A fateful trip

Photo credit: 
    http://www.mega.nu/ampp/www.tlio.demon.co.uk/mush.gif

This is a fiction about a time when truly fateful events took place. The fiction is open ended as the consequences of those events are...

A fateful trip


Sitting in the black limo with this cold, android like but undeniably handsome stranger, Chris started to question the wisdom of her trip. The traffic was slow and she had plenty of time to rerun the events of the last few days. It all started with a trip she decided on in a whim.


Yes, the trip she expected so much from! The trip that was supposed to clear her father’s name and put an end to her decades-long emotional torment. Was his father really a spy? Was he a man who would have betrayed his country for a fee? Although her father died long ago in a suspicious car accident, these questions weighted on her so heavily, for so long! All her life…


When, as a child they played hide and seek, nobody wanted to hide with her. The children called her the daughter of a traitor. Much later, when she applied for one of the Ivy League universities, they congratulated her for the exceptional personal statement. She got high praise for her colorful language, the elegant simplicity of style and the obvious commitment to her chosen field, corporate law. Then, one of the interviewers asked what she thought about her father's dealings with the Russians at the height of the cold war. When her boyfriend Tod first introduced her to his mother, she quickly managed to bring up her father’s case. "Do you think your father's unfortunate death was really an accident? I know that you were very young then, but the trial made so many headlines those days! They said the Russians would not have made the H-bomb without his help... He must have been such a smart man! But to give all that information to the Russians!?"


Her father's involvement was never really proven nonetheless he was called a traitor in every newspaper, the radio and TV shows of the days.

Only if she knew the truth! All her life, she has been in limbo about the man she barely remembered yet she wanted to look up to so badly. She believed, …no deep inside she was convinced, that her father would not have betrayed his country. She knew that he was the victim of the McCarthy witch-hunt because of his peace activism, …but even if he was guilty! She just wanted know it so that this troubled detail of her life would come to a closure.


And then one day came that phone call. It was placed from Kirkutzk, a small town somewhere in Russia, in a mountain whose name she never heard of, in the Altai. The man who called introduced himself as Vasiljevich and only said this much: "I know about your father and could tell you things that might interest you. If it is important to you, get on a plane and visit me! What we would be discussing can not be done on the phone."


Two days later she arrived to this typical Soviet era town with rows of 4 story concrete apartment buildings and a wide main street where the May 1 marches used to take place. It did have its charm though, thanks to the surrounding gently sloping hills with their thick green forests and a lake that the locals called the "Eye of the sea". Vasiljevich was waiting for her with his capri-yellow Lada, the pride of the Russian automobile industry. They drove right away to Vasiljevich’s small house at the perimeter of the town. The neighborhood was clearly home to the elite of the town with well-maintained houses, clean streets and neatly trimmed gardens.


Vasiljevich showed her into the kitchen, apparently the social hub of the house. There was a basketful of piroshkies on the table freshly baked for the visitor and two empty glasses. “I know Americans don’t like vodka. This is a good wine from my own grapes,” boasted the host as he filled up the glasses. “You’ll see that you like it!” His English was good, with that unmistakable musical, slavish intonation.


“I knew your father” he started, “I followed his trial. I know that he would have received very harsh sentencing had he not died in that accident. … That accident really came as a blessing in disguise for him. I don’t even know if it was really an accident” he mused for a moment.


“I am a father too. My son loves me and respects me as all sons should respect their fathers. I know how heart broken he would be if one day I were condemned for some despicable action. I feel your pain…, that’s why I decided to set the record straight.” He kept a short break again, “…He was not a spy!"


He lifted the glass to his mouth and had a slow sip of wine. He continued in a dreamy way, as he was reliving those old memories. "I was assigned to his case from the KGB and met him several times in the US. True, we tried to recruit him because of his invaluable knowledge of the American nuclear program and his well-publicized disappointment with the strong hawkish influence within the core group. You remember Edward Teller, don’t you?”


He took a deep breath, “I befriended your father and at one point offered him large amount of money for certain information. He became very agitated with me and threatened to give me up to the CIA.” For a moment, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “Of course, we had means to prevent him from going to the CIA and I was not afraid that he would do that. We had documents in our hand, some real, some falsified, that could have put him in a very bad position with the CIA. You understand that in this business one needs to be mean and has to take chances, as I did."


