Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw
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that the road changed names to Bohdan Khmelnycky and then to Zamarstynivska. The name changes reminded him of his native Vancouver where the same roadway could have several names.
“Seems it’s a lot easier to nail a new name to a post than to build a new road,” joked Yarko.
Dzvinka laughed. “Or repave the old one. But you will rarely find a post with a street name. It is far cheaper to attach the street name to the wall of a corner building instead.”
Yarko was riding beside Dzvinka but just a little behind, giving him a great view. Her shorts revealed as much as they concealed, and whenever she bent over the handlebars, her sleeveless sweater hung loosely enough to expose milky flashes of her breasts. Yarko was missing much of the historic scenery of this part of town. Centuries-old buildings and churches went unnoticed. He almost missed crossing the railway tracks, and a gentle turn to the right also went unnoticed. Only as Dzvinka slowed near an abandoned factory did Yarko return to full consciousness. Old stone houses were in a uniform state of disrepair. A short side street was marked by a sequence of yellow puddles rather than any semblance of pavement.
“I think this is it,” said Dzvinka, catching her breath.
Yarko could just make out worn black lettering on a white board on the side of a corner house. “Koro …” was all that was legible. “Yes, this should be the street,” he said. “The house number was 19. At least that’s what it was before the war.”
He walked his bike between puddles while scanning for house numbers. The smell of flowering vegetables came wafting on a slight breeze. Bordered by crumbled stone, brick, and rubbish was a garden of some size along one side of the street. Neat rows of onions, carrots, and cabbage brought a hint of order to this scene of dilapidation. In the silence, a quiet hum of busy insects could be heard. Bees and butterflies flitted from flower to flower.
Across from this garden was a large house that caught Yarko’s eye. He remembered the description of the house in family legend as being a fortress, a veritable bunker. Flaking stucco revealed stone and brickwork underneath. This house was as close to a two-storey cube of stucco-encased masonry as could be imagined. On one corner a signboard read “19 Koronska.” This had to be it.
“Family legend had it that as my great-grandfather, a school principal, was building his house, the neighbours jokingly accused him of building a bunker,” explained Yarko. “But then later, during the war, when the nearby railway station was carpet-bombed, no home escaped damage. Only the principal’s bunker stood without so much as a cracked window pane.”
Yes, this was the family bunker. Standing silently before it, he again felt that inflow of energy, that bravado that he first felt at the monument to Ivan Pidkova, the kozak warrior named Johnny Horseshoe. Much like the hero of the movie Taras Bulba, Ivan had fought the Turk but was betrayed by the Pole. His blackened bronze visage today marked the spot where his Polish allies beheaded him. Yarko knew the story.
Although feeling this renewed strength, he also felt, deep within him, a strange uneasiness. Something twisted his gut, as a shiver ran down his spine. Not all is as it seems here in Wonderland, some voice was whispering. Maybe it was the thought of having to break into this house that was bothering him. He could not form a plan, yet he felt unready to share his thoughts with Dzvinka. She had been standing behind him, not daring to interrupt his silent contemplation. Only when he moved did Dzvinka dare to speak.
“Today there will be three or four families living in this building, not just one as before,” she said. Her voice had a slight accusatory tone, Yarko felt. She sounded like a lecturing Intourist guide, more appropriate to this land some decades ago.
Yarko did not reply. He was more than prepared to argue the merits of private ownership. The pitfalls of government ownership were in full display before him. He just didn’t want to go there at this time.
“If you’re hungry, I brought a butterbrod,” she said, trying to change the subject. “A sandwich, if you prefer the English word.” She could feel that Yarko was not in a chatty mood just now. Her bicycle had a pair of travel bags with snap pockets. She opened one and gave Yarko a rye bread sandwich with Krakivska sausage. Yarko silently handed her his water bottle in return. His thoughts were still far away, as he unconsciously chewed on his bread. He looked the building over from all sides. He could feel that there was something here that was dear to him.
Dzvinka interrupted the silence again. “Come on. Let’s go to the Vysokiy Zamok. It’s getting late.”
In order to focus his distracted attention and convince him to follow her, she lifted her arms as if to clear her hair from the nape of her neck, and, simultaneously, stretch her tired muscles. This motion revealed even more of her breasts through the arm openings of the sleeveless sweater. Her belly button narrowed between twin strips of muscle and her shorts slipped even lower off her hips.
“Let’s go, then,” agreed Yarko. “You lead.”
The Vysokiy Zamok was on the route home. They had ridden around it to the west on the way here. Now they would ride around its east side. They crossed under a railway bridge and then turned up a switchback road heading to the hill’s peak. The last part of the climb was along a walking path that led to the top. The mountain was crowned by an artificial conical hill with a spiralling path leading to its top. Dzvinka rode straight past this hill and past the remains of old battlements to a small clearing surrounded by dense bushes and trees. Barely visible through this vegetation was a tall radio tower behind them. Tired and panting, the two lay happily in the grass. Dzvinka propped her head up on Yarko’s knapsack. She could just see the end of a roll of American dollars showing from under a flap.
“I see you’ve brought some hard currency,” she commented. “Be careful with that kind of amount around this town.”
“Don’t worry. It’s just a few bucks for the road. The rest is much better hidden.”
Lying on her back, Dzvinka lifted herself on her elbows to keep her hair off the grass. To stretch her muscles, she bent one knee to the point that her heel just touched her buttocks. Yarko checked out her tanned legs. The sweaty wrinkles of her shorts failed to conceal her panties, whose delicate lace seemed a strange selection for bike riding. Dzvinka closed her legs to shield herself from Yarko’s gaze, and smiled back at him coquettishly. Yarko couldn’t hold back and pressed his lips passionately to hers. Dzvinka embraced him, and while gripping his thigh between hers, she smartly rolled him under her. She laughed at his surprise at this deft manoeuvre.
“Wait here,” she whispered. “I’ll be right back.”
Yarko watched breathless as she crawled on her knees to her bike and reached into her other travel bag pocket. Multicoloured clouds of this romantic Lviv evening were playing with the last of the sun’s rays.
“You know, Dzvinka,” he said, staring at the slivers of white lace exposed with every movement of her thighs, “I’m going to need your help. I have this interesting task. There is some kind of treasure in that house we were looking at. It’s something my grandparents left behind during the war before abandoning their home. I have no idea what it is, but somehow I’m going to try to find it.”
Dzvinka closed the pocket of the travel bag and turned to answer. “Sure, I can help you. It will be an adventure,” she said, crawling back on all fours with her top sweater button now having surrendered to the strain. “We can put a plan together right now! So where is this treasure hidden? And what will we need to get it out? You don’t look like much of a treasure hunter, so you’ll definitely need my help.” In her excitement, she mixed Russian words with her Ukrainian.
She lay down on her back beside Yarko. Gently taking his hand into hers, she slipped it under her sweater.
Suddenly, from behind the trees, the sound of several loud voices shattered the quiet seclusion.
“Blyaa; it’s the militsya,” Dzvinka whispered hoarsely, mixing Russian expletives with her Ukrainian. “They are looking for us. Let’s scram! Damned menty! May they…” She jumped on her bike.
Feeling totally confused,