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Chapter 8 B

Posted on Wednesday, 4 August 1999

"Now, where did I leave off at?"

"Vladimir had just gotten a job as a architect."

"Vladimir and Zoya continued to live in the basement of your home. They could have afforded to move from it and into a place of their own, but Zoya had other plans. In the letter I allowed your friend to copy and send you, Vladimir explained it well. They were saving to build the house he had designed for Zoya for her twenty-eighth birthday."

"I have that plan with me."

"Good, let's go over it after I finish the story. I have always wanted to know what it looked like.

"Jane, they were happy, but there was one area in their lives that felt very empty. In only one of her letters did Zoya confess this to me; She desperately wanted for them to have a child of their own. Zoya's monthly menstruation was often extremely painful and she had wondered if there might be something wrong with her that kept her from conceiving. She said that Vladimir asked her to go to the doctor so that her mind could be put to rest as to why she was not getting pregnant, but Zoya was afraid she would hear the doctor say that they would never have children. She stressed to me that Vladimir had told her time and time again that if they never had children he would not feel as if he missed out on anything being with her. But Zoya wanted him to be a father as much as she wanted to have a baby to care for.

She eventually did go to the doctor and she heard exactly what she thought she would. Zoya would never have children. For months she lived with the difficult news, and there were days when she was very blue because of it. Then a miracle happened: Zoya conceived.

"You are making fun of me!" Zoya accused with a smile on her face.

"I am not." Defending himself poorly, Vladimir laughed out his words. "Have I ever made fun of my beautiful wife before?"

"Yes, you have! Vladimir Oleksei, you are wretched example of what a good husband should be, and I am going to have to teach you a lesson."

Getting exactly what he hoped for, he prepared himself for the surprise she had up her sleeve.

"What weapon will you use, Love? Your words to cut me down, or perhaps your foot to kick me on the bottom? What about your lips to steal my breath away?" His eyes lit up after the last sentence left his mouth.

"You only wish I was inclined to be so lenient." Zoya narrowed her eyes at the man still in bed on Sunday morning. "I choose my fingers."

"Your fingers…" was all he was able to get out before she pounced on him and began to tickle his ribs. Vladimir laughed and laughed, pretending to struggle while his wife felt superior in her strength. Then in the blink of an eye, he switched places with her and pinned her hands against the mattress.

"Now, my dear, I am going to tickle you unless you say the words again."

"I will not! It is ridiculous. Remove yourself right this instant, Sir."

"Say it…" he warned playfully.

"Very well!" Only because she had thought of a way to turn the situation to her advantage, Zoya conceded. "Peter Piper picked a pick of…"

"It's 'peck', Love. Peter Piper picked a 'peck' of."

"Pick." She shook her head, grinned, and told a small fib. "Vlad, I cannot pronounce that word properly. Will you show me how?"

"Peck." He repeated a few inches from her face. "Did you catch it that time?"

"No."

Vladimir placed his lips atop hers and said the word over and over until it developed in to a deep kiss leaving the language lesson forgotten.

"Vlad," Zoya whispered through her smiling, "could you hand me your shirt? I don't want the fairies watching."

Laughing, he removed his shirt and put it over the headboard.

The timing was absolutely perfect and out of love a baby was created.

Jane knew what was coming next, because this was the part of the story she had dreamed so many times before. She had questions that she had never been able to piece together, but the longer Olga spoke the surer Jane was that they would be answered. With a nervousness she could not account for, Jane waited with baited breath for her ears to confirm to her what she already knew.

"Most of what I am about to tell you comes second hand from Mr. and Mrs. Moore. You will understand once the circumstances are revealed. In the early hours on April 16th of '34, Vladimir awakened the Moores. He yelled up to the second floor that Zoya was in trouble and needed medical attention right away. The Moores rushed out of bed; Mr. Moore called the hospital and ordered an ambulance, while Mrs. Moore ran to the basement. Jane…it was already too late. Zoya was dead."

Olga ran her hand over the arm of the divan as she talked about the letter she had received from Mrs. Moore informing her that her sister-in-law had passed away. Olga had cried for days after the news was delivered, not realizing that Zoya and her baby weren't the only ones lost to her on April 16th.

