The Old Man's Watch

            I was young - probably seven - when Grandpa Vlad showed me the watch. 

            It was during one of our family trips to his home in Tucson. It was May, a hot time to visit. And after mom and dad exchanged pleasantries with Grandpa Vlad and Gramma Yulia, dropping off gifts of sun-kissed oranges and other luxuries, my sister Valeria and I played in their backyard. After a while, Grandpa Vlad came out to join us. I remember his English wasn’t good, and Valeria and I would make fun of it. But he spoke five languages: Russian (his mother tongue), Polish, Kazakh, German (very fluently), and English (which he learned ad hoc when he moved his family to America in the seventies). 

After playing under the Sonoran sun for a long time, I was feeling faint and slumped into the living room’s couch, trying to cool off under the righteous bursts of AC. Grandpa Vlad entered the room. He looked concerned. ‘Are you okay, my boy?’ 

‘Hot,’ I whispered. 

He nodded his head and disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with two large glasses of lemonade. A clear bottle was under his right arm. Grandpa Vlad set the lemonade and the bottle on the glass coffee table near the couch. The bottle had a label I couldn’t read.

I straightened to take my glass, but he stopped me. ‘Wait, little zaychik,’ he said softly. He opened the bottle and poured a little of its liquid into our lemonades, stirring them with their straws. 

‘What is that?’ I asked. 

‘The water of life.’ He gave me a glass, and we clinked them together. ‘Za zdorovye.’

I sipped my lemonade. It tasted funny, but then I felt light-headed and euphoric. 

‘Don’t tell your mother this,’ Grandpa Vlad said. ‘She wouldn’t approve.’

‘Why not, grandpa?’

He sighed roughly. ‘She has lost her connection to the motherland. She doesn’t understand.’ He tilted the glass to his lips and smiled afterward. ‘I was younger than you when I had my first taste. I came out good.’

We sat together and drank, the hum of the air conditioning cutting the stillness of the living room. He looked happier with every sip. His cheeks became bright pink. ‘You know what day it is today, little zaychik?’

‘May eighth?’

‘Yes, May eighth. An important day. You know why?’

I thought for a moment. But the only answer that came from my sluggish brain was, ‘Someone’s birthday?’

He chuckled. ‘Something like that. The birthday of a brand new world.’

‘I don’t understand, grandpa.’

He got up from the couch and went to his bookshelf. Below it were small drawers. He opened one and brought an accordion folder. When he sat back down, he pulled out a large black board. Attached to it were a collection of shining gold medals with colorful ribbons.

‘I earned these in the Great Patriotic War,’ he said, pride shaking the timbre of his voice.

‘What’s the Great Patriotic War?’

‘One of the biggest wars in human history.’

I recognized what he meant, but I had never heard of such a thing. ‘Who were you fighting, grandpa?’

‘The most evil men. Fascists. They invaded my country, destroyed it. They raped and murdered my people, my family.’

His tone was harsh and sorrowful. I never heard him sound like that before. I noticed something heavy and metallic at the bottom of the accordion folder. ‘What’s that?’

Grandpa Vlad’s eyebrows arched. He hummed a toneless sound, acting as if caught in an act. His hand reached into the folder and pulled out the object. It was a black wristwatch, its strap cracked and fragile. There was a word I couldn’t read on its dial face. He hefted the watch in his hand. ‘A gift. A gift I got in Berlin.’ He spoke slowly, as if thinking what to say. 

‘When did you get it, grandpa?’

‘1945.’

My eyes grew wide in wonder. It was the oldest thing I had ever seen. I couldn’t fathom it. ‘It’s that old?’

‘It’s that old, little zaychik. Maybe older.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

Grandpa Vlad gave me a serene look. He put the watch and his medals back into the folder. ‘It might be yours someday.’

When I was older - maybe nineteen - my mother called to tell me that Grandpa Vlad had died. He had been doing poorly in his later years, especially after Gramma Yulia died, needing to go to hospice care for his last months. Mom told me she needed help cleaning out his house in Tucson. I agreed to come. 

