An Image of Death

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “You sense right,” David said solemnly.

  I was about to go on when Willie cut in. “Was ist ‘tattoo’?” He asked. “I not understand.”

  I gestured toward David. “Tell him.”

  I caught the words tätowierung and fackel. Tattoo and torch. Willie’s eyes widened. “Tatowierung? What look like, this tätowierung?”

  “Here. I’ll show you.” I got up, took a piece of paper off the kitchen counter, and sketched out a rough version of the stars and torch. Willie took it, squinted, and put on his glasses. Then he looked up. “Sage mir das noch einnal. Tell me again.”

  David began repeating himself in a clumsy mixture of German and English. A moment later Willie held up his palm. “Genug.” Enough. David stopped. Willie looked over, his eyes bright. “I know this tätowierung. I see it before.”

  I stared at Willie, swallowing hard. “You’ve seen it before?”

  He pushed himself back from the table, stood up, and went to the bay window. “Two, maybe three years ago, a young girl bring me rough stones. Gelb. Braun. Yellow brown. Not bad. Probably from Africa. So I ask, where is certifikat?”

  I cut in. “Certificate?”

  David explained. “Any diamond that’s bought or sold today requires a certificate that tracks their origin from the mine to the trading floor to the jewelry counter.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s always been illegal trafficking in diamonds, but it’s become particularly fierce recently. Blood diamonds, they call them.”

  I frowned. “Isn’t that where rebels smuggle diamonds out of Africa, sell them, and use the proceeds to buy weapons?”

  David nodded. “It’s not a large part of the market, but the word is these guys’ll kill anyone who gets in their way. Women, children—if you’re too close to the mines, or the couriers, or the rebels, or any other thing they don’t happen to like.”

  “Why don’t they ban the sale of diamonds from those countries?” I asked.

  “They’re indistinguishable from legally mined stones. And there are plenty of dealers who don’t ask questions. So they get absorbed.” David’s expression was grim. “You can imagine that doesn’t please De Beers or the other large dealers. So they pushed through a law that requires a certificate on every diamond that’s traded.”

  “And this woman didn’t have a certificate.”

  Willie explained. “I cannot sell for good price without certifikat. So I tell her nein.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She try to convince me to buy. But I say to her something, too.” His eyes twinkled. “I say young woman like her, to find different job. Too many danger. She listen, then put stones back in bag.” Willie pointed to his wrist. “That’s when I see. The same.” He motioned to the sketch of the tattoo. “I ask her what is das? She say, it is nothing. Long time ago.”

  The nerves under my skin jangled. “Do you know anything about her? Her name? Where she was from?”

  He shook his head. “It is long time ago. But she is jeang. Young. Huebsch. Pretty. Dark hair.” He paused. “And we speak Russian.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Arin arrived back in Yerevan during the summer of ’93 with Tomas, one suitcase, and three boxes. She was surprised at how easy it was to pack up four years of her life. Had her stay in Georgia been that empty, devoid of significance?

  She was dismayed to find that conditions in Armenia were just as harsh as in Georgia—in some ways worse. In addition to a floundering economy, a blockade by Azerbaijan and Turkey had disrupted everything. The streets of Yerevan were filled with uncollected garbage; power and heat were in short supply. With no money to pay anyone, there were few jobs. Yet, perversely, store shelves bulged with luxury goods from the west. The problem was no one—at least, no one Arin knew—could afford to buy them.

  She moved into her parents’ apartment in a building that ticked and creaked and groaned. Her parents had been apparatchiks, her mother an office administrator, her father a minor party functionary. But her mother was now unemployed, and her father worked only two days a week, most of the time without pay. Her mother grumbled that things had been better under the Communists. Her father said it could be worse. Her mother agreed; the Turks could always invade again. Arin couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother smile.