"The coroner gave her reason for death due to internal bleeding caused by an ectopic pregnancy and her heart stopping. Mrs. Moore sent word to me, and in her letter there were details that I still find hard to understand. She said that on the day before she died, Zoya was unusually quiet all day and by two in the afternoon she needed to go rest. She stayed in bed for the rest of the night and Vlad joined her at his usual time. After the ambulance took Zoya away, Mrs. Moore went into the bathroom Vladimir and Zoya used. In the waste can she found several rags with both fresh and dried blood on them. We…she believes that Zoya knew early on that she had lost the baby and didn't tell anyone." Olga shook her head and said the next words with barely concealed exasperation.

"She wanted that baby so badly. Of all the times for her damn Russian stubbornness to come out, Zoya picked this time. If she had told someone, Vladimir would have taken her to the hospital and there is a possibility she would have survived. I really can't say for certain because medicine is so much more exact these days than compared to 1934, but at least she would have had a chance.

My brother did not handle her death well. No, that really doesn't explain what happened to Vladimir. He fell apart and never recuperated."

"Mr. Oleksei, can you hear me?" Thomas Moore knelt his large frame down to the floor to look into the eyes of the younger man who had lain prostrate on his bed for the past three days. His eyes were open, but he did not use them to see. If it were not for the rise and fall of his chest, Thomas Moore would have sworn he was dead.

"Vladimir?" With more force, he said his name again. "You can see me?"

"Yes, Mr. Moore." Was answered through cracked lips. He had not taken any food or water in some time.

"Son, we need to talk. I think we should go take care of Zoya." Thomas Moore kept his voice quiet but confident.

The funeral home had been calling repeatedly about something needing to be done with the body. Zoya's remains could not wait indefinitely until her husband felt ready to make some sort of decision about a service and final resting-place. The Moores had already gone down and picked out a casket, but they could not bury her without Vladimir's permission.

Mr. Moore received no acknowledgment to his suggestion.

"I could drive you down to where Zoya is and we could check on her. Vladimir, we need to go." It had been the suggestion of the Funeral Director that Mr. Moore find a way to get the grieving husband to the body. Believing that if he witnessed for himself the state the deceased was in, he might be more apt to take the next step and follow through on the burial process.

The words 'check on her' were churned over and over in Vladimir's frail mind as a narrative from his childhood sprang to life. Agitated, he lifted his head from her pillow.

"Mr. Moore! I have heard stories of people who were believed to be dead, but were not. Terrible stories where some were buried alive. My grandmother told me of a true account about a man who scratched at the lid of his coffin for two days before someone finally heard him." Vladimir sat up in bed. His words were tumbling out of his mouth.

"You are right!" he continued. "We must go to her and check for ourselves. She could very well be in a deep sleep or a coma and no one would notice. I will not have her buried alive. Poor Zoya, I should have stayed with her–I should not have let them take her away. I told them she was still alive!"

Shocked, Mr. Moore bit the inside of his cheek and nodded his head in agreement while forcing the pity he felt for the man down. He had not the heart to tell him that Zoya had been embalmed two days before. Knowing that this may very well be the only way to get Vladimir down to the funeral home, he choked out a response.

"You need to get cleaned up. Take your shower and change your clothes. I will bring the car out from the garage."

"But the time! I do not even know how long she has been there. What if they hurt her before we can get down there?" Panic had set in as his bereavement robbed him of all common sense.

"I will call the funeral home right now and tell them that we are on our way and that we want to see your wife. It will only take a few minutes for you to get your self presentable."

"Tell them not to touch her!" Desperate, Vladimir grabbed his arm.

"I will." Thomas Moore had never felt so guilty in all his life. "Go, clean yourself up. I will be waiting outside. We must make a good impression."

While Vladimir was pulling clothes out of his dresser, Mr. Moore went up to the main floor to inform his wife about where they were going. He found her in the kitchen staring at a crystal serving plate that had half of a cake Zoya had baked for her on the morning before she died.

Mrs. Moore heard her husband's footsteps and turned to him with tears running down her face.

"She made this special for me because she knew how much I liked it. I can't eat it, yet I can't bring myself to throw it away. It was the last favor she ever…"

Mr. Moore put his arms around his wife as she sobbed onto his shoulder. He, too, had tears, but they were not allowed to be shown at this time. The task he had before him was going to be difficult, and Thomas Moore doubted that he had the strength to get Vladimir to a point where he would concede his wife's death and allow her to rest in peace.

"Vladimir has agreed to go to the funeral home, but he does not believe she is dead."

