Corridor One

By Rafael H. Derchansky

Dina, a tenacious art forgery expert, is suddenly dragged back into her past life when an extraordinary package is left at her apartment by a mysterious man who seems to know the most personal and intimate details about her past. Why now? Can he be trusted? With new revelations, her life quickly spirals into a maelstrom of confusion and Dina is torn between her innocent desire to believe the stranger and her professional instincts telling her that everything is not as it seems. As she struggles to understand what is happening, an unsolved, decades-old crime linked to a missing treasure becomes the center of her life. Embarking on an unexpected and mystifying adventure that interrupts her busy life, Dina must confront the shadows of her past and face the truth about her family. What happened more than twenty years ago when her father and brother were torn away from her? Together with her colleagues and their expertise, the mystery might be solved. But will her team unconditionally support her in her effort to put together the pieces of this long-broken puzzle? To shed light upon the truth, Dina will have to travel to a place that holds many painful memories and face the ghosts of her past. There she will learn about the fate of her doting father and beloved brother, who has been lost to a shadowy, clandestine organization known only to a few locals as Corridor One. Dina will have to rely on the help of an unlikely partner and an old, long-forgotten Siberian mental art to accomplish her goals. But is Dina alone on her path or is somebody quietly watching her steps?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rafael H. Derchansky
• Release date: Jun 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994064226

Rafael H. Derchansky

Rafael H. Derchansky was born in a small village in Siberia in 1954, 14 years after Stalin forcefully deported his parents from Lithuania. In 1960, he and his family moved to the city Tomsk, one of the oldest towns in Siberia. In 1970, he finished high school and enrolled in Tomsk Polytechnic University. In 1973, the USSR temporarily lifted the Iron Curtain to allow some of its citizens to leave the country. Rafael and his family used this opportunity to immigrate to Israel. There he completed his studies and met his wife while working in the hi-tech sector and serving in the country's Air Force. Seeking new horizons, he immigrated to Canada in 1988, where he currently resides with his wife and two sons. When he is not writing his latest novel, he can be found painting or navigating the Great Lakes with his boat.

Book preview

Corridor One

Rafael H. Derchansky

Copyright 2015 by Rafael H. Derchansky

Published by: Rafael H. Derchansky

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

First Printing: 2015, ISBN 978-0-9940642-2-6

http://www.rhdera.com

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Mikhail Derchansky and Jacob Kogan who taught me the true values in life, and to their grandchildren Miron, Issack, Iris, Efrat, Yanir and Adam. It is my hope that they will carry the legacy of their grandfathers in their hearts forever.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Roman’s Diary

Kerzhak Navigation

Company Team

Yellow Raincoat

Twin Crowns

Investigation

Chapter without a Name

Catacombs

SHOMEA-1

Geneva

Surprise

Victor

Action Plan

Underground Walk

Diamonds

Freedom

We are Survivors

About the Author

Connect with Rafael H. Derchansky

Acknowledgements

Only now, after having completed this book and as I go through my manuscript before its publication, do I fully understand the value and the great amount work that was done by my many supporters and editors.

I am extremely grateful to Edith Krohmalnik, a student at the Faculty of English at the University of Toronto who took the first crack at more than 21 parts of this text and always found the time to edit between her exams.

My gratitude extends to Genya Ryzhik, professor of English at Humber College, who thoroughly went through the manuscript page by page, line by line, word by word, marking it with her red pen.

I am also sincerely thankful to Inbal Solomon for providing invaluable feedback and support, and for spending countless hours with me and the many characters you are about to meet.

Lastly, I thank my family, who helped turn my dream into a reality by editing and proofreading, followed by more editing. To them goes my love and deepest appreciation. This book could never become a reality without their support. Thank you.

Prologue

"It took me a long ten months to restore all of the memories. Ten months, day and night – especially at night – lying in bed and trying to recreate what happened more than twenty years ago. Picture after picture. Faces, one after another. My brain jumped from one event to another without any logical explanation or connection. One second I was in one place; the next second I was months, or even years away from the memories I had just recalled.

I was trying to restore all I could remember, bringing new and once forgotten details to light. Frame by frame, I returned to the beginning of my story, restoring faces, places, events and conversations. Where does reality end and fantasy begin? Was it really me? Is it all a part of my imagination? I am correcting myself, hoping that my memories are stored and therefore become real.

And now, after ten months of torture, I am finally ready to write it down and examine it slowly, surely and in great detail."

"From the day you're born, till the day you die

You’re learning how to survive

Surviving loneliness and cold

Surviving love and getting old

Oh, what better reason to survive

Than to live a sparkling, joyful life"

Tamara

Roman’s Diary

Dina woke up, sensing that the airplane was in descent. A short glance at her watch revealed that she had been in the air for thirteen hours. A long flight. Thanks to the comfort of business class and the sleeping pill she'd taken, the time had passed quickly. She had never been a big fan of business class and preferred to travel in coach with ‘real’ people, observing different behaviors, having conversations, making new friends. But this was a long flight, and she wanted it to pass quickly and forget all the unpleasant client meetings from last week. The pilot announced the estimated landing time and expressed his gratitude to all the passengers for flying with his airline. Dina began preparing her passport and customs documents, which a flight attendant had left neatly on her tray table while Dina slept.