  Except with Tomas. When he giggled, full of delight at what life had to offer, Arin’s mother would sweep him into her arms, nuzzling him and crooning nursery songs Arin vaguely remembered. And when he cooed, his entire body creased in smiles, her father’s eyes twinkled for the first time in years.

  Soon her mother began to take over Tomas’ care. At first, Arin was reluctant: She knew Tomas better. As time went on, though, Arin realized Tomas was rekindling the joy in her parents’ lives, bringing laughter and love back into their home. Her mother even started to hum again. Arin’s only regret was that Sacha wasn’t there to see it.

  Once she was settled, she started to look for a job. Her first stop was the hospital where she had nursed Sacha. They needed plenty of help, her aunt said, but they couldn’t pay. Maybe in a month or two. Next Arin tried the bank but met with the same response. Then the museums and the factories that had once thrived under the Soviets. Everywhere was the same: they needed workers, they couldn’t pay.

  When she couldn’t find work at the outdoor market, Arin began to feel desperate. Rounding a corner back to Republic Square, she came across two women in too much makeup and not enough clothing, lazing against the side of a building. Their hostile stares warned her not to tarry. She was invading their territory. As she edged away from them, an image of Mika flashed into her mind. She pictured her friend in a squalid brothel, staring at the ceiling while men pawed over her.

  She skirted the corner with a shiver, coming face-to-face with a couple who, seeing her shiver, crept away from her. They thought she wanted a handout, she realized. That’s how bad it was: people afraid to walk past each other for fear of being prevailed upon. She backtracked to Abovian Street and the shopping district, where she strolled past silk dresses, Hermès bags, and electronic gadgets. Again she wondered who could afford these lavish goods.

  A flock of pigeons flew down and alit behind her. Their heads bobbed as they foraged for food. They probably expected her to feed them, but she had nothing to give. She waved her arms, and the pigeons lifted off. She walked on.

  At the end of the block she stopped at the window of a jewelry store, its wares seductively arranged on a layer of shiny white satin. In the center was a dazzling necklace firing sparks that seemed to come from within. Eight diamonds nested on an ornament that was strung on a thin gold chain. The stones were perfect round brilliants; fifty-eight facets apiece, each cut in a precise arrangement of bezels, stars, and pavilions. A catch released in her mind. Her grandfather had taught her that, she recalled with a start. Years ago when she was young.

  She stared at the necklace. She was a little girl, visiting his shop on the outskirts of Yerevan. A man with a sweeping white mustache and thick hair parted on the side, he would swoop her up in his arms when he saw her. She remembered long afternoons beside him on his bench, the faint aroma of pipe tobacco clinging to his clothes. Watching as he transformed ordinary-looking pebbles and rocks, the kind she would have thrown back in the creek, into jewels. It was magic, she thought then, watching a discolored yellow stone turn into a glittering diamond. Or a ruby, emerald, or amethyst. Like the fairy tale about the girl from the ashes who turned into a princess.

  She would spend hours there, the shop quiet except for the hum of the revolving wheel, or the occasional car kicking up dust as it headed into town. Her favorite part was the polishing, the faceting that came after the cleaving and sawing and bruting. That’s where the artistry lay, her grandfather claimed—the ability to see a stone and know, just by studying it, what design would enhance its color and clarity, would allow it to emit light, yet also hold it within.

  Over the summers she learne
d how to recognize different facets, giggling when her grandfather tried unsuccessfully to trick her. She loved spending time with him. The jewels connected with something very basic and primitive within her. Something shiny, pure, and good.

  The next day, she took the bus to the Yerevan Jewelry Plant in the center of the city. The Armenian diamond industry would never rival Antwerp’s or Israel’s or even New York’s, but it was a vital, growing concern. The plant had gained prominence by taking in stones from Russia, cutting them into fine pieces, and then sending them back to the Russian market. Recently there was talk of joint ventures to expand markets beyond the East. Everyone loved jewels.

