A Small Death in the Great Glen by A. D. Scott Page A

even putting himself at risk with the police. His compatriot must have known, must somehow have taken the necklace from his mother, must have known of his mother’s fate. And he had not uttered a word to Peter.
    Mr. Silverstein turned to Gino.
    â€œI never trusted a Russian before, now look where it gets me. Receiving stolen goods; I could lose my reputation, my business.”
    â€œRussian?” Peter was puzzled. “The missing sailor is Polish.”
    â€œNever. I am Russian, I know.”
    â€œDescribe him.”
    â€œA bear of a man. Big beard. Dark. Dangerous. He wore a captain’s uniform and spoke Russian with a northern accent. Murmansk, I am thinking.”
    â€œThat’s not the missing sailor. He’s Polish and fair but darker fair, not like me.”
    The three men were at a loss to explain the what or the how or the why of the mystery. As Gino and Mr. Silverstein discussed one theory after another, Peter sat staring at the necklace, lost in thought, memories jostling for position like restless horses at the start of a race.
    â€œThe day I left to rejoin my squadron I didn’t know I would never return,” he started his monologue. “Our estate bordering the Baltic marshland is isolated. War was coming, we had no doubt of that, but we never guessed how bad things would become.” He lit a cigarette for support. “I said good-bye to my parents. I never dreamed it was a final farewell. Then I went back to my old unit in the Polish air force.”
    The two older men nodded. So many stories had been shared; all different, all the same—heartbreaking.
    â€œWe’d been to early mass, my mother wearing her crucifix as always, this time on display, worn as a soldier would, proudly. I left straight after the service. My father understood. We were officers. It is our duty to defend our homeland. I never saw them again. I have never heard from them.” Winter sky-blue eyes clouded, he paused.
    â€œI will always feel we were traitors for fleeing Poland. But what could we do? We escaped. They didn’t. Now, once again, Poland is a prisoner.”
    Mr. Silverstein and Gino Corelli listened silently, their shoulders bowed by the weight of their own memories.
    â€œWhen we landed in Scotland, me and many of my countrymen joined the British forces,” Peter continued. “But I, I had it easy, stuck here in safety.”
    â€œYou served your country. An engineer does just as much as a pilot. You saved lives.” Gino was adamant. “Now it is in the past.”
    â€œMy homeland is occupied. Different enemy, same result.”
    â€œWe sold my wife’s wedding ring.” Gino’s voice was harsh. “My sister Lita sold everything to join me here.”
    â€œWe all did what we had to do.”
    Mr. Silverstein put the cross into its red leather box. “This is yours.”
    Gino and Peter both reached for their wallets.
    â€œNo, no. It is my present for Chiara, for you both. I insist. Take it, take it.” He shooed them away with flapping hands.
    â€œI even remember the box.” Peter picked it up, shivered. A picture of it lying on his mother’s dressing table came sharply into focus.
    His future father-in-law looked at Peter. “Home now, ma boy.”
    â€œI will find out what happened, Mr. Silverstein, and keep you in the picture.”
    â€œThank you. But be quick. The Russian captain said the ship is sailing away very soon.”
    â€œBut he will want his Polish seaman back—or at least some papers from the police to explain what happened. Big trouble for him with the authorities in Tallinn if he returns without a crew member,” Peter explained.
    They left with profuse thanks, bows, handshakes and a promise to keep in touch.

    As the two men walked down Bridge Street, making for home, Peter realized his stomach was empty and his mood bitter.
    â€œHe lied to me, Gino. This Karel Cieszynski, calls