Warhead

by Jeff Henigson

  “She’s also got someone.”

  Karen gave me a sad smile. I didn’t want to get all emotional in front of her.

  “It’s no big deal,” I said unconvincingly.

  “Well, I’ll let you get to packing. Just know for sure that I want to spend time with you, and talk about things, and be real friends. I think you’re a cool guy, Jeff.”

  “Thanks, Karen. I think you’re pretty cool yourself.”

  She walked off and I entered the room. When the door closed behind me, I leaned against it. My shoulders dropped. My breathing slowed. The stress, at least with her, had dissipated. Dad was still on my mind, but he was back home. Here, in the moment, I felt at peace.

  * * *

  •

  “I am Nikolai Sivach,” the reporter said in heavily accented English, jumping to his feet as I entered the sitting room. Bruce had dropped me off there, and we were steps away from the dining room, where everyone would soon be having supper. Mr. Sivach grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. “It is great pleasure to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sivach.”

  “Please call me Nikolai. This is Ivan. He will translate.”

  I smiled at Ivan, a young man with short black hair standing next to him.

  “Great. Shall we sit down?”

  The room was like a cheap copy of the Hermitage, with wall sections covered in sapphire blue curtains and separated by shiny brass plates and marble tiles. There were three chairs in a corner, next to a table with a large recorder on it. Nikolai motioned in that direction.

  “What made you interested in all the world’s problems?” Nikolai asked through Ivan. I’d been asked the same question by a reporter who’d written a story about me and my wish in our local newspaper.

  “Before I got sick, I didn’t care too much about them. I knew what was going on from watching the news, but I was more interested in my own life. Everything changed when I got the diagnosis. I started seeing all the problems we have in our country, the homelessness and poverty, and how we weren’t addressing them. Instead, we were investing in weapons of mass murder. And I noticed that you—the Soviet Union, that is—were doing the same. Frankly, it really angered me.”

  “What do you expect from your meeting with Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev, if it takes place?”

  “I have a lot of questions for him, but I also have a lot to tell him. I think he’s receptive to other opinions, even those of young people. Our countries are no longer enemies, but we’re certainly not friends. We’re still pointing nuclear missiles at each other. We need to abandon this suicidal mission of mutually assured destruction and help our people let go of their fear, and even develop a friendship.”

  “So you believe one person can change the world?”

  I thought about that for a minute. “I believe that in certain circumstances an individual can influence the course of events. What I think is unfortunate is when we don’t try. Why can’t we realize that the only way to bring about change is to make an attempt in the first place?”

  “And you are one of these people?”

  “I doubt I can bring happiness to the whole of humanity, if that’s what you’re asking, but if I’m able to do even a tiny bit, I believe I must try.”

  “Sorry, Jeff, but isn’t that a bit naive? Young people don’t have any political power.”

  All the coordinators in Youth Ambassadors of America had told us this wasn’t true—and not to believe anyone who said otherwise.

  “We do have power, Nikolai. It may not be immediate political power. But adults would be naive not to realize that we, in fact, are the future.”

  Nikolai seemed struck by that, because when Ivan translated it for him, his head cocked, his lips parted, and he slowly nodded.

  He went on to a bunch more topics, from the cancer diagnosis to how I found out about the Starlight Foundation to—and this was truly odd—who my favorite general was.

  “From everything we’ve just talked about, do you really think I have a favorite general?” I asked. I didn’t want him to feel like a complete idiot, so I gave him a little smile, but it was a pretty stupid question.

  “I think you probably don’t.”

  “Let’s get back to that question about whether one person can change the course of history. I think one can. Think of presidents, think of politicians. But I don’t think it’s necessary to be at the height of power to bring about change. Regular people, like me, can find friends in this world, people who are willing to work together right now to prevent the extinction of humanity. Youth Ambassadors of America came here for that reason, and I am here with them.” I edged forward, my eyes focused on Nikolai’s. “You chose to interview me because I have cancer and I made my wish and I might be on my way out, but there are all these people here who want to make the world a better place, and tons of Americans back home. All of us have a common goal. We want peace.” I thought about that for a few seconds, then added, “If I really am going to die, I strongly hope we’ll take solid steps in that direction before I do.”

