My parents welcomed them with open arms into our community, as they felt this was the Christian thing to do. In the midst of the Cold War, being a Russian immigrant was not an easy burden to bare, especially in small town America. Prejudice was a daily reality for the Zosimovs.
Nikolai was a large, square jawed, brick of a man. He had graying hair and a face etched with the valleys of a man who had lived a hard life. Each word he spoke seemed deliberate and carefully chosen. Though this was partially due to his inability to speak fluent english, it also hinted at a modest, grandfatherly wisdom. He was calm and collected, I never once saw him angry. It was clear that he cared about Saschenka deeply, and he enjoyed his job working for the railroad.
Despite films like “Rocky 4” and “Red Dawn” the Zosimovs would eventually win over everyone with their genuine compassion and work ethic. Though this didn’t dissuade me from begging Nikolai for the occasional “Ivan Drago” impersonation. He would wipe all emotion from his face, look me deep in my eyes, and respond in a menacing russian droll... “I will break you.”
I never inquired how or why they came to the US, and when a person broached the topic directly, Saschenka would speak for her husband by vaguely stating “It was a most difficult process.”
My father was an Alcoholic, and although Nikolai was a good man, he would prove to be a poor influence on my father. They would disappear for long nights, watching games and sharing war stories, only to return home to the fury of their wives. I can only assume, that it was on one of these weekend excursions that Nikolai first shared with my father the details of his past.
One rainy evening, I asked my father to tell me a story. He had been drinking heavily, sufficiently skewing his filter enough to pass on information that wasn’t meant for his children. It was in this way he had told me many horror stories from his experiences in Vietnam, but tonight’s tale was something different.
He made me swear to secrecy, even from my mother. Then paused for a moment, teasing me with the notion that I was unworthy of the covert intelligence at his disposal. Only after I begged and pleaded did he continue on.
He told me that Nikolai had been a member of an elite special forces unit in the USSR, and eventually the KGB. His job had been to eliminate people who spoke out against the government. My father spun this into a moral of how lucky we were to live in a country were we could do and say as we wished with out the fear of such consequences.
I was shocked, and my father could see the awe in my eyes. It was no surprise what governments were capable of, but I was bewildered that Nikolai had directly served such masters in his past. I believe it was my obvious reaction to this information that encouraged him to continue.
Then, as a good story teller does, he slowed the pacing and built up tension by hinting at his knowledge of a myterious Russian assassination technique. A practice so secret and difficult to master that it was only passed on to a handful of soldiers each year. Evidently, Nikolai had been one of these soldiers. When translated, to my fathers ears, the method in question was called “Nynoksmyrt.” According to Nikolai, with this technique, you could kill another man using only your finger tip.
As my father told me this, he took his index finger and poked me gently in the stomach. There was a moment of silence, likely triggered by my father seeing the shock on my face as I half expected to keel over dead from his touch to my belly.
At that moment my mother called him to the kitchen. He gave me a sincere smile, then patted me on the head. He stood up from the couch and bravely walked into the kitchen where my mother was waiting with another interrogation session.
I sat there on the couch lost in my thoughts. Though at that age, I did not yet know what morbid curiosity was, in retrospect it was exactly what would consume me. For better or for worse the word "Nynoksmert" had been imprinted on my young brain.
This was a time long before computers or the internet. When research was plagued by vague references in the Card Catolog. A host of public libraries offered only the most superficial information on modern military history, let alone classified Soviet assassination techniques. Over a period months my quest proved fruitless.
I began to believe that my father had lied to me, or perhaps Nikolai had simply shared an old Spetznaz fairy tale meant to frighten young children into conforming to the wishes of the ruling party.
One weekend I jumped at the opportunity to spend some time at the university library. At this time my father had been working as a recruiter for the college, with his office just across the foyer from the main library. While he finished work, I’d sit at those study tables pretending to be an adult as I sketched pictures and browsed microfiche. I used this opportunity to spend an entire afternoon blanketing the library for the tiniest morsel of information that would shed light on Nikolai’s tale.
In a dark, dusty, corner of the library, hidden somewhere in the history section of the third floor, I came across an aging book cataloging bizarre torture techniques over the centuries and how they had evolved into their modern day variations. The index took me to a section on Russian methods dating back to the 1700’s.
After a brief period of skimming I stopped on a rather graphic illustration of a finger being pressed into another mans naval. The section was titled “The Nynnoksmvrt Twist.”
In 1812, during the Franco-Russian War, a Russian general named “Kutusov” devised a technique for torturing captured soldiers of Napoleon’s Army. Vastly out numbered against Napolean, Kutusov fell back on a policy of Scorched Earth warfare, which eventually lead to Napoleans defeat. In the wake of the victory, the torture technique evolved into a form of specialized assassination, meant only for deserters and treasonists.
The assassin would drive their index finger deep into the navel of an enemy and with a brisk twisting motion, cause the enemies belly button to unravel or snap.
A moment later intestines would poor from their stomach onto the floor around them. If done artfully, as the Spetznaz, were taught to do, you would hear a little “POP” as if a bottle of wine had been uncorked. This would signal the eyes being released from their sockets, drug outward via the spinal column, from inside the skull, and dropped to the ground. Landing on top of the mess like two cherries on an ice cream Sunday.
As a naïve child fascinated with war, and G.I. Joe, my curiosity overcame me. I decided to ask Nikolai directly if he had ever performed the Nynnoksmvrt on a living person. If he was open to my requests for Ivan Drago impersonations, he may also be willing to share with me the secrets of his past as he did my father.
And so, one afternoon over a game of “Hi-Ho-Cherio” I broached the topic. The mood of the game took an immediate turn as his face became grim and serious. He raised his hand and looked at it, staring at those massive fingers, tips yellow from a man who smoked a pack a day, with skin thick and calloused from his work on the railroad.
After looking down at it for a moment that hand reached out, across the table, and gently landed on my shoulder.
“The Nynnoksmvrt is not for children” he said. His emotionless lips gave way to a concerned smile as he lifted his hand from my shoulder and he slowly stood up.
As he walked down the hall with his back to me, I heard him say. “Me and your father shall, how you say…have a chat?”
0 comments:
Post a Comment