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Subject: {ASSM} The Russian Girl ( Part 17 ) By Katzmarek (Nosex)
Date: Tue, 18 Mar 2003 03:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "The Russian Girl17.doc" begin>
The Russian Girl 17
By Katzmarek
On day 27 Lina miscarries. I get the call that same afternoon.
It's all the more poignant, or ironic, because Sophia is sure
she's pregnant. I've learnt not to disagree with her because she
has a 99% intuitive hit rate.
'1 out of 3 fetuses abort,' I tell Lina, 'it's a natural process.
It was probably non-viable.' She heard that speech before, of
course, from the hospital counselor, but only women, I think, can
really understand the sense of loss.
Sophia even talks to her. Despite the jealousies she harbours,
there is an instant empathy, one woman to another. It's all out
of my loop.
Instead, I focus on work. I almost have to restart the business
from scratch because a number of contracts are running badly
behind time. The only way to do it is to shoot them back to back,
soap opera style. That means 13,14 hour days until the camera
work is finished.
They are not used to working that way over here. This is still
Union country and lots of rules around hours of work, meal breaks
and time off.
My biggest asset is my crew, who are very loyal to me. All I need
to do was explain what a jam I was in for them to all agree to
help me out. I am overcome with gratitude for these guys because
they could have easily sunk the whole enterprise.
I figure it's partly to do with the respect the US film industry
has over here. They treat me like I'm a Scorsese or a Spielburg.
Ironically it was European producers and directors that sustained
Hollywood in the first place. Still, it remains the goal of many
in the German industry to eventually work on some US
blockbuster.
Sophia is flying the Frankfurt, Berlin, Munich route, thrice a
week. She figures she'll take a pee test on day 14. Very
organised, these Krauts.
Am I a Kraut? I've asked that question a number of times. I have
a European Union passport with 'Deutchland' printed on it, bank
with 'Hessenvolksbank,' drive an Audi and relax with a bottle of
'St Pauli Girl' or 'Becks.' I've just given up smoking 'Pruessien
Liechte, das aristokratische rauchen' according to the packet.
(Translation: Prussian Lights, the aristocratic smoke.) Above
all, I'm married to a German, Austrian actually but who cares?
And have a German daughter.
But there's something of California that still clings to me. Like
'you can take the boy out of America but you can't take America
out of the boy'. I have retained a certain brashness,
extravagance perhaps, which is not really part of the German
character.
Today I was downtown when I passed the US consulate. I stopped
and stared at the Stars and Stripes fluttering in the limp breeze
and I'll be damned if I didn't have a little tear in my eye
afterwards. Never one for patriotism before I was surprised at
the emotions I felt. I don't feel that for the German Tricolour.
Perhaps in time...
I go to collect Sophia from the airport. Not the 'Europort
Frankfurt' but a cargo field called the 'Osterfeld, Hessenport'.
I watch her 'Lockheed Tri-cargo' taxi towards the terminal apron.
It's dark and everything is aglow with flood lights and rotating
amber hazard beacons. It disguises the size of the aircraft. It
will be some time after the big jet engines wind down that Sophia
will appear through the 'flight staff only' doors. She'll have to
debrief and file the flight, aircraft and engine logs. Through
her I'm becoming something of an expert in Commercial Flying
Protocols.
She appears, finally, and I give her a toot. She smiles and walks
towards the car, her lovely figure undisguised by her uniform.
"Hi," she says, getting in the car, "this is a surprise. I didn't
think you could get away."
"I just wanted to see you," I reply.
"You did," she answers, "is everything alright... Bella?"
"She's fine, still at Tante Lotties. I'm feeling a little
emotional, that's all."
"Really! Why?"
"I don't know," I say reaching for her. " I've just been feeling
strange lately. Kiss me?"
As we kiss I gently part her lips and push in with my tongue. It
soon becomes passionate.
"Wow," she says later, " I think you'd better take me home."
Later we are lying in bed after making love. The sex was good, as
always, but it's getting mechanical. We know each other's
responses so well it's like pushing a series of buttons in the
right sequence. 'Two minutes on the right nipple, two on the
left. A little licking and then it's time for the main course.'