  We heard sounds coming through the wall behind us—the clinking of silverware and glasses, along with laughter—and it seemed like a good place to end our conversation. I patted my stomach, and Nikolai picked up the cue.

  “You have to eat dinner,” he said, switching off his recorder. The three of us stood. I smiled and put out my hand to Nikolai. He grabbed it and pulled me toward him. He held me close for several seconds, then patted my back. Finally, he let me go. It was awkward, until I saw him pull a scarf from his pocket and wipe his eyes. “I hope to see you again, Jeff,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Sivach. I mean, Nikolai. I hope to see you again, too.”

  I thanked him and Ivan and left, hurrying next door to see if there was still any food. I was definitely hungry. Bruce, I quickly discovered, had been kind enough to save me a plate.

  * * *

  •

  On the train to Moscow that night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind revisited everything we’d seen in Leningrad, which I’d concluded was the most beautiful city in the world. I thought about Karen, who was probably asleep now. She’d sat next to me as I ate dinner, asking about the interview. I told her everything. She kept shaking her head, and finally she said, “You see, Jeff, I knew you were amazing.” Even if she was never going to be my girlfriend, it definitely felt good.

  Monique entered my mind, which wasn’t a surprise, given that Karen and I had talked about her. I felt bad that we’d stopped talking. But I also wondered what she’d say about my wish. She’d tell me it wasn’t the thing that truly made me happy or something like that, and I didn’t want to hear it. But I did miss her.

  As Mike snored in the cot across from me, I switched on the nightlight and pulled out my diary. I read through my notes on what Vitaly had said about the Siege of Leningrad, all 872 days of it. The dates—January 18 and 27, my mother’s birthday and mine—really did make me feel connected to the city we were leaving behind.

  A thought popped into my head. It probably came from a curiosity I had with numbers, like the way I’d calculated everyone’s lifespan after reading their tombstones in the cemetery where my friend Sylvia was buried. I wondered about my own siege, starting with brain surgery on August 8, 1986. If I added 872 days to it, what date would I end up on? Maybe that day would be my liberation.

  It took me several minutes to do the math. I ended up with December 27, 1988. Goose bumps appeared all over my forearms, and a chill shot up my spine. December 27 was my father’s birthday.

  It felt so strange, to have these dates and numbers so significant to Leningrad and its remarkable history connected in their own way to me and my family. I knew my mother, if I showed her what I discovered, would be filled with wonder. It would only be momentary. Dad would intervene, saying it was mere happenstance.

  But ther
e I was on a train, crossing the Soviet countryside, the world around me lit by stars and a waning moon. I was actually moving in the direction of my wish—toward Moscow, where it had the potential to be fulfilled. It didn’t matter that the dates wouldn’t mean much to Dad. What mattered was the wish. How would he react if I came home with the news that I’d met with Premier Gorbachev, that the two of us had sat down together and discussed how to bring an end to nuclear weapons and the Cold War? Dad would nod at first, only acknowledging what I said, but internally, he’d be analyzing it carefully. Slowly and steadily, a smile would form on his face, like the sun rising, and soon, even if he said nothing at all, he’d be beaming with pride. That prospect thoroughly warmed me, as if the whole windy moonlit sky overhead had been replaced by the sun at high noon, guiding me to a brilliant, beautiful new world. In that state, I quickly fell asleep.

  I was asleep, deep in a dream that had me trudging through endless fields of snow, toward a figure that kept moving farther away, when our train came to a halt. It had a few times already, stopping at dimly lit stations before lurching forward once again into the darkness, but this stop was different. It was a long one. Movement was the thing that kept me asleep, like it used to in my mom’s car when she drove me back from radiation treatments, and I’d wake up automatically when the motion ceased. So it was in that particular station, where we were held in place, that I came back to consciousness.

