The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  Uncle Rosario remained sitting behind Salvatore in the jump seat with his hands on the young man’s shoulders. Salvatore had finally turned and now looked out the windshield. It was as if Uncle Rosario were aiming Salvatore ahead, making certain he knew his destiny.

  Cavallo, in his back corner, spoke. “Things were looking up in ‘37. They were making more Packards. Then in ‘38, when I get one, FDR’s magic turns to horseshit. This 1939 model has a big selling feature.”

  “What’s that?” asked Lonzo.

  “They’re making only a thousand. Next year they don’t even know if they’ll make Packards.”

  “Ain’t that the shits,” said Lonzo.

  After a lunch stop at a diner along the Susquehanna River, Uncle Rosario told Lonzo to get in the back seat and had Salvatore drive while he sat up front with him. As the huge Packard labored up the first long incline of the mountains, Salvatore shifted down to second gear, pressed the accelerator to the floor, and the Packard’s V-12 roared.

  Uncle Rosario laughed and turned to Cavallo and Lonzo in back. “He knows how to be in control. We have the fuel, now we have the engine.”

  Salvatore gripped the wheel with one hand and the shift knob with the other. The Packard passed other vehicles as if they stood still. He had to honk the Packard’s twin horns to move several out of the way.

  Uncle Rosario moved closer on the wide front seat. “Are you angry with drivers who do not make way?”

  Salvatore glanced toward his great uncle only briefly, yet in this glance he knew Uncle Rosario needed him to agree with everything, and also to perform exactly as expected. Although he’d pounded the horn ring to move an especially slow truck to the side, Salvatore smiled and said exactly what he knew his Great Uncle wanted to hear. “There’s no reason for anger, Great Uncle. It’s simply the speed of my hand to reach the horn.”

  “Try leaving your thumb on the horn ring. This is how I’ve operated through the years. My thumb always on the pulse of the family organization. Firm knowledgeable patience is the way to properly control a family. Do you understand, Salvatore?”

  “I understand.”

  Uncle Rosario paused as they passed yet another car, then asked, “Will you accept future control of the Cavallo family?”

  “I will accept control of the Cavallo family,” said Salvatore.

  Uncle Rosario moved even closer. Salvatore felt his Great Uncle’s moist breathe on his face. “Will you establish the prominence of the family name for all time to come?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Salvatore, staring straight ahead and shifting back to third gear as the Packard topped the incline.

  Salvatore glanced down. Uncle Rosario had taken out a pocketknife and opened it. Salvatore glanced back and forth to the road ahead and to what Great Uncle was doing. Uncle Rosario pressed the tip of the blade into his right palm and drew blood. Salvatore glanced at the speedometer—80. He had both hands on the steering wheel, which began to vibrate.

  Suddenly, Uncle Rosario grabbed Salvatore’s right hand from the wheel. The Packard lurched sideways, but Salvatore quickly straightened it. Uncle Rosario opened Salvatore’s palm and made a quick cut with the tip of the blade. Then he folded the knife, put it away, and held Salvatore’s right hand tightly with his right hand so their blood mixed.

  Salvatore glanced at his Great Uncle, who stared at him with a deadly serious look. When Salvatore glanced into the rearview mirror, he saw his father and Lonzo staring at him wide-eyed. Ahead, the road was wide open, the Packard nearing 100.

  Uncle Rosario let go of Salvatore’s hand, handed him a handkerchief, kissed his cheek, and moved back to the far side of the seat. “Perhaps you can slow down, Salvatore Cavallo. On this day, especially, you must arrive at your destination without spilling family blood. Mixed in your blood is the family fortune. It will be your responsibility to keep the fortune as well as the family name intact.”

