The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

CHAPTER 34

NADIA CALLED THE National Commission for Radiation Protection of Ukraine, identified herself as an American journalist, and told them she’d met a scientist during a tour of Chornobyl last year. All of that was true, except for the journalist part. After being transferred to the right party, she was told Karel Mak had been declared a prospective invalid by the Division of Nervous Pathologies in Kyiv. It was responsible for monitoring the health of people with injuries related to the nuclear fallout in Chornobyl.

Another phone call revealed that his disability checks were being sent to his last known address. An apartment in Lviv. Nadia called the phone number on record but it had been disconnected. He wasn’t listed in the Lviv phone book, either. Neither of these developments surprised Nadia, as many people in Ukraine were disconnecting their landlines to save money and relying on their cell phones for primary communication. Karel had probably failed to update his telephone number with state agencies. That wasn’t a surprise either. He wanted to get checks, not phone calls. Nadia decided that if monthly checks were being sent to the address on record, odds were high he’d be there. If corporate America had taught her anything it was to follow the money.

Nadia and Marko left on the overnight train for Lviv at 10:15 p.m. The trip would take six hours. While Marko slept, Nadia thought about her father. He’d hailed from the western strip of Ukraine bordering Poland known as Galicia or Halychyna, derived from the name of the medieval city of Halych. Lviv was the unofficial capital of Halychyna, historically the epicenter of the nation’s quest for independence. To listen to her father, this was the real Ukraine. People spoke Ukrainian, not Russian. Nationalist sentiment ran hot.

Now, on the train headed to Lviv, Nadia felt as though she was going home for the first time. A different home. Not her primary home. She was an American. This was her parents’ home. It was the place that had shaped their souls.

Nadia ate a protein bar during the last half hour of the trip. They arrived in Lviv at 6:35 a.m., fought off the gypsy drivers, and took a licensed taxi from the train station to the Leopolis Hotel. Their rooms weren’t ready but they checked in and stored their luggage, except for a small canvas bag Nadia had packed earlier. She tucked her purse beneath the clothes in the bag, too. A concierge recommended a breakfast place in the center of town. Nadia made sure it had outdoor seating. Afterward, Nadia and Marko sat in the lobby and studied a map like tourists.

She’d first noticed the bald man with the pointed chin on the train reading a woodworking magazine. He was sitting alone in the same car. The car was only half-full but he’d taken the seat adjacent to the lavatory so the entire cabin was in front of him. Who wanted to listen to the door opening and closing during the entire trip, and absorb the occasional smell that emanated from within? A spy, she thought. That’s who.

And then when the taxi driver lifted their luggage out of their trunk, she caught his profile in a black Renault cruising past the Leopolis. He didn’t have time to rent a car. That meant there were at least two of them. Each time she saw him Johnny’s words rang in her ear.

Your life is in danger.

Nadia and Marko left the hotel and walked along a cobblestone street to Rynok Square in the center of town. Forty-four architectural masterpieces from various eras formed the square’s perimeter. They’d survived centuries of wars and invasions. Their front doors looked like entrances to castles. Some of the mansions boasted elaborate carvings. One featured a row of intricately sculptured knights along its rooftop.

The air smelled of freshly ground beans. They found their restaurant, Kentavir, at 34 Rynok Square. It was a few minutes after 8:00 a.m., and the outdoor seating area was already half-full. The patrons spoke authentic Ukrainian.

Nadia and Marko chose a visible yet private table where no one could hear their conversation even though they were speaking English. They ordered omelets with buckwheat bread and homemade cherry preserves. Nadia asked for tea. Marko chose coffee. After they placed their orders, Nadia panned the crowd.

There he was. Alone. Wearing sunglasses now. And reading a newspaper. A server arrived at his table.

“Look at that waitress with the legs and the braided hair,” Marko said. “You see a ring? You think she’s single? I think she looked at me when she walked by.”

“Focus, Marko. Please?”

Marko glared at her and took a deep breath. “Feels like home. U-kra-yi-na.”

“Yeah. Except at home I feel safe.”

“I got your back, baby.”

“And I’ve got yours. The problem is we both have to turn our backs to get anywhere.”

“You think we’re being followed?”

“Bobby told Johnny our lives are in danger. When a kid not talking decides to talk, you have to consider his words. And I don’t think we’re being followed. I know we are.”

“No way. I’ve been keeping an eye out. I don’t see anyone.” He started to turn.

“Don’t look. Don’t look.”

Marko looked back at Nadia.

“I don’t want him to know we’ve spotted him.”

“You sure it’s not your imagination?”

Nadia described the two times she’d seen him before and her plan.

“Even if you lose them,” he said, “we’ll have to go back to the hotel. Eventually they’ll catch up with us.”

“I don’t care about that. I don’t want them to follow me to Karel’s apartment. I don’t want them to know who or what we’re looking for. And I don’t want Karel put at risk.”

“You’re going to eat first, right?”

“No,” Nadia said. “I ate on the train. He saw us order breakfast. It’s only natural for him to let his guard down. He’ll be more focused after we finish eating. Don’t forget to get my bag. If no one else takes it first.”

“You got it.”

“We should put him even more at ease before I leave, though.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Laughter.”

“That might be tough. Neither of us has a sense of humor.”

“Did you know Sherlock Holmes is the butt of many Russian jokes?”

Marko started to grin, then narrowed his eyes. “You serious?”