"What is the matter, Eric?" Sophia asks suddenly. "I feel you're
not 'with us' anymore."
"Just thinking," I tell her.
"You're going back, aren't you?" she says.
"Um... maybe... I need a break... I want to see my mom anddad."
"Well, I have some time off at the end of summer..."
"I was thinking of sooner, Sophia."
"You weren't talking about 'us' were you?"
"No," I answer dejectedly.
"Is this anything to do with Lina?"
"No, not at all. I'm just a bit homesick, that's all."
"Are... are you coming back?" Sophia asks miserably.
"Of course," I answer as confidently as I can.
"You were always a hopeless liar, Eric," she replies, barely
audible.
5 days later I'm standing in the concourse of the Europort
terminal. Sophia has Bella on her hip, her eyes are red. The
call,
'Announcing that flight Lufthansa 634 to New York and Los Angeles
is ready for boarding...' in several languages echoes through the
Tannoys.
"Call me when you get to LA, yes?" Sophia says.
"Of course, I'll call every day," I try to reassure her.
"Are you going to kiss Bella?" she asks.
"Yes... come to papa... there... look after mama..."
'Damn! Women sure know how to hit men's emotions,' I'm thinking
as I plant the obligatory kiss on Bella's cheek.
Later, the Airbus is somewhere over the Atlantic. I reply to the
cabin crew's queries in my now easy and fluent German. It catches
the eye of my neighbor, an overweight, 50ish, bespectacled guy
wearing a ridiculous cowboy hat. He reminds me of John Bauer.
"Say, you speakee English?" he asks. I nod, but instantly I knew
it was a big mistake.
"Y'know? I like you Krauts but I'm damned if I'll forgive you for
what you've done to us. Youse and those Frenchies." I should have
seen it coming.
I nod and smile the way foreigners do when they're confronted
with some bore and don't want to get into a fight.
"You know, my daddy shot down plenty of you folks back in dubya
dubya two."
'Oh fuck off,' I say to myself.
"Say Sal'," he says to the equally large woman next to him, "This
guy's a Kraut."
"Well, we're on a German plane, Elmo," she tells him.
'Elmo and Sal', 'classic'.' I almost burst out laughing.
Sal' leans across and says in that deliberate way one speaks to a
child.
"Hello sir. I want to apologize for my husband's rudeness. We are
the Ridges from Galveston Texas in the US of A."
"Please to meet you," I say in my best American. "I'm Eric from
Los Angeles California."
"Damn!" Elmo says in astonishment, "he's American!"
"Ahm sure sorry 'bout our misunderstanding," Elmo goes on. "Sal'
and I are just comin' back from holiday. Our first, y'know, never
bin out of the country, 'cept 'nam of course. Say! You bin
holidaying?"
"No," I explain, "I'm going on holiday, to see my folks. I live
in Germany."
"Thatso," he says, " whatdaya do back there?"
"I own a small film company, making promotional and training
videos."
"Y'don't say! Well you certainly got the lingo."
"Not hard," I explain, "when you've got a German mother, a German
wife and live there for three years."
"Guess not! Say, you ever miss home?"
"Yes," I admit, " I sure do!"
Actually Elmo and Sal' turn out to be quite good company. Elmo
has a sack-full of jokes that he shares with the row. His loud,
rollicking manner causes quite a buzz of amusement. I decide the
couple is harmless and good-natured, providing you don't mention
the war.
As we near New York, however, Elmo has taken on quite a cargo of
good 'sour-mash' and he is looking a bit red faced. Despite Sal's
attention his voice is rising and he's becoming more boisterous.
I never could figure how the airlines can complain about unruly
passengers after priming them with alcohol throughout the
flight.
"Damn the Ayrabs," he says, "I tellya, the 82nd 'll clean those
bastards up. That guy Saddam'll wish he'd never took us on,
nosiree."
"Elmo, quieten down, you're too loud," Sal' says.
"Good ol' 'screamin' eagles' yessiree."
"Shut up! Elmo!"
Sal' looks at me desperately. I figure I should do something
before the cabin crew 'cuff him and turn him over to the FBI.
"Say Elmo, were you a 'screaming eagle'?" I ask.