  As the Packard slowed, Salvatore thought about what his uncle said and stared at his right hand gripping the wheel, the handkerchief hanging out like a white flag. For a while he’d taken it seriously. But thinking about all the damn work he’d have to do in the future as he slowed the Packard made him drowsy. From the time he became aware of his family’s business, he’d been impressed for what it got him. Now, driving his uncle, his father, and Lonzo in the Packard felt like a long haul. Maybe a pep pill, when he got a chance to sneak one from his suitcase, would do the trick. Yeah, one of the pep pills he’d gotten from a truck driver at the old man’s main warehouse. And later, in FDR’s Tree Army, when he needed a boost, all he had to do was find a trucker willing to give up some bennies for a few bucks. He’d stuffed double sawbucks inside the lining of the suitcase that was going with him to camp.

  The induction at Fort Hayes took a week. The zigzag train trip to Green River, Wyoming, took four days. It got warmer during the journey, dust sifting into the coaches and onto the leftover WWI uniforms provided. By the first of April, fresh but dusty enrollees were on trucks heading south across the Wyoming-Utah state line on a bumpy, unpaved road. Conversation in the back of one truck was a shouting match.

  “This thing ain’t got no springs!”

  “It’s an old one! 1933 Dodge, I think!”

  “Close that flap! The dust was bad enough on the train!”

  “Why’s the dust red?”

  “Maybe it’s got dried blood in it!”

  “The Flaming Gorge carved by the Green River has cliffs of red sandstone!”

  “Hey, we got a professor on board!”

  “Believe me, Jack, I’m no professor!”

  “Back in Wyoming there wasn’t much of a river!”

  “The guy at the ticket office said they finally got rain down in Texas and Oklahoma!”

  “Maybe the dustbowl’s over!”

  “Yeah, everywhere except in here!”

  “I thought we were going to that camp back in Green River!”

  “Nah, they got a bunch of country bumpkins there!”

  “That’s high desert country! We’re heading south into the Uinta Mountains!”

  “It’s the professor again! Is it true they got wild horses on that desert?”

  No answer.

  Originally organized by men from Kentucky in 1935, and moved about the country the following years, Company 3544 had settled at Camp Manila, Utah, located in Sheep Creek Canyon. The work in the Flaming Gorge region included building roads through hard rock, stringing telephone lines, providing erosion control, repairing cattle guards, and building the Carter Creek Bridge. In 1937 enrollees built the Ute Mountain Fire Lookout Tower near camp.

  The men arriving in April 1939 were added to existing re-enlisted enrollees, local experienced men (LEMs), officers, and enrollee leaders and assistant leaders already in place. The new enrollees arrived in time for the evening meal, were given denim work clothing, and assigned to Barracks Three with two veteran enrollees. After a pep talk, the new enrollees promptly fell asleep.

  Next morning, a field bugle sounded reveille at 5:45 a.m., they were rushed to the latrine building for morning cleanup and shaves, at 6 a.m. barracks leaders lined enrollees up for exercise, then had them make beds and prepare for barracks inspection by a district inspector. At 6:30 breakfast was served in the mess and they were told they would be allowed a full half-hour to eat this first day but were expected to finish in 15 minutes from then on. On their first day, at 7 a.m., the time they would usually board trucks for work duty, the camp superintendent gave a speech in the center of the compound.

  The superintendent pointed out how the buildings at Camp Manila were arranged in the shape of a pine tree and that each barracks building was clearly marked by a sign: Barracks One, Barracks Two, Barracks Three, and Barracks Four. Barracks Five, used only in winter, was currently boarded up. He launched into a speech about sticking with the men in their ba
rracks, the fact they were no longer boys, and they’d be treated as men and not boys as long as they acted like men. “Horseplay on trucks or on the job leads to accidents; I’ve seen some in my time here. When I finish my speech, you’ll go on trucks to your work site for the day. Lunch will be provided at exactly 11:45. There’ll be plenty to eat. Normally we’d offer coffee at lunch, but because it’s warming up we’ve switched to ice water and lemonade. You’ll get an hour for lunch and rest. Be careful with cigarettes and pipes because we’re dry around here. Then it’s back on the trucks at 4:30 and back here at 5:00. Evening meal is at 5:15. We expect neatness at all times. If you eat like a pig we have a “pig table” in the corner. Free time begins at 5:45. Evening classes begin at 7:15. If you’re good with mechanics, we could use some garage help working on the trucks. They’re pretty old, especially the Dodges. We have only two newer GMCs. Enrollees with three chevrons are barracks leaders, those with two are assistants. Follow orders or you’ll get on the honey bucket brigade sooner than you’d like. I don’t need to tell you what that is. As for fights, take them up with your leader. I don’t like to see grudge matches, but if need be, we’ve got some well-worn gloves and a ring set up behind the mess. A sergeant will be at your first work site. He’s a non-commissioned officer.”