The plane landed and the long walk to customs slowly brought her back to reality. She checked her cell phone for messages and started planning the work to be done on the weekend. Today was Friday and the day was already planned. She tried to remember where she’d left the documents in her apartment before her departure a week ago. The customs line was relatively short, and not having a chained briefcase attached to her left hand or rolling behind her with important artifacts would make getting through customs a piece of cake.

Good morning, Miss Greduer. How was your flight? Anything to declare?

The voice of the customs officer grounded her, and she answered politely, The flight was okay, thank you for asking. And no, nothing to declare today.

The officer smiled at her. Have a great day, Miss Greduer. Say hello to your team for me.

I will. Good day to you too.

Since when did my team become so popular?

She moved quickly toward the airport exit, straight to her usual pickup spot, having to artfully maneuver between people, luggage and ‘welcome home’ signs.

The sun was shining and today, April 15th, was a perfect spring day. She stopped, took out her sunglasses from her briefcase and looked around from right to left. She found her driver standing near a shining black limousine.

Good morning, Ma'am. As she neared the limo, the driver opened the door, and Dina found herself in a comfortable seat with a fresh air-conditioned breeze blowing against her face.

Good morning.

How was your flight? Where are we going? Office? Home?

The moment her brain recognized the word ‘office’, Dina’s eyes reflectively scanned her dress, looking for perfection. Shoes, okay. Pants, okay. Shirt, okay. Hands, okay; then she stopped. No way am I going to the office now.

Please go home and stop near a grocery store. I think I need milk.

Will do, was the short reply from the limo driver.

The car slowly moved out of the parking space and within two minutes, was on the highway, racing home toward Dina’s regular duties as the owner and executive of MirexGlobe.

It took more than twenty minutes for the limo to get to the back door of her condo building, the usual spot Dina used to get into the lobby. During the ride home, she concentrated on reading the messages left by her staff over the last two days. Even when the driver stopped near the grocery store and went in to buy her milk and bread, her eyes were glued to the screen.

Her small business was her entire life. She had established MirexGlobe approximately seven years ago, two years after graduating from university, and it had taken her a good five years to build her reputation as the top expert in her field. Throughout all of these years, she could still hear her father saying, We are here to survive, and we will do what it takes to survive. We are survivors.

Dina was an expert in forgery investigation. Her clients comprised private individuals, governments, affluent businessmen, auction-houses and sometimes, people with a ‘shady’ past. Her company had three employees and MirexGlobe was careful to avoid court appearances at all costs. Her contracts always highlighted that her job ended with sharing a proof of forgery or authenticity; she always came up with solid evidence but never agreed to court or committee appearances.

On her ride home, she found about a dozen envelopes in a cardboard box left on the seat of the limo. Some of these were from clients, which she left to her assistant, Tamara. Some were from Gregory, her chemical and compound analyst, and probably concerned the final results of his investigations. She marked these as 'Need to Read'. One of the documents was from Igor, her day-to-day detective, whom she jokingly called 'Igor Holmes', which described a series of pictures he had analyzed for a case they were slated to present to a client next week.

The door of the limo opened, and she pushed the box of envelopes away as she slid out of her car seat, feeling some pain in her back. Possibly from sitting too much on the plane or from being in an uncomfortable position in the limo she thought.

Miss Greduer, do you want your luggage in your suite or should I leave it with the concierge? asked her driver.

Leave it with the concierge please – they know what to do with it. Thank you for a quiet ride. Tell your boss to include your tip in the bill as usual, and please take the envelopes I left on the car seat to my office.

Will do, Miss Greduer. I highly appreciate it. Have a great evening.

The limo moved away slowly from the back entrance as Dina stepped into the lobby, hoping to get into the shower as soon as possible. Her luggage had already been brought in by the concierge, who waited near the door.

Miss Greduer, luggage as usual?

Yes. The green bag to the laundry, and the rest, please bring into my suite. And thank you for watering my plants.

No problem. Your mail is on the kitchen table. By the way, Miss Greduer, you had a visitor come in looking for you three times this week.

A nice young man on a white horse? Dina smiled.

Not really. He was young but he rode the bus every time. I told him that you were away as per your directions, but I did not tell him when you were coming back, as you requested. He was persistent and waited for an hour every visit, and he left an envelope with me on his last visit. I put it with all your mail on the table.

Great job. Did they fix my elevator?

Not sure. One second, He reviewed the log file for a minute. No, sorry. They're still working on it. It says that they ordered the parts and they'll be here on Wednesday. Could you please sign this form, to allow the technician to enter your suite if you’re not home?