"Oh, Thomas. That poor man."

"It will be fine." He reassured as he patted her back. "It will be fine."

Jane leaned in toward Olga. She had to ask.

"What became of Vladimir? Surely he adjusted after a while and went on with his life. Am I correct?"

"No, Jane, you are not correct. I assume in some ways he did continue to live, but not an existence that he was capable of. All I have from the time Zoya died to the end of my brother's life are a few short letters from him and Mrs. Moore. She kept in touch with Vladimir after he moved out of their house, although at times it was difficult for her to do so. Vladimir moved around a lot, but he kept his job at the firm for the first two years.

"Mr. Oleksei's office is at the end of the hall." A pretty young woman said from behind her desk.

"Thank you." Mrs. Moore walked down the carpeted hall to the tiny office at the end. She knocked on the door and an emotionless voice told her to enter.

"Hello, Vladimir." She raised her hand which contained a letter in it.

"Mrs. Moore." He answered in half-voice.

"I have brought another…" Mrs. Moore's eyes started to follow a path of sketches taped to the wall while she clinched the letter from his sister. Although she knew nothing about architecture, Mrs. Moore was sure these creations could not have come out of a balanced man. They were tall and gray, with sharp corners and peaks. Sketched in only black lead, the gloomy buildings held a gothic quality that made her uncomfortable to look at, yet she could not turn away from them. They touched a part of her imagination she did not know existed–the dark side most people would not admit they had within.

Vladimir sat with his eyes focused on nothing and the only movement out of him was an occasional blink as he waited for her to finish her inspection. He was being neither timid nor unaffected and his face did not give away any emotion he might be experiencing. Being much thinner than the last time Mrs. Moore had stopped by, the new crop of gray hair stood out as being bold for a man as young as Vladimir was. He was aging faster than time could keep up.

"I am sorry." Mrs. Moore joined him at his drafting table. "I have a letter for you from Zoya."

Realizing her error immediately, Mrs. Moore began to apologize profusely. "Olga, dear. I meant to say Olga."

The only surprise he showed was by his eyes widening a little.

"It is fine, Mrs. Moore." He mumbled out while his heart pounded against his chest. This was the first time in over a year he had heard her name said aloud by anyone other than himself. "Do not concern yourself."

"Because he allowed his grief to consume him, Vladimir forfeited the life he was destined to have, although…" Olga had to pause after she realized that she had skipped over some vital information. "We must go back to Zoya's funeral and work our way out from there. Yes, this is the way I want to tell it.

"The service for my sister-in-law was small. Vladimir and Zoya did not mix much with company, preferring to keep to themselves. Among the mourners was a woman Zoya had developed a friendship with, a Mrs. Olgivanna Wright. She was the wife of Architect Frank Lloyd Wright, the man who designed your home. Her husband had brought her to the funeral, but Vladimir did not see them. Mrs. Moore told me that my brother stood off to the side by himself and would not allow anyone near him. It was during the Lord's Prayer that he just walked away, although the service was not over. He did not stay to see them lower his wife into the ground.

"Apparently, Olgivanna Wright had a soft spot in her heart for Zoya and had been keeping tabs on the couple after meeting Zoya and seeing the work Vladimir was capable of. Mrs. Moore believes that it was with Mrs. Wright's intervention that Vladimir was offered an interview with his firm, but he had to earn the position on his own. This is something that I have no proof of, so consider it hearsay.

"A month after Zoya's passing, Vladimir returned to work and turned his back on his original style. He began to pour his sorrow onto the paper before him and the results were harsh and unforgiving.

"He just sent his letters directly to the house at that point. Vladimir no longer cared and simply wanted to die, but he would not take his own life. I think he secretly wished Vabka to come after him to do the dirty work he could not do himself. For as much as Vladimir was finished living, he would not risk missing Zoya by landing himself in Hell. He knew that if there was a Heaven, she was there waiting for him, and any self-inflicted harm he would do to himself to release his spirit from his body would earn him the punishment of being separated from her for all eternity.

"So he waited for death to come knocking.

"The depression he was living in completely took over around the second anniversary of Zoya's passing, and one day Vladimir decided to stop showing up for work. Mrs. Moore wrote that the owner of the firm called often looking for him and several messages were left for him to return to the firm. His work had been noticed and people were coming into the business asking for Vladimir by name. Notoriety was his for the taking and the measure of success he had always dreamed of had finally been reached. They wanted Vladimir Oleksei to design their buildings, they wanted his name on the plans, but they also wanted the Vladimir that could not get himself out of bed for days on end.

