Boris

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

AUTHOR’S NOTE

For Eva

An inspiration to everyone in her life

In memory of her Bärlein

BOOK ONE

FOUR SOLDIERS

CHAPTER ONE

1924

GHOST

Oh my God! That’s impossible! He died seven years ago! They told me he was dead! Oh, God. What am I supposed to do? Oh, dear God! No!!!

Olga Kastel-Rimsky crumbled the telegram in both hands, let out one more cry, and collapsed on the floor. Betha Pilsudsky, her best friend, the bearer of the telegram, knelt down on the floor beside her, and cradled her head in her hands.

Boris, get some water, and a towel. Go quickly.

Boris Kastel, ten years old, had watched the scene almost with a dispassionate eye, as though he was trying to analyze what could be written on such a paper that would make his mother so upset. His sister, Branca, three years his senior was away at boarding school and for that Boris was relieved. She would have collapsed right alongside her mother in an emotional swoon. He returned quickly with the basin of cold water and an old flour sack that served as a towel. Kneeling with the bowl, he handed his aunt the towel. Betha gently swabbed her friend’s face, waiting patiently for life to return to the eyes. After a few seconds, Olga stirred, opened her dark brown eyes which remained blank for a moment and then filled with fear, darting around the room as though she expected a ghost suddenly to appear.

How is it possible, Betha? she whispered weakly. My Miloš died on a battlefield in Turkey. We got a letter. They found his body covered with his coat. It had his name on it, right where I had sewn it before he left. She stopped and took in a deep breath. The war has been over for five years. How can he now be alive? Tell me it is a mistake. What am I to do? I have a new husband. He can’t be alive. It is not possible.

Mama, who are you talking about? Is it my father? Is he really alive? Boris asked these questions with the same sort of bland curiosity he had exhibited when he watched his mother faint. He had never known his father, except through small stories his mother had related, or casual remarks of friends and neighbors. He was only five when the Great War ended, born just three months before the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was murdered in Sarajevo, 300 kilometers from Zagreb where Boris lived. He was told that his father died on a battlefield in Turkey in 1917, killed while driving an ambulance, picking up the dead and wounded after the night-bugle had blown. He had seen the wine and vodka factory that his father owned, just a few blocks from his home in Zagreb. The Austrians turned it into a munitions factory when war was declared. It lay empty these days with no one to run it. For Boris, Miloš Kastel was just another misty war story, and the war was not a happy thing to think about. Croatia groaned under the defeat that had seen the empire die. Best not to think about those things much. Life was hard enough.

Is my father alive? he repeated.

Boris, go out and find Drazan, Aunt Betha said quietly, referring to her son who was one of Boris’ closest friends in school. Take your poles and go down to the Sava and catch us some fish. If you are lucky with your fishing, l’ll cook them for your mother. Go. Your mother needs to rest now.

When the boy was gone, Betha helped her friend to the bench at the kitchen table.

Sit here, Olga. I’ll brew us some tea. Don’t talk right now. Take some deep breaths and try to calm yourself.

For several minutes the two women sat on the wooden bench, letting the warm tea calm their spirits, unable even to open the subject of the impossible telegram. Finally, Olga whispered, Where has he been?

I don’t know, Olga. The telegram only said that he was alive, in Istanbul.

Do you think he will be coming here?

Of course he will. Betha put her hand on Olga’s arm and nodded seriously. If he had run away, he would not be contacting you now, after all of these years. There has to be another explanation.

What should I do, Betha? How can I explain this to Konstantin?

You can’t even explain it to yourself, Olga. I think you are just going to have to wait until Miloš arrives here and explains what he has been doing. She got up to get more tea water, thought a moment and turned back. I think you should show Konstantin the telegram though, so he can prepare himself. And you better have a talk with Boris. His reaction was a bit odd, I think. I’m not sure he is ready for another father either.

Okay, Betha, Olga shuddered a bit as she nodded agreement.

Konstantin is in his studio. I’ll go to him now. Will you talk with Boris? He respects you very much, and you will be able to tell him with less emotion than I would.

Of course. For the first time, Betha smiled and rubbed her stomach. Let’s hope those boys caught some trout! I’m getting hungry with all of this exertion.

Olga walked out to the small shed in the rear of the house that served as her husband’s paint studio. Since the war, Konstantin’s work had become increasingly dark, as the horrors of Croatia being trampled by armies appeared ever more frightening to him. His work evolved to blood red, deep purples and black, with human figures looming in impossible places and positions, his mind’s world filled with ghastly shapes and heavy fears. Olga didn’t much like entering that world anymore, feeling that hope had abandoned her second husband, as it had her country.

Konstantin, she said nervously, pushing her head through the barely opened door. I am sorry to disturb you in your work, but something important has occurred. Can we speak for a minute?

The artist shrugged and put down his palate knife, turning to his wife without a word.

I received this telegram this morning. You should read it.

She handed him the crumpled paper, which he meticulously flattened with his artist’s fingers and then reached for his spectacles. He quickly read the few lines.

What does this mean, Olga? You told me that your husband was dead. Were you lying to me?

Konstantin, you know I wouldn’t lie to you, she said firmly holding his gaze. I received a notice from the army that he had been killed in battle. They found his coat with his name in it. I don’t know what this means. It is a nightmare for me.

Well, what does he want? the artist demanded with impatience. Will he be coming here?

