Notes from My Captivity(6)

“But that book—”

He cuts me off with a look as frozen as the tundra. I’ve gone too far and I know it. Because the most damning thing Sydney Declay wrote in her article was her theory that my stepfather, desperate to hold on to his academic credibility, had planted that charred book in the old campsite.

That was the shot heard round the world. An attack not only on Dan’s theories but his character, as well.

I should have been outraged on his behalf. But I have to admit, I couldn’t say for sure that he hadn’t faked the evidence he claimed to find. He seemed like a generally honest guy. But he’d been so obsessed with the Osinovs, so increasingly desperate for others to believe what he did—was it possible?

Dan has stopped talking to me. His knuckles stand out as he scribbles in the margins of his notebook. His annoyance, at me or the situation, has made his handwriting a little wilder so I can’t really read it. Probably: stepdaughter, traitor.

“Hey, Dan,” I say placatingly. “I’m a reporter. I have to look at things from all angles.”

He doesn’t answer me. I think he’s gone radio silent, which is rare from Dan. But suddenly he drops his pen, pipes up again. “Wait and see. I’m this close”—he moves his thumb and forefinger an inch apart—“to finding their live campsite. And when I do, I’m not only going to write another article for the New York Times, I’m gonna write a book about it. It’s going to be called: Hiding in Siberia: The Story of the Osinovs. And I’m going to sell the film as a documentary to the Discovery Channel. Won’t that be remarkable?”

The religious tone is back in his voice.

“Remarkable,” I say, trying to keep my own voice sincere.

Hiding in Siberia. “Wild-Goose Chase.” Our expectations, outcomes, plans, and articles are completely at odds with one another. If my dad had believed in this family, if he was taking me to Russia, I would have been all in. I had faith back then. Faith in him, faith in magic. Faith in everything. All that went away the night he died.

“You’re going to be proud of your dad,” Dan suddenly declares.

I’m momentarily confused. Then I realize he’s talking about himself.

I fold my arms. Stepdad, I think.

Finally we land in Moscow. The plane bumps hard. A startled gasp from the passengers as we feel a lighter bump and then the smooth runway. The passengers applaud.

I turn on my phone, wait for the connection, and text my mother.

Alive so far.





* * *



Relatives of the Osinovs—of whom there are many, although few are inclined to speak of them—are divided on the subject of whether Grigoriy Osinov was truly a victim of persecution or only imagined he was before he fled with his wife and infant son up the Erinat River in a dugout canoe. Rumors among hunters and fishermen persisted for years, of sightings of not just the Osinov family but of several more children. One local man claimed to have, but could not produce, the jar that, fifteen years ago, was supposedly discovered floating in the river. The label on the jar was a brand of sauerkraut that was discontinued in 1992. In the jar was a single piece of birch bark. And on that birch bark, one word had been scratched. Salt.

Dr. Daniel Westin

New York Times article



* * *





Three


We’re in the airport in Moscow, sitting in a bar waiting for the crew to get in and meet us. I’m a little disappointed so far. My surroundings remind me of Denver: big shiny corridors, stores everywhere, girls dressed like supermodels. Gate numbers and store names are written in English and Russian. Even what looks like Burger King is helpfully translated into something I could never hope to pronounce.

Dan’s talking to me again in his patter: They should be here any minute, look for a young guy with dark hair, was kind of longish last time but maybe he’s cut it, and Lyubov has shoulders like a pro wrestler, she’s an extreme skier too, did I tell you that? I’ve decided to shut my yapper about Yuri, for the next little while and possibly for the remainder of my trip. At least with Dan. I can always hit up one of the crew and see what they think.

The bartender comes over. He’s big, with a black, thick beard, and looks like the kind of Russian man I’d expect to see. Dan orders, in fluent Russian, something that I know must be nonalcoholic, because Dan doesn’t drink. I don’t drink much either, but I’ve decided that I need to stretch my comfort zone, and after quickly perusing the menu, I order French fries and one of the Russian beers on tap. I order in part English, part Russian, with just a touch of millennial slang. Hardly the universal language, but the bartender seems to make sense of it all. He takes out a glass and starts drawing a light brew from the tap.

Dan raises an eyebrow at me. “Beer?” he asks. “Since when do you drink beer, Adrienne?”

“I drink beer from time to time,” I fire back. “I’m an adult.”

“You’re seventeen.”

“Almost eighteen. Come on, Dan, I’m a reporter. I need a beer and a cool hat.”

“That’s not what makes a good reporter.” He taps his head. “Keeping your wits makes you a good reporter.”

“Sure, Dan,” I say. The bartender comes over with our drinks. I take a sip. It tastes warm and mysterious. The froth sticks to my upper lip. I dab it off with a napkin while Dan nurses a seltzer water with a single lime.