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 and dad.”
“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 about 17.”
“17,” Kelly mouths, “Lina killed 17 people?”
“Yes, 17,” I tell her, “that they knew about.”





 