We had a simple memorial. Nothing religious, as he was an avowed atheist. Grandpa Vlad was cremated, and his ashes were passed along to Mom and her sisters and brothers. 

The next day, we went to his house. Memories came to me in short bursts as we packed up his belongings for donation or for each other. I was helping Uncle Oleg with the couch when Mom called out to me. ‘It’s okay. Go see what she wants,’ he said. 

Mom and Aunt Tatianna were at the bookshelf, stacking its contents into cardboard boxes. Mom saw me and handed over an old, dusty accordion folder. ‘Grandpa wanted you to have this.’

‘He did?’

‘Yeah. He was very insistent.’

I took the folder and opened it. His collection of medals glimmered in the house lights. It brought me back to the day when Grandpa Vlad and I shared spiked lemonades. I took out the medals, still attached to their black board. There was an antique leather envelope behind the medals, something I hadn’t noticed before on that hot May day. I pulled it out and opened it. It held a yellowed document with gilded embossed lettering and official seals. But it was printed in Russian. I showed the document to Mom. ‘Can you read this?’

She took it, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t read Russian since I was six. Tati, can you?’

Aunt Tatianna looked at the document. She grimaced. ‘No, no. I don’t think I can.’

I was putting the medals and the document away when I saw something at the bottom of the folder. It was the wristwatch. 

I brought the accordion folder with me to school. I wanted to learn a little bit more about Grandpa Vlad’s service. The medals were easy. One colorful medal was for the capture of Berlin. The orange-and-black striped one was for victory over Germany. An eight-pointed badge was for dedicated service in the armed forces. The document in the leather envelope was difficult to pinpoint. But I knew there was someone who could help. 

I brought the folder to Professor Stevens, head of my university’s Russian history department. Though I wasn’t a student of his, he was happy to help. I showed him the document. He studied it carefully. ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked. 

‘It was my grandfather’s.’

He ran the end of his pen over a few lines. ‘Ah, I see.’

‘What?’

‘Your grandfather was in the Third Shock Army during the Battle of Berlin, and he was in the worst of the fighting. See this?’ He pointed to a section labeled “380”.

‘Yeah.’

‘This says that he was in the Three Hundred Eightieth Rifle Division. Meaning, he was in the fight for the Reichstag.’

‘Oh, wow.’ I wasn’t sure what that meant. 

I read about the Battle of Berlin, learning about the horrifying atrocities, the titanic battles. Millions of dead, soldiers and civilians. I saw the photographs. The sheer violence was like a visitation from hell. But something caught my eye. It was a group photograph of Red Army soldiers in Berlin. Each of them had multiple wristwatches going up their forearms. I learned that it was customary for Red Army soldiers to take the watches off the German dead and condemned as prizes. It then came to me. 

I pulled out Grandpa Vlad’s watch. I decided to look up the word on its dial face. It was the German word for Giselle. The company that made the Giselle watch was one of the best in Germany. Their watches were rugged, accurate, and highly regarded by the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe during World War II. The Giselle watch was especially prized by the officers of the SS units that fought on the Eastern Front. 

A confluence of coincidences doesn’t tell much about a person’s history. But in a way, I learned a little more about my Grandpa Vlad. 

The River Man

  When it was sweltering, as it always is in July, I often left my parents’ house for some fresh air. I’d take my bike and ride out of the neighborhood, down Glendale Boulevard, to Fletcher Drive. My destination was the river. The city began to open it up to walkers, joggers, and others. Its trail wasn’t maintained, though, with a lot of potholes, dips, and cracked concrete. 

The ride down the trail heading to Lincoln Heights was pleasant. It was cooler in the afternoon. And the river had a smell. Aquatic and vegetal, but never stagnant. In the center of the river, rock formations had built up over the years, allowing plants and trees to grow, transforming them into small islands. Cranes and egrets flew down to these islands. From the city’s run-off came the return of the old ecology. 

One early evening, I was on my normal ride, rolling down the river’s trail, approaching the environs of Frogtown, when I saw movement on one of the little islands in the middle of the river. It wasn’t birds, for the rustling of the thin trees and bamboo shoots was caused by something larger. I slowed down until I stopped and looked at the island. From the grass came a man, skinny, with a shiny bald head, wearing a dirty T-shirt and cut-off jeans. He was working on a plastic tarp when he noticed me, looking up. His smile was wide, revealing gaps where his teeth were missing. He waved at me, and I waved back. 

