this door locked,” Mike said. “I seriously have to take a piss.”

  “Welcome to Leningrad!” Vitaly said, his voice—and thick Russian accent—booming through the speaker on our bus. Our tour guide was stocky, with a stomach that bulged beneath his buttoned blue wool sweater-vest and a smile so broad it nearly touched his closely cut salt-and-pepper hair. “Some of you look sad, but you should all be happy—you’ve been released from our notorious airport gulag!”

  We’d touched down at Pulkovo Airport in the early morning. Compared to all the energy and activity in Helsinki, everything had slowed down. When we arrived, we were escorted through the cold to a door that opened into a long hallway. Soldiers wearing stern faces guarded every exit. We were told to form a line. With our passports and visas in hand, at a snail’s pace, we appeared before uniformed, stone-faced men and women who sat behind walls of glass. Their eyes traveled back and forth repeatedly between our faces and our papers, until they finally stamped our passports and stiffly handed them back. Once we retrieved our luggage, we went through a similar process, with several of our bags subjected to searches. When we finally left the airport in the late morning, after hours trapped inside, the bar for our expectations had been set so low we could have tripped over it.

  After Vitaly told us we should be happy, I looked at the other kids on the bus. A few were smiling. Most were looking at each other with their eyebrows raised. “Who knows what a gulag is?” Vitaly asked.

  “A prison,” Chace said. Maybe he’d learned that on one of his other trips.

  “Exactly!” Vitaly said. “A shot of vodka for you. Joking! We have many gulags in the Soviet Union, not for you, but for us. If we show up to work five minutes late, they throw us in the gulag for sabotage. If we come five minutes early, we’re thrown in for spying. Do you know what happens when we show up on time? They charge us for having a western watch!” Vitaly slapped his thigh so loudly that the mic he was holding picked up the sound. That made everyone crack up. Vitaly followed by laughing so heartily I thought a button might pop off his sweater.

  On our way to the hotel, Vitaly asked us if we knew about the Siege of Leningrad. Some people nodded. My dad had told me a little about it, but I didn’t really know the details. “I’m afraid there is no humor in this story,” Vitaly said. “Beginning in September of 1941, the German army cut off our beautiful city from the outside world for 872 days. Our army had a small success on the eighteenth of January, 1943, when we opened a channel to the city, but it wasn’t until the following year, on the twenty-seventh of January, 1944, that the siege was finally lifted. More than a million of our citizens were killed.”

  Everyone on the bus was silent as Vitaly told that story. For me, when he threw out those dates, a chill went through my spine. January 18 was my mother’s birthday. January 27 was my own. I’d never been into astrology or numerology or any of that stuff, but those numbers made me feel a connection with Leningrad.

  We checked in at the hotel, had lunch (thick brown bread and a big bowl of bright red soup—borscht, they called it—with beets and potatoes and little pieces of meat all stirred in), and then we returned to the bus. Vitaly was waiting for us. His smile and his belly were back in place. “A fantastic surprise is ahead,” he said. “It is better than even your Disneyland. There are no rides—except for the thousands you will take inside your head!”

  The bus plodded slowly through traffic, but no one really cared, because everything our eyes landed upon looked magical. The city seemed like it was floating, not just because of the massive river, the Neva, that meandered its way through, but because of the sequence of crisscrossing canals that cut through the land. We were pressed up against the glass, each of us carving out a spot so we could see, but doing it repeatedly as Vitaly pointed out sites on opposite sides of the bus. His laugh was nearly constant, which was warming, though the dates he’d mentioned before lunch, associated not only with the siege but with my mother’s and my births, were very much on my mind. I kept trying to find meaning in them but never came to a conclusion.

  “We Russians do not believe in religion,” Vitaly said as the bus approached a large church. We’d seen half a dozen already, but none matched the scale of this one. “But each time I pass by the beautiful St. Isaac’s Cathedral—that is the extraordinary structure you see off to your left—I wonder if I should reconsider.”

  The cathedral was like a multicolored version of the Capitol building in Washington, D.C., with a pale gray front, reddish-brown pillars, and a golden dome.

  “If you’re not religious, what do you use it for?” a girl named Mary asked. There was sarcasm in her voice. Some of the adults—two ladies—smiled. I’d already noticed the crosses on their necklaces.

  Vitaly thought for a second. “For inspiration,” he said. He was satisfied with his answer. “Yes, we use it for inspiration.”

  The bus continued along for a few more blocks before coming to a stop. There was a massive complex in front of us, a series of interconnected buildings with green and yellow facades, white pillars, and gold highlights. They surrounded an enormous open plaza with a red granite column rising from the center. There were people everywhere, pointing cameras in every direction or posing for pictures. Vitaly didn’t have to tell us that we’d arrived at his Disneyland. The smile on his face revealed everything.

