The Confession

76

I arrived at the train station at nine-thirty as the rain began. It was a strange bit of luck that no one had seen me when I returned home. I had only had time to wash in the sink and change out of my clothes, which I put into a small trash bag. I then drove to the outskirts of town, where I added stones and dropped the bag into the Tisa. It sank quickly.

The station was busy enough-the regular throng of weekend travelers going to and from the Capital or stopping along other journeys, farmers and clerks alongside one another. I had a brandy in the bar, waved away a Gypsy muttering about all the children she had to feed, then returned to the main hall. A woman’s voice over speakers told me that the ten-twenty from Vienna, headed to platform six, would be fifteen minutes late. She repeated the announcement in Russian.

I looked at my empty glass.

At exactly ten, Leonek arrived, hunched and dark, almost a Gypsy himself. He crept over with a nod.

“You look like hell. What happened to your hand?”

It was covered in thorn scratches. I stuffed it into my pocket. I smelled like hell, too.

“So you going to tell me?”

I nodded at the arrivals board. “The ten-twenty from Vienna. It’s late.”

“Who are we waiting for?”

“A Frenchman. I don’t want to stop him. I want to see where he goes.”

“Where’s Emil?”

“At home with his wife, where he should be.”

Leonek looked up at the arrivals board to avoid showing me his expression. Then he looked back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’ve told you. A Frenchman. The ten-twenty.”

“Not that.”

He seemed to want to discuss it. But I didn’t think I could converse right now, and I saw no need to help calm his guilt. “Let’s wait over by the bar.”

We leaned on the counter, looking through a window over the platforms and drinking slowly. He said, “I learned something very interesting.”

“Did you.” I looked past him at families chatting about times and places and people.

“I finally made it through that interview. Had to use a Russian dictionary for half the words.”

“Should’ve had someone translate it for you.”

“I’m stubborn.”

“I guess you are.”

He looked at his coffee. “Turns out this Boris Olonov knew quite a lot. He told Kliment the names of two of the other three soldiers who killed the girls.”

“What about the third?”

“Wouldn’t give it up. But more importantly, he knew about Sergei’s murder, because there was a witness to it.”

“Someone saw Sergei killed? How did he know about that?”

“Because another soldier knew the witness,” he said. “Now ask me his name.”

“The soldier’s?”

“No, the witness’s.”

“Okay. What’s the witness’s name?”

Leonek smiled. “Nestor Velcea.”

“Nestor-” I began, but stopped. “That’s impossible. Isn’t it?”

“I didn’t make it up.”

I reached for my drink, but it was empty. I couldn’t believe the coincidence. It couldn’t have been a coincidence-that was obvious. But I couldn’t see anything clearly yet. “So what’s the connection?”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“Nestor witnesses Sergei’s murder,” I said, thinking it through slowly. “And soon after goes to a work camp.” But I couldn’t follow the thought through because it was time for us to meet the train.