"Yessir, you too?" He replies.
"No sir. My granddad was a paratrooper," I tell him.
"Thasso, what the 101?"
"5th Fallschirmjagerdivision, in Italy."
"Ho," he said, "Course he's a Kraut innee. Damn mighty soldiers
them Krauts, my daddy said so. 391st Fighter Squadron, 8th AF, he
was. 'P51's and 47's, great man my daddy..." and so he rambles
on, but at least the crisis has passed.
Coming in over New York I see the hole in the skyline and decide
to stay for a day or two. I rebook on United and call to tell my
dad. He surprisingly understands.
"You take your time, son. This is not the place you left
Gregorovitch, I think we all have changed. You must understand
this," he tells me on the phone.
So I'm standing at ground zero and I can't reason why. It's just
something I had to do. There's a group of people standing
staring, some with tears in there eyes, others praying. It's all
a bit much for me and I head back to the hotel and call Sophia.
"Eric, are you ok?" she asks.
"Fine, I'm still in New York."
"Why, you missed your flight?"
"No. I went to the Trade Center."
"Why?" she asks.
"I don't know," I tell her.
I figure if she had to ask 'why' she'd never understand the
answer.
Immigration would only grant me a 6-month visa. Apparently some
terrorists came from German towns and I get the 'once over'. I
look a little dark, I guess. 'I must be from the Middle East.'
I'm happy to be heading to LA in the finish. We descend through
the brown smudge and it looks so familiar. My dad is waiting at
the terminal and we hug each other tightly. I sure miss them.
Well things might have changed but it sure looks like business as
usual to me. LA looks like the old LA. I don't know what I
expected to see, cops everywhere? The army? No, just folks doing
what they always do.
We arrive in Anaheim and, after lunch, I go for a wander around
the local mall. Strangely, in a few minutes I bump into Lina's
old friend Kelly. She's back from Ohio to visit her folks. She
gives me a hug and we go for a soda.
"How's Lina?" She asks. I guess she's heard the news so I give
her an update.
"Doing okay. She's still in Karlsruhe convalescing."
"I heard about her shooting that gang. It didn't seem the Lina I
knew, what really happened?" Kelly asks.
I tell her the real story.
"My god!" Kelly reels in shock, "poor Lina... I...I never
dreamed..." she runs out of words.
"She has the face of an innocent," I say, "but hell! Inside she's
as tough as tungsten steel."
"I guess," Kelly replies.
"You know the story," I went on, "about her friend Anya in Russia
and Lina's rape when she was 12 or so?"
"Sure," she replies, "So?"
"Well I have a hunch that her rapist, that guy called the Fox,
didn't die naturally."
"Oh, then who...?"
"I think Anya and Lina got him."
"You're kidding! Maybe you're not... In light of what you told me
I wouldn't be surprised."
"And I think there were others..." I tell Kelly. "Anya's father
was in the military, he served in Afghanistan and came home
somewhat the worse for wear."
"How do you know?" Kelly asks.
"A cop in Germany did some digging, he knew some people in St
Petersburg and cut through the red tape."
"And?"
"And his little Anya could shoot fleas off a dog at 50 paces,
before she could walk. Her dad shot himself when Anya was 5 or 6
and she absconded from an orphanage a year later."
"When she was 6 or 7?"
"Yes, and she had her dad's service pistol, at least that's what
the Russian Police think."
"So Lina and her went around shooting..." Kelly says, shocked.
"Shooting anyone who abused the girls, apparently. A real
vigilante squad."
"My god..."
"And Lina was the instigator. She had blood debts to settle after
all. She got Anya to show her how to use a weapon and she
practiced near the alley where they lived."
"The Police knew?" Kelly asks.
"Ah that's where things get foggy. They knew and did nothing. My
cop friend, a guy called Kammhuber, could not find out why."
"Perhaps they figured they had a few less criminals to arrest
with Lina around," Kelly says with a wry grin.
"Perhaps. Kammhuber was told they think the score was about17."
"17," Kelly mouths, "Lina killed 17 people?"
"Yes, 17," I tell her, "that they knew about."
<1st attachment end>
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