  When the plant manager asked about her skills, she told him she’d been an apprentice years ago. And while she knew the equipment had advanced, she was confident she could learn quickly. What did she want to do, the manager asked. When she replied “Faceting,” he laughed and gestured to the other cutters.

  “You and all the other artists.”

  She looked him in the eye. The manager looked back. He admitted later that he knew she was lying, but there was something about her, he said. Her confident, almost hard expression. As if she dared him to challenge her. The courage it took to maintain such control in the face of deception intrigued him. So he hired her to take care of the equipment and clean the shop floor. It wouldn’t pay much, only a few drams, but in her spare time, she could watch the cutters, assuming they didn’t object.

  Arin started the next day. Unlike her grandfather’s shop, this was a huge factory. Every job was specialized; the person who cleaved wasn’t the person who sawed or polished. No one took a stone from start to finish. Even the cutters were skilled at only one or two facets. But the volume of stones passing through the plant was enormous; Arin had never seen so many diamonds.

  Her first task was to organize the supply room. The room was chaos, supplies and materials flung everywhere. She sorted blades and dops and tangs according to size, labeled everything, and started to keep track of who used what when. Diamond dust was at a premium, industrial diamonds, too; she made sure the cutters had what they needed.

  Once she inventoried the supplies, she took it upon herself to notify her manager when stocks needed replenishing and presented him with weekly reports. She also devised a new sign-in system for the workers, so management could keep track of their productivity. However, knowing that workers in the new political environment would not condone such scrutiny of their schedules, she suggested they be given a tiny cut of the plant’s sales in exchange. The manager followed her advice; profits jumped the next quarter.

  She still made time for cutting and spent hours with the polishers, particularly the ones who cut facets. She also studied the cleavers, who taught her their work was the most important part of the process. They were the ones who made the first cuts in a gem and determined its shape. But if they made even the tiniest mistake, the stone was ruined. Over time she learned to see a stone the way they did. She learned to guess—with surprising accuracy—how those cuts should be made.

  Yet, it was clear Arin’s managerial skills outpaced her technical, and when she was offered a promotion to assistant manager, she took it. Not only was it more money, but her boss said he would introduce her to suppliers and dealers. She would learn how rough diamonds were verified, and how the price was negotiated.

  ***

  A year passed, and then two more. Her mother looked after Tomas, who, almost four, was a striking child with Arin’s dark eyes, Sacha’s blond hair, and nothing but mischief on his mind. Her father’s job paid for the rent; Arin’s covered their food, clothes, and extras. She bought Tomas a Game Boy, although they had to ration the batteries to run it. Her life took on a semblance of normalcy, even routine.

  But when her father had a massive stroke, her security threatened to implode. Her salary was not nearly enough to cover the hospital, his medicine, and their living expenses. Her mother, nervous and anxious, was no help. Every conversation began or ended with the fear that they would be forced out into the street. Arin grew tight-lipped and tense. Even Tomas, sensing the strain, was quieter than usual.

  As the weeks passed, her father’s health deteriorated. Arin grew bleak. For the first time, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to shoulder her burdens. Her only solace was work; she felt safe among the diamonds and their clean, bright world, and she spent as much time at the plant as she could.

  That spring, the roads rutted with mud, Arin borrowed a car and drove Tomas to visit his other grandfather. Despite her memories, she’d made it a point to maintain contact with the major general. Tomas should know his father’s family. She was surprised her father-in-law still lived on the base. Sacha’s mother had moved back to Russia years ago, but he had remained. He lived alone, grayer, stouter, and much less crisp. She wasn’t sure how he made ends meet.

  Over dinner Arin poured out her heart to him. Her father needed constant attention, intense therapy, and medicines they couldn’t afford. Tomas would be starting school; he needed clothes and supplies. She wasn’t sure she could pay next month’s rent. And her mother was starting to look frail. Arin covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  Major General Dimitri Yudin nodded sympathetically and handed her a handkerchief. After she had pulled herself together, with abject apologies, he cleared his throat. “As it happens, I may be in a position to help.”