Nadia nodded. “Holmes and Watson pitch a tent and go camping. Holmes wakes Watson up in the middle of the night and says, ‘Watson, what do you deduce from all the stars in the sky?’ Watson says, ‘It tells me there may be life beyond Earth.’ Holmes says, ‘Watson, you’re an idiot. Someone stole our tent.’ ”

Marko shook his head and chuckled. Actually showed his teeth.

Nadia couldn’t tell if she’d really made him laugh or not but she smiled nonetheless. She liked that one. “Ladies’ room. Be right back.”

She took her canvas bag and walked toward the front door to the restaurant. Not too slowly, not too quickly. Like any woman going to freshen up.

She swung the door open. A hostess greeted her without a smile.

“I’m sitting outside,” Nadia said. “Which way to the bathroom?”

The hostess pointed to a corridor beyond the dining room.

Nadia marched into the ladies’ room. It was empty. She locked herself in a stall. Slipped out of her blazer, skirt, and blouse. Took new clothes out of her canvas bag. Put on a sweater, jeans, and a light jacket. Wrapped a black scarf around her hair and put on her sunglasses. It was the same scarf she’d used to escape the Caves Monastery in Kyiv last year. She’d packed it as a precaution and for good luck. She grabbed her purse and stuffed the rest of the clothes in the canvas bag. Left the bag in the stall.

She walked out of the restroom and turned right, away from the front door. A tray clattered outside. A woman shrieked. Something crashed to the ground. Men shouted.

Marko had taken down the man with the pointed chin, she thought. Just as they’d planned.

Nadia burst through a door marked “Employees Only.”

One cook stood poised over five omelets. Another hovered over ten pancakes. A server turned to Nadia. It was the same woman who’d taken their order. She showed no signs of recognizing Nadia.

“I can’t go back out there,” Nadia said. “My boyfriend said he’s going to kill me. Is there a back door?”

Stunned faces. The server pointed to a door behind a stack of potato sacks.

Nadia hurried out of the restaurant. She emerged in an alley beside empty vegetable crates and a dumpster. A pile of ashes and a zillion cigarette butts. Even though she’d changed clothes, Nadia preferred not to be seen exiting the rear of the eatery. At least one man would be watching the back street. She was sure of it.

She cut right across an alley joining the adjacent buildings. The last building had a sign on the rear entrance. Central Square Hostel. A man was wheeling boxes from a laundry company inside. He paid no attention to Nadia.

She turned left down an access road for deliveries and emerged one block north and half a block east of where she’d been sitting. A quick glance left. A delivery van blocked her view. She craned her neck. Quickly snapped it back. The Renault was parked near the back of the restaurant, a block away.

Nadia marched in the opposite direction, north by northwest, block by block, without consulting her map. She only had to travel a mile to get to her destination. She knew from memory she was heading in the right direction. It didn’t matter if she was off a block or two from the optimal course.

After ten minutes of walking, the neighborhood turned residential. Neoclassical apartment buildings lined one-way streets. Cars parked diagonally on one side of the road, bumpers pointed toward the curb. A smattering of pedestrians hurried to work. Nadia stopped near two mothers chatting beside a day care center to consult a map. There were no cars or pedestrians behind her. She was certain she’d lost both tails. She oriented herself and moved on.

She arrived on Yakova Rappaporta Street ten minutes later. A red-and-yellow brick castle with a silver dome towered over the other buildings. It looked like a mosque but contained etchings of the Star of David above some of its windows.

Yakova Rappaporta became Vilna Street. Vilna was the Ukrainian word for “free,” as in freedom. Karel’s apartment was located in a three-story stone building with a wrought iron balcony overlooking a grove of trees planted along the sidewalk. Blue and black graffiti marred the walls.

Nadia entered a foyer through a red wooden door. She found the name Karel Mak next to a buzzer for apartment #3B. She rang the buzzer several times. No one answered. She’d prepared for the possibility he wouldn’t be home, or answer his doorbell if the visitor didn’t have an appointment. Nadia rang the buzzer marked “office.”

A cranky woman answered. “Who’s there?”

“I’m looking for Karel Mak. I’m a friend of his.”

“Impossible. Karel has no friends. Go away.” The static died.

Nadia counted to ten. Pressed the buzzer again.

“Who’s there?”

“I really am a friend of Karel’s. I’m from America. I met him last year—”

“Impossible. Karel’s never been to America. Go away.” The static died again.

If the woman knew he’d never been to America, that meant they were friends. Nadia didn’t wait this time. She pressed the buzzer three times in rapid succession.

“I’m calling the police,” the woman said. Furious now.

“I didn’t meet him in America. I met him in Chornobyl village.”

A pause. Three seconds later a louder buzzer sounded. The door unlocked. Nadia walked into a foyer. A hallway led to apartments. A staircase led upstairs. There was no elevator.

A door opened down the hallway. A svelte old woman stepped out. She had sunken cheekbones and wary eyes. From a distance she looked middle-aged but up close she looked ancient. The lines in her face contrasted with her brown hair color.

She wiped her hands on an apron. “I’m making breakfast. Come, kotyku. Come.”

Kotyku was the endearment Nadia’s mother had used growing up. It meant “kitten.” The sound of the word slowed Nadia’s pulse.

She followed the woman to her apartment. A mezuzah was attached to the doorframe. Nadia had learned about it from her Jewish neighbors in New York City. It was a small case that contained a piece of parchment with a passage from the Torah. The mezuzah fulfilled the Biblical requirement to post the specified passage at the entry to one’s home.

Nadia stepped inside. The woman closed the door. She turned and pointed a pistol at Nadia with both hands. They shook lightly.

“I survived the Lviv ghetto. I’ll survive you. Now who are you and what do you want with my son?”