7500 km

Amid rusting hulls in Petropavlosk-
Kamchatskyi, a man is sitting in a boat.
He says, “I’ve been waiting for you,
let’s go.” So I get in. ”Where?” he asks.

“Mariupol.” “Mariupol… You don’t look
like a Ukrainian spy.” I say nothing.
“There is an island in the bay, far away.
Mariupol it will be.” He rows, strong arms.

“The deep water hides submarines,”
he says. “And in the rivers near our volcanoes
there are leeches as big as mice. And bears,
Do you like bears?” “Yes. But I like better

the salmon they catch.” The island looms
in heavy fog. “I’ll wait for you here.”
I go into the fog, which clears, to blocks
of Soviet era apartments, now shattered,

torn up walls, wallpaper flapping in the wind,
reinforcement rods bent to Vs, splinters
of people’s lives, gaping holes, mattresses
spilling their innards, the smell of rotting

vegetables, of wet gunpowder, of shit. And
grit, settling on the doll’s torso. I go back,
through the fog, on the jetty. He’s there,
sitting in the boat, smoking a cigarette.

“You have enough?” he asks. I shiver.
He makes no motion to the oars.
“Let’s go back, please,” I say. And
take out the gold coin. “I was there,”

I say, “in Warsaw in 1945. It smelled
the same.” “You’re Jewish? “Yes… Please.”
“Back to `45? Do you remember,
how could you forget? Who freed you,

in trucks with Katyushas, Stalin’s
rockets? Where would you be ?”
“Back, please. The doll…” He says,
“My father was there. I was there.”
And I see the boat is sinking.