I can’t answer those questions or any others about Miloš. I don’t have any answers. Olga dropped her gaze down to the unframed paintings that rested on the floor against the studio wall. She looked once more at her husband. All I know is that you are my husband. You have two step children who love you. I only have one husband. I don’t know anything else.

Then that is settled, he answered with another shrug, and turned back to his canvas, as though his wife were no longer in the room.

Down on the river, Both his friend Drazan, as they idly watched the lines they had cast into the water. The news of his father left him confused, and he wasn’t at all certain whether he was excited or not.

I only know one father, Draz, he said, leaning back against an old willow. Konstantin is not much as far as talking is concerned. Some times he doesn’t even know I’m around. But I have never even been in a room with my real father, if I even have one. What if he comes here and I like him? Where do you think he has been all these years?

Who knows, Boris? Draz replied, his face lighting up. Maybe he joined a monastery or something. Maybe the Russians took him. Maybe he got hit by a bullet and lost his memory and didn’t know who he was. I think it is exciting if he comes back. We could probably work in his old factory.

Mama says he made wine and vodka and stuff like that, Boris waved him off. I doubt they would let kids work there, even if he started it up again. I wonder if he’s going to come and visit us.

Sure he is. That’s why he sent that letter. I can’t wait to see what he’s like. Hey, you got a fish!

Two hours of idle thoughts and wild theories produced three small fish, two carp and a perch, for the dinner table that night, but Betha had dummies cooking, potatoes with flour and a couple of eggs, to help fill their stomachs. By the time they got back to the house the boys had decided that Boris’ father had been taken by pirates and couldn’t get away before now. They pictured him with a patch over his eye, wild hair, missing teeth, and couldn’t decide whether he had a hook or a wooden leg. He certainly had a pistol in his belt and a long sword at his side. They walked into the house brimming with excitement, causing the two women to smile, for the moment forgetting the unexpected telegram and what it might mean.

Mama, when do you think he will come?

Not now, Boris. We’ll talk about this later. Aunt Betha will discuss it with you.

You boys go wash your hands for dinner, Betha commanded, giving them both a loving cuff on their heads.

Boris and his friends called themselves "Die vier Soldaten," the four soldiers, and they were for all intents and purposes inseparable. The German name was known to everyone in their quarter of Zagreb, regardless of what language might be spoken in any given house. If you found one of them, you found the four, a team that was not always a welcome sight in their quarter of the city. There was nothing about them that should have attracted them one to another. They were all of different size. They spoke three different languages at home. Two were fine athletes even at a young age; two were more culturally involved at school. But they were born under the same sun, under the same sign even, and they had known each other from their first day at school. Boris Kastel, whose father was an Austrian Jew and mother Italian, was the leader, physically the largest and most athletic. He had a distinctive face with sharp features and high forehead, and eyes that could light up with joy, or bore through a person if he so chose. Vladi Krupp, whose mother taught German at the Hochschule, was the frailest of the four, of medium height, impossibly thin. He was a musician, playing all of the reed instruments when he had to. Fedor Berger, whose parents had emigrated from Germany, was as tall as Boris, but not as physically developed. They were the closest friends among the four, similar in sports interests and temperament. The fourth member of the Soldaten was Drazan Pilsudski, actually Boris’ cousin, who spoke German and Polish at home. Draz, as they called him, was diminutive, daring and by far the most inclined to mischief. In the classroom the boys were quickly separated, sometimes to the four corners. In an age of inkwells, the girls quickly learned to braid their hair up; just as quickly they formed a solid defensive phalanx against the Soldaten, purely out of survival instincts. Grocers watched their bins of apples; fathers hid their daughters; the male teachers nodded and smiled, remembering their own childhoods. The boys’ mothers adored them.

Weekends and holidays were their treasures, these soldiers, the time when they could rev up their imaginations and their nerve to full amperage, take on the world at large, testing their own abilities, their own courage. Come Saturday at noon, when the school bell released them, they raced to the Sava, having worn their swimsuits under their pants, or depending on the season, pulled out their sleds or their flexies, racing up the steepest hill that Zagreb had to offer, to slide back down as fast as gravity would take them. When they came into bicycle ownership, their world expanded geometrically. They would assign one to be the leader for the day and the rest had to follow wherever he led—through the market, down the steps of the museum, over waterfalls, into caves, jumping walls, sliding under fences. If the leader crashed, they all crashed. They never cried in public, never committed even a tiny crime. They helped old ladies cross the street; played soccer with the younger boys, always took in stray dogs, never cats. They weren’t bad students; they just didn’t get good grades because it wasn’t important to them. They were responsible for more parent conferences, more shaking of heads, more girls’ frowns, and more adult smiles than the rest of the school put together. Everyone knew that "die vier Soldaten" would become a credit to their families and their community if only they survived their youth. Nobody was placing bets on any of them.

They were not yet of an age when girls meant anything to them, but the converse was far from the reality. Every girl in their school secretly watched them out of the corner of her eye, just as secretly hoping that she might become an attraction, for any of them, surreptitiously wishing that she could have such a comradeship with her own friends. How many of them wished there could be such a thing as " die vier Soldatinnen," to walk in the same excitement as the boys. The girls would have to wait, until the soldiers grew up a bit, and then it was not at all certain that they would like what they had hoped for.