  Mike, in the bunk across from me, was still snoring. My attention turned to the hallway, where I could hear steps coming through the thin sliding door of our dark cabin. I’d heard some before, probably from one of the red-jacketed attendants passing through, since we’d been told to stay in our cabins, but these were different. The pace was accelerated and there was force behind each step, the sound of boots instead of shoes, coming from more than one person.

  I tugged back the curtain covering our window, and after my eyes adjusted to the flood of light coming from the station lamps, I saw soldiers, dozens of them, with heavy jackets on over their uniforms. Some were walking toward the train cars. A chill went through my spine. “Mike,” I said tersely, but he didn’t respond. I switched the table light on, grabbed my pillow, and threw it at his head. He groaned.

  “What’s your problem?” he said.

  Just then, the door to our cabin slid open. It was Bruce. He had his hat and coat on, but he was shivering. Behind him was a soldier.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. We’re being told to get off the train. Just get dressed and pack fast. Don’t forget your jackets—it’s damn cold out there. I’ll tell you when to leave. Understood?” I nodded.

  Bruce walked to the next cabin, but the soldier stayed in place. I tried to close the door, but he blocked it with his foot. “Nyet,” he said coldly. When Mike and I stepped into the hallway, we could see a soldier standing in front of each cabin.

  Minutes later, all of us were outside shivering. Some of the kids were whimpering. The adults on our team were trying to reassure them, but they kept looking nervously at each other, which hardly helped. We watched as the soldiers searched the train, for what, we couldn’t figure out. Ed and Linda, with the help of one of our interpreters, were pleading with an official, and they followed him into the station after a uniformed woman unlocked a side door. I wanted to go to Karen, who looked shaken, but there were other soldiers who were watching us closely, so I stayed in place. The cold seemed to reach all of us, the soldiers excepted, and in a way it numbed our fear, forcing us to focus on our bodies as we moved about trying to keep warm. It seemed like a century had passed before Ed and Linda finally returned, and when they did, they found our whole team huddled closely together.

  We returned to the train then, with no explanation of what had happened, other than a “misunderstanding” had taken place. Our only needs were warmth and sleep. The attendants, in their red uniforms, made us tea. I clutched my glass in both hands, holding it close to my chest. My earlier shock was reduced to unease, and the train resumed its journey to Moscow.

  * * *

  •

  We pulled into the Leningradsky station in Moscow just before eight in the morning, and after a quiet, sleepy bus ride, we checked in at Hotel Cosmos, a twenty-five-story brownish-orange building curved like a rainbow that had been tipped onto its side. In the lobby, Ed waved me over. He was talking with a man in a striped black suit. “This is Gennady Vasilyev,” Ed said. “He’s our Moscow contact who’s been working on your big meeting.”

  I quickly extended my hand, and Gennady shook it. He was thin and tall, in a suit that fit him well but clashed with his brown shoes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said. I was praying he was going to tell me that the meeting had been set.

  “I am not yet have confirmation, Jeff,” he said. I noticed my palms were almost instantly damp; I slipped my hands into my pockets. Gennady wasn’t finished. His eyes were scanning my clothes. “You have suit, yes? Also tie, business shoes?” I definitely liked the sound of that.

  “Yes, Gennady, though my suit’s in this,” I said, pointing to my suitcase.

  “Put it out in your room. You might go to meeting with only, how you say, moment’s notice.”

  “Definitely, Gennady. I’ll be ready.”

  After breakfast, some of the group took a nap, but I spent the time getting out my suit and hiding it from Mike’s view in the closet. I still hadn’t told my roommate about the meeting with Gorbachev, and planned not to until the last possible minute, in part so I wouldn’t be made a fool of if it fell through, but also because I wasn’t up for all the dumb cracks that would inevitably come out of his mouth about a meeting with one of the most important people in the world.

  Once we got all settled into our rooms and rested for a bit, we reassembled downstairs for our city tour. Something was going on—you could tell—because there was tons of whispering and eyebrows were shooting up all over the place. That’s when I saw Mike, who’d skipped out on a nap. I walked over to him. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “You didn’t hear the news?”

