“Ladies and Gentlemen, honored veterans and heroes! Today we make a special presentation to a local hero of the Red Army who we have not forgotten! It is my privilege to present the next medal of appreciation to a man who did not fight in the war against the Germans but who, from his laboratory here in Nizhniy Novgorod worked tirelessly to preserve the mother land from the western imperialists. For his work and accomplishments in the important field of military aviation, we present this posthumous medal to Ivan Sergeyevich S. Mr. S. died late last year while in the line of duty in Tajikistan doing his part to protect mother Russia from terrorists. Here to accept this medal on behalf of his father, is his son Igor Ivanovich S.” A polite applause came up from the crowd. My jaw dropped as I watched Mr. P. accept the highest honor the Russian army could give to a civilian, in the place of his father, for his work in advancing the supremacy of Soviet military aviation.
Taken completely off guard by the obscene spectacle of Mr. P. receiving his father’s award I didn’t notice until it was too late that somebody had snatched my bag from between my feet and was hurrying away behind me, pushing spectators violently out of his way. Without thinking, without considering who it was and why that bag was the target of the thief running away through the crowd, I gave chase.
Getting to the edge of the crowd I watched the bag snatcher sprint away from festivities and run up an alleyway just past the Pedagogical school and toward Sverdlov Park. As I chased him up the alleyway through the series of small parking lots behind the school buildings I watched him disappear around several different corners, and then turned that corner just in time to see him turn the next corner. As we reached the open areas of the city park in front of the Conservatory we both broke into a full sprint again. On that open ground running between the trees, my legs and lungs started to burn. I thought for a split moment to give up. Then, imagining who be reading the contents of that bag if I gave up, a shot of adrenaline went to my heart and muscles. I started gaining on the punk. When he was four yards ahead of me I could feel him coming back to me as he was also tiring. We crossed from the grass and uneven ground onto paving stones as we were nearing the Piskunova street entrance to the park. I could hear his heavy breathing in front of me. I was reaching my arm out to grab his collar or sleeve. As he turned the corner of the Conservatory and bounded up a small stairway of five steps I was just a step behind him. I saw the open street just in front of us. If I could just stretch! As I reached, his collar in my grasp, I was dropped to the pavement with a violent fall, skidding and rolling a good distance before coming to a stop. My legs were still churning I was doubled over on my side, eyes bulging with my lungs spasming without breath. I could not see or perceive what I had run into or what had hit me. I tried desperately to breathe, gasping without result for breath. I thought for those seconds that I was going to die. Then, as quickly as it left, air flowed back into my lungs with raspy gasps. I would live! Who was that standing over me?
Another sharp blow was landed on my lower back causing me to scream in pain. My back arched reflexively with that blow exposing my belly and chest to another blow by a foot to my gut. After what seemed fifteen minutes but was only fifteen seconds, my attacker crouched down and pressed the temple of my head with what felt like cold metal held in his left hand. A pistol. I could smell the gun metal. In his right hand a metal baton club, the kind the real riot police use was laid across his squatting lap. I could now see his bright white trainers.
“If you try to follow us again, I will kill you. Understand that, you stupid Yankee?!” he muttered to me in a put-on sophisticated meanness, as if he’d watched too many television shows of hitmen who kill for fun.
With that, he gave me another kick to the gut, but it landed on my arms and hands that were instinctively folded in for protection as I lay doubled over. I watched his white shoes step over me and yell to his brother in crime “Poshlee!” or “We’re out a’ here!” and I listened to their fleeing footsteps turn an unseen corner and then they were gone, vanishing in the back alleys of the old city.
I laid still there at the corner of the Conservatory building alone. Breathing normally but with some pain still, I pulled myself up into a sitting position against the wall and started to survey the damage. My palms and knuckles on both hands were skinned and bleeding, one pant leg ripped open at the knee, and the left sleeve of my jacket was ripped and stained with blood. My shoes were scuffed but intact. I took a deep breath and exhaled and looked around me to see if anybody had been witness to the assault and threats. The park was empty and the trees shielding any view from bedroom windows four and five stories high across the street. I was on my own. I got to my feet and walked out toward Piskunova Street and sat down on a bench and rubbed my knees aching from the impact with concrete. I held my left side where the initial blow from the baton had first knocked me down. Deep breaths made me wince. I worried my ribs on that side had been broken. I didn’t dare look under my shirt. I sat still and closed my eyes and took several slow deep breaths to see if the sharp pains would subside.
With my notes and research materials now stolen and, I could only assume, in the hands of a criminal who decidedly would use violence to reach his objectives, I felt the ill-boding of fate descend on me. In a way, I was relieved. Maybe now this would all end. If they were going to kill me, if that had been their design they could very well have beaten me further there in the secluded park. Would this escalate if they read and understood my articles and notes? I could only hope now that Mr. P. or his operatives couldn’t read English well enough nor discern my short hand writing to understand how far, or how close I was to what I had just learned about Mr. P’s father. Perhaps what eluded me in those flow charts and diagrams would be obvious to somebody with the missing piece of knowledge. Maybe they would just burn everything. Maybe they would still come after me. I had a distinct feeling that this was not yet over. I resolved to get to the Sannings’ place for some first aid and to tell Del about what I had learned about Mr. P’s father, Mr. P’s real family name and to ask for their help to get me out of Nizhniy as quickly as possible. Everything was now out in the open. The dance of masks had turned violent, and I needed to leave the party.
I limped and shuffled from Piskunova street to Bolshaya Pecherskaya where I waited for the tram to come past instead of walking a painful five blocks to Frunze street. Crossing Minin street on foot after a short ride on the street car I looked around to make sure there were no black Volgas or black Ladas or armed thugs wearing white trainers still following me. I continued around the back of the building to the parking lots and entrance to the building. By the last stairwell entrance, I noticed with a panic and shock two police cars keeping guard, backed up against the cinderblock wall. I did my best to walk calmly towards the entrance door but my approach triggered two policemen to step out of the cars and stand behind the open car doors, hands on their weapons. I stopped and held up my hands at chest level to show I had nothing. I was carrying nothing. One guard told me to stand still. I obeyed. They came close to ask my business and my name. They looked over my bloody hands and ripped clothes and growing blood stain at my elbow.
“Did you have an accident?” one asked me gruffly.
“No, I was robbed and threatened with a gun,” I admitted.
“Do you want to make a report? Do you know who it was?” the other officer interrogated.