No problem, said Dina, and signed the form. Thank you. She stepped through the doors of the public elevator, wondering why the hell she was paying extra money to have a private elevator that was not working half the time.

The condo lights were turned on and the city looked grey and boring from the twelfth floor. Dina looked around, put her briefcase and laptop on a table, and moved to the bedroom, removing her shoes on the way to a long-awaited shower.

Her happiness was cut short by the loud ‘you-must-answer’ ring of her phone, which she answered in her underwear and bra.

Hello, Dina.

Is it you, Holmes? Leave me alone. I’m on my way to take a shower.

Wait, Dina. I know you read my report. What are your thoughts?

Igor – I’m your boss and I’m telling you to call me in an hour or call Tamara, please. I’m as dirty as a pig.

Dina, the dress is authentic; the fabric is from the 17th century. The dirt in the pockets is also from the right region in Holland, I checked with Gregory; everything points to us dealing with the authentic clothing of a King.

You aren't listening – call me back in an hour, and if you're wrong, I'll remove the Munich museum’s commission from your fat monthly paycheck. Am I clear? To be even more specific, you have an hour to check the small rip I saw in your photograph of the dress near the left pocket. Do a spectrum analysis, and tell me when and how it was ripped. Are we on the same page?

Dina, go take a shower. I’ll call you in an hour. The line went silent, Dina left the phone handle off the hook and with a smile and a little dance, moved through the shower door.

Dina showered quickly, put the phone back on the hook, and a short while later, blues music sounded from the bedroom as she half sat, half lay on the sofa. Blues always made her feel both relaxed and charged with energy. At work, the sound of blues was a necessity; it helped her concentrate and do things efficiently. She could not explain this phenomenon.

It took exactly one hour for the phone to jump back to life with its Brrrrrrr sound. Igor Holmes was on the line, and she could guess from his greeting and his tone that something was wrong.

Take my paycheck and burn it.

What's wrong? asked Dina.

I don't know how you do it, but either I’m an idiot or you're a genius. I checked the rip that you mentioned again. It came from a sharp object. Any object can do it and I’ve verified that the rip is indeed one hundred and fifty years old. But when I put a needle under the rip to bring it closer to the microscope, I noticed a small amount of a white residue. I asked Gregory to have the powder analyzed, and guess what he found? It's twentieth century laundry detergent! That’s quite surprising since this dress had supposedly been in a museum for a hundred and thirty-five years, under a glass cover with humidity control. Like I said, you’re either a genius, or I'm an idiot for having missed this, Igor almost screamed.

Relax, you're not an idiot. We're just dealing with very smart people.

I need to redo all the work from the beginning – except now I need to prove the opposite.

Relax, Igor. Ask Tamara to give me a call please, as soon as possible.

Okay. Ciao.

Dina thought for a moment as she moved from the sofa to the kitchen table. She poured herself a glass of water and went back to the sofa. It took almost ten minutes before Tamara rang.

Welcome back. I guess our quiet life is over. It’s 10pm and I’m calling you, as per your request.

Hi to you too, Tamara. We don't have time, sorry. The Munich museum is going to pay a quarter of a million Marks to the Japanese for a forgery. Call the Japanese seller and inform him that we know this is a fake and that we will report our findings to Munich immediately after we end the call with him. However, because we are professionals and as we know how important his reputation is in this small, tight-knit community, gently suggest to the seller that should he choose, for a small lump-sum payment of $100,000, we’ll be willing to postpone the delivery of our report by 24 hours. This should give him ample time to cancel the sale, withdraw the forgery, save face with Munich and trigger the ‘exit clause’ in our very own contract with Munich, by which we will no longer be required to share the results of our analysis. The secret will be safe.

Wait, Dina. That's twice the price we are charging Munich!

Yes, and if they won’t agree, we will send the report to Munich immediately and the Japanese seller will be shut out of the trading world forever.

Okay. Sometimes it's difficult for me to change sides, but I agree with you.

Tamara, remember, we don’t take sides. Our job is only to verify and analyze.

Okay, okay. Do it your way. Good night, Dina. See you tomorrow at the office.

Good night.

As Dina replayed her conversation with Tamara, she smiled, and made herself comfortable on the sofa, soaking in the jazzy sounds of the blues.

We are here to survive and we will do what it takes to survive. We are survivors.

Dina's eyes closed slowly as jet lag took hold. From the moment she sat comfortably on the sofa, the glass of water in her hand felt as if it weighed ten kilos. She knew what to do; it had happened many times already. She needed to put the glass back on the kitchen table, otherwise she would wake up tomorrow in a pile of water or, even worse, a puddle of water would appear all over the Persian carpet that she so adored. Overcoming the unusual heaviness, she stood up and moved slowly toward the kitchen table, her left hand rubbing her eyes to keep them open. She smiled, covering a distance of two meters before landing in a kitchen chair. Mission accomplished. She smiled again as her eyes met the pile of mail left on the kitchen table by the concierge. Her smile disappeared. She cursed and took a minute to think of what would happen if she opened the mail tomorrow.