  I shook my head.

  “One of the girls in our group who hadn’t gone upstairs for a nap went to grab her camera later, and there were a couple of guys going through her luggage.”

  I frowned. “What, like in her room?”

  “Yeah, just a few minutes ago. Rumor is it’s the KGB.”

  It was a little eerie, but Ed had warned us back in Helsinki that the Russians had been watching us. I wasn’t worried. If they looked through my stuff, they wouldn’t find anything interesting. I just hoped the same was true for Mike.

  It took so long for us to get loaded onto the tour bus that all that excitement was mostly replaced with boredom by the time we pulled out of the hotel lot. The weather didn’t help. It seemed overcast. But the sky was filled not with clouds, it turned out, but a curtain of thick gray smog. It came from the tailpipe of almost every car on the road, mostly boxy sedans that looked as if they’d been teleported from the 1960s, spewing black soot into the air. The sidewalks were packed with people trudging through the smog, which, along with buildings splattered across the landscape, some of them beautiful but most industrial and bland, reminded me of L.A.

  Our first stop, our tour guide Igor told us, was Red Square. He explained that we’d be walking for a bit, so we hopped off the bus and followed. We were awaiting a story, but none came, so the conversations picked up between us, mostly about how much we missed our Leningrad tour guide, Vitaly.

  I was walking with Mike and Chace. Another kid, Jeremy, hurried up alongside us. “Guys, I think we’re being followed,” he said.

  “By who?” Mike asked.

  By whom? I thought, though I kept my mouth shut. If there was anything Mike was good at—other than sleeping—it was mutilating the English language.

  “He’s fifty feet back
or so. Wearing a trench coat.”

  It sounded ludicrous. All of us looked back. Sure enough, we saw a guy wearing a trench coat. He turned and looked into a store window, as if he was shopping.

  “Give me a break,” Mike said.

  “I’m serious,” Jeremy said. “I saw him right when we got out of the bus. He stops whenever we do. He’s totally checking us out.” Ed and Linda had told us back in Helsinki that the Soviet government would keep an eye on us but it was nothing to worry about. One of the coordinators said it could even get a little entertaining, because they act the same way they do in the movies.

  “Then let’s surprise him,” Mike said, with a huge grin on his face, going on to describe his plan.

  Chace liked it. “I’m in,” he said. Jeremy nodded. For a second, I wondered if this might get me in trouble as far as my meeting was concerned. I reasoned this guy was watching our whole group, though, not just me, so I decided it would be fine.

  “Me too,” I said.

  There was a slight hill with a road going up it that extended into Red Square. Mike took a casual look back. “Is he there?” Jeremy asked.

  “Yup, still about fifty feet back,” Mike said.

  We passed a bland, redbrick building on our left, with nothing in particular to look at, and continued along. When we figured our target was near the building, Mike started his countdown. “In three…two…ONE!” The four of us spun around, hollered out “Privyet”—“hello” in Russian—and waved. Our man whirled 90 degrees to his left to do his pretend window shopping, but the only thing in front of him was a brick wall. We laughed so hard and for so long that I was wheezing when we reached Red Square.

  The rest of the day wasn’t quite as eventful, though we saw some spectacular stuff. Not far from where we pulled our prank on that blundering snooper was the most beautiful building in all of Moscow: St. Basil’s Cathedral, a stunning domed church in Red Square. Honestly, though, even if I didn’t feel that connection with Leningrad, I would’ve taken that city any day over Moscow. It wasn’t just the capital’s awful air quality, which we could all feel deep in our lungs by the end of the day, but the people. They weren’t mean or anything like that, just distant and impersonal, focused on themselves, like New Yorkers seemed when I went to visit my cousin in Manhattan. Plus, while Moscow had some great sites, it was lacking the Hermitage, which Karen and I agreed was the most amazing museum either of us had ever been to. If I were charged with putting together the sightseeing aspect of the trip, I’d start in Moscow, since that would get people excited, but I’d finish in Leningrad, a place that would blow everyone away.