Meanwhile, Boris and his comrades went about the glorious task of exploring every inch of their world, testing themselves out on their mother river Sava, swimming across her breadth, plunging into her rapids, fishing, rafting, floating, lying quietly on her banks content with a flaccid fishing line. They found every sort of cliff to climb, every cave to explore. They knew the luscious fruits of every tree in the summer, and which owners would allow them to purloin a plum or a peach at their leisure, and which demanded stealth. They could walk through the heart of Zagreb blindfolded and never miss a step, so sure were they of their home turf. Everyone, from the crippled old man sitting outside the baker’s in the morning, to the postman walking his route knew them by name.

Vladi, what are you rascals up to now? the ice man or the coal man would inquire, always with a smile of fond remembrance.

Boris, did you soldiers frighten Mrs. Burchalther’s cat up that tree yesterday?

No Frau Müller, we pulled the cat out of the tree. Hildrun Krimmel scared it up there. She is so mean!

The boys would never have had to go home for a meal, so ready was every mother in the city to ply them with kuchen or tortes, an apple or pear. They lived off the land in grand style the whole summer. It was indeed a glorious time to be alive if you were a ten-year old boy in Zagreb.

Miloš Kastel sat back on the plush divan, and took a deep drag on his cigarette, a massive long thing that resembled a small cigar his friend, Asifa, had rolled for him.

Tell me, Miloš, is it true? You have walked completely around Asia? Is that possible?

The two men were lounging in the salon of Asifa Rahmin, a dealer in fine wines and just about anything else, whose shop and home were in the center of Istanbul, not far from the spice market on the waterfront. They were business friends before the war, a war that was disastrous for both of their countries. Asifa was a grape broker known throughout the Middle East and Miloš, a packer from Zagreb who was known to produce fine wines from anything that grew on a vine. In the convoluted world of the old Ottoman Empire and the older Holy Roman Empire, where everything revered was a long forgotten memory, they had been a powerful partnership. Now, half a decade after the Great War, they could only reminisce on their checkered past. But that was enough.

What do we have but memories, my friend? Asifa let out a massive laugh, fit to wake the entire quarter.

It is the memories that will make our future, Asifa, Miloš responded quietly. Everyone is paralyzed with despair. I felt it the minute I arrived. He threw his hands out toward the ancient city that was spread below the balcony where they sat. They are all walking around with tired bodies and long faces. This is the time to be brave, to strike! He banged his fist down on his thigh. Because everyone else is weak. What have we to lose? We have not lost our memories; we have our brains and our nerve. We need to use them.

Well, your wanderings haven’t taken the edge off of your passion, my friend, Asifa laughed, filling his glass with arak. Then his face lost its smile. What are you going to do Miloš? You have been gone for seven years, lost to your world, to your Olga, your children. You are barely alive, and that is a miracle even in my religion. Do you think you can go back to Zagreb and act like nothing has happened? The world is turned inside out. Our two empires are gone, wiped out at Versailles. There is nothing left but women living without husbands, children growing without fathers.

Miloš fixed him with a challenging stare. Have you given up, my friend? If so, you are not the man I used to know. Call in your contacts. If their fields are gone, tell them to plant; if they have no home, tell them to find one. What am I going to do? I am going to go home and reclaim my life. He gulped down the strong licorice potion and held his glass up for a refill. Believe me Asifa, I didn’t walk all the way around China and India to come home to do nothing. Find me some fruit. I’ll buy it from you.

Ha! his friend blurted out, judging from the looks of you Miloš, you’ll buy it if I loan you the money, which of course I will do.

Asifa, I’m telling you, in seven years I have seen a part of the world that will purchase anything we care to sell them. And I intend to find many things to sell them.

We’ll talk about that after dinner, my unstoppable friend, Asifa said, rising and taking Miloš by the elbow. You need to get some food into those bones that I suppose make up a body. He ushered him into an elegant dining room. How long can you stay? We have much to discuss, and it would be better if you regain your health a bit before you start running the world.

Dinner finished, Asifa finally got around to asking about his friend’s plans on returning to his home.

Olga has probably remarried by now, Miloš answered trying to hide the sadness he felt. I would hope so, because it isn’t right for a fine woman to live alone. I can no longer claim to be her husband. She has a right to her life and I won’t take that from her.

He stood and turned toward the open window looking out on the busy harbor. But we have a son, Boris. I want my son. He will be my new life. She can have the rest. Is that too much to ask?

How old is Boris now?

He was born just before the war started, 1914. That would make him ten now. My God! Is it that long?

It is my friend, and everything in our world has changed. We are going to have to change too. Austria-Hungary is gone; the Ottomans are nearly gone. Germany is destroyed. Maybe we should drink our Plavac Mali and Zlatina instead of bottling it.

Ah, good! I prefer talking about business instead of these personal matters, Miloš said, returning to the table. I’ve had lots of time to think about all this, Asifa. I don’t want to drink the wine. I want to start making western wines, cabernets and merlots, good wines like the French. If you can find me the grapes, I’ll bottle the wines and we’ll sell them together.

You know that we Muslims don’t drink wine, Miloš, Asifa kidded, raising his glass. How can you propose such a thing?

You don’t have to drink the stuff, you Saracen. Would you know how to spend the profits you get from selling wine to the infidel?

I’ll have to consult the Imam, Asifa laughed with a wink. He’ll probably say it comes under the chapter about jihad. That’s it—commercial jihad! Yes, Miloš, I can do it.

Good, you old heretic, Miloš kidded, pointing a finger at his friend’s ample belly. And get me some potatoes. We’re going to make vodka too. And sell it to the damned Russians. I’ll find a way to get even with them!