"I tried to get him to come back home to Poland, but he would not leave Zoya alone in America, so I began working on a way for me to get to him. I ran into roadblock after roadblock until I had no choice but to abandon my goal. America was making it close to impossible for any immigrant to enter her borders. The country was still suffering economically and they did not have enough work for the citizens as it was. Even foreigners who were willing to sign papers stating that they would not seek employment during their stay were being turned away, and eventually I gave up. It was also during this time that Hitler to the east was pumping the German people full of national pride and building his country back to where it was before the defeat of World War I. As a union, we Poles knew trouble was brewing and we put into motion our own plans to defend our land from an inevitable invasion. I had to turn my focus to my own people and away from my brother. There was little choice in the matter.

"In June of '37 Vladimir stopped by the Moores to see if I had sent him any letters. Mrs. Moore's description of his state I will not repeat, because I do not want to think of it. All I will say is that she did not recognize him at first as he stood at her door.

"She gave him my letters, the phone messages from the firm who was still calling after a year's absence, and a book. The book was written about a man named Edgar Cayce, a spiritual healer and visionary from Virginia Beach who held some extraordinary gifts that went past most people ability to comprehend. He saw life, spirituality, and our existence differently than the general populace. I own several books written on the man myself and can tell you that Edgar Cayce was no fraud. He was not out for fame or glory, but was a simple man with little education who loved God and wanted us to understand that we were God's children, therefore we have the power within us to overcome anything.

"Vladimir read the book and gained from it the strength he needed to fully see what he had done to himself. He had allowed Grief to rule him, he had dishonored Zoya's memory by refusing to move on with his life alone, and he had in fact been committing a slow suicide by denying his body the proper nutrition, care, and self-love it needed to sustain him. He began to listen to his spirit instead of his mind and his spirit told him that all was not lost.

"He called the firm he had worked at and was invited back to work, which he did a week after his visit with Mrs. Moore. He wasn't wholly healed but had taken the steps forward that were necessary for his recovery.

"Here is where my story takes a tragic twist. In Vladimir's attempt to begin living again, what he actually found was the means to end his life. A secretary at his work place came in one day while suffering from the flu and Vladimir was exposed. He had only been there for a week when it occurred and was not strong enough to bear it.

Vladimir lay in a pool of his own sweat. The fever he had contracted from unknown origin had ravaged his body and mind to a point where even if he did recover, there was no chance of his being able to function as he once had. The years of neglect he had forced upon himself left him without the capacity to fight off the illness, and his resolve to live life as Zoya would have wanted came too late.

With what was left of his ability to perceive he listened as the ticking of a clock marked each passing second.

Vladimir Oleksei's eyes opened for the last time and the final imprint left on his central nervous system was that of a young Russian woman he had loved before.

"Zoya? What are you doing here? Are you a dream?"

"No, Vladimir." Zoya turned her head as her eyes surveyed the room he was in. It was bleak, barren and dirty, but she outwardly showed no sign of scorn because none was felt. "I do not think this is a good place for you to be anymore."

"Are you real?" He asked, praying with all his heart she would say yes.

"As real as you. Come." In a fluid motion as graceful as an angel her hand was extended in his direction and when he took hold of it, Vladimir was convinced that she was indeed as real as he was. "You, Love, are too good for this world."

"I cannot, because I am unworthy. I have forsaken the trust you had in me." Regretful tears rolled down his pale cheeks as he clung to her hand with all the strength he could muster. "I did not try to get over you."

"All was forgiven before it even happened. I love you, Vladimir Oleksei." Her free hand caressed away his tears. "You are the better half of me. Let us go home. There is a place prepared for us."

The sensation of lightness energized his body, and he felt well and whole like he had not…Vladimir could not remember the last time. The serenity she emitted enveloped him until he was filled with an overwhelming sense of unconditional love. Slowly he rose from the bed to stand next to her, drinking in the vision before him. Zoya's eyes never appeared so blue, and the color of her hair shimmered in hues not of this earth. It was a beauty no words could describe and it left him speechless. With the emotions of a man, Vladimir lowered his lips to the same level as hers.