His eyes narrowed and was barely blinking as he dipped deeper and deeper into the past. " Later, I tried to appeal to his peace loving inclination. I told him that one superpower having a devastating weapon without any counterbalance is a danger for World peace, no matter how democratic that superpower is. I tried to convince him that, despite the heavy propaganda otherwise, the Soviet Union needed peace and we wanted to win the Cold War without military confrontation. For this however, we had to be able to show strength to get the Americans’ attention. As I remember, this argument almost worked on him. But, at the end he refused any cooperation with us and I never saw him again.”

He kept a short silence again. “We split up really almost like friends… I had tremendous respect for your father because of his superb mind and his honest desire for peace. But the times were not right for such sentiments in those days.” He looked at Chris, “Of course you must know about Oppenheimer.”


Vasiljevich became silent. He finished all he had to tell to this nervously squinting, petit, middle age woman who came here all the way from America to find out the truth about her father.


“Do you have any documentation of what you just said”, Chris asked him.

“These operations were so secret that when the system change came around, they destroyed  everything ever written about them. Don’t waste your time to search the archives in the Kremlin. Nobody knows about it. My bosses of those days are long dead”.

“Would you be willing to disclose what you just told me to American officials?”

“Chris, I love it here. I am old and traveled enough to last for a life-time. I am not going anywhere from Kirkutzk”

“There are ways to contact you without having to leave town. I probably could arrange for that. Would you do it that way”

“Yes” Vasiljevich said. “I would”.

“Thanks! I will be heading back tomorrow and will contact you about the arrangement”. A moment of silence fell between them, as if both tried to take in the significance of what has been just said.

“Vasiljevich” she broke suddenly the silence, leaning close to the old man and giving him a tight hug that a woman can only give to her child. “You know how grateful I am for you!”


She left town with the early morning bus to the local airport, and a few hours later she was waiting to board the New York flight from the Moscow international airport. Suddenly her cell phone rang and an unfamiliar man, with broken English asked for her. “I am Vasiljevich’s son” he introduced himself. “My father had a heart attack this morning Miss, and now he is in the hospital on a respirator. The doctor’s don’t know if he will make it. You are the one who saw him last..., I thought you may want know.” Chris could barely catch her breath and utter, “I am so sorry for your father."


At the exit gate in JFK a tall, solidly built, handsome man approached her in immaculate three-piece black suite. Although he had no dark sunglasses, she was barely surprised when he pulled out a badge from his pocket and flashed it in front of her face. The three letters on the badge were almost screaming at her: CIA.


"Ms. X, we need to talk to you in an urgent matter, please come with me to the office in downtown." There was no point to protest. They sat into a black limo and the driver started his skillful maneuvering in the afternoon rush hour. As if the man was reading her mind, he said: "Vasiljevich is a person of special interest and we know that you met him. We would appreciate if you could answer a few questions about this visit."


Christine's had was spinning. For a while she could not rein in her swirling thoughts but finally it all cleared up. "Two days ago I was a normal, everyday citizen... then, I decided to visit the only man who could clear my father's name, but he gets a heart attack and may not survive…, the KGB documents supporting his recount are shred and now the CIA is going to interrogate me!" Suddenly, she found the whole situation so bizarrely comical that she broke out in a loud laugh. The man looked at her puzzled. Wiping her tears, she explained: "You know, I am starting to question the wisdom of this trip."

The one thing I hate

Photo credit: http://steelturman.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/kill_tv.JPG

I hate the idea that people hate something. Am I conflicting myself here? Well, I take the blame and use this word for one last time.

The word hate implies utter rejection, irreconcilable aversion, a no turning back footing, a lost chance for understanding or forgiving. It has no reason, no tangible physical appearance, and no constructive energy that would forward any cause. Hate is the springboard for distruction, atrocities, terror, and the historical debris from the down of mankind of the "eye for an eye" mentality. Hate exists only in our head but boy, is it well rooted there…!

As I see it, hate exists in two forms: sensorial and intellectual.

On the subject of “sensorial hate” let me bring up an early childhood memory. In my young age, I used to “hate” carrots in the soup. One day, having been fed up with all the unconsumed carrots piling up on the side of my soup bowl, my daycare teacher made me eat every bit of them. Being obedient as I was, I struggled really hard to swallow the apparently disgusting, overcooked, mushy and tasteless substance. Hard as I tried, within minutes it came back with a violent gush. It covered the table, my fellow tablemates and the teacher’s sparkling white coat with the half digested soup particles that never fulfilled their original purpose of nourishing my rapidly growing body. Did I say I hated cooked carrots?

Well, time has passed, and I changed. One day I noticed that I was not pushing the cooked carrots on the side of the plate any more. No, not because I found it childish, but because I enjoyed eating it. So, what happened to my hatred for cooked carrots!?