Let me ask around to find out if there’s a ship heading out soon. You’ve had quite enough of walking, I’d say. Maybe I can get you to Dubrovnik. For now, I’m going to call my doctor and have you checked out. You are my guest here, Miloš, and I want you fat and happy before you leave. Let’s start with happy in bed, tonight!

Miloš suppressed an emotional shudder that could easily have resulted in tears. Thanks, my old friend, he said, taking Asifa’s hand in both of his. I can’t think of any person in my life that I am happier to see than you right now. We’ll talk more in the morning.

I have a boat for you, Miloš, Asifa said one morning, when Miloš arrived on the balcony for coffee. It’s carrying grain for Trieste, and the captain says he will drop you off in Split. It leaves in three days.

I can’t thank you enough, Asifa. This has been like two weeks in heaven, even if your muezzin rousts me out too early every morning. Miloš took a tiny sip of the powerful espresso. I haven’t felt this good since I got laid by that Armenian friend of yours before the war.

Marika? Did you have to bring her up? Asifa responded in feigned protest. Now I’m going to start dreaming again myself! After a pause, he changed the subject. On a serious note, I will wire you some startup money as soon as you are settled. You apparently made a lot of friends in your little waltz around the Far East, and I agree that there is money to be made there. I’m ready to trade as soon as you are. The ship to Italy will leave very early on Thursday.

The two old friends embraced at the pier as Miloš prepared to board the Ottoman Queen, on the final leg of his incredible journey. It had taken the entire two weeks for him to tell a small part of his story to Asifa and his family. The last seven years constituted an odyssey that was the stuff of legends, some of the details of which were already becoming misty in his memory. And the ending may well be the most difficult part of the journey, he mused, as he stood on the rail waving to his Turkish friend. He had sent another telegram to Olga, to tell her of his arrival within the next two weeks, offering no details, asking for nothing. He had no idea what he would discover when he arrived home, but he knew that it would be nothing that existed before.

It was obvious that Asifa had related his extraordinary story to the captain of the freighter because Miloš was greeted by the entire crew with great respect. These men were travelers, and they had never heard of exploits such as this frail-looking passenger had accomplished. He was even given a private cabin for the voyage which was expected to take about a week, to clear the Dardanelles and circle Greece into the Adriatic. Miloš used the time to formulate his plans for arrival in Zagreb.

It actually took nine days for the ship to round the Peloponnesus and fight its way into the Adriatic. Miloš felt a tremor of emotion as he stepped off onto the mainland knowing his journey was about to end. He made his way to the train station, determining that he had a couple of hours to kill before one left for Zagreb, so he walked around the lovely port city, absorbing memories of a bygone day, when life was simple and the world more or less at peace. Finally he pushed his way into a second-class compartment and he headed for home, sitting back on his bench and closing his eyes, watching his memories fly by.

Eight hours later, the train chugged into Zagreb, which was still the small city it had been before the Great War. Slowly Miloš climbed out of the train onto the platform, suppressing an impulse to fall down and kiss the ground of his beloved Zagreb, the place of his birth, the home of his family.

"Mein Gott, seven years, no eight years, since I have been in my home," he said to anyone on the platform who would listen. No one heard him, but it didn’t matter. A quarter of my life, he thought. So much has changed.

He recognized the scene—the train station of Zagreb had been rebuilt since the war, but looked as he had remembered it in 1917. The city had been largely spared by the fighting, most of which occurred in the south where Serbia was the target. But the Russians had done their damage before quitting the war and heading back for their own revolution, and the vicious and uncouth BulgarIans had taken their turn. The Russians. The goddamned Russians! It was a heartfelt curse.

His duffel thrown across his shoulder, Miloš walked into the city, thirsting for memories, any memories that would bring him to the present—old buildings that he could recognize and put with a face; a street with a peculiar mix of houses; a vendor’s shop that he had frequented. His steps drew him, without thinking, to the most familiar of all places, his winery, Kastel Weinerei, which had been his identity before the war. He wandered, aimlessly he thought, through the old inner city that dated back to the early middle ages. Every building contained a memory—dinner with Hans and Sophie; a meeting of the wine makers in the Stadtkeller; a date with a beautiful nameless girl from his youth; his father taking him for his first coffee in a public place. Here, in these old streets, Miloš had grown to manhood, had assumed his father’s profession in the wine business, and was doing well until the Austrians took over the factory and started making guns and gunpowder where once there were grapes and nice wines.

And there it stood, the old sign, Kastel, still visible through the grime and war damage, painted on the bricks on the street-side wall. The windows stared, empty and depressed, festooned with jagged glass shards. The yards were choked with weeds, the walls lined with the detritus of bottling machines and conveyor belts that had been rudely discarded in the haste to install a war industry.

Ah! he shouted. All is not lost! Do you hear me Zagreb? Miloš Kastel is home!

And he did a little one-man polka through the weeds and clutter, his face alight for the first time in nearly a decade, lit with a smile inspired by future plans, renewed dreams. Miloš Kastel was indeed home.

For an hour he sat on an old steel drum, his mind emptied of the memories of seven years of pain and hardship, now looking at the tired bricks and weathered wood of his old factory, rekindling his memories, making his plans, plotting his future. Never in that hour did the slightest hint of a doubt enter his mind. Miloš knew where he was going, and how he was going to accomplish it. He had spent seven long years making his plans. Now it was time to act. He would rebuild Kastel into a world-class winery and distillery.

