Troika by Adam Pelzman Page A

the old Jew. Kira ordered a feast for the table—fish stew, roasted duck, boiled potatoes, carrots, borscht, broiled venison, hot bread drizzled with butter, and a cola for the boy. Julian was mesmerized by the bustle of the restaurant: the streaks of white-coated waiters, the naval officers dining in their dress uniforms, the Party bureaucrats, the merchants, the variety and amount of food, the deference with which Frankmann and, by extension, Julian and Kira were treated.
    “So,” Frankmann started, as Julian devoured a piece of delicious bread, “you need two things.” He turned to Kira. “Take notes, please.” Kira removed from her bag a legal pad and a pen. “You need two things, Julian, and we can work on both of them simultaneously. First, we need a plan to get you to the States.” Julian nodded in agreement, as this was consistent with his mother’s wishes. “And then you need to develop skills. It’s a hornet’s nest over there, you know.And your mother wouldn’t want you fending for yourself without the right tools. Now, the good news is you’ve got strong genes, believe it or not. You have your mother’s good looks. And crafty as hell, she was. And let’s hope you have your father’s best traits.”
    Julian placed the bread on the plate before him. “My father? What were my father’s best traits?”
    Frankmann bellowed, “Your father? I saw him only once, when he came into town with three tigers—the biggest, most beautiful pelts I had ever seen. He’d taken them down in just one week, and word had already spread throughout our town, our
entire region
, that a hunter had done something remarkable. And because he was one of our own, you can imagine the pride. Hundreds lined the street into town, waiting to get a glimpse of the tigers and the man who had hunted them. It was all so dramatic, like you see in an opera, a
German
opera. Your father standing tall with two rifles strapped to his back, a knife on his belt, a bloody shoulder, working the reins of the troika, three horses up front, trotting shoulder to shoulder, the three of them working together, their hooves in perfect harmony and dancing proud like those Lipizzaner stallions. And in the back of the troika, in the carriage, were these colossal cats, brown and white and a brilliant orange.” Frankmann lifted a glass of wine to his lips and drank, not for pleasure, but to lubricate his throat. “Those were tough times around here, still are. The corruption, the poverty, the bureaucrats. The bureaucrats! So cowardly and pathetic, every one of them. And what they did to God . . .” Frankmann paused. He studied the boy’s face. “But when your father rode into town, Julian, that was a moment that gave everyone hope, a little inspiration that they could still strive, that they could do something otherworldly.”
    Julian watched as Frankmann placed the wineglass back down on the table. He cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Frankmann, what were my father’s best traits?”
    Frankmann looked at Julian pityingly. “I just told you, boy. I just told you.” Kira reached over and stroked Julian’s hair. “Kira, please, don’t baby him. We have work to do.” She withdrew her hand and straightened the pad in front of her. “Kira, I want you to go visit Dmitriev at the Family Service Bureau. He’s as corrupt as they come, so no calls or letters. Take two thousand out of the safe and put it in a bag for him. Make sure no one is around when you hand it to him and tell him I need adoption and transport papers for an orphan.” Frankmann eyed Kira as she took detailed notes. “Burn those when you’re finished,” he said.
    “Of course,” replied Kira, having become a master at destroying potentially incriminating documents.
    The waiter arrived and covered the table with food. Frankmann and Kira barely looked at their plates, so immersed were they in the execution of the plan. Frankmann’s ability to focus on the task at hand to the