"About what? You haven't been particularly clear on that." He sighed, a truly Russian sound. There are depths of meaning in those sighs, ones that hint of the deep, tragic passions that run all through the Russian psyche. "Your father is not alive. He was brought to Russia, and later to Ukraine. That much was true. But, unfortunately, he was seriously injured in the ejection from his aircraft. He lived for a while. It might have been longer had the Vietnamese given him better medical care. By the time he came to us, he was too weak ― too far gone."
He was telling the truth. There was no doubt in my mind of that. How I knew, I could not tell you, but there was something in his voice, a depth of feeling and sympathy that made disbelief almost impossible.
His words arrowed straight into my gut, twisting and coiling like a vicious serpent. For so long we'd said that we believed he was dead, but somewhere deep down we'd never really given up hope. Never ― not really.
Now, to hear the final confirmation from Russian lips, what the U.S. authorities had told us for all those decades, was too painful. I believed this man in a way that I had not believed the countless United States government officials who had sworn my father died in Vietnam.
"I will take you to his grave this evening," the man continued quietly. He reached out and laid one hand gently on my forearm. "My sympathies, Admiral. It is very difficult to lose a member of your family, even during times of war. This is something we Russians understand well.
One out of every ten Russians died during World War II, do you realize that? Do you know what an impact that has on a nation's character?" He shook his head gravely. "Millions ― tens of millions ― Russian families felt the same pain, knew this loss. I myself lost my father, and two uncles.
But still, even for the fact that so many of us have lost, it is never easier for an individual."
"You said you would take me to him," I said. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?" "You have a photograph," he said. "One that you obtained from the POW-MIA groups. It was I who gave the photo to Vladimir to send to you. I can give you every detail of it, where it was taken, who took the picture.
I can even tell you who we used to impersonate your father."
"The man I met at the hospital?" I asked. And just who had he really been? Another American brought to Russia? How could I walk away and leave him here?
Because he broke the trust. When he agreed to impersonate my father, no matter what the threats, he betrayed the faith. I was not entirely comfortable with that analysis, but decided I would have to live with it.
He nodded. "And I can tell you something else, something your father told me. He knew that you would not believe, you see. During those days that I guarded him, I tried to convince him to talk, and later tried to make some sense of his ramblings; he knew that you would come. He always believed his government would come for him ― he never lost faith in that ― but more than anything in the world he believed that his son would grow up and insist on the truth." "Tell me what you know," I said.
He began, and first recounted the story of how my father and mother met. The true story, not the one I'd heard today from the ersatz father.
Even as he started to talk, I knew I was hearing the truth again. Then, finally, he said, "Your father told me about the words he scratched into the wall in Vietnam. "Go west." He said that, didn't he?"
I nodded finally, acknowledging the truth of what he was saying. "I did find that. I had hoped ― but I was so young when he left. He couldn't have known-"
The man was silent for a while, and let me work through it for myself.
Finally, I said, "Can you take me to him?"
"Of course. But it must be now, tonight. I had to wait until members of my unit ― the right members ― were on guard here. Another night, another watch section, and I will not be able to take you out unobserved." He pursed his lips for a moment, and looked faintly worried. "You realize, for a number of reasons, you will never be able to tell anyone about this.
Never. Too much is at risk."
"My mother. She has to know." It was not a request.
He appeared to consider that for several moments, then nodded. "Your mother. But not your uncle ― not ever. He could not let it pass, you understand. He would be forced to take action. And then, those small bits of information I am able to pass to your groups, the thin trickles of information, will dry up. Silence, only silence."
"And false hope is better?" I thought he was probably wrong about my uncle, but now was not the time to go into that.
"Which would you prefer?" He saw the answer written on my face, and nodded. "As will most of the families. They would prefer a confirmation, even if they can never share it with the rest of the world, over that uncertainty that gnaws at them. Come, we must go."
He made a motion with his hand, then turned and walked from the room without waiting to see if I would follow him. I hesitated for a moment, then gave up. If there was a chance of seeing my father's grave, his final resting place on this alien soil, then I owed him that much. Owed him that for the heritage of genes and family that had stood me in good stead, that had brought me to the Navy and to the fighters. I owed him.
I followed, and the four soldiers fell in behind me. We moved quickly through the silent visiting officers quarters and out the front entrance to a parked, covered truck. The tailgate was down, and the four soldiers assisted me in jumping into the back. One moved around to the driver's side and the civilian slid into the passenger side in front of him. They were separated from the aft compartment by a sliding glass window that the civilian opened immediately.
"It is thirty minutes away from here, more or less. We cannot move too quickly ― it would arouse suspicion. There is some slight danger associated with being out anyway, but I thought it would be a risk you are willing to take. The consequences ― well, if we're stopped, I will say that you wished to see the evening sky. They will not believe it, but it will give us enough time to think of something else. Agreed?"
"Agreed." The truck started up then, a loud, rumbling diesel engine.
It jerked into motion, rattling and thumping along the pavement, the motion getting worse as we transitioned to a potholed and rutted dirt road.
It was too noisy inside the truck to talk, but I had enough to think about. While I'd brought my coat with me, the cold was quickly seeping in through it. One of the Russian soldiers observed that, and reached into a corner of the truck to pull out a thermos. He twisted off the top, then poured it full of dark, steaming liquid. I accepted it gratefully.
Tea, hot tea, heavily laced with sugar. I drank it and appreciated the warmth that coursed down to my stomach. "Spacebo," I said, using my limited Russian to thank him.
He nodded in acknowledgment, then passed the cup and the thermos around to the other men. They each drank sparingly.
Finally, with one final jolt, the truck pulled off the road. The engine idled for a moment, then fell silent. The soldiers stood, stretching the kinks out of their cold joints as I did, then moved to the rear of the truck and jumped to the ground. One turned to offer me assistance in disembarking, but I refused it.
The woods were a study in black and white, stark trees cutting a web across the moonlit sky. We couldn't be that far from the base, but there was no sign of the lights that surrounded its perimeter. There was utter silence, except for the faint keening of a chill, cutting breeze through those bare limbs. The trees themselves gave off faint groans and creaks as the wind blew through them.
"It is down this path," the civilian said. He started forward again, once more not looking back to see if I'd followed.