Authors note: "Someone to Watch Over Me." Music: George Gershwin, Lyrics: Ira Gershwin.
I have always loved this song and heard it by chance on PBS one evening. There was a spark and the story was born.
Somewhere near the Russian-Romanian boarder......
A heavy sigh. Napoleon turned his head and looked at his partner. He adjusted his pillow, took his coffee cup from the table and took a sip. He sat up as he put the cup back on the tiny table that separated their beds.
Illya Kuryakin sat on the window sill looking out at the light snow falling. He drew one knee up to his chest and wrapped his arms around it, resting his chin on his knee. His blue eyes drifted from the white snow to his black clothing. He always dressed in black. His demeanor was always black. His outlook......
"Want to talk about it?" Solo asked.
Illya didn't answer. It was doubtful he even heard his partner's voice. He just sat, staring out the hotel window. Why did their courier job have to take them here? He had finally managed to push thoughts of this place into the darkest recesses of his mind.
He hated this place. He hated the smell, the sounds, and the people...the memories.
Napoleon saw the young Russian lift his hand and press it against his chest. Another heavy sigh and the hand moved to the windowpane. The blond headed agent didn't move when his partner stepped up beside him and looked out the window.
"I hope the snow stays light," Napoleon said, "I don't want anything to delay our flight out tomorrow."
He looked at Kuryakin. Something was wrong. The Russian never showed any emotion even when deep in thought, but Solo was sure he saw....No he had to be wrong. He turned and leaned against the window frame, folding his arms. He looked once more at the other man.
He was right. His eyes weren't playing tricks on him. He saw a tear in the other man's eye.
"Illya?......Illya are you alright?" he asked genuinely concerned.
He saw the younger agent swallow what must have been a rather large knot in his throat, then rub his fingers over his eyes. Kuryakin drew his hands down his face and looked at Solo.
"Yeah, Napoleon, dinner sounds fine," the Russian said.
Napoleon didn't push it. They grabbed their coats and headed out the closest restaurant.
They sat in a booth at the back of the small café. Families, singles it was a place that all could enjoy. A far cry from what life had been like only fifteen short years ago. It wasn't like the hustle and bustle of the big city, but people were better off than they had been since before the war.
Napoleon smiled and watched a small child tottering around through the crowd of people. He saw the bright smile, her dark hair bouncing all over her head in soft curls. She came closer and closer to their table. Illya suddenly jumped a something softly slapped his knees.
"Baumanburi.....Baumanburi...." ("Poppa......Poppa.."), she said reaching up for him.
Solo reached across the table and put his hand on the Russian's arm to keep him from drawing his weapon. Illya reached down and picked up the child. Her dimpled cheeks where rosy and two dark eyes started at him. A gypsy child.
Her mother walked over to get her, but as she reached for the baby, Illya tighten his hold, pressing the child's face against his chest. Her tiny hand reached up, her thumb and forefinger holding his chin. He gently kissed the tiny hand holding his face.
Napoleon thought he heard his partner.....singing. No maybe he was just whispering something to the child. The mother made another attempt to take her child, pulling her from the blond. People in the café looked at the young agent with a feeling of slight discomfort. Who was this man? Why had he refused to let the mother have her child back?
Kuryakin stood up and walked outside. The snow was still falling lightly now inter-mixed with a light icy rain. He stood on the porch his eyes searching the town and adjoining fields. Solo stepped out behind him. He watched as Illya nearly fell off the steps of the café and stagger down the street.
"He couldn't possibly be drunk," the American said as he started to follow.
Napoleon followed his partner from a respectable distance. He wandered around the small village for hours in the icy cold. Solo lost him for a few minutes, but finally saw him heading across a field just past the last row of houses.
Kuryakin knelt down in the field folding his arms across his chest. He sat there for nearly thirty minutes.
Napoleon went back to the hotel to wait for his partner. If he didn't come back within.....
The door opened and the cold, wet Russian wandered in. He turned from the door and lifted his face seeing his partner's concerned look. Illya slipped off his coat and wool hat, dropping them on the chair next to the door. He walked past Solo, into the bathroom and took a hot shower.
He came back out and flopped back on his bed. He saw Napoleon pull a bottle out from under the middle table. He poured out two glasses and handed one to the blond.
"Thought a drink might be in order," Solo said hoping to take advantage of his partner's mental distance.
"For what?"
"Three years we've been partner's.." Solo raised his glass, "To another successful mission."
Illya looked at him. Three years as partners? Yes three years was correct, but why celebrate something as mediocre as a courier job? But hell, never look a gift Vodka in the mouth. The Russian downed it in one shot. He looked over at the dark haired agent.
Solo lay back on his bed, holding his glass on his chest. He shut his eyes and softly started to hum to himself. Illya felt the muscles tighten in the back of his neck. He held tight to his glass, his hand shaking slightly. Solo continued on with the song until...
"...Turns out to be...Someone to watch over me..." Illya half sang, the words getting caught in his throat.
He finished off his drink, took the bottle and refilled his glass, taking another drink immediately. Solo sat up slightly and looked at him.
