Free Baba Dunja's Last Love by Alina Bronsky, Tim Mohr Page B

their presence felt again, a miserable groan sneaks out of me. Very slowly I approach the group. The soldiers look at me. The woman presses Glascha to her chest. Glascha turns and beams at me.
    â€œDrive away, daughter,” I say to the woman in pants. “Take your child to safety.”
    The madness seeps from her eyes and it becomes clear that she is a woman like any other, and you can talk to her normally.
    â€œYou mean,” she peers into my eyes as if she hopes to find the answers to all her questions there, “You mean it’s not too late?”
    â€œIt’s never too late,” I lie. Why does she have to ask me, of all people?
    â€œYou are Baba Dunja, aren’t you?”
    I nod. She sniffles like a little girl, wipes her face, and pulls something small and rectangular out of her pocket. “May I?” she asks, and before I can answer she presses her cheek to mine and takes a photo of us with her portable telephone. Then she takes Glascha by the hand and goes to the car.
    The soldiers call to her and ask what to do about serving the criminal complaint. She waves her hand dismissively. She doesn’t ask about her husband. If she wanted to see him I would have a problem. But she has her child back and just wants to leave. I can only welcome this decision. Glascha puts on her seatbelt in the backseat and looks at me as I lean against a tree because my legs have gotten weak. I try to return her smile.
    â€œLet the woman drive off, comrade soldier,” I say quietly. “But you, please remain here.”
    Only later do I realize what a colossal mistake I’ve made. We should have taken care of the man ourselves. If a dozen lame and infirm people join together, they’d have no trouble making a corpse disappear.
    I do my citizenly duty and take the military police to the garden. I stand aside while they lift the tarp. I can see the balefulness in their faces. They would also have preferred it if I had not enlightened them. There are too many of them for us to strike a deal that they didn’t see anything.
    â€œWho is the mother of the girl anyway?” I quietly ask the youngest of them, a wispy fellow who fidgets with the fluff on his upper lip.
    â€œYou do not want to know,” he answers just as quietly. “But believe me, she will not grieve.”
    That is obvious to me. The ones with grieving looks on their faces are the soldiers. One of them takes photos. Another wraps his arms around himself as if he were freezing. A third shakes his portable phone.
    â€œThere’s no network here. We have to make a call. Where was the mother called from?”
    I take them to Sidorow’s house. They enter without knocking. I wouldn’t do such a thing and I’m practically his fiancee. Sidorow takes no notice of them; he’s snoring on his worn-out ottoman like a sheik. A cable runs from a wall socket to the formerly orange phone, which is sitting on the floor.
    The youngest policeman lifts the device and picks up the handset. He holds it to his ear and then passes it on. Presumably his superior, who looks at me furiously.
    â€œAre you trying to yank my chain, old woman?”
    He is livid and it looks as if he’s going to strike me. But he doesn’t after all. Perhaps the soldiers today are different than those in the past, or perhaps he has an old mother or grandmother at home. The young soldier turns the rotary dial, fascinated.
    â€œI would be very grateful, captain, if you would take the dead man with you. The temperature is high and the vermin are multiplying quickly. We don’t want disease to break out here.”
    â€œAs if you were in a sanatorium here. I don’t drive a hearse, old woman, in case you haven’t noticed. We are going back to Malyschi now.” He smiles. “Expect a visit from our colleagues.”
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    It is this smile that sends me back to a time when my heart seldom beat slower than a hundred beats per