We all did just that. I couldn’t help myself, though, and I did spare a look at the warehouse. Its windows seemed to mock us all, this little group of international visitors, ready to go in and do good. The building seemed haunted—possessed, even—and I thought of that message again from the Ukrainian APC commander. Bodies alive, not dead. We leave now. We sure as hell do. I’d been spooked when Charlie had talked about the booby traps that could be in that dark building—tripwires and concealed holes in the flooring—and the thought of men with guns and knives, just waiting for us to clamber inside, full of earnestness and good intentions, with them ready to tear us apart, made me want to stand behind Charlie and ask for his help.
But Charlie was busy, his eyes flickering back and forth, looking at the entrance, at the many blackened windows. I got inside our Land Cruiser with Peter and Miriam, and then everybody else was in the other Land Cruisers as well, with Charlie bringing up the rear, being the last one in. Peter was muttering something and his face was mottled red and white, and Miriam seemed to hunker down in the front seat as though she was trying to present a smaller target. All three Land Cruisers backed out of the parking lot, their reverse gears making a high-pitched whining that made my teeth ache, and then the APC backed away as well, all its hatches clamped shut, the turret with the grenade launcher and machine gun moving from side to side like a hunting dog looking for a scent.
CHAPTER SEVEN
From the warehouse we headed north, passing over a small bridge that spanned a swollen river, the water rushing by so fast that little spumes of spray rose up as if a pod of whales had hidden themselves there. After the bridge we passed through another deserted village, the buildings closed and locked, and took refuge at the top of a small hillside park a couple of kilometers away from the warehouse. Here there were a set of picnic tables and a monument to a couple of past wars, plus a white flagpole that wasn’t flying anything.
There was a dirt path that was meant for walkers only, but our group wasn’t in the mood for conforming to such niceties so all four vehicles clambered their way up, led by the APC. It was late afternoon and I felt nervous and strangely tingly and alive when I stepped out of the Land Cruiser. I stripped off my helmet and the protective vest and threw them both back inside the vehicle. Karen said, ‘Don’t you think you should keep that stuff on?’
And I said, ‘If it stays on any longer, I’m going to die of heat stroke, and what’s the point then, right?’
Maybe I was too sharp for her, but I didn’t care. Some pine trees shaded the area of the war monument and Sanjay was leaning against it, cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. The monument had been defaced with black paint and it looked as though someone had taken a hammer and chisel to some of the names, hacking them out. ‘Rewriting history,’ I said to Sanjay. ‘Just like the ancient Egyptians.’
‘Excuse me?’ he asked.
I gestured to the place on the monument where the bronze names had been hacked out. ‘When a Pharaoh passed on, his name—his cartouche—was cut in stone throughout the empire, to symbolize that his memory would last for ever. But sometimes dead pharaohs passed out of favor due to some religious or political struggle. So then their names would be gouged from the stone, to erase the memory that they had even existed.’
Sanjay looked at the stone he was leaning on. ‘So that’s what happened here. Rewrite history, destroy your enemies. They kill the living, bury their bodies, and then obliterate the names of their ancestors from the old stone. This is a blood-drenched country, you know that? Ever notice how many monuments and statues and plaques they have dedicated to their wars? Every village, every crossroad, every marketplace or town square has a monument to death.’ He put his glasses back on. ‘No wonder what happened here took place, with such a bloody people, after the spring bombings.’
I said, ‘Don’t throw stones.’
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
I looked at him calmly. ‘You and I both know the history of your own country, from the 1947 partition on, all the millions dead on both sides, up to and including the present day. There’s a saying: people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.’
Sanjay’s gaze back at me was just as calm. ‘Are you excusing what has happened here?’
‘No, I’m not. Just asking you to adopt some perspective.’
‘Young man, I’m not in the mood for lectures,’ he said.
“I don’t think I’m that young, and I wasn’t offering a lecture.’
‘Yes, you were. I come from a place with thousands of years of proud history, millennia of art and architecture and poetry that still sings to us… and you are from a frozen wasteland that offers hockey and beer. Grow up, why don’t you? And stop lecturing.’
‘Sure. One of these days.’
‘I won’t wait for you,’ Sanjay said dismissively. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, before you start yammering about Kashmir…’
He moved away from the stone and walked down to one of the Land Cruisers, while I looked again at the monument, which had listed the names of the sons and fathers from this village who had fought in the Second World War. I rubbed both hands through my sweaty scalp, thought of the hate and energy that it had taken to do this, to climb up this hill with hammer and chisel and try to obliterate the past because someone’s descendants had done something wrong, like feeding or sheltering some of the many people who had deserted the cities when the power had gone off. With all that had gone on in this country, making this final gesture of destroying the past seemed as dark and as despicable an act as spitting into an open grave.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have raised my voice in defense of the people who lived here, for all I had just accomplished was to piss off a teammate, and that would matter more to me in the long run.
I reached out, touched the sharp edges of the monument, and went back to join the others.
Karen was talking to Peter about the warehouse. She said, ‘We didn’t have to run away like that, like scared rabbits. We had those Ukrainians. We had Charlie. Hell, a call from Jean-Paul to the regional headquarters could have gotten us some back-up. For all we know, that warehouse could have been holding some refugees. A hell of a thing, don’t you think, that we’d be running away from refugees?’
Peter said, ‘Yes, a hell of a thing. Here, want to see another hell of a thing?’
With that, he grabbed her upper arm and roughly pulled her to the rear of the mud-spattered Ukrainian APC, where two of the soldiers—neither of whom spoke English—were gathered around the rear hatchway. Peter pointed out something to her.
‘See? See that?’ he demanded.
Karen broke free from his grasp, strands of her hair falling free from underneath her blue helmet. ‘See what, you jerk?’
‘Look, right there,’ he said. ‘Here and there.’
I saw what Peter was pointing at. Two little dents, pock-holes about the size of the tip of a finger, where the dark green paint had flecked free. The two Ukrainians had fallen silent. Something cold and squishy was now roiling around in my chest.
‘Now do you see it, you silly woman?’ Peter said. ‘Impact sites, from gunshots. The Ukrainians heard them strike just as we were leaving the warehouse. A little farewell message from whoever was in there, in that warehouse you were so eager to search.’
Karen brushed her hair back, looked at me and Peter and the Ukrainians, and then stalked away to a stand of bushes near a metal and concrete barbecue pit. Peter looked at me and said bitterly, ‘Amateurs. Bloody fucking amateurs.’ Then he walked away as well. The Ukrainians started talking among themselves, and I went back to the Land Cruiser that held my rucksack.