"Do not fear the light…" she whispered before their lips met in a kiss that would take them through the falling fairy dust and onto the other side of the veil.

As it had been time and time before, they were together once more.

"My brother died on July 8th of '37."

"No! No, that cannot be correct!" Jane jumped out of her seat and started to pace the living room floor. Evidence of tears shed stained her fair skin, and she was visibly shaken by what she had just heard.

"Olga, you must tell me that you are mistaken. Say that Vladimir lived out the time between their respective deaths better than that. That he was able to move past her and live out the dream he had before they even met." Jane turned her face from the old woman and paused for a moment before revealing more than she had ever intended.

"How could he have just wasted his talent like that? Let alone his life? I just know Charles knew more than he told me. He has got to stop trying to protect me so much!"

"How would your husband know of their story? Is it written out somewhere?"

"No, he has dreamed it since he was a child just like me." Jane didn't realize that she had just given away her secret. "And he would never go into detail about Vladimir's life, instead giving me some weak line about him being heartbroken. I have no idea why he never told me what really happened. I want to know why Vladimir gave up so easily!"

"Maybe you should ask your husband." Olga's statement stopped Jane's angry rant and when she looked at Olga, she saw calm determination. Olga pointed her finger to where Jane had been sitting and waited while she sat herself back down.

"Now Jane, it is once again your turn. Tell me everything you know from your and your husband's dreams. Do not omit one thing."

Regretting that she had just exposed herself through her outburst, but knowing Olga would not let her leave the house without being satisfied, Jane gave her the details she ordered.

Olga listened intently as small bits of information she had never heard were released during Jane's explanation. The fairy bed, the pain Zoya was in when she finally woke Vladimir during her miscarriage, and the intense love they had were laid out before her. Jane didn't hold one expression back, including the more intimate moments from her dreams. Everything was told and when Jane's voice fell silent, Olga knew she had Zoya sitting on the divan next to her. But she did not confess her belief at this time. There was still more information to share and more proof to gather.

"Jane, would you like to hear the end of my story? It does not stop with the death of my brother."

"Would you please? What have we forgotten?"

"General Vabka."

"Oh." Jane ran her hands over her face. She was tired due to the jet lag and her crying, and a headache was coming on but she wanted to hear the end.

Enigmas Solved.

Posted on Thursday, 5 August 1999

"If you are under the impression the General Vabka gave up his search for Zoya, you are mistaken. But the government he served held so many restrictions over their people that he was handicapped in his endeavor.

"If you know your Polish history like I think you should, you'll recall that on September 1st of '39 Poland was invaded. The Germans and Russians waged war on us, each ripping through our countryside leaving behind a wake of dead and captured Polish soldiers and citizens. We never stood a chance against them, but we fought them with everything we had. Warsaw was divided between the two and the occupation began.

Two men stood facing each other, although only one held the advantage of not being bound by handcuffs and legcuffs.

On the right was a worn and battered General of the Polish Army. His uniform was torn and dirty, and his face was shadowed by several days' growth of beard. To his left was a General of the Soviet Army in his pressed uniform and perfectly-starched white shirt. This was the man with the advantage.

"We meet again, Kukowski. Only this time you cannot remove me from your country, because your country now belongs to mine."

"Go to Hell, Vabka. You're nothing but a filthy butcher."

Without a change of expression, General Vabka unsnapped the holster attached to his belt and removed his pistol.

"You have a pretty little daughter. Correct?"

General Kukowski flinched. Already well aware that he was not going to leave this room alive, he had no intention of answering any of Vabka's questions. But, his family was a different matter. How would he be able to protect them once he was dead?

"I have also been informed that your wife is not all that bad considering she is Polish."

Still receiving no response, although he hardly expected one, Vabka cocked the barrel.

"You know you're going to die. Answer my question to my satisfaction and I may or may not grant your family…life."

"They are under Nazi occupation. You have no rights over there."

A smile almost appeared on General Vabka's face.

"The Nazi's," he shook his head. "They are nothing. I assure you that they will not hold Warsaw or the Eastern-half for long. Soon all of Poland will all be under Soviet control. This you count on. The Nazi's will not stop me.

"Here is what I want to know." Vabka closed his right eye and aimed his gun at the General's heart.

General Kukowski could not betray his country, not even for his beloved family. For to do so would be to doom them even worse than they already were. With only seconds before Vabka's question would be presented, he prayed for their safety and prepared himself for the likely queries dealing with strategy or location that would come.