She could, but what if some mail was work related? The weekend would go to waste. As she was searching for a compromise, her eyes slowly closed again. Okay, she decided, I'll open some of the mail now. She slowly moved the pile of letters and magazines toward her body and, with only one eye open, started to separate magazines from letters.

The process was easy; magazines were pushed to the end of the table and landed on the floor, a kind of childish game that gave her some satisfaction. Letters went to the right side of the table, and she smiled again. There weren't so many. There were two big envelopes, one brown, one white, and a dozen regular ones, some from the bank, some from the cable company, and one or two advertisements. She huffed and pushed them from the table. She smiled again as the falling envelopes reached the floor, and the sound of it made her feel like a little girl again. She experienced happiness not only from the process, but also from her sleepy condition – I’m Superwoman, I’m a robot – and she smiled again, a happy smile.

She stopped for a second and started to open envelopes one by one. An invoice for the dishwasher repair. A cable bill. An electricity bill. An invitation to her condo Board meeting – these letters flew directly to the floor. In three minutes all the small envelopes were open and sorted. Now it was time for the big ones. She placed all the envelopes into a single pile, knowing that the first white envelope was the court invitation she had been awaiting for over a month. Some of her clients insisted on seeing her give a testimony in court even though she would never dream of such a thing. She would even go as far as having her clients sign a contract attesting never to invite her to court, but some tried their luck. From time to time she got phone calls from court clerks and follow-up letters. The first white envelop parachuted to the floor, joining the others, producing again the noise of happiness.

Dina looked at the brown envelope with one eye open and slowly, like in a dream, read its inscription.

Dina, I'll be in town next week. Hope to see you, R.

Slowly, she opened her second eye. Her facial expression turned to surprise and curiosity took hold. A handwritten greeting with no return address and no stamps. It had been a while since Dina had received handwritten greetings in large mysterious envelopes. It got her attention. She hesitated. Open it now, or do it in the morning? The size of the envelope was also suspicious. Something big was inside. She took it in her hand and flipped it over several times.

Dina, I'll be in town next week.

Analyzing items around her had become second nature. Even though the handwritten sentence was short, she was certain that it had been written by a man. The brown colour of the envelope indicated that it was from a convenience store; their big brown envelopes were made from cheap recycled papers. The envelope had a visible line in the middle, telling Dina it had been bent, probably for the convenience of transfer.

She became irritated by all the thoughts going through her head and stood up from the kitchen table, ready to finally move into the bedroom. As she got up, her right foot slid on top of the papers on the floor. On the verge of losing her balance, she grabbed the top of the kitchen table with both hands. Scared and shocked into instantaneous alertness, she realized that the brown envelope was in close proximity of her face.

Damn you, she said out loud. She never had been superstitious. Okay, fine. I'll see what you have inside, she said in mock exasperation.

She took the letter opener that she had used for all of the other letters and ripped the brown envelope open, lifting it up from the corner, waiting to see what would come out. A bunch of letter-size pages, around 30 to 40 held together with a metal clip, fell out. Dina recognized that the larger pages were photocopies of the smaller originals that they were clipped to.

The color of the originals was dark yellow with horizontal blue lines. They looked like standard banknotes. She needed more light to recognize what was written on them, but even without light she was able to see that they were handwritten in blue, or maybe black, ink.

As she moved towards the kitchen dimmer switch, she caught a brief glance at the wall clock and noticed that it was quarter after eleven. Dina turned the dimmer all the way up and the kitchen became instantly brighter. She was back in the kitchen, this time carefully going around the papers on the floor. Now, with all of the pot-lights working to their maximum, the kitchen table looked as if it was under a projector, thanks to the extra light Dina had installed when she moved into the condo six years ago.

She sat comfortably on a chair and began browsing through the first page, slowly going to the middle of the pile, then to the end and back to the beginning again. She noticed that the handwritten letters became smaller and smaller as she moved from the first page to the last. Towards the end, the writing was so small that the last page alone probably contained the same amount of written lines as all the ten previous pages combined. The colour of the ink was also alternating between dark blue and black and sometimes red, and she noticed that some paragraphs and even pages were written with a pencil. The handwriting seemed like that of a child, and she wasn’t sure whether it was a boy or a girl. Some lines were written under intense pressure, making words and sentences jump over the blue horizontal lines of the page.

For some unknown reason, Dina got a warm feeling holding the papers in her hands. She didn't understand why, but she was now ready, with some surprising pleasure, to read the first page. She felt a familiar feeling just holding these pages in her hands. Something warm and homey.

Dina stood up, opened the refrigerator, and tried to find the energy drink that she usually had well-stocked in her fridge. Tonight, it seemed she was fresh out of this staple. Coming back to her seat and taking a small sip from the glass of water on the table, she brought the first page close to her face and began to read.

Today is day one and I have my fresh diary, given to me by my dad. Today he informed us – me and Dina - that we are going to move again.

