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See chapter one for ratings, summary, and disclaimers. Chapter 11 Pavel was gone. He had been dragged from the cellar some time ago, yelling and fighting. Toby had tried to follow, but he was pushed roughly back down the steps. When they finally came for him, he had pleaded with men for the whereabouts of the young Russian, but no one answered. He was merely pushed forward, men jabbing him in the back with their rifles until they could lift him into the waiting truck. The arguing stopped, and Toby held his breath. Arms grabbed him roughly and pulled him from the truck. He was unceremoniously deposited on the road. The dirt and gravel stung his face as he rolled over onto his back. A man kicked him in his side and he doubled up, groaning in pain. He waited for the sound of orders, the sound of a rifle, but nothing came. A man pushed him onto his stomach, and pulled at his ropes. He lay still, waiting. Then the truck started, and Toby understood that they were going to run him over. He struggled to move to the side of the road, he rolled and bucked, but he couldn't sense which direction was safety. The wheels of the trucks spun in the loose gravel and he was showered with pebbles. Then the motor gunned again and the truck was moving. It took a few moments for Toby to understand that the truck was moving away and not toward him. Slowly the noise of the large vehicle diminished and then it disappeared. Toby lay there quietly and listened. There were sounds of neither man nor machinery. There were only the sounds he could hear was that of the wind on a cold winter night. He waited, sure that this was yet another cruel Slavic joke, sure that they would return with their crazy laughs and cocked rifles. The silent night continued. He began to pull at the ropes that bound his arms. He was surprised to find that they loosened under his efforts. He fumbled and struggled until his stiff arms were free, and then he pulled furiously at his bandana. He blinked wildly as his eyes adjusted to the light that the moon offered the land. He sat alone in the middle of a dirt road. All he could see around him were the barren hills and lonely trees of a Russian steppe. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, his muscles stiff and bruised from many days of abuse and neglect. Around him, he could see no signs of life. He wanted to move, to find a way to Grozny, but he had no direction, nothing to guide him. He stayed like this for several minutes, standing in the middle of the road, confused and lost. Slowly, he realized that his only real option was to begin traveling in the direction opposite of the tracks left by the truck. He began to move haltingly along the dirt road, favoring his throbbing side, unsure of what was over the next hill. His heart ached as he thought about the lives he was leaving behind, the young, innocent people who were being tortured for convoluted political gain. He had fought for them and lost. Now he was limping away in defeat. Behind him, a voice rang out, a shout. He wheeled around, searching for the guerillas with their rifles, but he could only make out a lone figure illuminated by the moon atop the hill over which the truck had disappeared. The figure was waving madly at him and shouting. Toby squinted and strained to hear the man. The man started running toward him, shouting wildly. Suddenly, Toby could make out his name being called in a familiar Russian accent. "Pavel!" he screamed hoarsely. The young man jumped up and down in response, and continued running in his direction. Toby let out a yell, and stood, waiting for him as the Russian stumbled down the gravel road. More movement happened at the top of the hill, and Toby's breath caught. There were more people, and they were running as well. They were chasing Pavel down the hill. "Soldiers!" Toby screamed. He watched in panic as the figures chased the young man. "Soldiers!" Pavel stopped and looked at him with a confused look on his face. He turned to wait for the approaching figures. Then something amazing happened. The figures who were so threatening, so reminiscent of the horrors they had just left, became smaller and less menacing as they approached. Toby began to make out the forms of young people, females. Young girls had joined Pavel and were walking resolutely alongside him toward Toby. Toby swallowed hard, and let a single sob escape. Then he stood in awe, in the middle of a dirt road in Chechnya, unable to move, as his soccer girls surrounded him, cheering loudly and hugging him. ******************************************************** Jerome sat on a bench inside the National Gallery. Around him, the great marble columns raised high as if to the heavens, and the hallways echoed loudly with each footstep. He had been there for some time, long enough, in fact, for the security guards to back off and leave him alone. Despite the fact he had grown up in New York City, a place that was home to many sights of awe and wonder, there was something about the grandeur of places like the Smithsonian and the Capital buildings that left him breathless. A woman in the gift shop told him that the most of the exhibits in the Smithsonian belonged to the American people. For a while, he had strolled the hallways as if surveying all that he owned, feeling a sense of wonder he had never before experienced. Jerome wasn't naïve. There was no room for an emotion like that in the projects he grew up in. More than most young people, he understands that the United States did not live up to its promise of equality and opportunity to all. Yet the potential for such an ideal gripped him. The idea that people like Charlie Young worked so hard for something that often only existed in their heads was intriguing. It suggested to him that these were people of hope, people of fierce determination. He understood people like this, surviving a childhood in Harlem required such qualities. His sister, Jeanita, had finally shown up the day before. She had used up all the per diem given to her by the White House, and she looked exhausted. He had no idea how she had spent the entire week. All she wanted to do was gather him up and get back on a train to New York. Instead of being relieved at the idea of returning to a world he understood, Jerome was resistant. He was finally able to admit that there was something here in Washington holding him. He wasn't ready to go home yet. However, Jeanita wasn't interested in whatever epiphany he was having. Her only interest was getting both of them onto the evening train. When arguing with her proved fruitless, Jerome had gone over a small catch space behind the radiator, and pulled out the rest of the per diem he had been saving. A kid like Jerome knew how to eat on ten dollars a day. He had been amassing quite a small fortune in the time he had been in DC. He handed it over, and within five minutes, Jeanita disappeared again in the city. Now Jerome had to figure out what was keeping him here in DC. Charlie had taken opportunities to check on him throughout the week. On Friday, before he had left for the weekend, Charlie had given him a small notebook. He told him to start writing down some of his thoughts and feelings, his experiences. He told him to write as though he would be able to talk to the cigarette companies themselves. Jerome had been struggling with this assignment. So far, the notebook was filled with nothing more than unfinished sentences and words that were crossed out furiously. Impatiently, he tapped his pencil against the smooth marble of the bench. The guard at the information desk looked up from his newspaper and flashed Jerome an annoyed look. Jerome stopped, his pencil in mid air. Attracting the attention of security was the last thing he needed right now. Frustrated, he buried his head in his hands and tried to think of a way to express himself clearly. The only writing he had ever done much of had been letters. He had written a lot of letters. When his mother had gone into the hospital, he had written her every day. His grandmother would carry the letters every morning when she left for the hospital. Jerome had liked the idea that she could see his words over and over during the day while he was at school. Jerome thought about those letters. Charlie had told him to write as if he was talking to the cigarette companies themselves. Maybe this was a way. He knew how to write a letter. He would write to them and tell them about his life, about how their cigarettes had consumed his mother.
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