"Where is my wife?"

Of all the possible last questions Vabka could have asked, he wanted to know where his wife was?

"That woman?"

Vabka's featured hardened and he repeated his question.

"Where is my wife?"

"I have never seen your wife in my life! She was not at my residence when you came there all those years ago, and I do not even know the people who sent you to me. I have no idea where…"

General Kukowski fell to the floor in a heap.

"Wrong answer."

"I am not completely sure of the next date, but on what I believe was September 29th or 30th, I had a visit from General Vabka. You must understand the audacity behind this action; the city was in shambles, buildings were burning, complete chaos on the streets, and the dead and wounded were being tallied. Yet, General Vabka comes to my house with three other men looking for Zoya.

I will not pretend that I was brave after they came bursting through the door, because I wasn't. They started searching the house immediately while the General stood over me without saying a single word. This was the first time I had ever met him in person, and he was a very intimidating man. Tall and dark, he had hard features and a weathered face a person would not easily forget. What I found so strange was that he didn't ask me one question as his men worked. General Vabka just stood there with his arms crossed over his chest and waited.

It was over an hour before one of the men brought him the box I kept Vladimir's letters in. He ordered his men to wait outside and pulled a chair up to sit on so he was face to face with me. I do not know what was going through his mind at this time, because he showed nothing, but I did notice that he didn't make an attempt to read any of the letters until only he and I were alone in the house.

"Where is Zoya Vabka?"

"She died in America in '34." Olga gave him the truth although she was uncertain if he believed her or not.

"Where is Vladimir Oleksei?"

"My brother died in America in '37."

"And you expect me to…"

"Their death certificates are in a large envelope in the back of the box you hold in your hands." Olga did not know that the General was a man not accustomed to being interrupted, but he made no effort to punish her for her error. Had she been a comrade of his, she would have been on the floor so fast that she certainly would have never done it again.

General Vabka had no time to waste on discipline at the moment. He went through the letters until locating the envelope she told him about. After opening and reading over the official documents, he set them aside and began to sort through the letters starting at the back of the box. Olga had them in chronological order and he was reading from the section containing letters Vladimir had sent after Zoya's death. Curiosity on the subject must have been satisfied because his fingers next removed an envelope from the center of the box and he opened it.

…because of the distance, I take the train into Chicago every day. She packs my lunch for me and I quote, "I do not want you eating out in restaurants downtown, Vlad. What they serve is slop, and I require that you maintain a healthy stomach." Needless to say, she packs my luncheon meal along with Mr. Moore's every morning and sends us off like school children. One day I asked Mr. Moore if his associates gather around him when he unpacks his meal at noontime to see what treats were sent with him and he laughed. It seems as if he has had some of her cookies snitched from his desk when he wasn't looking before.

She is an original, and at times I cannot believe she loves me as much as she does. Never worry over me, dearest sister, I am in good hands.

The box of letters fell from his lap without notice, while Vabka came to terms with what he had just read. Zoya was playing 'wife' to another man, making him happy, watching out for his health, giving him her attention, while he was forced to sit alone each night in a dark house waiting for word on her whereabouts.

It was not right. Zoya was HIS wife. He found her first, not Oleksei. Vabka was the one who took her away from the two-bedroom apartment she was living in with her parents and gave her the life of a Military wife. He clothed her, fed her, taught her about duties. Zoya was what she was because of him, and that damn Pole stole her away after the training was complete!

"He read their death certificates and a few letters. Then he left."

"Wait, he left?" Jane couldn't believe it was that easy.

"Yes. He took with him the certificates, issued me the threat that if they were falsified, he would be back to serve justice, and I never saw him again. But, there is still more to the General's story.

"A few weeks after he came to me, rumors began to travel the streets of Warsaw. There was a Russian General in the vicinity that was responsible for the massacre of hundreds, perhaps over a thousand Polish men. He was known to round up civilians in broad daylight and take them away to a destination right outside of the city limits. There they were shot without cause. Eyewitness accounts were gruesome with details, and when the rumor reached my ears, I knew of whom they spoke. General Vabka. About a month after the shootings started they abruptly ended. Comrade Stalin had called his most vile henchman back home where he could keep an eye on him, and a trail of dead marked the route he took back to Moscow."

