She turned back toward the windshield. She leveled her voice and sounded eerily calm. “Of course it was important. I was just a child but the adults did everything they could to give us structure and keep our spirits up.” She talked about the day-to-day struggles and tedium for a minute. “Fear lingered in camp. From the war, from the Holocaust. And eventually, from the screenings.”
“The screenings?”
“The screenings were a time of terror.”
“What screenings?”
“We all felt the tension. Even the children. It hung in the air like a noose waiting to fall on anyone’s head. You just prayed it wasn’t your parents.”
“What screenings?”
“People weren’t simply allowed to enter the DP camps. They had to prove they were legitimate refugees. Everyone in camp was interviewed. The interviews took upwards of a year. The interviews were conducted in Russian, English, and German, regardless of whether the people being interviewed spoke any of those languages. It was chaotic. There wasn’t enough room for all of us. Of course, the Russian officials were NKVD. Their real mission wasn’t to help administer the camps. Their purpose was to persuade the Americans and British to reject as many people as possible. Anyone whose story didn’t check out—anyone who changed a date from a previous interview, any charge of collaboration with the Nazis—and the person would be thrown out of camp.”
“And then what happened to them?”
My mother fired a look of disapproval in my direction, as though with each question I was making her delve further into a topic she preferred to forget. “What do you think happened? Most of them ended up on trains going back to the Soviet Union.”
“But I thought forced repatriation lasted only for a short time. I was told Eisenhower and his generals put an end to it.”
“I didn’t say anyone forced them to get on the trains.”
“You mean they went voluntarily? Why? I thought that was the last place they wanted to go?”
“It was. But the NKVD rounded them up one by one. They kidnapped them off the streets if they had to, and then made them offers they couldn’t refuse.”
“What kind of offers?”
“Go back to the Motherland where you belong and the family you left behind will not be sent to a labor camp. Or murdered.”
“Extortion? The Americans and the British allowed that?”
“The Americans and the British didn’t understand the Russians. Plus they had their hands full managing the camps and trying to figure out where all the hard-core DPs would go. The ones who survived the screenings. The Americans and the British had no idea that SMERSH even existed.”
“Did you say SMERSH?”
“Vindictive men with a vindictive spirit.”
“I heard that name in a James Bond movie once. That was real? I assumed that was something Ian Fleming made up.”
“You did? Well, so much for your college education. Stalin thought of the name. Spetsyalnye Metody Razoblacheniya Shpyonov.” Special Methods of Spy Detection. “He created SMERSH to prevent the Gestapo from infiltrating the NKVD. In the camps, SMERSH used bribery, blackmail, and threats to repatriate as many DPs as possible to the Soviet Union. After the camps were disbanded in 1950, they stayed in Europe and became the foundation for the Soviets’ European spy network.”
“And the DPs that went back because they were threatened. What happened to them and their families?”
My mother snickered. I could tell it wasn’t directed at me. She was staring out the windshield remembering a scene from her past, or one that she’d imagined.
“The Soviet officers would gather around the trains that were leaving and make it look like a big party. They would clap and cheer and wish all the DPs a pleasant journey back home. But when the train crossed the border into Russia, all their bags would be seized and they would be greeted as traitors.”
I darted into the exit lane for Hartford. It was the same exit Father Yuri had taken last night in my car, but we were coming from the opposite direction. It occurred to me that ever since I’d started digging into my godfather’s death, I was increasingly discovering the truth to be the opposite of what I had thought it had been. In this case, my mother didn’t sound like my mother. She sounded lucid, logical, and authoritative. She sounded like someone else’s mother. That thought shook me to the bone.
“How do you know so much about this, Mama? I mean, I know you lived it and all, but you sound . . . You sound incredibly knowledgeable on the subject.”
My mother looked out the side window again. “What? Your mother isn’t the idiot you thought after all these years?”
We sat in silence for a minute as I negotiated some gridlock. I took a right onto Wethersfield Avenue and headed toward the church. I tried to connect what I’d learned to the DP entry in my godfather’s calendar.
“Did SMERSH or the NKVD ever try to turn one DP against another?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if they tried it, but I never heard of anything like that. Our community was our strength. It’s how we survived. Where is that coming from?”
“I found out my godfather was a bit of a scoundrel.” I remembered my brother’s assertion that my godfather had made sexual advances toward my mother. “Where business is concerned,” I quickly added. I didn’t want to embarrass her. “Do you think he could have discovered something about someone? Someone who was a DP but pretended he wasn’t, or someone who was a DP and hurt the community. Do you think he could have been blackmailing someone? I know it’s a stretch but it is possible.”
“That sounds like nonsense to me. I knew your godfather pretty well. He was a drunk and a pervert, but he was not a blackmailer. He wasn’t mentally strong enough for that sort of thing. Try to get a corner parking spot. I don’t want some fat Ukrainian kielbasa-lover swinging his door open and denting my vintage Buick.”
Until that moment, I’d assumed my godfather’s murder was related to his business. Now, for the first time, I realized that wasn’t necessarily the case. He might have been murdered as a function of his involvement in some other scheme. Something related to his experience in a World War II Displaced Persons camp.