Dina's hand, the one holding the page, began to tremble. She opened her eyes wider and read the first line again. Shock raced down her spine. She felt like she was sitting on ice – her entire body went cold. Her vision blurred. She knew she was going to faint if she didn't change her sitting position. She stood up fast, as fast as she could, as if somebody had poked her behind with a needle. With the sudden change of position, she felt a loss of energy and power, but her brain moved into a defensive mode as she fought to regain consciousness. She took the glass of water again and emptied it.

No, it's not possible, was the first thought that went through her head. It's not possible. It can't be real.

She took the envelope in her hands from where she had dropped it in her state of shock and read it again.

Hope to see you, R.

If it was a miracle, then R might've stood for Roman, her only older brother, from whom she’d been separated twenty years ago. She remembered the evening when their father told them they needed to move yet again. She did not remember that they moved before, but she'd only been six, and she could still clearly remember the pretty doll that their father had given her, and the diary he had given Roman. It was his way of consoling his children for their upcoming move to a new place, to new friends and to new environments. Roman was happy and smiled at his father's gift; he was nine years old at the time, and he'd wanted a diary for a while.

Dina decided to take a quick break before going back to reading. She refilled her glass with cold water, took a sip, and sat back down, still shaky and weak, feeling heavy and nervous. One part of her wanted to continue reading, but the other part was scared and shocked by the sudden resurgence of the sibling from whom she’d been separated. Her eyes watered, and tears came down her cheeks, from sadness and from happiness. She may have found her brother again, and this hope drove her back to the page resting in front of her on the table.

She took a deep breath and continued reading.

It was our third move in two years.

Dina stopped reading. She didn’t remember any other moves. Even this one was hazy in her mind. But maybe… She had been only six years old. Maybe.

Dad told us, We will be moving in the evening. Dina was sleeping when dad told me the car was waiting outside and asked me to move quietly so we wouldn’t wake our neighbors. Dad took Dina into his arms and we slowly moved through the building’s corridor toward the first back door of the first floor where a small minivan was waiting. We had only one briefcase, and dad had his usual backpack that he always carried on his shoulder.

Dina stopped reading again. She recalled dad's backpack, but now it was clear why she didn't recall the move – she'd been asleep.

The car took us to the train station. We traveled three days and three nights and changed trains three times. I lost track of all direction, and when I asked dad where we were going, he answered with a smile, You'll see, Roman. You'll see.

Dina stood up. Three days and three nights. She remembered something. Yes, the train stopped sometimes for half an hour, and dad would jump onto the platform and buy cartons of fresh berries from the local women who were always there to serve the travelers.

Some images flittered through Dina's mind, and an idea came to her. She stood up and started to open several shelves on her work desk, looking for a notepad she could write on. She decided to compare her memories to the ones written in the diary. This way, she believed, the entire memory could be recorded and complement Roman's notes. She imagined that the photocopied pages were of Roman's actual diary notes. This is good. This is great.

After our long journey, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere! Dina was annoying and asked dad to go to the washroom every hour. When we finally got off the train, the only thing we saw were a few houses, a water tower, and the station house, all surrounded by a green forest. Dad mentioned that somebody was coming to pick us up and bring us to our new home. It took around one hour or maybe two before a small green car showed up on the road, creating a big dust cloud behind. The car sounded very loud and Dina was scared.

Yes, Dina did remember the green car. She'd been behind her dad holding his leg when the car pulled up near the station house and one big, dirty man came out, shook dad's hand, and helped him with their briefcase.

"Our new home" is actually one room, with no kitchen and no washroom. To pee, we need to go outside. We are in a village. It has forty similar houses. I counted on the second day we arrived. It has one small store with nothing in it. One day each week, a green car brings bread and some cans with food from the store. The local people are nice. We don't have school. When I asked dad where the school is, he said we are going to have our regular classes at home. He will be our teacher and our mentor.

Dina took a pen and marked Memory #1 on the top line of the page and started writing: The village people were nice to our family; it took less than one week for Roman and I to make some friends. Roman was popular among the local boys. He was tall and could match anybody his age in physical prowess. I had two girlfriends, Anna and Maia, who became my childhood best friends. Dina stopped and went back to Roman's diary.

Dad found a job at the local repair shop. He can repair any small item, from watches to sewing machines. He also volunteered to teach math and physics to the local children from the ages of eight to sixteen.

Dina smiled and Memory #2 appeared in the middle of the page: I recall the evening classes dad taught in our room. I wasn't allowed to participate and was supposed to sit outside or in the corner of the room, and when he asked questions, I always knew the answers and tried to show off. It was easy for me; I had a good memory and tried to please dad, but he always looked to the others for the answers and gestured me to keep quiet with his hand.

Finished, Dina started reading again.