  Arin looked up. “How?”

  “I have been exploring new ventures.” He studied her with an intensity she’d never noticed before. “There might be a place for you. There are those who have need of your skills.”

  “What skills?” she asked slowly.

  He lowered his voice. “Let’s say, hypothetically, you could verify the legitimacy of diamonds. Uncut diamonds. Rough. If you were able to evaluate their worth, you could be talking about a significant stipend.”

  She’d heard about former soldiers who preyed on the army, destroying what little was left. Stealing weapons and arms that were sent to rebels in far-flung locations. Who paid for their booty with diamonds. She folded her arms. She wasn’t shocked. She wasn’t even surprised. But she was no longer the same girl she had been.

  A few weeks later, she met Yudin at a hotel in Batumi, a Black Sea resort. When she arrived in his room, he passed her a pouch. She sat down at a desk and turned on the lamp. Opening the pouch, she casually tapped out the stones. Then she picked up her bag and fished out a jeweler’s loupe, tweezers, a vial of heavy liquid, and a piece of equipment that resembled a pen attached to a box. Squinting through her loupe, she inspected the stones, examining their shapes and skins. She took out a soft cloth, polished the face on one stone, and looked through its window. She grunted, put down the loupe, and picked up the other piece of equipment.

  “What is that?” Yudin asked.

  She twisted around. She’d almost forgotten he was there. “A thermal diamond tester. They’re used mostly for cut diamonds, but if you know what you’re doing, they’re equally effective with rough.” She placed the sensor tip on a clear face of a stone.

  Yudin watched over her shoulder. “Can you tell where they’re from?”

  “No one can.” Still, she had a feeling they weren’t from Russia. Or Belgium or Israel. These were yellows and browns, some of them muddy. She released the sensor and smiled. “But they are real. They will make beautiful jewels.”

  Yudin let out a satisfied breath. As she slipped them into the pouch, he leaned back on the bed. “Tell me, Arin, do you have any thoughts where we might sell them?”

  She looked at him. She knew what he was asking, but she couldn’t do it. It was too risky. “They cannot come into Yerevan. Our supplies are strictly monitored.” She would know; she had created the tracking system.

  Yudin frowned.

  “But there may be other solutions.” She rose and started to pace. “I have contacts with dealers and clients now. Europe. India. The Middle East. One can always find people who do not ask questions.”r />
  His face smoothed out.

  Over time a pattern emerged. She would meet Yudin every few months, usually in a neutral location. Once she authenticated the stones, she would arrange a legitimate business trip to Antwerp, Tel Aviv, even Bombay. After completing her plant business, she would see to her other affairs. She quickly learned which dealers were unconcerned about the provenance of stones and sought them out. Prices weren’t as high as those for legitimate stones, but the stones were of good quality, and Arin drove a hard bargain. In return, she received a healthy cut of the proceeds.

  There were always some dealers who refused. A dealer in Antwerp, a Jew, even tried to convince her to quit. It was a dangerous business, he claimed. A young woman like her should not put herself at risk. She thanked him, smiled, and went down the Hovenierstraat to the next dealer.

  She made it a point never to ask Yudin about the origin of the stones, or how he paid for them. She knew someone had to be working with him, a silent partner, but she never asked who it was. At one point Yudin warned her the business was rough. Perhaps she should carry a gun. Nonsense, she scoffed. She was a professional from a legitimate factory in Yerevan. No one would harm her. She thanked him for his concern.

  The money she brought in was put to good use. Her father received medical help and made a significant improvement. Her mother took a vacation and bought a closet full of new clothes. Tomas was enrolled in the finest school in Yerevan. But the day Arin drove home a new Volga, confident she could afford the upkeep, was the day she felt she’d finally grown up. As the family congregated outside to admire it, she allowed herself a glimmer of a smile. Her family was safe, healthy, and comfortable.