"Illya....I didn't know you were familiar with the Gershwin's," Napoleon said, in surprise.
"That's the only American song I knew when I was younger," he replied, "I never understood why it struck such a cord with me...It's just a stupid song anyway....There is no-one who...." He took another drink.
"Illya, I know you don't like to talk about your past," Napoleon said, "But something is eating away at you inside and I think, maybe....if you......" He took another drink himself.
Kuryakin looked at his partner. He had never had any real friends before. Now this strange American was in his life. At work he was the perfect partner. After work, Napoleon could get on his nerves sometimes. But on the whole, he admired his superior immensely.
Napoleon treated him more like an equal. And more importantly, as a friend. Illya fumbled with his glass once more.
"You know I grew up in Russia during the war...Obviously...Once the war ended it was actually much worse in a lot of parts of the country...Packs of deserters and soldiers not happy with the outcome of the war, roamed all over...They continued to kill and burn, taking whatever they wanted....destroying everything they could...They were called packs, because they were just like packs of blood-thirsty dogs....Believe it or not many of them were hired to protect the borders...."
Solo saw the younger agent try to steel himself as he began to talk. Illya could almost hear the sounds again. He shivered as he thought about the cold, the devastation, the hunger and the memories flooded back like a torrent.
Cold, icy rain pelted the ground. The sounds of gunfire were everywhere. Screams, begging, pleading, cries of hunger, begging for mercy. Everywhere you looked destruction, devastation. The stench of death, disease, despair surrounded, penetrated the olfactory senses. It made ones stomach turn.
The brilliant orange blaze of the fires still burned despite the weather. The buildings, the fields, the forest, set ablaze to flush the innocent out into the open, only to be ruthlessly gunned down in their tracks. It didn't matter if you were rich or poor; all that mattered was that you were there and therefore game. Men, women, children. Young or old, it made no difference.
All he could do was run. All he had ever done was run. Slipping, sliding on the icy street, he clutched his jacket tight, holding the bundle beneath as secure as possible. A few times he fell, frightened that he had crushed it, but managed to land on his side, pushing himself on. He had to get away no matter the cost.
"Ты два там, остальные из вас со мной. Я знаю, я видел его работает таким образом". ("You two over there, the rest of you with me. I know I saw him running this way."), the voice shouted over the din.
The young man tightened his arms around his chest, holding his bundle close as he tried desperately to find a place to hide. He ducked inside a broken door frame and crouched down under a dilapidated stairwell. He was glad it was night. His dark clothing helping to hide him from his pursuers.
He shivered from the cold and wet, the fear. Fear they would find him. Fear of losing....He heard a quite cry. A sound muffled by the pounding of his heart and the shouts from the street. His body ached. He was bruised from falling, bleeding from tearing his way through barbed wire barricades. He drew his body up as tight as possible and once again shifted the bundle beneath his black coat.
"Я немного ягненка, потерявшего в лес...Я знаю, что я мог бы...Всегда быть хорошим...кто будет наблюдать за мной.. " ("I'm a little lamb, who's lost in the wood...I know I could...Always be good..to one who'll watch over me.."), the young man sang softly.
He looked down at the tiny bundle inside his coat. The young father saw the thin, pale face of the precious little girl wrapped in the quilt her mother had made. Two months old. She had her mother's light brown hair but her father's startling blue eyes. He was worried. It had been such a long time since they had eaten. The baby needed milk.
Sixteen years old. They had been so in love and the baby was a product of that love. But it was an act frowned upon by the people. He had no parents, hers had disowned her and they had fled to the small country villages to escape persecution.
Taken in by an understanding peasant family, he happily worked the fields by day, his nights with his beautiful lover.
But now even the villages weren't safe. He reached up and pushed his wet blond hair back under his hat to keep it from dripping on the baby.
Illya lifted his baby to his face and kissed her. The poor thing was too weak to even cry now, she just looked at her father. Her blue eyes hollow and pale. It broke his heart to see the child like this. He touched the small hand to his lips and kissed it. He felt the tiny figure shake, heard one more small cry, then it was quiet.
The broken hearted young father cried aloud, he didn't care if they heard him or not. He held the lifeless figure next to his face rubbing its back and head as he rocked back and forth in his hiding place. His tears flowed freely as he cried. Then he heard the click and the bright light of a torch illuminated the underside of the stairwell.
He turned his face towards the light. He saw the barrel of the rifle aimed at his head. A hand reached down and pulled his head back. The fingers touched the baby's head. Dead. They had been chasing someone who was trying to hide a baby. The man felt his stomach turn as he thought about his own wife and child back home.
Illya laid his head back, to tired now to even cry. He swallowed the lump in his throat and waited for the shots. He felt something take hold of his body and lay him down under the stairwell, his one hand out in the open. Three shots rang out.
The man shouldered his gun and walked to the door. Several other men ran up to him.
"Городская, что случилось? Вы получите его?" ("Miska, what happened? Did you get him?")