I think we can dislike something with different intensity but probably should never feel that we hate it. One day, we might just need to “eat our words”.

As to the “intellectual” hate, I recall my distaste for the Eastern European political system before the changes took place in the 80s. One might say that I hated it there in those days. I was struggling in 1 room sublets, moonlighting just to be able to pay for a few dinners with my girlfriends. I was bickering that I could not see the rest of the world, as I was dying to, because the country had no hard currency to spare for tourism. The organization of society was overly controlling, restrictive, and did not give a real chance to the people to choose their ways. The state socialism heavily manipulated the economy with little attention to basic rules. The leaders, after all, had to look good at the end of every 5-year planning cycle. I think hate is what I may have felt for being cheated, shortchanged and exploited.

Then, I found myself on the polar opposite of that political and economical system. I arrived to the USA. Without getting into too much detail, slowly I started to appreciate some of the good things the socialist system had to offer back in Eastern Europe. Beside the obvious social benefits, people seemed to care about each other. A common goal was almost always on equal footing with individual interests and this provided a certain sense of community. Greed was denounced back there, not considered a “virtue” and a necessity for economical growth as declared, among others, by Rick Newman in his assay “The need for greed”.

So, there went my hate, or perhaps the closest I have ever gotten to it, against an old, discredited political scheme. It mellowed down to a mere dislike. I became a critical viewer of a large-scale social experiment that nonetheless, produced less victims then the settlement of the Americas or the system change in Iraq. Unlike hate, this newly found emotion did not prevent me from noticing and acknowledging certain likeable and desirable features of that defunct piece of modern history.

So, just like with the “sensorial hate”, we also have to be careful with the “intellectual hate”. A person, a view, an action may appear dark or devilish but we always need to leave some wiggle room for the benefit of doubt, room for ourselves to revisit or even reevaluate the subject of our dislike. And hate prevents us from doing that.

The raccoon

Another assignment for my creative writing class..., a tremulous plea against war

Picture credit: http://www.comicvine.com/rocket-raccoon/29-32814/

They drove on a Moonless winter night. It was dark, as winter nights go, but the thick cover of freshly fallen, powdery snow reflected the faint starlight like million miniature diamond chips, making the darkness pale and shadowy. It was bitterly cold. The sky was perfectly clear, as if even the clouds ran for cover from the chill of their lonely heights.

Mick was driving while Loretta, with her eyes closed, was listening to the soft big-band music from the radio. The lights on the dial were flickering and the music was fading in and out as the signal struggled to keep the station alive in this remote part of the countryside. They did not mind the wavering, crackling sound. It gave them a warm, cozy feeling of being connected to something familiar. The lonely road, meandering through the featureless landscape and edged only with an occasional shadowy tree, gave them both an eerie feeling. Had it not been for the distraught phone call from Mick’s hermit-like uncle who lives in the solitude of his 200 acre wilderness, they would have never undertaken this long, torturous drive. Mick came straight from a birthday celebration of an office mate and had a couple of drinks there.

"You really shouldn’t have had those drinks, you knew we would be driving tonight" Loretta suddenly muttered, as she got increasingly uneasy about the narrow, slippery road. Mick knew that the alcohol from the afternoon was long gone but bit his tongue, not wanting to start an argument. Instead, with a touch of anxiety, his eyes stubbornly pierced through the windshield trying to follow the endless curves of the dark road.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a shadow appeared in the headlights. The anti-block brake gave out the typical, ratcheting sound. The car was shaking and skidding as the sophisticated mechanism tried to keep it straight. Then, they heard a dull bang from underneath. When the car finally stopped, not far from the impact, they got out at once. Their knees were shaking. With trembling voice Loretta whispered:

"You killed it…" There was a raccoon, lying in the middle of the road. It was motionless but strangely, no blood trickled from its body and had no visible injury. His elegant, white chest lit up in the dark and the funny, harlequin face almost seemed mocking at them: “You tried, but couldn’t get me!”

Both of them loved animals. Every year they donated $500 to the local animal shelter. Tears always glittered in their eyes when they said good-bye to their greyhound in the kennel. Loretta begged Mick to save him from certain death as he became too old to chase the mechanical rabbit. They never before experienced the trauma of a road kill. The two stared at each other like children who just broke the family’s grandfather clock. Neither of them dared to go closer to the victim of their murderous act. Their rapid breath condensed into thick steam in the cold and formed white frost on their eyebrows.