The Uke school was located behind the church. I drove around the lot like a zombie, still dwelling on my mother’s revelations. All the parking spots were taken. Families marched toward the school hall in their Sunday best carrying Easter baskets. My mother became frantic that the school hall had filled up and there would be no vacant spots on the tables for her to place her basket. She told me to drop her off and go find a parking spot on the street quickly, but I was barely listening. I was focused on the image of the letters DP on my godfather’s calendar.
I pulled over. My mother got out of the car and removed the basket from the back seat. Then she stuck her head back in the passenger-side door.
“One ride. One conversation. Don’t ever ask me about the past again. I know what this is about. I know how your mind works. Trust your mother. You’re not going to get any satisfaction trying to find out what your father did and didn’t do before he came to America. So take my advice, and let it go.”
With that, she slammed the door shut and left me shell-shocked.
My father had died when I was thirteen. He’d never spoken to me about his life in Ukraine before he immigrated to America, and I’d been too scared and young to express any curiosity. I’d never thought about his past. Now, thanks to my mother, I had another mystery to solve.
I parked on the street along the sidewalk facing Colt’s Park, and hurried to the school hall. I climbed the stairs to the auditorium on the second floor. It teemed with people. There had to be hundreds of them. The cumulative noise of their conversations was deafening. I wedged my way through a group of men I’d never seen before in my life and caught a glimpse of one row of Easter baskets. They sat atop a series of rectangular tables that had been ar
ranged along the perimeter of the basketball court. Families huddled beside their baskets waiting for the priest to arrive.
At first, I didn’t recognize anyone. Then I bumped into my former geography teacher from Ukrainian school. She gave me a quick hug and told me someone had saved a spot for my mother near center court. I spied my mother farther down the column of tables, smiling lovingly and in animated conversation with a broad-shouldered man. His head was obscured by a father of four, who was standing beside his wife. I knew immediately that the broad-shouldered man was Marko. A combination of excitement and dread filled me as I pushed my way toward them. I vowed not to let him out of my sight until he answered all my questions truthfully this time.
My mother was the first to see me. She smiled. Her children had accompanied her to the blessing of the Easter baskets. It was every mother’s dream, and it gave me some satisfaction to have helped fulfill it.
“Look who stopped by to say hello,” my mother said.
I stepped around the father of four but it wasn’t Marko’s face that I saw. Instead I looked straight into the smiling eyes of Donnie Angel.
CHAPTER 24
IT WAS A surreal moment. Donnie Angel stood leaning on crutches beside my mother, the two of them beaming at each other as though they were about to be nominated for sainthood. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t prepared for this event. I’d considered it, of course; I wasn’t an idiot, at least not usually. I’d heard Donnie Angel admit how much he enjoyed this particular ceremony. I’d noted the sincerity in his voice when he told me how much it meant to him to return to his community and be welcomed, if only for a day. But there was no reason for him to be here. None whatsoever. His parents were dead, and he needed me doing his dirty work for him, namely, looking for the cash and the inventory. That’s why I’d banished this possibility from my mind.
There was no rational explanation for Donnie’s presence. And yet, there he stood, two feet away from me, a cast on his left leg, the one I’d proudly broken.
“You remember my daughter,” my mother said, “don’t you, Bohdan?”
She asked the question in Ukrainian, but Donnie answered in English. He’d had limited Ukrainian language skills growing up. My mother undoubtedly knew this but to a Uke Mom, a Uke kid was forever a Uke kid.
“Of course I remember her,” he said.
He extended his hand. I had no choice but to take it. It felt like snakeskin plucked from the fridge. I tried to slip out of his grip as soon as his fingers tightened, but he held my hand firmly, braced himself on the crutches, and kissed it. I’m sure my mother thought he was being a classy European fellow, but that was only because his back obscured her vision, and she couldn’t see his tongue linger on the back of my palm before his lips engulfed my knuckle.
I cringed. It was a full-body shiver that started at my wrist and spasmed down to my toes. It was as discreet a rejection as my mind, body, and soul could demonstrate under the circumstances, given I was surrounded by men, women, children, and Easter baskets.
My mother didn’t notice my reaction. She was too busy cooing.
“What a gentleman,” she said.
I regained my composure. “Good to see you, too, Donnie,” I said.
My mother frowned. “Donnie?”
I managed to keep smiling. “How long has it been?”
“Who’s Donnie?” she said.
“Sixteen . . . eighteen years?” I said.
His lips turned down. “What do you mean? We ran into each other in New York a few days ago. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”
“Will someone explain to me who Donnie is?” my mother said.
She knew he preferred to be called Donnie instead of Bohdan. Such a rejection of one’s proper Ukrainian name was a sore point with the older generation, and I knew she simply wanted to tease him.
“Bohdan is Donnie,” I said.
“Oh, really,” my mother said. She glanced at Donnie. “How did you manage that translation?”
“You know how it is in America, Mrs. T. It’s easier to conduct business when someone can pronounce your name real easy.”
