by Frank Perry
I don’t know what to say. Someone owns it.” She sounded tired.
“Ma’am, I know someone owns it, but it might have to go to court to prove it’s you.”
“Yes, we talked about probate in your office when my son and I visited.” She wasn’t sure how lucid he had been, or was now.
“Yes, ma’am, I know, but it could be complicated. We need to find his divorce decree.”
“Mr. Fiske, I don’t know what to say. I don’t think there was anything in his papers that I took, but I’ll check again. Aren’t there records somewhere in the state?
“Yes, ma’am, there are records, but I need to know where to look and when.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Could they have been divorced out of state?”
“I guess anything’s possible.” She could feel a migraine developing. At least Fiske was getting paid for this frustration -- or maybe not.
She continued, “Mr. Fiske, I don’t even know her name or where she lived, or anything about her.”
“Well, ma’am, we need to get something to start with. Did he ever work anywhere except the farm.”
“He worked at Ford in Jackson, but that plant closed years ago. He got a pension.”
“I think it’s a start, ma’am. I can contact Ford.”
Toward Vladivostok
The train frequently slowed to barely walking speed as the blizzard blew across the tracks with such ferocity that the engineers couldn’t see the front of their engine, but at least they were moving. Every inch of the engine except the boiler and smokestack was covered in several inches of ice. Drifts were dangerous to plow through, even with the snow blades mounted on the front. The train had sandboxes mounted under the train ahead of the drive wheels for winter traction, but sand was running low as the weight of the train no longer crushed the thickening ice on the tracks. The Siberian winter was the cruelest place on earth for a train, and they had over a thousand miles ahead before reaching Vladivostok. The cars were now all white with ice and accumulated snow covering every exterior surface. The passenger windows were all coated inches thick so there was no outside view; there was nothing but whiteout conditions anyway. Howling wind noise never relented. The inside of the cars would also be ice covered except for the number of men jammed inside. The loosely-fitting doors around the boxcars had icy buildup around the inside edges.
Albrecht had had all the men assigned from the 1st Battalion, 7th Quartermasters Brigade, AEF-Siberia infantry Division, Hicks’ unit, moved up into the two passenger coaches. It had been unbearable in the unheated freight cars, and they were all grateful to be huddled together on seats and standing in aisles that shouldn’t have held them all, but somehow did. All of these men had learned to sleep in the mud at Beaumont-Hamel and the relative warmth and safety of the railcar wasn’t so bad. Many slept standing up, compressed between other men crammed between sides of the car.
It would take days to cross the Siberian wasteland, stopping only occasionally to let the men relieve themselves and sometimes to eat if there was enough food, and the weather cooperated. It was a horrible trip. Some died. They would relive the horrors of the trip, including the mass executions somewhere east of Omsk, and the harsh Siberian winter for the rest of their lives. The ones that lived to see Vladivostok would consider themselves lucky only because they were alive. Many were sick, and most had been affected with frostbite. They would remember in silence for the rest of their lives. Who could they tell about it? Who could even describe it?
They were going home and knew it. At one point, Lt Col. Suckson Pricks tried to order men out of the car because he and other officers were being crowded in the forward seats. Everyone ignored him and his voice became a weak shrill after exhausting every threat he could think of. It was probably a mutiny if anyone tried to label it, but military decorum and training was forgotten by the men heading home.
After many days and nights aboard the train, there was no longer a military distinction between the men. One human lived compressed by others. All were equal as men, and rank had no meaning. Finally, on the eighth day, no one knew the date, the whistle blew, announcing their passage into the outskirts of Vladivostok. The perils of war, and the mission to Russia, was finally ending as the train pulled into the station. It was time to go home.