  The superintendent paused, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked up at the bright morning sun already high in the sky. “We have a fine record of work done by Manila Camp. You’ll see some of it the next few days, especially the Ute Mountain Fire Lookout Tower southwest of camp built in 1937. Big enough a man could live in it. Skilled and disciplined men built that tower. I hope you’re the same.

  “You might have seen wild horses from the train. Mostly they’re up in Wyoming in the high desert around Pilot Butte, but once in a while you’ll see some here. When you got off the train in Green River I’m sure you noticed Castle Rock north of town. In his free time one of our assistant barracks leaders is chiseling a replica at the foot of the fire tower for posterity. That’s the kind of dedication I admire. Have fun out there, men. Dismissed!”

  Fifty miles north, in Green River, Wyoming, Decken MaCade and another young LEM from Salt Lake City named Morris were being treated to breakfast at one of the town cafes by the camp superintendent of the Green River CCC camp. The previous evening Decken gave a presentation about geology in the area while Morris gave a presentation about the wild horses. The café was bustling with ranchers in town for an equipment auction being held by the bank on foreclosed ranches. The café had large front windows overlooking the street. Several pickup trucks, mostly Ford Model As, were parked on the street outside, but there were also a couple tractors and even a horse tied at the hitching post.

  “I want to thank you men for your presentations,” said the superintendent. “Later today there’s a car heading down Manila way to take you back.”

  Decken and Morris both nodded as they chewed their potatoes, bacon, and eggs. Decken swallowed and was about to thank the superintendent when a round of whistles erupted from several ranchers at tables near the front windows. When Decken turned he saw a redhead walking across the street toward the café. As she stepped up onto the boardwalk between two pickups, she held one hand up to hold her hair in place in the dusty wind, which blew her dress between Venus-like legs, causing more whistles and table talk.

  “Ain’t she the purtiest thing?”

  “Sure is. Hope she comes in here.”

  Frank Grogan, the elderly town sheriff, was at the counter getting a thermos filled with coffee. “That’s Rose Buckles, boys. Careful how you talk about our locals.”

  “All’s I said is she’s purty.”

  “Better leave it at that.”

  “Hey, she’s coming in.”

  The door swung open like magic for the redhead named Rose Buckles. A rancher with hat in one hand flinging it open with his other hand. Once Rose was inside, the café went as silent as church except for a song playing on a radio behind the swinging kitchen door. The few ranchers who still had hats on took them off and put them in their laps. When the boy serving tables pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen with both arms balancing plates, he saw Rose and paused. Just like in the study of geology, time stood still as Rose found a place at a table with a couple locals and smiled at Sheriff Grogan who was on his way out with his thermos of coffee. When time resumed, so did the bustle. Behind the swinging kitchen door, Bing Crosby sang, “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby” louder and softer on the radio as the door swung back and forth, back and forth.

  Across the street Cletus Minch left the front window of the hardware store after a long pause watching Rose walk down the street. Obviously he’d been told to get back to work.

  Chapter 14

  Zolotovoritska Café, Kiev, had opened only last year in 2010. Today was its first anniversary. It was lunchtime. Mariya, facing a corner-mounted television beyond Janos and Sonia, watched as new arrivals, dodging colorful anniversary string hung from the ceiling, looked confused, not knowing Sonia’s tears were for Doctor Marta. Sonia’s vacant stare beyond Mariya a flashback to the morgue—skin drained of blood, mouth closed uncomfortably, facial structure altered, dirt specks on dry lips.

  Janos reached across the table and touched Mariya’s hand. “Anything new on television?”