Summer was fun. Winter was difficult, cold and boring. Two years passed and Dina joined our class in the evening. She finally got a chance to answer dad's questions. This girl was a big show off! During last winter, we started having family time every Friday. Dad usually tried to come home early from his repair shop and we didn't have any classes on Fridays. Some days we were lucky and dad had some sweets for us too. I have no idea where and how he would manage to get them in our village.

Dina smiled again. She wrote down Memory #3. She knew where dad was getting his sweets. One Friday, she spied on him and saw him going into Aunt Bronia's house on the outskirts of the village. Aunt Bronia would cook sweets using berries and birch tree juice, which locals collected in the spring. Dina would be in heaven when dad held all of the sweets in the big palms of his hands. Hands she adored so much. She also remembered a big, ten-inch pink scar on his left hand. The scar she loved to touch and stroke.

Our family time, Dina continued reading, involved a tradition of sitting on the floor in front of the iron wood heater, with dad telling funny stories and Dina and I adding our own details, and even telling our own stories once in a while. Dad taught us to value our family. He repeatedly said to us We are survivors.

One Friday, a strange event took place as we were sitting and waiting for dad to come home. He was late and I started to worry. Where was he? It took an hour before the door opened and he entered the room completely covered with snow.

When I asked him what had happened, he mumbled something, took off his coat, dusted off the snow and sat near me with a big smile. Today I'm going to show you something important, he said, and he smiled again. But before I show you, you must promise me it will be our family secret. Do you agree? Dina and I did. Ok, dad continued, it is our top and most important secret. Nobody should know about it, okay? We agreed again. He put his hand into his jacket pocket and took out a green leather package the size of his palm, tied up with the same green leather string on top. It looked heavy and massive in the strong open palm of his hand.

Dina stopped reading and closed her eyes. A memory unfolded like an old picture. A warm stream of air brushed against her shoulder, coming directly from the burning wood in her fireplace. She was there with Roman and dad and the green package in dad's left palm. She was scared. She opened her eyes fast and stared for a second at the same point on the yellow page, knowing it was real and true – he may very well be alive. She recognized it was late, and outside, the city was already sleeping. The street lights, a stark contrast to the dark sky, looked like fishing net from her condo. The odd cars were still moving, disturbing the perfect harmony. It was after 1 a.m. but Dina's sleepiness and jet lag disappeared. She filled her glass with water again and sat up again, ready to read.

Dad lifted the green package from his left hand and gently put it on the carpet. He opened it slowly, removing the green string and placing the content of the package in the center of his palm.

Dina closed her eyes again, and the light from the burning wood struck the middle of the package directly, illuminating her face a thousand times stronger than normal light because of the package's contents.

I asked dad what it was. He smiled. They are diamonds, my children. The most precious and expensive stones in the world. Dad closed the bag slowly and explained. We are rich, you are rich. We are very rich, but nobody should know about it until we get out of this village. I wanted to show you so that you know that I am taking care of our future. If something happens to me, you are protected. In the spring, I'll show you where I'm hiding these diamonds. If something happen to me you will know how to get them. You understand? Both of you. They’re yours. I'll tell you stories about diamonds next week, but remember our secret.

We had a number of Fridays when dad told Dina and me strange stories about the origins of diamonds, about foreign countries and how diamonds are made. But when I asked him where the diamonds came from, he changed the subject and became uncomfortable with the conversations.

Winter brought the inevitable cold, snow and games on the frozen lake. Our classes continued in the evening. Dina grew up and stopped annoying me and my friends. I love her very much and will kill anybody who harms her.

A single tear ran over Dina's cheek and spilled onto the page.

Dina wrote: Secret #1.After dad showed us the diamonds, Roman and I discussed, many times, what we would do when we got out of the village. Roman wanted to become a history professor, and I wanted to be an art expert. We would sell the diamonds and build two houses beside each other and never separate. Suddenly, dad was required to go to the village commandant and sign some papers every day after his work. I think it was done to make sure he would never leave the village unnoticed. Dad kept his promise, and in early May, he took Roman and me to the field across the river. We passed some storage buildings, and walked directly to our neighbor Alex's small and rusted hunting cabin. There, under the wooden floor, dad was hiding our treasure. He put the green package in a metal container and covered it with soil. That entire summer we visited the cabin four times, twice with dad and twice without. To train us in fetching the diamonds, dad requested we go alone, to bring the package back home without him, being careful to never get noticed by the village people.

Dina looked at a wall clock and noticed it was 4 a.m. already.

She decided to go to bed and try to get three to four hours of sleep before going to the office. It was a regular habit for her and Tamara to get together on Saturdays to review the previous week’s activities and to plan for the week ahead. This typically lasted two to three hours.

Falling asleep was hard once she was in bed, though. Thoughts about Roman's diary dragged her deeper and deeper into her memories. Ten minutes after she'd gone to bed, she reached for her cell phone and texted Tamara. Meeting for tomorrow morning cancelled, will keep you posted. She felt some relief, closed her eyes and drifted far away from reality.

The phone ringing sounded far away, and Dina, in her half-asleep state, wanted to ignore it, but instinctively reached out for it and answered, Hello?

