First, his contact at the base had telephoned to warn him that the group he wanted had left earlier than expected. Then, ten minutes earlier, the idiot tasked to follow them had reported in that he had a blown tire and had lost them on the outskirts of the city. Vronsky’s best guess was that they had to be heading here, the tourist part of town, which is why he was now searching Freedom Square for them, methodically breaking down into sectors the vast, café-lined square, surrounded by huge Soviet-era concrete buildings. Each sector had to be surveyed in turn; slowly, not rushing it, just as he had once been taught and how he taught those who now followed him.
There. At a pavement table: one woman and four men. Now he saw them, the group was easy to spot among the Ukrainians. Uniformly clad in jeans and polo shirts, the men sported the distinguishing mark of any American soldier, the crew cut.
Vronsky slowed his pace, relaxed his shoulders so that he was almost slouching and made his way to an empty table right beside them. As he waved to the waiter, he took out his mobile and made a couple of calls. Minutes later another man and an attractive, younger woman joined him. They shook hands and he kissed the girl on both cheeks, sat down and ordered coffee; a typical group of young Ukrainian professionals relaxing on a day off. Then the three of them argued about the most likely winner of that season’s Premier League: Dynamo Kyiv or Metalist Kharkiv. All they had to do now was wait.
The moment came when one of the Americans at the next table pulled out a tourist map, looked around to orientate it and placed it on the table. “Well, we’re obviously in Freedom Square,” said one of the group, with a marked Texan accent.
It was what Vronsky had been waiting for. “Where are you heading?” he asked, in faultless, American-accented English.
Surprised, the American turned and looked at him. “Hey, you speak pretty good English… you ever been to the States?”
“Sure.” Vronsky smiled. “I was at the University of Texas in San Antonio for a couple of years.”
“You don’t say… that’s where I’m from!” was the delighted response from the American.
“Hey, you don’t say. Is the River Walk still the place for a beer?”
“Sure… the best.”
“We’d better celebrate then. I can’t offer you an Alamo, but let me buy you one of our local beers. Have you ever tried a white beer? Perfect on a sunny evening.”
“Well…” the American hesitated. “I guess one won’t do any harm. By the way, I’m Scott Trapnell.”
“Anatoly Nikolayevich Vronsky,” he responded and they shook hands. “I lecture in English at the University of Kharkiv. What are you guys doing here?”
“Great to meet you, Anatoly,” enthused the friendly American. “We’re US military. 1st Battalion, 15th Field Artillery, US Army. Here to train your army in how to use the AN/TPQ-36 weapon-locating radar. That’s the mobile radar system our government has given your guys to help track incoming artillery and rocket fire. I’m Master Sergeant Scott Trapnell and these guys are my training team.”
“You don’t say, Scott. That’s amazing. We owe you guys so much! Without you here, well…” Vronsky’s voice trailed off. Both men knew that it was only the presence of the American trainers that was stopping Russia from overrunning this part of pro-Western Ukraine.
“So, where are you based?” Allegiances confirmed, Vronsky picked up the conversation again.
“We’ve been out at Chaguyev training camp, east of Kharkiv, for the past couple of months… We’re in town today for some R and R.”
“I suspect you need it,” Vronsky commiserated. “Being stuck out there must be boring and uncomfortable.”
“Well, you know what it’s like.” Trapnell caught himself, not wanting to complain in front of a friendly local, but Vronsky was right. That was pretty much all they did in private: complain at the conditions and count the days till they got back Stateside.
“I do. I did military service too and those old Soviet barracks were dumps.”
At that moment the waiter brought the beer and they sat and chatted at the pavement table. Soon, General Order Number 1—the rule preventing American military personnel from drinking alcohol while on duty or while deployed—was set aside and the Americans were able to relax for the first time in months; imagine themselves as simple tourists for a few moments, enjoy the sun and the exotic beer, and watch with obvious appreciation as long-legged, ash-blonde Ukrainian girls strutted past.
In no time the Americans were at the center of a group of admiring Ukrainians, all keen to buy them beers, practice their English, and express their gratitude for what America was doing to support their beleaguered country.
Vronsky lifted his chair and placed it between Trapnell and his neighbor, the only female soldier in the group.
He turned to her. “Hi, I’m Anatoly. Thank you for what you’re doing for us.”
“It’s a pleasure, Anatoly. And I’m Laura Blair. But please call me Laura,” she replied, a typically open, friendly, pretty all-American girl. “I guess life has been very tough for you with the war and everything.”
Vronsky looked at her. “You’re not wrong… All war is dreadful but civil war is brother against brother, fathers against sons.”
“What about the Russians?” asked Blair.
“Sure, they’re involved, but how can they not be? Ukraine and Russia are inseparable. Like twins joined at birth. The tragedy was the separation after Soviet times.”
Blair persisted. “But the Russians have invaded your country, broken the ceasefire, attacked your soldiers.”
“If young, innocent conscripts, forced to fight against their will, is an invasion then yes, the Russians invaded. The Kremlin will tell you they were volunteers. Don’t believe that propaganda. The truth is everyone in war loses, is a victim. There are no winners. Everyone’s lives are blighted; young, old and always the innocent. It’s the women and children who suffer most… But enough of us and our troubles on such a beautiful day. Where are you from, Laura?”
Vronsky saw her look up at the sun and then at the happy crowds around them. She smiled. “Amherst, Massachusetts,” she replied, “and you?”
Vronsky ignored the question. “Amherst? Home of the poet Emily Dickinson?”
“Exactly. I’m impressed that you know. My dad was a janitor at Amherst Academy where she was at school. I guess you know about her from teaching English?”
“For sure,” said Vronsky, eyes softening, “and she’s one of my favorite poets. My time at school in the States left me with a love of American literature and a passion for Emily Dickinson. There’s a line of hers that has brought me through the dark times of the war…”
He leaned close to her ear and whispered:
Blair was entranced, unable to trust herself to speak as tears formed in her eyes. At that moment she felt a very long way from home and, besides, no man had ever talked to her as Vronsky was doing now. She smiled and closed her eyes, anxious not to show the handsome Ukrainian how deeply his words had affected her.
Vronsky used the moment to steal a glance to his right. Anna Brezhneva, his attractive female companion, had already focused on another, younger American, Sergeant Jim Rooney. “I am study English at the University. I have girl friends who love to meet your friends.” She put her hand on his arm and gave it a slight squeeze. “Is that good expression, Ji… im? You teach me if I say it bad?”