When Vera turned back to the room and walked in from the balcony to place her teacup on the samovar table, Guzzo took off his Stetson and bowed flamboyantly.
“You’re wearing black market hat,” said Vera, flipping her blond hair back and slithering out of the kimono. Now naked, she pointed to Guzzo’s feet. “If you bought cowboy boots I would put them on. I see pajama flag is up despite the reason for us coming to Odessa.”
“When you mentioned Smirnov on the phone I didn’t realize it was the nanny. She turned me on. And please, Vera, no more about reasons.”
Vera turned toward the bathroom. “Smirnov is a common Russian name. Nanny is a grandmother, if that is your preference.” She paused at the bathroom door, facing away from him. “I agree we consider this vacation rather than what it is for you. If pajama flag is still up, work-related questions will cease.”
Guzzo pulled her away from the bathroom doorway, threw aside the Stetson, and pushed her onto the bed. Gulls shrieked, traffic roared, and a musky Black Sea breeze blew in through the open balcony door.
Chapter 4
Researching the deaths of Father and Grandfather lured Doctor Marta Adamivna Voronko to an Odessa beach. She’d taken the train from Kiev for an Odessa Children’s Rehabilitation Center conference and, while there, text messages came in insisting information about Grandfather’s murder on September 11, 2001, was available. With the time difference, Grandfather died after news of planes hitting their targets had traveled the world. The last text message claimed the time of death was chosen; she could obtain further information that night near the beach sanatorium at the Frantsuzky Boulevard tram’s last stop.
The messages contained cogent details. Grandfather was a US citizen during the Roosevelt administration, and Father, whose research she continued, died in 2009 in another so-called “single vehicle accident” in the Carpathians. Father was a careful driver, habitually spitting over his shoulder before driving. The mention of spitting for luck convinced her.
Marta had given her e-mail address and phone number to other genealogical researchers. She was aware of researchers wanting secrecy due to ancestral involvement in Ukraine’s wartime Jewish pogroms. Because of guilt suffered by past generations and Zionist investigations, a trip to the beach at night did not seem odd. As a precaution she carried a canister of what the woman at her self-defense class called double-strength pepper spray.
Marta sat cross-legged on the sand down the hill from the tram stop near the sanatorium, a slight breeze off the dark sea. Freighter lights moving away from port brought thoughts of other cities on water, especially Detroit in the US because one of her contacts was from Detroit.
At the designated midnight hour, several couples strolled the beach. One woman was topless despite the April chill. As the couple passed close, the man spun around. He was bottomless, the shadow of his penis wagging against Odessa’s lit skyline. It appeared the man wore a dark sweatshirt and the woman wore the matching sweatpants. Marta imagined them shivering while making love on the beach. She recalled the hotel brochure saying the beach below the sanatorium was “clothing optional,” thought of Sonia’s arrival next day, and imagined the two of them topless.
Away from the harbor the sea smelled fresh. Would this meeting provide secrets from Grandfather’s past and vindicate Father’s compulsive search? Would she learn about strands of hair from Grandfather’s past? Would she meet another deranged researcher like the old woman in Kiev’s Botanical Gardens who insisted Nazi descendants caused Chernobyl, economic strife, and terrorism? The woman’s age could have been anywhere between 60 and 80. She wore a long dress, hiding her feet, and had come close to Marta. The woman smelled like rotten mushrooms. As the woman told her story, Marta felt she was breathing air from beneath the woman’s dress. She recalled the woman wore a faded and tattered maroon sweater covered with strands of gray hair.
The old woman’s story came to Marta like a whiff of dead fish in the surf. Nazi descendants lived underground not only in Ukraine, but also throughout the world, especially in the US West with its many caverns. The woman said besides wars and economic crises, Nazis recently joined up with anarchist Mormons in Utah.
Nothing was impossible when it came to Internet conspiracies. Perhaps underground Nazi descendents of World War II scientists, having tapped heat from Earth’s core, caused climate change. Yes, World War II scientists, bypassed for the Manhattan Project, joining up with anarchist Mormons and right-wing radicals.