Tamara was on the other line, her voice alarmingly worried. What's going on? Are you okay? Do you want me to come see you? What's wrong? she almost yelled.

Dina tried to hold in her hysterical laughter. She had never heard Tamara panicking, and for some reason it was very funny. Relax, Tamara. I am okay; I simply need to get myself together after a long flight and a very short, relaxing night.

Oh, yes, replied Tamara, whose voice was both relieved and berating. And do I know this somebody who's helping you get a 'short, relaxing night'? Yesterday evening you were all geared up to get back to work, and now you're texting me at 4 a.m. canceling one of the most important meetings in the week? I know it's not my business, but regardless, who is the man who's interrupting our regular schedule? I don't like it! Her voice sounded very serious, even aggressive.

Tamara, replied Dina, No man and no woman for now. I'll explain on Sunday, okay? Move our meeting to Sunday, 10 a.m. Do you have anything planned for Sunday?

Me? snapped Tamara. No, I don't have any plans, I don't need to go to my kid’s soccer game, I don't need to host a family dinner with my in-laws, and I don't need to explain to my husband why I'm working for a crazy boss like you. But I'll be there anyway, and you’d better have a good reason for rescheduling. It was quiet for about ten seconds, and then she continued. Sorry, Dina. I was worried. Sorry again. It'll never happen again, I promise.

Now Dina burst out laughing, loudly, and sent three kisses to Tamara. I love you Tamara. I'm your boss, but I'm your friend as well, so sometimes on the weekends when we are alone, I do give you permission to scream at me. Now, I have to go. I need to do some reading. See you tomorrow. Dina's voice returned to her regular confident, managing tone, and Tamara understood she needed to hang up and let Dina go. A short goodbye from both sides concluded the conversation.

Dina felt she was wide awake, and she jumped quickly from the bed and rushed to the washroom.

At 10 a.m. Dina was ready to get back to reading. A short breakfast, a cup of coffee and a good mood propelled her onwards. Looking from the dining room at the kitchen table, surrounded by all the papers, Dina felt extremely positive. The possibility of reuniting with her brother, a hope she had lost many years ago, was back and more powerful than ever. She put her hand on the brown envelope, which promised I'll be in town next week.

Dina decided to go down to the concierge and ask him about the mystery man who delivered the envelope. She took the envelope and automatically went to her private elevator before remembering that it wasn't working. She left her apartment and went out to the public elevator. When she got downstairs, the same concierge from yesterday evening was sitting near the security monitors. Noticing Dina approaching his desk, he stood up and greeted her with a wide smile.

Good morning! How can I help you?

Good morning. Dina smiled. Do you remember the man who delivered these envelopes to you? You mentioned he was here several times.

Yes, twice. I'm not sure if he introduced himself at all, except to say he was looking forward to meeting you, and at the end of his second visit he gave me the envelope to leave in your condo. Is everything okay?

Yes, yes. You did as he asked, don't worry. Can you please tell me more about him? How he looked? What he wore? Dina saw that the concierge was a little confused by her questions.

He was your height, two to three inches taller. Brown hair, short cut. I am not sure if he's a local; it looks like he isn't from around here. Only my impression, ma'am. This did not suffice, and Dina asked more questions.

How was he dressed? It was raining outside; I don't recall him having an umbrella, the concierge answered patiently. But I'm sure his clothes were dry. Oh yes, he was wearing boots. Nice leather boots. I've always wanted to get ones like those, that's why I paid attention to them, you see. You know high-heeled men's boots; I saw on TV that they sell them in village markets. Nothing else extraordinary. Oh, yes! Big hands, working-men hands. When he handed me the envelope, I noticed his hand was big, not like mine. And he smiled, putting both his hands forward, showing Dina. She was satisfied.

Thank you very much. He wrote that he'll be here next week. This is my office address. Dina gave her business card to the concierge. If he comes next week and I'm not home, ask him not to hesitate to come to this address, please. It's very important for me to meet him next week. Please pass this message to all of your staff.

Will do, he replied, and stuck Dina's business card to the board behind his chair. Don't worry, I'll inform our team as you directed.

Dina smiled again and went back to her apartment, anticipating drinking a hot coffee and reading Roman's diary.

The sun was shining through the condo windows, warming the kitchen and creating the perfect atmosphere. Dina took a big glass filled with water, put it to her right on the table, slowly moved the diary pages toward, her and started reading again.

Today dad surprised us all! Late in the evening, we were sitting as usual waiting for his stories. He came with a small bottle of black ink and cut a newspaper into small squares, placing three sewing needles on top. He put them on the floor and came back holding a lighted candle, positioning it on the floor near the bottle with ink. Roman, he said, for a long time, since we were in this village, you've wanted to have a tattoo, right?

"Yes," I replied.

"So today's your lucky day. I didn't believe my ears. Dad smiled and continued. Today you and Dina will get tattoos. Don't show them to anybody. They are our family tattoos. Okay, who's first?"