Miloš? Miloš Kastel? It can’t be true. It is really you? Have you come back from the dead?

Miloš turned to see an old man, leaning heavily on a cane, grizzled, broken, but vaguely familiar.

"Yes, I am Miloš Kastel. I assure you I am not presently in my grave. Do I know you? … Oh, mein Gott, Helmut! Helmut Schneider!"

He grabbed his old friend in a big hug, then stood there looking into the tired eyes of a broken, decrepit old man, barely thirty years old but looking as though he were sixty. What has happened to you, Helmut?

The war happened to me, he said sadly. I was caught in a gas attack in the trenches of Gallipoli. I don’t know what happened after that, but I found myself in a field hospital in Greece, with a crushed arm, and everything broken and hurting. He held up an arm that could not bend at the elbow. They brought me back here, but there is nothing for me anymore. Helmut’s eyes brightened as he looked at his old school friend. I was told that you were killed in Turkey. Seeing you now is the best thing that has happened to me since before the war.

Miloš put his arm around this man who had literally been broken by the war. They had shared a childhood together, but more powerful forces had torn them apart.

Be of good faith, my friend. We are going to come back from the grave, both of us. I promise you. You are not going to need that cane any longer. Where are you living now?

I have a room at old Mrs. Zender’s on River Street. It is enough for me now.

I will see you again soon, Helmut, Miloš promised, holding the man’s hands. Don’t give up hope. I learned that lesson well in the last seven years. Things are now going to get better. Trust me.

He watched his friend leave, bent and battered, barely able to negotiate the crossing away from the yard where Miloš had been sitting. Strangely, the sight didn’t affect Miloš much, because he had seen so many similar scenes in his years of wandering. But meeting Helmut only hardened the resolve that had been forming as he considered the empty shell of a building that had once been his father’s, and his, pride in life.

As he sat there, a cloud appeared, his face becoming stern, his body tensing a bit. It was time for the second visit, time to find his family. Miloš had always walked to work; the three blocks were etched in his memory; he could have walked them blindfolded and not have missed a step. Now those three blocks seemed of marathon distance, an excruciating trek in some ways more difficult than the one that had consumed seven years of his life. This journey, from work to home, had once been the stuff of a young man’s dream, home to a beautiful wife, a lovely daughter and, briefly, a newborn son. It was so long ago. The wife was no longer his; the daughter was certainly away at school; the son he would not know. He had imagined in his tortured dreams running these three blocks as soon as he arrived home, bursting through the door of his home and embracing his wife and children. Now he shuffled, trudged as though his feet carried heavy weights, until he found himself standing before a much worn, but still beautiful house just off of Plotzvin Square. There was nothing to do but knock on the door, a strange feeling, as though he were a visitor in his own home. His face assumed a wry smile. Of course he was a stranger.

Boris answered the door, and knew instantly the man who had knocked.

"Vater?"

I believe I am. And you would be Boris?

Yes sir. Mama has told me much about you, from before I was born. She has been expecting you since she got your telegram. He beckoned Miloš to enter. Please come in, sir.

It made Miloš uncomfortable to be addressed as sir by his own son, but he made no comment, assuming that there would be all manner of uncomfortable feelings today on everyone’s part, especially since he was returning to what was legally his own home. He was especially interested in seeing what sort of man his Olga had chosen once she found out he was dead. Miloš found he was looking forward to uncomfortableness.

Olga heard the conversation in the parlor and walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Boris, who was at the….? Oh! Oh! Miloš, is it really you?

She stood there a moment, her face reddening, her hands trying to find a hold on something, finally clutching her apron. And then she rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck, tears flowing down her cheeks, soft moans wrung from her heart. She clung to him for many seconds, fused to the man with whom she had thought to spend the rest of her life. Then her body went limp as she realized that this man, her Miloš, was no longer her husband, and she released her hold on his neck and backed up a step or two, the tears still flowing.

Hello, my Olga. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you again, to be able to stand here and see you.

We were told you were dead, she fumbled. I was told…They said they found your overcoat, with your name sewn inside. They said you were dead. Miloš, they told me you were dead. She looked at him, a plea in her eyes. How can this be? Where have you been? It has been almost eight years.

If you have a month to listen, my Olga, I will tell you the whole story. I think you will want the short version. But first, please, I would like to meet your husband. He had rehearsed this part, wanting to get it out of the way immediately. I know that you have remarried and I don’t hold any bad feelings. I have truly been dead for you these many years. I would not have expected anything else.

Olga turned to her son. Boris, please go to the studio and ask Konstantin to join us.

Boris bolted out of the room, returning in a few minutes with his blank-faced stepfather, who entered the room with an air that smacked of condescension, if not distain. His eyes locked on Miloš’ and quickly were averted, and the distain immediately moved over to Miloš. I could drive him right out of the room, out of the city, he thought, but for the moment he deferred, completely ignoring the man and turning his attention to his son.

Boris, my son, he said, emphasizing the word, ‘son.’ You have already become a man. You are almost my size. What are they feeding you?"

"Nothing special, sir, uh Vater. Mother says I take after you."

Would you like some tea, Miloš? Olga asked, trying to diffuse the uncomfortable air in the room that had arrived with Konstantin. We have much to discuss. I think you have a long story to tell us.

Yes, that would be very nice. I’ll give you the short version.