Marta would have preferred whoever sent the texts had identified himself or herself. Perhaps it was Niki Gianakos from Detroit with whom she’d shared emails. She recalled recently recounting the meeting with the old woman with Niki after Niki told of her life and research, detailing her husband’s death from cancer and the more recent mysterious death of her father. Like Marta’s grandfather, Niki’s father had been in the CCCs in Manila, Utah, in 1939. Niki spoke of road building through canyons, a rock shaped like a castle, and a fire tower in which one could live. The same details Grandfather had passed on to Father. If she were meeting Niki tonight they’d have much to share.
When a man from behind said, “Good evening,” in English, Marta stood, spun around, and grasped the can of pepper spray in her jacket pocket.
He was tall, hatless, and either wore a thick overcoat or lifted weights. He spoke rapidly in a soft voice, a Southwestern American accent evident. “No worries, ma’am. It’s about sharing information. It’s about grandfathers.”
Marta spoke as best she could in English. “You know me, how?”
He stepped closer. “Another American searcher—Hey, don’t be frightened.”
“What is your name?”
“Jethro. Yours?”
“Mine is Marta. Jethro is familiar, but your accent—”
“No worries. My grandfather was southern. My folks moved west.”
“Your grandfather and grandmother are dead?”
“Murder-suicide, according to the Georgia state police.”
“Yes, a friend found this in American newspaper archives.”
“Well then come on, Marta. We’ll walk up the hill to the lights. Should have planned another meeting place. Had no idea it’d be so dark. We’ll go to the sanatorium at the top. Have a bottle of mineral water and maybe some vodka. You coming?”
When she paused, he said, “I forgot to mention the reason for meeting. You see, I realize now, all of them saved strands of hair.”
“Whose hair?”
No answer. Father spoke of hair Grandfather had saved. Rather than Grandfather being buried with his envelope of hair, Father gave it to her to keep in a safe place. The envelope was tucked away in her jewelry box back in the apartment. Too much information. The man had given her none. Why should she reveal what she knew?
“Very well,” she said finally. “We’ll go to the sanatorium.”
As they walked, Marta tried to keep her distance. He wore dark slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. He spit over his left shoulder as they climbed, reminding her of Father and making her feel less apprehensive. But as the hill steepened he came close, their elbows bumping.
“Excuse my butterflies,” he said, touching her arm. “I’m excited to learn what you know.”
He was on her before she could react. She tried rolling away downhill but he flattened her face into the sand. The sanatorium lights at the top of the hill shadowed him. When she turned to scream his gloved hand covered her mouth. His other hand had both arms locked behind and his legs intertwined with hers like steel cables.
He spun her around, his face close. “Nothing personal, Doc. I need to support my family.”
When she tried screaming again his hand plunged into her mouth. She bit down, but his hand went deeper, beyond the range of jaw muscles, ripping her mouth so wide she thought her jaw would break. And then it did break, pain shooting into her skull with an explosive crack. Her r
eaction lifted him into the air and she managed to free one hand. She pushed into her pocket, grasped the pepper spray, flipped open the safety cap, and sprayed wildly toward his face.
He flung the canister away and grasped her throat with both hands. She pounded his face, shoulders, and arms. Not able to breathe, she focused on the lights of the sanatorium up the hill. Help would come. A policeman at the tram station near the sanatorium would hear her gasps. But the man squeezed her neck so tightly she was unable to gasp, and finally the lights in the distance dimmed and she was back at the conference earlier that day. The conference at the wonderful Rehabilitation Center founded by a loving father following his daughter’s death. Marta had wanted to tell Sonia about the Center, about a loving father, about her own grandfather and father, about the strands of hair.
Sand in her mouth. How would she be able to kiss Sonia with sand in her mouth? And then, suddenly, there was the taste of dirt…
Chapter 5
Next morning, while the girls giggled in the bathtub, Guzzo and Vera, wearing the hotel’s so-called Black Sea robes, sat in the sun on the balcony.
