names uknown

I had made a small score of new friends at the concert that I played at Divan. Mostly, they took the shape of a list of names in my phone, people who I only vaguely remembered or forgot altogether. We sat down at the bar at Divan, about to meet a couple of the girls that we had met the night before. The bartender said an enthusiastic hello, turning to Daria, calling her “the girl who paid.” “What's that about?” I asked.

“I kept paying for all my drinks. And I bought you a beer too, don't you remember?”

“Oh,” I said, smiling. “Not really.”

As I sat at the bar with Daria, sipping on our beers, though still our heads were fogged over by our vast inebriations the night before, I scrolled through the phone. “Do you know Ivan?”

“No,” she said.

“Sandra?”

“Nope.”

“Misha?”

“No.”

The list of names continued. Occasionally she might nod her head yes or tell me that I was quite the player the other night. Not that my playing amounted to anything, since most of the night I simply sat on my chair, with my accordion on my lap, twirling around my glass of whiskey while the people in the armchair next to me kept changing. Only one person had occupied my attention then, which was a dark haired girl sitting next to Oleg. I believe it was the layout of her crooked nose and her dark inset eyes that had peaked my interest in talking to her.

“Do you remember that girl you got the rejection from?” Daria asked. “The one sitting next to Oleg while he played the guitar?”

“I got rejected?” I asked her. “Oh, yes.” She was getting up to go so I had quickly intercepted her. But I had nothing really to say, except “Do you have Facebook or vKontakte?” We hadn't said one word to each other the entire night and for some reason I had expected her to give me her contact information. Come to think of it, I don't even think I had asked her her name.

She paused, looked at me and replied, “Uh, no.” Then she squeezed in-between me and the table and went along her way.

We were at the bar that day because of something one of the girls had said to me. She had mentioned a possible teaching job in her village the night before at the party. She had told me that the university at her village was always looking for native speaking language teachers, since most foreigners weren't interested in going into some small village in Ukraine. But I had survived the Georgian countryside for two years, why not one year or so in a Ukrainian countryside? When we were at the end of our conversation, I told her, “Let's do it. Find out from your dean what's possible, then get back to me. Meanwhile, I've got to go back to America, come back and then meet up with an old Peace Corps buddy in L'vov. Sound good? Maybe I can stop by your town on my way.”

The next day, before I had to leave back to the United States, Daria and I decided to hang out again. To appease my weird, historical and grotesque interests, we decided to go to the World War II museum at Victory Park in Kiev. What drew me to the museum was that there was said to be a glove made from human skin there. The glove was designed by Madame Koch, a cousin of the father of the Koch brothers of current corporate fame. She was well known for designing a whole wardrobe from human skin – and I was well known for taking interest in things like this. I did, after all, make it a point to see the ossuary in Kutna Hoara in the Czech Republic, and found myself held in fascination standing below the bone chandelier. 

We made our way across the snow covered plaza of Victory Park, which was lined with heroic Soviet soldiers, carved into positions as though they were eternally soldiering across mine covered, artillery shelled fields, rising from their downtrodden past to reach great glories above the Nazi defeat. Triumphant Soviet music blared out from loudspeakers and as we cleared the weird, faux-rock outcroppings that formed a bridge over us, we saw the Mat Rodini, the Mother of the Motherland, standing over us, holding up her hands in a great “V”, with one hand wielding a sword and the other holding a shield, emblazoned with the hammer and sickle. The plaza opened out, with the Mat Rodini on the right hand side and two “peace tanks” on the left hand side. The peace tanks were an old Soviet T-34 crossing barrels with a Nazi Panzer. Both tanks were covered in bright, pastel paints with flowers stenciled across them. 

Victory Park before the snow

The World War II museum was at the base of the Mat Rodini. Inside it there were four levels, each level with thematic collections of artifacts of from the World War II period. I assume the curators had a great deal more material to work from, but had chosen what they could find to stick with themes and effects. Ukraine was one of the countries that suffered as the true brunt of the European theater, war being waged across its countryside for almost the entire duration of the war. Ukraine witnessed brutal Soviet oppression, Nazi-sponsored and free rebellions against the Soviets, brutal Nazi occupation with mass arrests and purges that grew worse than was known under the Soviet period, Soviet sponsored and free rebellions against the Nazis and finally, a return to brutal Soviet oppression. World War II, as one can easily see from my short, concise and authoritative recounting, was not a happy period for the Ukrainians. There was no happy beginning, middle or end. 

We raced through the musuem. Daria had an English class to teach. She had the advantageous setup of being a Ukrainian who grew up in the United States and who owned a flat in Kiev, passed on to her by her family. Now she taught English and art to sustain herself, while she figured out something to do to burgeon her art career. But until then, it was English classes. We related on that subject. We nearly ran across the first floor, looking at war passports and anti-tank defenses and mines, then on to the Nazi uniforms and Mausers, on up to more classy looking Soviet gear that were clearly direct inspirations of the Hugo Boss designed Nazi uniforms.

When we finished the museum, Daria saw I was dismayed. “We can ask them where the glove of human skin is?” she told me, trying to raise my spirits.

“No, I think that would be an awkward question anyway. Maybe lots of Americans come in asking for it. 'Effing Americans!' they probably say behind them, 'always coming for the Nazi-glove.' No, I'll just ask someone who's seen it. My friend's coming in anyway, after I get back, he'll know where it is. He's the one who told me about it anyway.'”

“You sure? I could just skip the class.”

“No, you shouldn't skip a class over a Nazi-glove,” I said, resigned. I would miss out on the Nazi-glove that day, but it wouldn't keep me from my future adventures.