CHAPTER TWO

1924

WANDERER

Where do I begin? Miloš said, after he had settled into the one comfortable chair in the house. Olga, Boris and Branca sat on the long table where meals were served, and where Olga usually sat doing her sewing, darning socks and other similar household chores. It was the social table. Konstantin took his chair in the corner.

Start with the coat, Miloš, Olga said quietly, never taking her eyes off of her first husband. Start at the beginning.

Well, as you know, Olga Miloš began, his eyes meeting hers, maintaining contact. "I chose to become an ambulance driver during the Great War, figuring there was less chance to die on the battlefield if I was employed picking up the dead. I was sent with the Italian army into Turkey. Each night they blew a bugle to tell everyone that the fighting was over that day, and both armies would settle back in the muck and smoke their cigarettes and drink their coffee. That is when I went to work, driving my truck out onto the field to find the wounded and take away the dead. There wasn’t much difference between the two because if you were wounded, you would probably soon be dead. One night was particularly grim, and my truck was completely filled with moaning soldiers. I saw another man trying to crawl toward me, but I had no room for him. So I went to comfort him, telling him I would soon be back. I took off my coat to cover him and make him comfortable; it was a cold night. On my way back to the hospital, a squad of Russian soldiers arrived on the scene, firing their rifles and rushing toward the Italian lines, completely ignoring the evening’s cease fire. They are such barbarians! They also ignored my Red Cross insignia, and I was taken prisoner, marched to their camp and thrown face-down into a lorry with about fifty other men. They hit us with their rifle butts. One of them even got on top of the side rail and pissed all over us. We were taken to a holding area and thrown into a fenced yard where we stayed for several days, freezing at night, without any food or water. Many men died then.

"Finally they put us back in the lorries and we were taken to a railroad, again jammed into a car where there was no room even to sit down. We had to stand through the entire journey that would take at least four weeks. I lost track of the days. They gave us a small loaf of bread every morning when they let us out to stretch and take a piss. Otherwise nothing. Finally we arrived in a small village, I think somewhere in Russia. There we were questioned about our homes and families, and asked to sign a paper telling them we were German spies. Of course I didn’t sign such a thing, and they beat me often, trying to make me sign. Finally they took me to a camp where I was given a prisoner’s uniform, and again packed into a small area with hundreds of other men.

Several days later another train arrived, and we were herded into the box cars. This time the journey went on and on, perhaps twenty days, maybe more, and the weather got colder and colder. Someone said that he had read the Czars had camps in Siberia, where they used the prisoners to dig in mines and cut lumber. That is where we went, to Camp 416. I saw the sign on the fence. They chained us together and we walked for days to find that camp. When a man died, they just unchained him and left him for the vultures and dogs. Finally we arrived at the camp, most of us suffering from frostbite. I saw at least ten men die shortly after we arrived. The exhaustion was just too much for them. The rest of us were given a decent meal and told that our job was to cut down the forest and produce lumber for the Czar.

Miloš paused in his narrative, as Olga rose and refilled his mug with tea. Boris and Branca didn’t move a muscle, so absorbed were they in the story their father was telling. Miloš took a sip of the tea and continued.

"There was no hope of escape. We didn’t even know where we were, but we knew it had taken us many weeks to get there. The land went on forever, and it seemed to be completely frozen all of the time. It was the winter of 1917, the most terrible winter I have ever experienced. Even with better clothes and boots, and fires at night, it was impossible to get warm. No wonder the Russians are such animals. There is never time, and certainly not enough warmth, to become human. But we actually got into a work routine if you can believe it. I think when men have lost everything but the desire to keep on living, they can accommodate themselves to anything. That is what we did. We even arrived at a time when I suppose you could say we had a pride in our work, turning out good boards. It didn’t make any sense; they would be used by our persecutors, but it gave us a tiny meaning for our existence. Every night I would put aside a little bit of bread, hide it under a board in our camp. I’m not sure why, but it just seemed that I might need extra food some time.

Then one morning late in the year, he said, shaking his head at the memory, "we woke up, and the guards were all gone. They had taken all of the trucks and simply disappeared, leaving their winter supplies, extra clothes and a large stock of food. And they left the dogs, vicious beasts most of whom we clubbed to death purely out of revenge and hatred. As it turned out, we should have kept some of them, but what did we know?

"There were more than 300 prisoners in the camp, and at first there was not a hint of order among us. We gorged ourselves on what food we could fight for. We tore down buildings to use for firewood. I gradually made friends with eight other men, and we began collecting extra clothes and food, because we knew that we were going to have to get away from the camp, or we would all die there. Some of the prisoners found a stash of vodka one night, and they all got drunk, starting a riot that ended with dozens of men dead, beaten to death by animals really. That was the night we left, nine of us walking south. We didn’t know where we were, didn’t know where we were going. We only knew that we had to go somewhere else. It was certain that those who remained in the camp would be dead within a few days, if not from their own violence, then from starvation. Once they found the vodka, all reason left them; the food would be gone quickly. Each of our group had a duffle bag with extra clothes and as much food as he could carry. Water in this frozen hell would not be a problem. We had made knives and clubs and walking sticks that could also be a weapon of sorts. Nothing more.

"Except for me, all of the men had been soldiers. They had a sense of order, and we readily adjusted the leadership roles among our number. We walked in single file with an advance scout spread out on each side, looking not only for danger, but also for opportunity. Who knew what we would find in this waste of a land? Who could possibly live out here? We were to find out, to our great benefit.

