After the liturgy, Nadia stayed alert to her surroundings. An ethnically diverse crowd mixed beneath the warm sun on Second Avenue. Some headed to church in jeans, others to brunch in their Sunday best. The street teemed with pedestrians. No one could harm her without drawing attention to himself.
At Veselka on Second and Ninth Street, Nadia sat with her back to a wall, facing the entry to the Ukrainian soul food restaurant. She ate a plate of cheese-and-potato dumplings called vareniky and nursed a second cup of coffee until 1:00 p.m., when the Duma bookstore opened.
Paul Obon beamed when he saw Nadia and shook her hand with both of his. He was the living incarnation of the Monopoly Man, with a single strand of gray hair atop his bald head. He smelled of old books and rolled around the nooks and crannies of his cramped store with unfettered zeal.
“How did your meeting with Milan go?” he said.
Nadia had called Obon before meeting Milan, to confirm he was a legitimate member of the community.
“Fine,” Nadia said. “Have you seen him today?”
“Who, Milan?”
“Yes.”
“No. Why? Didn’t you get along?”
“Oh, yes. No, everything was fine. Just fine. I was wondering… Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Of course. I have some books that need protection. Would you mind helping?”
“My pleasure.”
They moved to a small table in the center of the room. A neat stack of old books sat beside a box of plastic book covers. Obon folded a sheet of plastic to fit the binding of the first book.
Nadia said, “Does the name Damian mean anything to you?”
“Damian. A fine name. Parents don’t choose it enough. Greek origin. Divine power. Fate.”
“No. I mean, is there a Damian in the community here?”
He slipped the front book cover into the plastic sleeve he’d created and paused. “Damian… Damian… No, I don’t think so.”
“Hmm. What about people you deal with outside New York? Anyone well-known in the broader Ukrainian American community by that name?”
He gave it some more thought and shook his head. “No. It’s an unusual given name, and I’m sure I’d remember anyone who answered to it. Why do you ask?”
He finished covering the first book and asked Nadia to put it in a glass-enclosed bookcase. The Minstrel, by Taras Shevchenko. Poet laureate, exiled for nationalism by the Soviet government.
“I overheard the name in a conversation between two people on the street,” Nadia said.
Obon studied the binding of the next book. “That sounds mysterious, Nadia. Of course, there was the infamous Damian, well-known in less savory circles, but I’m sure you’re not referring to him.”
Nadia’s ears perked up. “Really. Tell me anyways. Why less savory circles?”
“Because he was a vor.”
“A vor?”
“A member of Vorskoi Mir,” he said in Russian. He switched back to Ukrainian. “‘The Thieves’ World.’”
“Ukrainian and Russian mafiya?” Nadia said.
“If you are thinking of the crime groups that are popular in the press and films—Range Rovers, mansions, villas, and big-haired blondes—no. That is the avtoritet. ‘The authority.’ They are a younger generation defined by the pursuit of material wealth and consumption.”
He handed Nadia the second book. Boa Constrictor, by Ivan Franko. Jailed by the Soviet government for arguing Marxism was a religion of hatred.
“The vor is something entirely different,” Obon said as he began work on a third. “The literal translation of Vory v Zakony is ‘thieves with a common law.’ A loose organization of criminals that have their own set of social norms. Vory v Zakony was formed in prisons in 1682 under Peter the Great. Their members swear allegiance to an austere code of ethics. They cannot marry, have families, hold jobs, or assist the government in any way. Their stature is depicted by tattoos on their bodies. Earned in and outside of prison. They were traditionally known for their anti-materialistic behavior. Sometimes they gave back to the poor in their communities. Like Robin Hood. Most vory were vicious, but some less so. Some were held in such high regard they resolved community disputes in private courtrooms.”
“Vory v Zakony still exist today?”
“Yes, but their numbers are dwindling. It’s old-school. Once the Soviet Union fell apart and capitalism came to Russia, allegiances among criminals went out the window. Young people just don’t care about the old traditions. It’s the same in prison as it is on the streets. Also, many vory died in the Bitches War in the 1950s.”
“The what?”
“The Bitches War. Stalin drafted criminals during World War II. Some vory left prison and fought for their homeland. When they returned to jail after the war, their former cellmates dubbed them ‘bitches’ for helping the government. The Bitches War broke out. Stalin encouraged it, hoping they’d all kill each other. But they didn’t. The bitches perished, the true vory survived.”
“And they’re in this country? In the United States?”
“They’re scattered everywhere. Estimates I’ve read, maybe five hundred to a thousand true vory left. Power is based on money, weapons, and willpower. The young avtoritet with global reach and connections have no interest in the old ways. A few vory did well during perestroika, abandoned their oath, and became avtoritet themselves. But for the most part, the only place where vory remain powerful is in prison.”
“And this Damian, the vor you mentioned,” Nadia said, “is he in this country? Is he in New York?”
Obon handed her the third book.
“No,” he said. “He died outside Kyiv some thirty years ago.”
Nadia cursed under her breath. She glanced at the book. The Noblewoman, by Lesya Ukrainka. First female activist. Nadia remembered reading it in Uke school, which she had attended two nights a week, from kindergarten through high school.
“I’d like to buy this,” Nadia said.
“Good choice. You know, former Prime Minister Tymoshenko wears her hair in a braid as a tribute to Lesya.” Obon took the book and whirled to the register. “I do know someone nearby who can tell you more about Damian and the vor, if you care.”
“Really? Who?”
“A wise old man. Made his money in the food business. People come to see him for advice on Sunday afternoons. I’m sure he’d love to meet you. Let me go in back, call him, and see if he’s available.”
A buzzer sounded. An old man with thick sunglasses sat in a wheelchair in front of the door.
“Ah. Be so kind as to let our friend in,” Obon said as he disappeared behind a corner curtain.
“Our friend?” Nadia said.
“Why, of course. Our friend. Max Milan.”
Nadia stood dumbfounded. “Who?”
The man in the wheelchair sounded the buzzer again.
Laughter emanated from behind the curtain. “For goodness’ sake, Nadia,” Obon said. “Look closely. It’s Milan. You met him yesterday, didn’t you? Let him in, please.”
Nadia unlocked the door. The man took his glasses off. He had smooth skin, black shoe polish in his hair, and a birthmark on his right cheek.
He bore no resemblance to the man she knew as Max Milan.