Lucifer's Tears by James Thompson

tanks, Finland had thirty-two. The USSR attacked with upwards of a million men. Finns slaughtered them, killed five Russians for every Finn and beat them back. Finland signed a peace treaty with the USSR in March, but was at war with them again in 1941.”
    “I’m impressed,” I say.
    He continues. “Finland sided with Germany against the Soviet Union in what is known as the Continuation War. The Finnish hope was that the German invasion of Russia would allow Finland to regain lost areas and to annex some Soviet territory in the realignment after the Germans beat them. When it became clear that Germany would lose, Finland signed another armistice with Moscow. Finland ceded more territory and agreed to drive German troops out of their country. The consequence was the Lapland War.” He asks, “Kari, have I gotten it right?”
    I finish my kossu and chase it with beer. “In every detail. The German scorched-earth policy as they withdrew resulted in the burning down of Kittila, my hometown, among many others. Again we starved, did without even the most basic necessities. If you can imagine, in this snowy country, citizens wore shoes made out of paper. After the end of the Second World War, even though they had invaded us, among other humiliations, we were forced to pay war reparations to Russia. On a visceral level, we’re still pissed off about it.”
    I didn’t realize the people at the table across from us were listening to us. A woman recites a common Finnish sentiment. “Ryssa on aina ryssa, vaikka voissa paistaisi.” A Russian is always a Russian, even if you fry him in butter.
    Kate looks at her watch. “We should leave for the restaurant soon.”
    I nod agreement. I’m certain that she’s thrilled to see her brother and sister, but John is drunk, and Mary seems a touch strange and dour. The family dynamic and vibe are weird. I’m sure Kate is hoping a change in venue will improve them. I signal Mike for the check and ask him to order a taxi for us.

11
    Our taxi stops in front of kamp, alongside an XJ12 Jaguar and a McLaren F1. When the hotel opened in 1887, it was palatial. Over the years, it suffered structural damage, more from wars than anything else, and finally the ballroom dance floor started caving in. In 1966, the original facade had to be torn down and rebuilt. In deference to the part the hotel played-and continues to play-in our cultural heritage, great efforts were made to conserve as much as possible of the original architecture, and it retains its Old World splendor. During the prewar years, our great composer Jean Sibelius threw parties here that sometimes raged for days. In recent years, among other notables, Vladimir Putin and Jacques Chirac have been guests.
    We exit the taxi. On the sidewalk, in front of the grayish-green marble entrance, the frigid wind is strong and drives snow into our faces. The doorman wears a traditional top hat and red jacket. He offers a slight bow and deferential greeting, in keeping with Kate’s status as general manager.
    “Good evening, Sami,” she says. The hotel has a huge staff, but Kate has learned each and every one of their names. I’m terrible with names and can’t imagine how she did it.
    Inside, we pass down a long run of carpet, through a second set of doors and into a large lobby. Its rotunda, supported by massive marble pillars, is dominated by a magnificent chandelier. John turns in a circle. “Damn, Kate,” he says. “Quite a place you’re running here.”
    The hotel screams wealth. The mosaic floors-also marble-art and elegant furnishings seem more to John’s taste than our local bar. “Thank you,” Kate says. “I’m proud of it.”
    The receptionists, concierge and bellhops also offer Kate smiles and quiet greetings. Again, she calls them all by name, a distinctly un-Finnish habit, and asks how their evenings are going. It’s evident that they like her, and equally so that she’s comfortable here. This pleases me to no end. The