And then, suddenly a miracle happened. The raccoon stood up and with uncertain, wobbling shuffles, like drunken sailors staggering out from the harbor inn, finished crossing the road. He disappeared in the snow-covered shrubs. Mick and Loretta felt a heavy weight lifting from their chest. With a stunned, but strangely proud smile on his face, Mick put his arms around Loretta’s shivering shoulders and pulled her head to his chest.


They got back in the car and continued their way to the old hermit. The music was over in the radio and the news came on. The report was on the number of casualties that day in the War. It was in the dozens. They went on silently as the world around them was faintly glittering in the star lit untouched snow.

The Window - a barrier and a link... -

Although this is simply a short assay for a writing class, I think that something... hhmm...of general interest perhaps?... transpires from it.

Photography credit: self - Sunset from my window -

The Window


OK, so I have to write something really original and exciting about windows. No, not MS Windows®, the one that single handedly enriched my vocabulary of 4 letter words in the past 15 years and finally led me to the industrial design marvels of Steve Jobs.

Not that window. It is that old, little, witty design that has managed the impossible for millennia: separating two sides of the world while providing a link…, no, rather a portal, between those two worlds. The visual information freely crosses the window, the barrier between me and the outside, without crashes and rebooting, and sets off all kind of sensation in my mind. I hear the chatter of the lark surging toward the sky on the meadow behind our back window; smell the spring flowers as I amaze their sudden appearance in the garden on the first warm spring day; feel the silky smoothness of the brand new, semitransparent, red blouse of the neighbor girl as she passes by my office window on the way for her first rendezvous; taste the Jerry Garcia flavor as I marvel at the ice cream making on a factory tour; hear the hammering of the heavy machinery at the newly erected skeleton of a skyscraper across the street from my hotel room – OK let’s forget about the hammering…-

Yes, the window that manages to separate and connect at the same time with such ease! A simple invention, the caliber of the wheel, that served humanity in so many different ways from the lookout of ancient people to defend themselves to the peephole of the submergible “Trieste” that allowed, for its two… hhmm shall we say lunatic?.. occupants, to preview the deepest underwater point on Earth in the Mariana Trench at 10915 m.The window that makes me wonder what lies behind as I pass by old houses in narrow, windy streets; that makes me pause for its sheer beauty when the window seal is decorated with burning red geranium. There are the stern, grated holes of the penitentiary centers with their sinister look as I drive by them on the highway or the dazzling glass palaces of city downtowns with their grandiose windows mirroring the sky like the ocean on a windless day.

Yes, the window can do all that. But the best it can do is, to separate while connecting. If we could just learn this from the window. If we could just learn to apply this simple principle of being separated yet connected, to the many other aspects of life: living with our next door neighbor, being born with a certain color or gender preference, liking indy music or Teleman, enjoying old black and white American movies or the latest Hollywood action farce, having a certain religion or pursuing a political agenda...,

yes, mostly to religion and politics!

Faint light out of a dark moment

When one says "in my dark moments", it is implied that there are times when the moment is not so dark. Do we really have slices of time when everything is right? Or, more to the point, do such moments exist at all? Do we have reason to feel at ease? Hopeful? Contended? Successful? Reassured?

How did we learn, through times, to ignore what is predictable without fail, i.e. our own demise? Or, aided by "blessed ignorance", have we not learnt yet that the inevitable is lurking at us? Could it be that our conscience did figure out how to live with the knowledge of our ultimate fate!? Then what is the trick that keeps us going? Is it "religion"? Is it the suppressive power of our brain? …An unarticulated hope that at the end somehow it all will turn out well?

If light and dark moments indeed have a reason other than whimsical brain chemistry, is it the subconscious awareness of death that sucks the light out of the moment? Could it be that ultimately ignoring death is what provides the fabric of happiness for us?

Taking it to the extreme, does it really matter if we feel that our life has a purpose or, that perceived purpose is a mere illusion? Could this whole life be simply a random ripple in the great nothingness that eventually will be consumed by the immense spiritual emptiness of the Universe?

These nagging questions and desperate uncertainties comprise the Mystery of life. Could it be that the jealously guarded purpose of our very existence is to find the key to this mystery? Scores of religions, philosophers and scientists have embarked on journeys to find the Rosetta Stone to life’s greatest “unknown”, its purpose; some having claimed success. But in reality life has not yielded: we are beginning to know how we got here but have not been able to scratch the surface of “WHY”?

Or is there even any mystery after all, and not just those elusive ripples in the great nothingness?

Foto credit: http://stcliv.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!3F90140953AD0249!163.entry