Ell Chefman got off the Russian helicopter that had ferried him from the airport at Vilnius, Lithuania to Lida, in Belarus, formerly Soviet territory. The helicopter ride had been a bit uncomfortable, but he was now where he needed to be to complete his research. Chefman remembered something he'd personally experienced, but had to return to the original documents to understand fully what had happened and why. And to find an answer.
Lida had been the scene of countless invasions for hundreds of years, where communities had grown and in turn been destroyed by wars, by Teutons, Poles. Russians, Tatars, Lithuanians, Princes, Dictators, and Khans. As such it was a treasure trove of European history. And it had secrets. One of them was the involvement of Belarus in the disposition of French Army POWs taken during Napoleon's Invasion in the War of 1812.
You see, in Lida's library were the Archives of Belarus. Chefman knew that the archives included "Lists of the French army POWs of medical ranks left with the wounded in the military hospital in Minsk, 12 January - 22 November 1813" as well as "List of the French POWs who died in the Minsk hospital. 8 April - 15 June 1813."
Chefman spoke with the library's director, and asked to see the manuscripts. As a lawyer, and a person who'd lectured at the University of Michigan, he was accorded access to them, accompanied by a library employee. As he sat with white cotton gloves on, so as not to damage the delicate paper leafing through the 200 year old contents with a magnifying glass, he found what he wanted.
His own name - or shall we say, a pseudonym he'd used while serving in the French Army as a Medical Officer - was on the first list of Medical Officer POWs. Searching the second list, of French officers who'd died in the hospital during this period, he saw his own from his faked death, but that was not what he was looking for.
He wanted to find something else, the name of the man who'd told him of a secret cache buried beneath the old 14th Century fortress of Lida Castle. He needed the man's name, and hoped for burial information, because he knew that his comrade of those days had been buried with a map inscribed on a gold coin he'd made Chefman place in his trousers before his death. Typically, the Russian captors had stolen the French boots, coats, and hats, primarily for their buttons and decorations, and the men were buried in their trousers and shirt. The coin had been cleverly hidden.
Chefman knew that all that would be left of this burial would be the skeleton and the coin, which being gold, would not decompose or deteriorate. Maybe there'd be a few buttons and fragments of leather. But how many other skeletons might be in the pit, on top, in other layers? It would, he knew, be like finding a needle in a haystack. And it would be on the outskirts of Minsk, where so many battles had taken place in 200 years.
But if he could find the burial, he could find the map. And the hidden secret he, and the world, now badly needed.
After several hours with the manuscripts, he believed that he understood the burial locations of several of the men, including his friend. He might get lucky. But he needed help. It was a bit vague, and the appearance of the area had changed radically in places over 200 years and several wars. But he had enough information for a good guess as to the location, if he could recognize the topography. He had been in many armies; he was very good with a map.
An awful lot of prisoner and civilian killing had taken place between 1180, when the area was first settled, and 1945, when WWII had finally ended. There would be much to sort through. There could be layers of mass graves.
He walked from the library to a nearby bookstore; in the Belorusian he dredged up from his now-200 year old memories. he called to someone behind the counter and asked, "У вас ёсць карта горада?". He was handed a map, and gave the woman at the counter a few rubles. He looked up and noticed that the woman appeared to be nearly fifty, but quite beautiful. He was taken aback, very impressed.
"Why do you want this?" she asked in English.
"Oh," he said, still somewhat startled by her appearance and fluency in English. "I'm a tourist."
"You don't appear to be much of a tourist," she said, "without a camera, or luggage except that instrument bag and a small backpack."
"Clean underwear and socks, a guitar, a pair of jeans, and a toothbrush," he replied with that grin that only Americans have. "I won't be here that long. I'm doing some camping."
"It's not that warm yet," said the woman. "Camping with no tent or blanket in only your underwear? That's not such a brilliant idea for a man your age."
Again with the "man your age," he thought. "Well, if I were young like you, I might get by then." He walked toward the door.
"You're talking to an old lady," she called back.
"Some old lady," he said. He left wondering if he could think of an excuse to buy another book, and went looking for a place to have a drink.
He needed to go to Minsk, and he needed some local help for the dig; he would also need to poke around Lida Castle when he got his hands on the map on the coin. It was not going to be easy. Belorusian laws about war graves were strict, and required academic permits for digs. This would have to be on the QT, because the chances of the authorities believing him as to the purpose of this wild goose chase would be less than zero.
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