“It’s easier? Who said easier is better? Would you rather be the man who made it easy, or the one with the different name that everyone remembers?”
“Geez. That’s a good point, Mrs. T. I never thought of it that way.”
My mother nodded with satisfaction before frowning again. She glanced alternately from Donnie to me. “Who ran into whom in New York?”
“I bumped into gorgeous, here, on the Upper East Side,” Donnie said. “Same neighborhood where you live, right?”
I didn’t want my mother to get suspicious and start asking questions about how and why we bumped into each other. I needed to change the subject as quickly as possible.
“We never got a chance to talk,” I said. “So what have you been doing with yourself all these years?”
“Yes,” my mother said, clearly intrigued by the question. She knew Donnie’s reputation and probably couldn’t wait to hear what lie he was going to spin. There was no reason for her to be afraid of the conversation, even though she knew he was a criminal. After all, she had no idea he’d kidnapped her daughter and she’d broken his leg. “Tell us, Donnie. What do you do for a living?”
Donnie dazzled us with a smile. “I own a chain of rental shops.”
“Rental shops?” my mother said. “Like tuxedos and dresses for weddings?”
Donnie laughed. “No, Mrs. T. Like furniture, televisions, and microwaves.”
My mother looked incredulous. “People rent microwaves?”
“Sure,” Donnie said. “It’s big business. I have stores in Bridgeport, Norwalk, and Waterbury. And I’m opening up a new one in Newark. My first store outside Connecticut.” He leaned back on the crutches and thrust his chest forward.
This was news to me but it made sense. Rent-to-own schemes charged huge interest rates and repossessed property. It was as close to criminal as a legitimate business could get.
“Good for you,” my mother said. She seemed genuinely impressed. “We hear all these rumors about you, you know. But you’re telling me you’ve cleaned up your act.”
“Absolutely, Mrs. T. A man gets to a certain age, he’s got to take a good look in the mirror. It ain’t no fancy job like a doctor or nothing, but we’re providing an important service to folks who can’t afford the basics.”
My mother nodded. “It’s an honorable profession. You’re doing good for your community. Yes, you are.”
Donnie chuckled and nodded in my direction. “Tell that to your daughter. I offered to buy her a glass of champagne that night we ran into each other, but I don’t think my bubbly was good enough for her.”
My mother scolded me with a glance. “You refused a glass of champagne from an old friend?”
“Kicked her heels up and ran away from me like a gazelle,” Donnie said. “All I saw was legs. She looks great, though, don’t she?”
My mother shrugged as though he were stating the obvious. “She’s my daughter, isn’t she?”
Donnie burst into laughter.
A bustling young woman with two little girls dressed like pink bunnies knifed past us. She searched in vain for an empty space on the table. I realized we were completely surrounded. Bodies were packed tight and deep. I couldn’t have made a run for it if I tried. We were trapped at the center of the gym. My mother, the charming sociopath from the Ukrainian-American gutter, and I.
“Truth is, I shouldn’t be laughing,” Donnie said. “A close friend of mine died yesterday.”
My mother touched him on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Anyone we knew?”
“He’d just moved up north. Decided to go ice fishing. Lake’s still frozen this time of year. Or so he thought. He fell right through.”
“That’s awful,” my mother said. “And he was alon
e? There was no one there to save him?”
Donnie shook his head solemnly, and then planted his eyes on mine. “Only his two dogs. Loyal to a fault. They jumped in after him. The three of them drowned together.”
My mother offered more sympathy.
Donnie didn’t take his eyes off me. “It just goes to show you. You can never be sure how solid the ground is beneath your feet.”
I doubted Donnie had a friend who’d died. In fact, I doubted Donnie had any friends at all. His fiction was a message. I was the friend in his story. My assumption of safety was the ground beneath my feet. But who were the two dogs?
“Speaking of feet,” my mother said. “What happened to your leg?”
Donnie held my gaze and smiled slowly. In the time it took him to spread his lips and flash his teeth, the ice began to melt beneath my feet. Both my legs were shaking. What would he tell her? And exactly what was he telling me?
“Sports injury,” Donnie said.
“I didn’t know you were a sportsman,” my mother said.
Donnie wiped the smile off his face. “My cleats got stuck in the carpet.”
“What kind of sport were you playing indoors?”
Donnie paused. I could picture the knife-edge of my shoe connecting with his tibia, hear the sound of the paint stick cracking in half. In retrospect, I couldn’t believe I’d done it. And now he was here to tell me he was going to kill me. My legs wobbled so badly I feared everyone around me would notice them.
“Soccer,” Donnie said. “It was an indoor stadium in Waterbury. AstroTurf.”
“Afro-turf?”
Donnie chuckled. “No, Mrs. T. AstroTurf. It’s fake grass. Like a carpet over concrete.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing. Sounds like a rug from another planet. Who plays soccer on a carpet?”
“If I ever see the guy that pushed me when my cleat got stuck . . .”
My mother gasped. “Someone pushed you?”
Donnie bored into me. “Yeah.”
The Altar Girl: A Prequel Page 15