It is amazing to me that people can find a way to live just about anywhere, under any conditions. That is the case in Siberia, a wind-swept icebox of a place, where spring is a blade of grass peeking out for a day before being overwhelmed by summer and fall takes a brief bow before succumbing to an eight-month winter. People actually live there, and because the conditions are so severe, their culture is imbued with great charity. Anyone in need of help gets it instantly and without limit, so far as they are able. Within a few weeks, we were gravely in need of help. What we considered to be sufficient by way of food proved to be hopelessly inadequate, because we had no concept of the distances we had before us. At first, I made a notch on my walking staff for each day we were under way, but I soon realized that we were not going to measure our travels in days, but rather weeks, maybe months. It was obvious that we were going to have to find food if we were to survive. And we found it, supplied by the Ostyaks, the natives of this place, who left bread and a sort of dried pea in boxes alongside the road. We had met some of them during our work in the forests, the reindeer men we called them, always moving about quietly in the distance behind their sleds, pulled by the small and sturdy animals.

What did they look like, father? Boris asked, his chin propped on his hands. Do they really ride reindeer?

They are dark-skinned people, probably because they are always exposed to severe weather. I only saw a couple up close, and they were short, very powerful men, with only their faces showing. They were completely covered by furs. They have wide faces, with flat noses. Their eyes almost pierce you. I would not want to fight with them.

Boris, your father has a long story to tell, Olga said quietly, touching her son’s shoulder. He’ll never finish if you keep stopping him. Go on, Miloš, please.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the Ostyaks. Somehow, the word of our passage was carried from camp to camp, and while we seldom saw anyone, there was always a supply box waiting for us every couple of days. As we moved south, the weather improved a bit, but of course that is a relative improvement," from awful to very bad and ultimately simply to bad. We began to wonder if we would ever again be warm; a yearning that we would shortly find was misplaced.

I had ten weekly notches on my stick when we hit the desert, two and a half months we had been wandering, aimlessly, watching the sun rise on our left and depart on our right. The desert, which we later found to be called Gobi, seemed to stretch unending before us, spanning the horizon from sunrise to sunset, offering no alternative. I suppose we could have turned east and walked around it, but we simply didn’t possess the will to add more steps to our trek, so we filled our water sacks and pushed straight into the sand. For more than half of us, it was a fatal mistake. As the men started dying, despair set in. There seemed no end to the awful waste of sun and sand, as we slogged over dune after dune with nothing alive in sight. After three weeks, there were only four of us left, if you could call us alive. We were hanging by just a thread, our food almost gone, with just a few drops of water between us. We tried sleeping during the day and walking at night, but we were never sure that we weren’t just walking around in circles. None of us knew how to navigate without the sun. One day, I couldn’t tell you when, we were about to just give up and lie down, end it all, when one of the men started pointing, rasping out a sound that was supposed to be a yell. It was a line of camels moving past us, a caravan of merchants. We waved like crazy men, fearing that they wouldn’t see us, but finally the line turned and they moved toward us. We were saved!

Boris and Branca were on the edge of their seats. They both uttered exclamations, firing questions at Miloš.

Who were they? Nomads?

Camels, how wonderful!

Did you ride a camel?

Children! Let your father take a breath, Olga was laughing, as amazed as her children at Miloš’ story.

"In that part of the world, with conditions that can barely be tolerated, the people have raised charity to a law. No one in need is ignored, and we would be no exception. The caravan, Turkomans of some sort, immediately camped, bringing us into their tents, covering our burned faces with a sort of aloe, carefully spooning us water and offering bits of bread. Our means of communication was our dire condition—our bodies told these nomads all they needed to know and they understood. Early the next morning we were underway, each of us strapped on a camel behind its driver. For days we rode across this trackless waste of a land, seeing nothing that could be called a landmark, but the camels just kept plodding along, their stride rhythmic, always the same. I came to love these strange creatures who can tolerate such desolation, seemingly without ever changing. Nor did the Turks seem to mind the heat and the isolation.

Finally we noticed mountains in the distance. They must have been visible for days, but they seemed to pop up all at once. Suddenly they were just there, and we were heading for them. They looked like a solid wall of stone, an unclimbable barrier that would surely block our way, but the caravan never veered from its path. Two days later we reached them, discovering a narrow gorge that opened before us. Gradually we rose until we reached a pass, and we were confronted by a massive wall, human built, an unthinkable barrier that rambled up impossible inclines, disappearing over hills in three directions. It was fortified, with impressive bastions placed every few hundred meters. Of course it was China’s Great Wall. I think we read about it in school, but I never imagined that anything could be so magnificent. Our caravan approached a check-point, a massive portal with heavily armed soldiers on guard, and many more peering down from the wall itself. Our leader called a halt to the line of camels and went ahead by himself, dismounting and taking a sheaf of papers into the arched command post. Before long he returned with a Chinese officer, who walked directly to the camel I was riding and motioned me to dismount. He did the same with my three companions. A squad of soldiers came at a trot and we were escorted, rather rudely, away from the caravan, taken into a small room where we were stripped and left with nothing to do but take a seat on the cold stone floor. There we remained for what seemed like hours, when finally a soldier entered carrying four long robes of something that felt like wool, which he gave us to wear. He beckoned us to follow. We were led to a large room with a pool of steaming water, handed pots of a sticky substance that obviously was soap and told to enter. It took no prodding to get us to accept that luxurious bath, to rub the grime of months, no years, of unhealthy living from our bodies, as well as our souls. I think ten million lice died in that hot bath that night, Miloš laughed, unconsciously scratching his arm. I can think of many pleasures I have known in my life, but none was as exquisite as that hour in a hot Chinese bath. I could have wished to die as I lay there soaking. I don’t believe I will ever again know such pleasure.