  The Hermitage was the most spectacular place I’d ever seen. It wasn’t just the five interconnected buildings, imposing on the outside, or their ornate interiors, with light pouring in through extravagant stained-glass windows, shining walls covered in sheets of gold, and parquet floors inlaid with complex designs. It was also the art inside. In Paris five years before, on our one family trip overseas, Dad had been excited—as excited as he ever got—to see the works of Matisse, Renoir, Manet, and others in the Musée du Jeu de Paume. All those masters, not to mention a bunch of others, were on display in the Hermitage. Dad would’ve been blown away.

  After our group tour, the organizers said we could look around on our own, as long as we got back to the entrance by four-thirty. I’d hung out a lot with Karen in Helsinki during our orientation—she was the one who had a laugh just like Monique’s—and during the museum tour we’d both been really impressed with the French masters. When she said she was heading back there, I asked if I could join her. “Of course,” she said with a warm smile.

  We walked through room after room. My eyes were on the art, but also on Karen. When she was struck by a piece, her eyes would widen, or she’d press her hand against her chest or slowly shake her head. She’d see me looking at her and smile, and I’d smile back, and we’d talk about the art. On a deeper level, I was feeling something, a draw to her, and I was wondering if she felt it, too.

  In Room 319, we stopped in front of a work by Claude Monet, who the tour guide earlier had called the king of the Impressionists. I wasn’t really into that kind of art, Impressionism, but Karen loved it. The first time we saw Pond at Montgeron, I even missed the people standing a
round the water, who blended into the background. Karen didn’t. She saw everything. As she’d been doing throughout the tour, she examined the painting’s surface, pausing here and there as she drew in a breath then let it out slowly. We were standing right next to each other, and when she shifted weight from one leg to the other, her hip touched my thigh. I turned toward her then, and she toward me, and I looked into her eyes. They seemed to be welcoming me. I leaned down to kiss her.

  She dropped her head down, lifting her arm at the same time to look at her watch. I stepped back. “It’s almost four-thirty, Jeff,” she said. “We’d better head to the entrance.”

  I swallowed, then nodded. “Of course,” I said, wanting to disappear. I started toward the stairs. She followed. It felt like an eternity passed before we finally arrived at the exit.

  * * *

  •

  Back at the hotel, I passed by the phone booths. Mom was probably hysterical by then, not having heard from me. Even though I felt like hiding in my room after the embarrassing episode with Karen, this seemed like the best time to call.

  Making a phone call to America turned out to be an extraordinarily bureaucratic process. I was told to wait in line, which was ridiculous, considering I was the only person there. They already had my passport, but I still had to fill out a form with my name and address and a bunch of other information. Then I waited in line again.

  The lady processing my papers behind the front desk signaled to me that she was ready. She walked me to a booth and told me to sit. At six in the evening Leningrad time—eight in the morning for my parents—she dialed my number and handed me the phone. With all the hoops I’d had to jump through to make the call—and considering what Ed had said about us always being monitored—I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the call was being recorded.

  After two rings, Dad answered.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Jeff,” he answered, sounding surprised. “It’s good to hear from you.” I wasn’t exactly expecting that. “Your mother has been anxious to speak with you. Just a second.” Even with his hand covering the receiver, I could hear him bellowing her name.

  “Jeff!” she said, breathing heavily. She’d probably raced to the phone. “How are you? Are you okay?”

  “Hi, Mom. I’m great. They let us out of our cages today.”

  “Very funny. Where are you?”

  “In Leningrad, at the hotel. It’s a beautiful city, a lot like Paris, if you can believe it. We’re only here until tomorrow evening. Then we’ll take an overnight train to Moscow.”

  “Are the trains safe?”

  “Mom, are you serious? We’re fine. Everybody here is really nice.”

  “No one is trying to convince you to stay there, are they?” She was impossible sometimes.

  “Mom, I’m with a group of Americans, remember? Several have been here before and they somehow managed to return to the good ol’ US of A completely intact. I promise, I’ll be home in less than a week.” I thought about appealing to Dad to calm her down, but he was rarely good at that. Anyway, he threw in a question of his own, which got her to switch to listening mode.

  “Have you heard anything from Mr. Gorbachev’s office?”

  “I haven’t personally. The directors of Youth Ambassadors of America told me that their Moscow contact has been in touch with Mr. Gorbachev’s office, but there hasn’t been any scheduling of a meeting yet.”

  “So it remains uncertain.” In an instant, all the tension I’d left behind in the shower after my run in Helsinki came back. I wanted to get off the phone.

  “Yes, Dad, it remains uncertain. Listen, on top of the connection fee I have to pay, it’s four dollars a minute for this call. I need to go.”

  “We’re covering it,” Mom jumped in.

  “I have to pay the hotel in cash. That’s the only way. So I really do have to leave you now.” I heard her sigh. “I’ll see you in just a week.”

  “Okay, Jeff, but please, please be careful.”

  “I will, Mom. I promise.”

  “Take care of yourself, Jeff,” Dad said.