Little by little, the river man built a house on his island. He set up a frame and covered it with plastic tarps, cardboard, and plywood. Smoke billowed from a handmade stove. Whenever I rode past, he worked on his house or washed in the river. He would wave at me, and I reciprocated. His smile was always there. 

The summer ended, giving way to fall. Then, winter arrived, bringing with it the rains. At first, it was scattered sprinkles. Then, full showers. The rain became monstrous, coming down relentlessly. The river swelled until its waters crested over the banks, flooding Frogtown. 

People lost their homes after the winter rains. They weren’t salvageable, so they sold the land underneath them and moved out of the neighborhood. Developers came in and built luxury condos, pricing out those who remained. 

The river appears cleaner nowadays, with well-maintained trails and newly developed parks. I stopped riding down the river because too many new people were crowding the trails. The river man’s house was washed out, its debris still entangled in the river’s trees. I don’t know what happened to him. 

The Keeper of Memories

    One afternoon, I was smoking in the courtyard when I saw my neighbor Kieren coming from the parking lot. She was carrying a large, heavy canvas bag. She was wincing and trying desperately not to drop it. I stamped out my cigarette and ran to her, ‘Can I help?’

    ‘Oh, thank you!’ she said, handing the bag to me. 

    We went to her apartment. It was messy, with her roommate’s unmade bed in the living room surrounded by stacks of her belongings. I set the bag down near the television console. ‘Would you like anything to drink?’ Kieren asked. 

    ‘What do you have?’ I asked. 

    She shrugged, ‘Wine, that’s my strongest thing.’

    ‘Sure.’

    ‘Cool. Have a seat on Diana’s bed. She doesn’t mind.”

    She disappeared into the kitchen while I sat on the bed, returning with a bottle of wine and two full glasses, handing me one. She sat down on a worn-out recliner across from me.

    We chatted about everything that came to our minds as we refilled our glasses, one after another. With the bottle finished, Kieren asked if I could open another while she used the bathroom. 

    I entered the kitchen and found an unopened bottle of Two Buck Chuck on the counter. As I was uncorking it, I saw photographs on the wall near me. There were ancient monochrome photos of morose couples and distant-looking families; a color portrait of a smiling young woman, her hair done in Victory rolls, wearing a high school graduation robe; a half dozen Kodak snapshots of laughing children with smiling adults in the background. I admired each one.

    I returned to the living room with the open bottle, apologizing to Kieren, ‘I was enjoying your pictures on the wall back there,’ I said. 

    'You like them?’ she asked.

    ‘Yeah. Are they family?’

    ‘Nope, they’re not.’

    ‘Who are they?’

    ‘Just random people.’

    ‘Yeah? Why do you have them?’

    ‘I collect old photographs. I get them at garage sales or whatever. That’s what I was carrying home just now. I got a bunch of old photo albums.’

    Kieren started pulling out old, frail-looking albums from her canvas bag, ‘Here, have a look.’

    The two of us spent the afternoon looking at the photographs. We saw ladies and gentlemen in proper attire, families on vacation, teenagers in wood-sided station wagons, and scenes from countries that no longer exist.

    ‘They’re beautiful,’ I said.

    She picked an album up from the floor, ‘I found this one in the trash.’

    ‘I can't believe that!’

    ‘You’d be surprised. When someone dies, what’s the one thing that gets thrown out? Their photographs. No one treasures them.’ She was sad. ‘These pictures are what’s left of people. If they’re gone, they might as well have never existed.’

    ‘So you preserve them,’ I said.

    She nodded. ‘I don’t believe there’s a god, don’t believe in an eternity. Once we die, that’s it. And what do we have to show that we existed at one time? Probably nothing more than these pictures. They deserve some remembrance. If only for a little while.’

    We will die and, before long, be forgotten. Someone may preserve whatever legacy we leave behind if we’re lucky—someone like Kieren, the keeper of memories.