Some semblance of military protocol returned as the men spent the next nights in makeshift barracks, eating warm food and wearing clean uniforms. The seaport conditions were almost pleasant compared to the Siberian plain – almost. Hicks gave Albrecht specific instructions about loading equipment on the transport ships that would carry his unit back home. Some of the lesser equipment and military supplies would be left behind, but room must be found for the Colonel’s “souvenirs.” The Sergeant was beyond arguing with the thief any longer; he just wanted to get back home to Michigan with the remainder of his men. Fuck Hicks, they were going home. They still had weeks ahead of them loading the ships, crossing the Northern Pacific, unloading in Washington, then loading Hicks’ boxes on the train heading east. The train ride across the northern plain states was like a dream compared to where the 7th had been. When they finally got back to the armory in Lansing, they all planned to leave immediately without awaiting formal discharge. They were National Guard and it was time to return to their civilian jobs. Even Hicks couldn’t court martial everyone. What would he report, that his entire battalion mutinied? Even he would understand how it would be look on his record, and worse, how his men would testify if ever brought to trial. Albrecht would write Hicks’ story as soon as they returned.
Surprised
Evan left the museum at noon and didn’t return. He’d been in Russia almost two weeks and had worked every day. It was a nice day, and he decided to take a self-guided bus tour of Moscow, using a tourist map given to him by Dasia with specific sites circled. It was just an excuse; he really wanted to clear his mind about Karina. What was it about her that had him spellbound? It was intellectually stimulating seeing the sights, if not much fun for him. He’d missed Karina’s company today, no doubt about it. The city diversion was his way of dealing with depression when she didn’t show up. He really couldn’t rationalize his feelings. He liked her, just as he had liked other women in academia, but she was under his skin. Without provocation or inducement, she’d managed to ensnare him. She wasn’t even interested in him as a person. Heck, she barely acknowledged him as a scholar, yet he was hooked on her. He hadn’t come to Russia for this. He had all the attractive girls one man could want waiting to share their affections after class in Boston. They were lined up. He had to keep up his guard or lose his job. Weren’t they all after him? He was depressed and lonely after sitting next to an empty chair all morning. In reality, he’d only known her a few days, yet she enchanted him. He almost laughed at the irony, then fear set in. What if I never see her again?
That thought haunted him all afternoon. Near sunset, he sat at a small table drinking coffee on a piazza near his apartment, lonely and afraid to go inside, to face the bleak reality that he was really alone in a foreign land, without any friends. He only wanted her as his friend. He bought a bottle of vodka and something that looked like Coca Cola before going upstairs. It didn’t matter now if he succumbed to weakness. He was weakened. His whole purpose for being there had changed after on chance-encounter with a woman. No one would believe it, but he didn’t have anyone to tell anyway. He was alone.
Sometime after dark, near nine o’clock, he was sitting on the bed holding the neck of the coke bottle after pouring in half of his remaining vodka. Self-control was gone. He’d have another, then probably another drink after that. He laughed, is this what Russian women do? They drive their men insane?
He tried to reach for the glass near him on the covers, but missed as it swirled in his vision. He lifted the bottle to his lips and was about to take an enormous gulp when there was a knock on his door. In Russian he sai
d, “Who is it, who’s there?”
He wasn’t sure if he heard correctly. “Karina.”
Frustrated
The papers were spread all over the kitchen table. Kiki had been hoping to avoid this and to let Fiske do all the grunt work, but she realized that it would cost a fortune for him to do it alone, and she probably had answers to some questions in her dad’s papers. At least she’d have some of the answers without spending $200 per hour for the attorney to find the same thing.
She glanced at the check stub in her left hand, then called Fiske’s number. It went to voicemail, “Whit, this is Kiki Joyce, Carmen Joyce, Marlin Deboe’s daughter. When you talk to Ford, tell them that dad’s retirement account number is (she recited the number). I think it should help them find his information faster if they have the number.”
Evan
He felt stupefied. Was Karina really at his door? Oh, Shit. I’m a disaster! He yelled, “just a minute!” He knew he was drunk, at least he was close. He wanted to change and brush his teeth. He wanted to stick his head in ice water. He was panicking, but worse; he was letting her stand out in the hall! The people living around him would scare her away with one look.
“I’m coming!” He threw the bottles