“I hope they are safe,” said Vera.
Guzzo placed his hand on hers. “They’re fine, Vera. I tasted the water.”
“I was concerned about depth.”
“The water’s not deep. As long as we can hear them—”
A ship’s whistle sounded across the harbor. Vera pulled her hand from beneath his and put her hand on top. “Did you speak with your concierge this morning on your way in, Tony?”
Vera called him Tony when she was angry. Acting matter-of-fact concerning victims annoyed her. He put his hand back on top. The sleeve of the robe slid back, revealing his STORM tattoo. “The concierge gave me the newspaper.”
Vera’s hand on top again. “Was there news of the woman?”
“No.”
Vera stared at the horizon. “I wish the return to my homeland had been without the woman. I saw scratches on your face. Did the girls notice?”
Guzzo’s hand back on top. “A boy lost his beach ball. I scratched my face chasing it into the bushes. We’re on the beach, Vera, staying in a five-star hotel with guaranteed pure water. Last week we visited your city and old neighborhood. What more could a mother ask?”
Vera turned to him. “You’re itching your eyes. Does it have to do with the dirt?”
Guzzo did not answer.
“The one you copied has what Americans call modus operandi. I heard it on the late news. Suffering is in the trademark.” Vera put her hand to her throat. “Stretching the victim’s mouth until the lips split and stuffing the mouth with Chernobyl soil. News broadcasts speak of vampires though it has nothing to do with drinking blood.”
Guzzo stood, went to the balcony railing, and whispered harshly. “One more word, Vera, and we’ll lose the girls because we’ll both be locked up after I beat the shit out of you! I needed to follow the M.O. to the letter! I wore gloves and at no time did my skin contact the soil provided!” He turned, aware his usual smile was absent. “We have two more years! You were there when we signed on!”
Vera looked back to the room where the girls giggled in the tub. “I’m sorry. In Kiev I worried intelligence agents might recognize me. Here, with more Russians around, I need to remind myself I’m from America.”
Guzzo went behind her chair and held her shoulders. “Okay, babe. It’s the black robes talking. Enough said. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Vera stood, lifted Guzzo’s right hand from her shoulder and kissed it. “We should check the girls.”
Sirens sounded in the distance. The hotel lobby concierge stared out the west entrance at an electronic billboard flashing news in both Ukrainian and English—a comparison of the current world economy to that of the 1930s, news of oil spills and soaring oil prices because of Russia’s games, Orthodox Easter coming on April 19, updates of the nuclear disaster following the Japanese earthquake and tsunami, and finally a mention of the upcoming 25th anniversary of the Chernobyl disaster on April 26. But then the billboard went back to the recently celebrated “Fool Day, The National Day of Laughter” and how important it was for everyone’s physical and mental health to take time to smile toward others and laugh at oneself. Many Odessians, hearing distant sirens, assumed revelers, having consumed too much vodka, had moved their extended April Fools’ celebration out into the street where it did not belong.
Guzzo stayed on the balcony while Vera checked the girls. Perhaps, like him, Vera was concerned about the change in assignments. With genealogical family researchers, instead of stalking victims at retirement communities in the US, a second and third generation was involved. Why had a bunch of old men, most of them dead, saved strands of reddish brown hair in the first place? If it was money, following money was always dangerous.
Vera was aware of Pescatore’s worldwide connections, and was familiar with Ukrainian and Russian intelligence organizations and Mafias. She, of all people, should know the local Russian Mafia was being contacted in case her husband left loose ends on the beach, the same Russian Mafia who had Vera in their clutches before he snatched her away. Perhaps agents covering his tracks would see the Star of David he’d drawn in the sand prior to dragging the body into the surf. Would they leave it to implicate a Zionist zealot? Passover started next day and what better time to kill someone whose family might have been involved in a pogrom? Or would they, or children at play, erase the Star of David?