"Olga, this is becoming too much." Jane was shaking her head not wanting to believe what she had just heard. "I need you to tell me that he was punished for his crimes. Even if it is a lie, I want you to say that he was put on trial for what he did, and hung. Anything!"

"Jane, calm down and let me finish."

"I don't know if I can hear anymore. This is too painful. I have never heard a sadder story in my life. There is too much injustice in it."

"Look at me," reaching over to the coffee table, Olga removed a few tissues and handed them to Jane. She understood the young woman's shock and at one time she had cried the same tears. "Settle yourself and I will finish up as quickly as I can, but I will not lie to you. I haven't done so up to this point, and I won't start now.

"As much as I wish I could tell you that General Vabka suffered for his crimes against my people, he did not. After the war there was an investigation, but the finger pointing between the Nazi's and Russians made it impossible for any true evidence to be uncovered, and Vabka was never charged. He was not the first man to get away with what he had done. War is hell and in Hell there is no justice. Ask the ethnic Albanians, or the Bosnians, or the Vietnamese, or the Ethiopians. Sometimes there is no fair play and we must find a way to live with that fact. Until mankind learns from the lessons of the past, this cycle will continue.

"But, if this makes you feel any better, back in '49 I heard that General Vabka was shot by one of his own men while sleeping in his bed. I am not certain if this account is true or not, but my source was reliable. Maybe you can find a little of the justice you desire in that?"

"They all lived so tragically."

"You are only looking at their situation from the outside and are missing the real message of their lives. Let us view Vladimir and Zoya from another angle.

"We have two people who defied the odds and found the one person who would love them without conditions. Together they faced the perils life threw at them and defeated them as one. They made their way out of Russia, through Europe, and to America against the odds and with great sacrifice. They lived in Brooklyn at one of the worst possible times and survived it. Oak Park was their haven and there they thrived.

"When one would fall, the other was there to help them up, and this was how they led their life together. As one. It is a terrible shame that they died so young, but the time they had was fuller than most people would ever experience. The bond between my brother and his wife was forged from trust, companionship, and the deepest of love. How many others do you know of who can claim that? How many people go through their lives without a taste of perfect harmony with another? I know of no others who can compare.

"In my heart I do not believe Vladimir could have survived to old age without her. She was his soul mate, and half of a soul cannot be a good thing. Once they had found each other and recognized what they had, living separately was no longer a possibility."

Both women were silent while they contemplated the words just spoken.

"Jane," Olga said just above a whisper. "Have you found your Vladimir again?"

Confused and overwhelmed, Jane wasn't sure how to answer the old woman's inquiry.

"Oh, Saint Olga," she sighed, "I don't know what to say."

In the ninety years that Olga had been on the Earth, there was only one person who ever used that phrase when addressing her, and that person was Zoya. She now had her proof. Reaching down into one of the boxes she had brought from the attic, Olga removed an old, tattered photo and handed it to Jane.

"Do you recog…"

"It's the man from my dreams. It's Vladimir! You have a picture of him." She voiced softly as tears of joy now fell from her eyes. "He was so handsome and good. And brave."

"Yes, he was. I only wish I had one of you, too."

"Olga, " Jane asked without looking up from the picture. "Are these things possible?"

"You tell me."

"I know the man in this picture so well, and yet… I can't tell you what his middle name was, or his exact height, or what he liked to eat for breakfast, but I know him. It's more of a feeling that his picture gives me. When you told me what happened to him after his wife died, I felt ill having that knowledge. I wanted better for him."

"You still haven't answered my question, Jane. Have you found your Vladimir?"

Jane turned her head and looked slyly over at Olga.

"You haven't answered mine either about this being possible."

"You first, Jane."

"Yes. I have found my Vladimir, and I married him. Legally!" Jane grinned. "If you could spend ten minutes with Charles, you would understand. He's wonderful, and I love him more than should be possible."

"You seemed pretty angry with him earlier."

"Well, I think I was upset over Vladimir and took it out on Charles. I can't say for certain that Charles knows more than he told me. He isn't a person to lie, but he does watch out for me a little too much sometimes. He acts from his heart."

"It is better to be loved like that than ignored."

"I agree. Now, it is your turn. Is this possible?"