  “No mention of Odessa or Doctor Marta in the captions.”

  “The Chernobyl killer confessing is like the 2001 American terrorist attack,” said Sonia.

  “How?” asked Janos.

  Mariya recalled scanning data retrieved from Doctor Marta’s computer. “Sonia, we haven’t told Janos everything.”

  Sonia wiped her eyes. “Doctor Marta’s father and grandfather both killed in single vehicle accidents on remote roads. On Nine-Eleven the grandfather loses control and runs into a tree. Almost ten years later, the father loses control and slams into a ditch. Both thrown through their windshield.”

  “How does the date matter?” asked Janos.

  “The US terror attack was early in the day. News reached Ukraine later.” Sonia stared straight ahead, thinking before she answered. “Marta’s grandfather was over 80. Supposedly he’d stopped driving, but still had his old car. Marta’s father warned him not to drive, especially at night. He went out alone, long after news of the terror attack reached Ukraine.”

  Janos asked, “You’re saying Marta’s grandfather was killed when news was focused on terrorists?”

  When Sonia remained silent, Mariya spoke. “Marta’s father insisted the grandfather taking a late night drive was impossible. Someone took him to the remote location and staged the crash into the tree. Marta said her father’s death, though not occurring on the day of a news event, was similar. Both thrown from cars on remote roads.”

  “Tell Janos about the American connection,” said Sonia.

  “Marta contacted a Detroit, Michigan, woman whose father knew her grandfather. Both were in the American Civilian Conservation Corps in 1939. Marta’s grandfather was in the US in 1939 and immigrated back to Ukraine after the war. There were CCC details in Marta’s notes. A fire tower, a rock shaped like a castle, hair Marta’s grandfather saved in an envelope…”

  According to militia and SBU’s Yuri Smirnov, a connection existed between the Chernobyl killer and Russian Mafia, who disliked disruption of trafficking operations.

  Janos stayed with Mariya and Sonia until Chief Investigator Boris Chudin assigned a militiaman to guard them. The trafficking connection led Janos to Eva Polenkaya who worked for a committee of parents organized to find lost children. It began drizzling while Janos used his GPS to locate the apartment. He recalled his last visit to Eva Polenkaya had also been accompanied by drizzle. On the previous visit she’d provided information about traffickers using the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, information that almost got him, Mariya, and Lazlo killed.

  Eva Polenkaya lived in old Kiev. When Janos
left his car a sudden wind gust released droplets from chestnut trees. He recalled last time he was here rain drops were larger, coming off leaves. Today droplets came from buds ready to burst.

  Eva Polenkaya’s apartment, on the top floor with a view of the city, was cluttered with books and papers on various tables and chairs. Eva was an energetic, well-endowed 60-year-old with long black hair. She walked quickly but gracefully behind her huge desk piled with stacks of paper. “Besides working for parents of the missing, I hold together remnants of La Strada’s anti-trafficking network. The modern world has lost its memory. But now business.”

  “I’ve not lost my memory,” said Janos. “Thank you for inviting me. Have you thought of anything regarding Doctor Marta Adamivna Voronko?”

  “Yes, her grandfather dying during Nine-Eleven turmoil along with his American connection. He’s born in the US, brought back here at four and, being able to retain US citizenship, returns to the US in 1939. Then back here during Soviet times after the war he marries and has children. I assume KGB had eyes on him. The Civilian Conservation Corps connection is significant.”

  Eva stood, came around to the front of the desk, put her hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t want to say it on the phone. Did you know Doctor Marta Adamivna Voronko came to see me?”

  Janos stood and held both Eva’s shoulders. “Really? My God, I had no idea!”

  “I know about her grandfather, Bela Adamovych Voronko, and Doctor Marta’s father who had the same name. I recently had contact with Anthony Jacobson in the US. For security we used an outside line. He’s been in contact with Lazlo Horvath in Chicago—you look surprised. Good, I like surprises.” Eva went to her drizzle-spattered window. “I was going to share something with Doctor Marta, but I worried it might cause problems. You see, Janos, I have a key.”