Guzzo took a deep breath of Black Sea air, coughed, leaned over the balcony, spit, and watched as his spittle sparkled in sunlight before landing on the windshield of a hotel Mercedes shuttle van parked at the curb. When there was no reaction from below, Guzzo turned from the balcony railing and walked to the bathroom to be with his beautiful girls.
Chapter 6
Mariya Nemeth and Janos Nagy were a strange Kiev couple. Janos speaking Hungarian while they lay in bed before dawn, “We are a strange Kiev couple.”
Mariya speaking Ukrainian, “I prefer the American sidekick. Lazlo said we could have been sidekicks in strip clubs. Your hair black, mine blond.”
Janos switched to Ukrainian. “Like Lazlo’s, mine is graying. I considered stripping, had tassels and a pouch prepared.”
“You’d get large bills tucked into your pouch. Not like the hrivnas tucked into my g-string.”
Janos sat up in the dark. “I thought you made a fortune in clubs.”
“As you know, my fortune came from what was left of Viktor’s savings. Perhaps we should sell the Audi he left me and we’ll have more fortune.”
Janos lay back on his pillow. “I was joking.”
Mariya poked Janos in a lower rib. “Sorry I mentioned Viktor. Speak of something else. Do your butt cheeks still itch from the Mafia bomb outside your office window?”
“The doctor says bits of glass should have worked their way out months ago, yet whenever I sit, especially in my car, it’s like ingrown hairs.”
“Since Lazlo spoke of the man beneath the Chicago bus with strands of hair in his wallet, hair dominates conversations. My hair, your hair, the feeling like ingrown hairs. You should drive the Audi.”
“You don’t like my Skoda?”
“Only the color; the bright orange matches your butt. The Audi’s seats are comfortable. Give the Skoda to your sister. She can’t always borrow Marta’s car.”
“Too analytical,” said Janos. “Instead of discussing cars, and Sonia’s lover, we’ll make love.”
“I thought you had a breakfast meeting with an irate husband.”
“An irate husband who suspects a cheating wife takes second place.”
“Would an irate same-sex partner be treated to a breakfast meeting?”
“Of course.”
“Janos, what color did Lazlo say the hair in the old man’s wallet was?”
“Reddish brown.”
&nb
sp; “I’m glad the strands of hair under the bus weren’t blond like mine.”
When the apartment telephone rang, Mariya suffered a momentary flashback—She’s still married to Viktor; he phones but the call cuts off; she rides her bicycle frantically, zigzagging through Kiev traffic to Viktor’s video store; the smoke from the fire resembles an angry python in the sky; the fire so hot policemen and firemen will not let her near.
The flashback’s horror was amplified whenever private investigator Janos Nagy—the man she accompanied to the compound for trafficked young people near Chernobyl to solve Viktor’s murder, the man who almost died at the hands of Mafia rapists, the man who now shared her life—was not home.
“Mariya, it’s Sonia. Is Janos there?”
“No. What’s wrong, Sonia? I hear something in your voice.”
“I’m here. I’m…cell phone. The connection is…”
“Sonia?”
“I’m back.”
“Tell me what’s wrong before we lose the connection.”
“I’m at the window; this should be better. I called because of Marta. She doesn’t answer her phone.”
“She’s at a conference. She probably turned it off.”
“I tried last night on the train from Kiev. She didn’t answer when they rang the room. This morning when I arrived at the hotel—I don’t think she slept in the room.”
“I’m sorry Sonia, I—”
Sonia interrupted. “We were to meet for breakfast before the conference. She registered our room. When I came here—Wait, there’s someone at the door.”
Garbled voices and a loud clattering before the connection went dead.
Mariya tried calling Sonia back several times. Each time, after the message saying the cell customer was not available, she hung up and waited to see if Sonia would call back. The singsong recording reminded Mariya of her mother’s voice when she was a girl in Uzhgorod. Mariya’s mother, who insisted she use the city’s Hungarian name, Ungvár.
The Girl With 39 Graves Page 3