Miloš reached for his tea which had become cold during his tale. Olga picked up the cup and went to the kitchen, returning with a steaming cup. For awkward moments, everyone in the room sat there silent, none of them knowing exactly how to carry on the conversation. Boris, feeling the awkwardness of his parents, jumped into the gap.

China! Were you actually in Peking, Father? I think that is where the Great Wall is.

You are exactly right, Boris. It is a city such as we have never seen, couldn’t possibly imagine. But it is getting late and will be dark soon. I think that I have spoken enough. Perhaps I can finish my tale at a later time. I really must be going. I wanted today only to assure you that I have indeed come back from the dead, and am feeling quite alive actually. Olga, I have dreamed I would see you again, and the dream has been fulfilled. And Boris and Branca, I could not have prayed to find you grown so well. But I must be going.

Where will you go, Miloš? Olga asked, looking nervously toward the corner where Konstantin sat. Where will you sleep? You must stay here with us. It has been so long. We can’t just let you walk away.

I will return, Olga, do not worry. But I have left a friend at the station and promised him I would be back before dark, he lied. I will come back in a few days. I have much to do to reclaim my life and want to start the process immediately. I will see you again soon."

With that, he rose, saluted his son and embraced his daughter. He bowed to his former wife, with an intense look of love, and walked out the door. He completely ignored a grim-faced Konstantin who seemed to have disappeared in his dark corner. Once outside, Miloš let out a heavy sigh and headed for the train station, and a small pension he had seen when he arrived.

Tomorrow, he said aloud, I begin to rebuild my fortune.

Miloš Kastel! You’re alive! How is this possible?

Everything is possible, Sergei. Let’s just say I have had the gods with me for a great number of years. How have you been, my friend? How have you fared since the war? You still have a place in the government, so I guess you have done well.

Sergei Divas was a big man, but his sedentary position as a government official had made his bulk soft. A large moustache swept across his wide face, almost overlapping generous sideburns that flowed down his cheeks. He leaned back in his chair, observing this ghost from his past, then rose, holding out his hand. At the last minute he retracted his hand and held out his arms embracing the smaller Miloš. Then he stood back and carefully observed this apparition, wondering how his fortunes were about to change this time. He and Miloš had a long history together, from students in a struggling University of Zagreb before the Great War, to a variety of schemes, some of them legal, that had made successes of both until the Austrians decided to place their trust with the German Kaiser. Sergei chose to make his profession in city government while Miloš, trained by his father, went into what he called the liquor business, a loose description of what could be even more generically labeled merchandising. Simply put, Miloš traded things, just about anything that had a value and could be sold, all under the guise of Kastel Weinerei, based in a large warehouse-factory near the Bahnhof in the center of Zagreb. Through that building passed just about anything that could be traded in Croatia—wine of course, some of it actually quite good, and spirits, mostly vodka, but also contraband of every sort that filtered from the Far East and Arab countries to Western Europe and back. Kastel was known to be the agent you needed for questionable cargo of any sort, and that did not exclude hard narcotics, traffic in concubines, and weapons of all sorts. The minute that Miloš walked into his office this morning, Sergei knew that his personal wealth would be on the rise.

Miloš, I’m not even going to ask you where you have been. I believe you. Have a seat. Let’s talk.

He walked back around his desk and plopped himself into his padded office chair. Miloš brought one of the arm chairs over from the wall.

You have a look in your eye that tells me you have business on your mind, Sergei laughed. What can I do for you? It’s nice to see you again, by the way. Alive even.

I want my factory back.

So what is the problem? Sergei asked, raising a hand to scratch his forehead. It has always been yours. The Austrians only borrowed it until they lost the war. The bricks are still there. The rest is a mess. I think there is still a sign on the wall that calls it ‘Kastel Weinerei.’ I was thinking of stabbing it with a big tax for lack of use and value. I hope you will make it bring in a bit more revenue now that you are home.

Do I need any papers to take it back?

It never left, but I can certainly write up something that confirms your ownership. I assume that would be worth a few bottles of wine or brandy now and then.

It will be worth much more than that, Sergei my friend, Miloš responded, leaning forward conspiratorially, both arms on the official’s desk. I have plans you can’t even imagine. But I will want your help.

You have always had my help, Miloš. You know that. And I can imagine quite a lot.

I want more. I need a couple of years of freedom. Of course I will pay for that.

Nothing has changed, old friend, except that you seem to have more energy than ever. He leaned back with a laugh. Where have you been, building your strength in some Arab’s harem? What do you need from me?

Sergei, I have been to the far ends of the earth, and I have seen lands that are flowing in wealth and choking in people. I want them as my suppliers and my customers. It will take a great deal of money and energy, but I can get money, and as you say, I have the energy, in here. He tapped his chest over his heart. I just don’t want to be bothered at home until I have rebuilt my company. Can I count on you for that?"

Sergei hesitated a moment, coughed once, and looked into Miloš’ eyes. You know there are always problems.

Yes, I know. The world is a scary place right now. Miloš spread both hands as though taking in the world.