Dina was scared. I volunteered to be first. Dad explained to us that we would get a tattoo on the side of our middle fingers. It would be the first letter of our names. R for Roman and D for Dina. It was great; a personal tattoo. I gave my left hand to dad and he asked me for the right one. He heated one of the needles on the flame of the candle, explaining that he was doing it to sterilize the needle. Then he dipped it in the ink bottle and slowly punctured the skin on the side of my finger, dot by dot building the letter R. Dina was still scared, and I saw that she was holding her hand on her mouth, ready to scream at any moment. It took dad two minutes to finish his work, and he smiled and asked me if it hurt. I smiled back, locking eyes with Dina, and assured her it was a painless experience.

"I'm not scared, mumbled Dina, and put her right hand forward. Dad slowly and with great care took her fingers and told her, Dina, I'll try to do it fast, don't worry."

"I'm not." Her voice was trembling and I had the feeling that she would burst into tears at any second. But Dina was my hero that day.

Dina stopped reading, stood up, and went to the window, holding her fists painfully tight, her fingernails piercing her palms, pain penetrating her body. 'Dina was my hero.' And you, Roman, were mine. The thought was running through her head. You are my hero! And I love you as never before. She swept a single tear from her left cheek and slowly moved back to her seated position, ignoring the burning from her pained palms.

Dad finished Dina's tattoo and we all sat there quietly without words for a long, long time.

The page ended abruptly with this sentence in the middle. Unusual for Roman's diary, where every page was filled to its maximum capacity. Dina turned the page around and started reading the next one.

October 15, 6 p.m. We are waiting for dad. 7 p.m. – dad's still not home. Dina's worried, I'm trying to calm her down. 8 p.m. and dad's not home.

Dina stopped reading. Something was missing. She went back to the previous page.

Dad finished Dina's tattoo…

Yes, she realized what was going on. Roman, you are smart. You missed it on purpose because dad asked us to keep it a family secret, and you did. We are survivors, ran through Dina's head.

She took her papers and began to write.

She wrote: "Secret #2. Before starting the tattoo on Roman's finger, dad went quiet and asked us to be quiet, too. He slowly explained what he was planning to do. ‘Dina and Roman, listen and remember. When I write your initials on the inside of your fingers, I'll do a mirror image of them on purpose. Is that clear?’

‘I'm not sure,’ I said to him.

Dad took one of the papers he had with him and, with the pencil, wrote my initial. D. ‘That's the regular initial, correct, Dina?’

I said yes.

‘What I'm going to do is write it like you're looking into a mirror.’ And he drew a Ɑ.

Roman asked, ‘Why?

Dad replied, ‘The first reason is to make sure it does not look like your first initial. The second reason – only you, Dina and I will know about it, and it'll be our family secret.’

All became quiet, and dad proceeded with Roman's tattoo and then mine. Roman followed dad's directions and did not disclose it, declare it, or explain it in his diary. Love you, Roman, again."

And Dina drew a small heart near Roman's name.

Dina looked around for the time; it was twenty minutes past noon. She decided she would read the diary for another hour and then take a break. She was committed to the task, so she took the last page that she had read and moved her eyes to the last sentence.

October 15, 6 p.m. We are waiting for dad. 7 p.m. – Dad's still not home. Dina's worried, I'm trying to calm her down. 8 p.m. and dad's not home.

I went alone for the bag with jewelry, leaving Dina to wait for dad.

Alex took Dina and me to the train station.

Three days on a train.

We arrived in Derchany.

Second day in Derchany.

I gave Dina the page with the names.

I lost Dina!!! Dina, don't worry, I'll find you. I lost Dina!!!!

Dina was in shock. Roman was writing short sentences without any details; did he lose the motivation to fill in the details? Dina knew Dad's disappearance was a big part of it.

Dina was sure Roman had changed. He'd never shown it to Dina during the week after dad's disappearance and their separation. He'd never shown her any signs of weakness or lack of self-confidence. He was strong, dedicated and supportive, always smiling, hugging and encouraging. Only now, reading these short lines, Dina realized what a tremendous and heavy weight had been on Roman's shoulders as a result of Dad’s disappearance. She was shivering, feeling hot and cold at the same time. She stared at one point on the kitchen table and quietly, for the first time in her life, asked God for forgiveness for not seeing and recognizing what her lovely and poor brother had gone through. Her brother who, until the last moment they were together, had taken care of her, sacrificing himself for his little sister.

Oh, mighty God, forgive me and give me the strength to repay him in any way I can. She lost track of time and it took a full thirty minutes before Dina could calm down, and she decided to take a break for an hour.

Dina sat on her balcony overlooking the grey city sky, with a cup of coffee in her hand, counting clouds and trying not to

Reviews for Corridor One

[ReadBooksGirl · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

If you could only read one book that would epitomize the best in the mystery genre, Rafael H. Derchansky 'Corridor One' would be that book