"Да...Я получил его...Он сокрытие только мертвый ребенок..." ("Yes...I got him...He was concealing only a dead baby..."), the man said.
The others looked into the building as Miska aimed his torch inside once more. They saw the one cold, pale hand lying out from under the stairwell. The men walked away and rejoined the rest of the small band. It was time to move on to the next town.
The next morning found a layer of new white snow on the ground. It covered the bodies, the blood the massacre that had happened the night before. Several of the buildings were still smoldering but the rampaging pack was gone. A deafening silence fell over the area.
Illya woke, shivering. His head pounding, he sat up and looked at his child. He carefully wrapped the blanket tight around her still body. The bereaved young father looked around the deserted building. He found the door to the basement and went down to see if he could find something to dig with.
The basement floor was dirt and several shovels, picks and assorted tools lay on an old wooden bench in the center of the floor. He found a soft spot in the dirt and began to dig. Illya found a small wooden storage box and emptied it of the rusted nails, hand tools and various other implements.
He reached up and took the small medallion from around his neck, carefully wrapping it around the blanket. One last time he kissed the tiny bundle, placing it carefully in the box. The box fit down into the hole he had dug and after carefully filling in the dirt, he sat silently on his knees trying to hold his tears.
As he stood up, his eyes fell upon some small stone carvings on one of the shelves. He walked over and looked at them. So intricately chiseled, one could almost hear the sounds of the different animals represented. He picked up one and carried it back to spot where his child lay and sat it at the head of the dirt mound.
"I pulled my coat collar up blew one last kiss and walked away," Illya said, falling into sobs.
Napoleon draped his arm over his partner's shoulder. He had never seen him like this in all three years they had been working together. He understood why the Russian was so distant. So drawn inward. He just sat and let his partner clear his soul.
Damn Illya, Solo thought as he sat comforting his friend, how have you held that in for so long?
Illya was finally asleep. Solo sat against the headboard of the bed and looked at his partner. He tried to put himself in his partners place. To lose anyone was hard. To lose a child, so young must have been devastating. Illya was a great partner and a wonderful friend. One of the few men Napoleon knew he could trust implicitly. He wanted to help ease his friends pain.
Solo took out his communicator pen.
"Open Channel D...Overseas relay........Mr. Waverly....."
Illya at first refused. He shook his head and asked Napoleon to just drop the subject. Solo conceded and finished packing. Kuryakin walked to the window and looked out. His mind replaying the sounds, his heart pounded. His balled fist against the window, he leaned his forehead against it and looked out across the snowy field.
"Your grand-parents farm you said?" the Russian finally said.
Solo looked up and smiled.
The two men kept walking across the fields looking for anything that might be familiar. It had been nearly eighteen years since the Russian was a boy here. Destruction, weather, unkempt fields and time had changed the lay of the land.
"Let's go Napoleon," Illya said quietly, "We'll never find it now. It was a nice gesture anyway.."
They started back towards the town when Napoleon disappeared. Illya looked around frantically for his partner. He took off in the direction he had last seen him. The ground opened up and Illya fell.
There was a loud grunt, followed by a moan as Illya landed on his partner. He sat up and looked around the pit they seemed to be in. Kuryakin stood up and gave Solo's hand a tug pulling him to his feet. Standing up they could just see out of the hole they were in. The two men looked at each other.
"Your head is bleeding," Illya said handing his partner his handkerchief.
Solo pressed the cloth to his head. Then he looked at the blood on the cloth. Not bad. More like a small knick as opposed to a full on blow. It stopped in a few moments.
Once the bleeding stopped the two agents went to climb out of the pit. Napoleon cupped his hands and gave the shorter man a boost up to the edge. Illya grabbed the grass and dug in as he pulled himself up out of the hole. He lay down on his stomach and reached in to give Solo a hand. But to the American's surprise, the agent suddenly slipped back into the pit.
"What's up, Illya?" he asked.
Kuryakin moved over to the rock his partner had hit. He brushed some of the dirt back. Napoleon saw the other mans shoulders drop. He stepped over and knelt down behind him. Illya reached over and brushed the rest of the dirt away from the small stone lamb.
They had found it.
So green. The grass was so green it looked artificial. There was a large elm tree with its full branches hanging lazily out to the sides. And the quiet. Even to be outside it was strangely quiet. Solemn, tranquil, peaceful. No signs of war or devastation. No bomb craters. Just acres of warm green grass, beautiful trees, and peace.
A warm place.
A comforting place.
A private place.
Napoleon stood at a distance to give his partner some time alone. He saw the Russian lay a single white rose on the flat headstone. Solo watched the agent lean over and place a kiss on the block. Then Illya stood up, adjusted his jacket and turned towards his partner.
The blond slipped the medallion inside his shirt and walked over to his friend.
"Thank you Napoleon," he said simply.
The two men turned and headed back to the city.
There was no name on the small granite block. Attached securely to the top of the stone a small chiseled figure of a lamb.
And just at its feet, the only words written on the stone....
"Кто-то чтобы посмотреть более меня."
"Someone to watch over me."
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