  Taking care of myself was precisely why I was trying to get off the phone. I honestly felt like telling him that, but I was glad I didn’t. It would’ve spoiled Mom’s “I love yous,” and she needed to get in four of them. I probably needed to hear them. “I love you, too, Mom,” I said, and hung up.

  I stayed in the booth for a few minutes. The day had started so nicely, with Vitaly’s energized city tour and our visit to the Hermitage. But things went south with Karen, which was awkward enough, and then Dad, in seconds, managed to reduce me to a bundle of anxiety.

  The lady who’d dropped me off in the booth tapped on the window. Apparently, it wasn’t okay for me to sit there. I wiped my face with my shirt and stepped out. She motioned toward the front desk, where she handed me a bill for eighty-five dollars.

  * * *

  •

  The next day, after a hearty hotel breakfast—I deliberately sat as far away from Karen as possible—everyone boarded the bus to continue the city tour. We hadn’t seen much the day before, only places on the way to the Hermitage, so the plan was to take in as much of Leningrad as we could before dinner at the hotel and our night train to Moscow.

  Sitting next to one of our assistant coordinators, Bruce, was a new face. The stranger hid his eyes behind thick black-framed sunglasses. His hair was dense and puffy, kind of like Bob Dylan’s in the 1960s. He was wearing a dark brown suit that looked like it came from the same period, over a blue shirt with a striped tie, and a silk scarf with so many shapes woven into it that it reminded me of the Hermitage’s parquet floors. If Lucia had seen him, she would’ve immediately called the fashion police. I was more wondering if he was an agent for the KGB.

  We spent the day exploring the city. Highlights included St. Isaac’s Cathedral; a massive waterfront fortress established by Peter the Great that was now a museum; a monument to Peter the Great where he’s sitting on a horse (it looked like the horse was trying to buck him off); and a walk down Nevsky Prospect, the main road, which apparently shows up in tons of Russian literature. I didn’t realize what a big deal a street could be until Vitaly shared a few stories.

  The fashion offender on our bus walked around with us, mostly talking to Bruce, the coordinators, and the adult volunteers. I noticed him looking at me a lot. Bruce knew my story—about the wish and everything—and the coordinators and volunteers had definitely talked about it. Several of them had told me what a beautiful wish they thought it was. “If it comes true,” I had to remind them, though they said it didn’t matter. Anyway, I figured the Soviet guy had been told my story. After I saw him glance back at me three times during our bus ride to St. Isaac’s Cathedral, I decided I was going to do something about it. He and Bruce stayed on the bus as the rest of us got off. Just as I passed him, I suddenly turned and said, “Dobri dyen,” which means “Good afternoon.” His eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. I thought I’d freaked him out, but then his face calmed. He smiled, dipped his head, and said “Dobri dyen” in reply.

  When we got back to the hotel, as I was stepping into the elevator to go up to my room, Bruce tapped my shoulder. I turned around. “What’s up?” I said. He motioned for me to come out of the elevator.

  “The man I was sitting with on the bus today—” Bruce started to say.

  “The one who was staring at me?” I interrupted, with a smirk on my face.

  Bruce laughed.

  “Yes, that man. He’s a journalist for a popular Leningrad youth newspaper. He came to do a story on Youth Ambassadors of America.”

  “Why were you guys all secret about it?”

  “He didn’t want to influence anyone’s behavior—you know, just wanted to quietly observe. But he’s very interested in your personal story, and he’d like to interview you.”r />
  “When would that happen?”

  “Well, before we leave this evening for Moscow.” I looked at my watch, then lifted my wrist so Bruce could see the time.

  “After I pack. I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”

  * * *

  •

  Stepping out of the elevator, walking down the hallway toward my room, I saw Karen. She was knocking on the door to my room. My instinct was to retreat, but she saw me.

  “Hey, Jeff,” she said. “Do you have a second?”

  I swallowed. “I’m kind of in a rush. I have to pack. Then I have to meet with a guy downstairs.”

  “I’ll be quick.”

  I shuffled my feet. “Okay.”

  “Look, things got a little awkward yesterday.”

  I scratched my head. “Did they? When?”

  “At the museum. When you tried to kiss me.”

  “I didn’t try to kiss you.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, I just wanted to say, even if that’s not what you were after, that I really, really wanted to kiss you. You’re an amazing guy, Jeff. You really are. I love talking with you. The thing is, I’ve got a boyfriend back home. We’ve been going through a rough patch, but we’re trying to make it work. That’s why I need to keep us just friends.”

  “I get it.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do. I really do.” I glanced behind me to see if we were alone. The hallway was clear. “Okay, maybe I did try to kiss you. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I like you, too. Especially your crazy laugh. It kind of reminds me of this girl back home.”

  “What, your girlfriend?” A smirk appeared on her face.

  It wasn’t funny to me. “No. We’re just friends.”

  Karen’s smirk disappeared. Her eyes focused on mine. She was listening.