"I'm just telling you how it was. Did your father promise he would help the regime? Of course. But it was just to get out. It's complicated, Pavel. You cant imagine what it was like for him. Your father was a good doctor and a better man. The government made up charges that he committed medical malpractice. They took away his license. Then your grandmother and grandfather… my God, Natasha's wonderful parents… you're too young to remember-"
"I remember," I said.
Do you:
I wondered if I really did. I have that image of my grandfather, my Popi, and the shock of white hair and maybe his boisterous laugh, and my grandmother, my Noni, gently scolding him. But I was three when they were taken away. Did I really remember them, or has that old photo I still keep out come to life? Was it a real memory or something I'd created from my mother’s stories?
"Your grandparents were intellectuals-university professors. Your grandfather headed the history department. Your grandmother was a brilliant mathematician. You know this, yes?"
I nodded. "My mother said she learned more from the debates at the dinner table than at school."
Sosh smiled. "Probably true. The most brilliant academics sought out your grandparents. But, of course, that drew the attention of the government. They were labeled radicals. They were considered dangerous. Do you remember when they were arrested?"
"I remember," I said, "the aftermath."
He closed his eyes for a long second. "What it did to your mother?"
"Yes."
"Natasha was never the same. You understand that?"
"I do."
"So here he was, your father. He had lost so much-his career, his reputation, his license and now your mothers parents. And suddenly, down like he was, the government gave your father a way out. A chance for a fresh start."
"A life in the USA."
"Yes."
"And all he had to do was spy?"
Sosh waved a dismissive hand in my direction. "Don't you get it? It was a big game. What could a man like your father learn? Even if he tried-which he didn't. What could he tell them?"
"And my mother?"
"Natasha was just a woman to them. The government cared nothing for the woman. She was a problem for a while. Like I said, her parents, your grandparents, were radicals in their eyes. You say you remembered when they were taken?"
"I think I do."
"Your grandparents formed a group, trying to get the human rights abuses out to the public. They were making headway until a traitor turned them in. The agents came at night."
He stopped.
"What?" I said.
"This isn't easy to talk about. What happened to them."
I shrugged. "You can't hurt them now."
He did not reply.
"What happened, Sosh?"
"They were sent to a gulag- a work camp. The conditions were terrible. Your grandparents were not young. You know how it ended?"
"They died," I said.
Sosh turned away from me then. He moved over to the window. He had a great view of the Hudson. There were two mega-cruise ships in port. You could turn to the left and even see the Statue of Liberty. Manhattan is so small, eight miles from end to end, and like with Sosh, you just always feels its power.
"Sosh?" When he spoke again, his voice was soft. "Do you know how they died?" "Like you said before. The conditions were terrible. My grandfather had a heart condition."
He still hadn't turned toward me. "The government wouldn't treat him. Wouldn't even give him his medicine. He was dead within three months."
I waited.
"So what aren't you telling me, Sosh?"
"Do you know what happened to your grandmother?"
"I know what my mother told me."
"Tell me," he said.
"Noni got sick too. With her husband gone, her heart sorta gave out. You hear about it all the time in long-term couples. One dies, then the other gives up."
He said nothing.
"Sosh?"
"In a sense," he said, "I guess that was true."
In a sense:
Sosh kept his eyes on whatever was out the window. "Your grand mother committed suicide."
My body stiffened. I started shaking my head.
"She hung herself with a sheet."
I just sat there. I thought of that picture of my Noni. I thought of that knowing smile. I thought of the stories my mother told me about her, about her sharp mind and sharper tongue. Suicide.
"Did my mother know?" I asked.
"Yes."
"She never told me."
"Maybe I shouldn't have either."
"Why did you?"
"I need you to see how it was. Your mother was a beautiful woman.
So lovely and delicate. Your father adored her. But when her parents were taken and then, well, put to death really, she was never the same. You sensed it, yes? A melancholy there? Even before your sister."
I said nothing, but I had indeed sensed it.
"I guess I wanted you to know how it was," he said. "For your mother. So maybe you'd understand more." "Sosh?" He waited. He still had not turned from the window. "Do you know where my mother is?" The big man didn't answer for a long time. "Sosh?" "I used to know," he said. "When she first ran away." I swallowed. "Where did she go?" "Natasha went home." "I don't understand." "She ran back to Russia." "Why?" "You can't blame her, Pavel." "I don't. I want to know why." "You can run away from your homelike they did. You try to change.
You hate your government but never your people. Your homeland is your homeland. Always."
He turned to me. Our eyes locked.
"And that's why she ran?"
He just stood there.
"That was her reasoning?" I said, almost shouting. I felt something in my blood tick. "Because her homeland was always her homeland?"
"You're not listening."
"No, Sosh, I'm listening. Your homeland is your homeland. That's a load of crap. How about your family is your family? How about your husband is your husband-or more to the point, how about your son is your son?"
He did not reply.
"What about us, Sosh? What about me and Dad?"
"I don't have an answer for you, Pavel."
"Do you know where she is now?"
"No."
"Is that the truth?"
It IS.
"But you could find her, couldn't you?"
He didn't nod but he didn't shake his head either.
"You have a child," Sosh said to me. "You have a good career."
"So?"
"So this is all so long ago. The past is for the dead, Pavel. You don't want to bring the dead back. You want to bury them and move on." "My mother isn't dead," I said. "Is she?" "I don't know." "So why are you talking about the dead? And Sosh? While we're talking about the dead, here's one more thing to chew over"-I couldn't stop myself, so I just said it-"I'm not even sure my sister is dead any more."
I expected to see shock on his face. I didn't. He barely seemed surprised.
"To you," he said.
"To me, what?"
"To you," he said, "they should both be dead."
Chapter 11
I shook off Uncle Sosh's words and headed back through the Lincoln Tunnel. I needed to focus on two things and two things only: Focus One, convict those two damned sons of bitches who had raped Chamique Johnson. And Focus Two, find out where the hell Gil Perez had been for the past twenty years.
I checked the address Detective York had given me for the witness/girlfriend. Raya Singh worked at an Indian restaurant called Curry Up and Wait. I hate pun titles. Or do I love them? Lets go with love.
I was on my way.
I still had the picture of my father in the front seat. I didn't much worry about those KGB allegations. I had almost expected it after my conversation with Sosh. But now I read the index card again:
THE FIRST SKELETON
The First. That again implied that more would be coming. Clearly Monsieur Jenrette, probably with financial help from Marantz, was sparing no expense. If they found out about those old accusations against my father more than twenty-five years old now they were clearly desperate and hungry.