"I cannot offer you absolute proof, but I can tell you what I have learned over the years. Jane, my common sense tells me that 'yes' this is possible. I have probably spent too many hours in discussion with the old men down at the corner café on this subject, but in my opinion it is the people who believe that you only have 'one chance' who are incorrect. Their theories make no sense to me. They claim that God is fair and just, yet life is not that way. No, I think we need several lifetimes to get it right. Did you get it right this time, Jane?"

"Pretty close, Olga." Smiling, Jane took hold of the woman's hands and held them in her own.

"So, our story has a happy ending after all, doesn't it?"

"It hasn't ended yet. I think we deserve a very happy ending this time."

"Would you like a tour of the house? Afterwards we can make some luncheon and laugh? My kitchen hasn't heard enough laughter lately."

3:15 p.m.

A knock at the door had awaked Olga from her snooze in the living room and she went to answer it. Jane was resting upstairs after having taken some aspirin for the headache she had, and Olga didn't want her disturbed.

Turning the deadbolt first, she unlocked the doorknob and opened the door. On the other side was a younger man of about thirty. He was tall and youthful appearing, with the most luscious blond curls she had ever laid eyes on. His smile came easily and it reached deep into his cornflower blue eyes. Respectfully he introduced himself in perfect Polish.

"Miss Oleksei?"

"Yes?"

"How do you do. My name is Charles Bingley. I believe my wife Jane was to meet with you earlier. Would you be so kind to tell me if I might still find her here? She does not know I am in the country."

Vladimir had come home.

7:12 p.m.

Once again…the moonlight streaming through the window cast a bluish shadow throughout the room. Amidst the color, the two lovers embraced while looking out at the neighborhood.

"…So I will be on call all of Labor Day weekend, but it was worth the trade off. I wanted to be here with you." Charles was explaining how he was able to get around his contract and break free to fly to Poland."

Jane leaned her head against his shoulder.

"I'm so glad you came. And you got to meet Olga. Isn't she interesting?"

"Yes. I really like her. Guess what?"

"What?"

"She gave us permission to build the cottage from Vladimir's plans."

Jane smile could not be missed as she turned around to face him.

"We're really going to build it, aren't we?"

"Why not? I think it's about time it was built."

"Charles, did Olga tell you her theory on us?"

"Yes."

"And…?"

"I think it is safe to assume that I will love you forever."

One More Trip Back In Time.

"Zoya?" Vladimir asked while watching the green leaves of the trees sway with the gentle wind.

"Yes?" turning onto her side on the blanket, Zoya propped her head up with her arm. It was a beautiful June afternoon and the weather and temperature was perfect for their impromptu picnic in the park.

"Do you think it is possible for people to live more than once?"

"Are you referring to reincarnation?"

"Yes, maybe that is what I mean. Do you?"

"I do not know. To be honest, Vlad, I have not given it much thought. Why do you ask?"

"I was just thinking back to a dream I have had several times since we met. Do you remember the morning that you told me of the Moores first visit to you in Brooklyn? When I woke you with my nightmare."

"Yes."

"I was having the dream again. I believe the first time I had it was right after I met you in the woods."

"Tell me about it."

"Well, there are these two people, a man and a woman. They do not look or talk like us, but I feel like I know them. They are living in a small castle where the grass is very green and lush. There are several hills around and horses everywhere. The area makes me think of Ireland, but I do not know this for certain. The man and woman are very happy together. Then the dream changes tone. A group of horsemen arrive at the gate of the castle and storm it successfully, making their way into the stronghold. Swords are drawn and fighting commences. The man joins the others trying to stave off the attack, leaving the woman behind a locked door. Some time later a horn is blown and the intruders begin to retreat. The man goes up to the room where he left the woman and finds the door broken down. She is gone. He runs to the window to see the retreating horsemen, and he catches a glimpse of her blue gown fluttering in the wind behind one of the horses."

"Vlad! What happens next? Does he go after her?"

"Yes, but he is never able to find her. In one of the dreams I saw him as an old man. He was still searching for the woman."

"That is terrible. I would prefer to believe that nothing like that could ever happen to us."

Vladimir picked up her hand and kissed it lightly. "Of course not, Love," he smiled broadly. "We are together, and all we had to escape was two countries, a continent and a mad man!"

"Oh, stop." Zoya smiled back at him.

"Still, I do wonder about my dream. It could just be something from my childhood, possibly a story my mother told me. It just seems so real. I can feel the man's sorrow."

"You never know, Love. Maybe we do return again and again. After all, you've always felt so….familiar."

Done!