Brighton Beach in Brooklyn was a haven for Illya Kuryakin when he was in one of his melancholy moods. Usually his jazz records and the solitude of his apartment were enough, but there at times he needed more to draw him out of those dark places his head and his heart retreated to.
Though Russia was no longer home, this place felt like home to him as it was filled with faces that looked like his, and he could hear his native language spoken in more than a single sentence. That in itself felt so right. He'd acclimated himself to living in New York and was becoming more comfortable with the American way of doing things...he supposed his three year stint in Great Britain helped and hindered him at times.
To the Americans he seemed more British than Russian, even though everyone at headquarters knew he was Soviet as well as a Communist. That did not always bode well for him.
Yet here in Little Russia such things didn't matter; Soviet, Communist, Russian, Ukrainian...everyone here seemed to relish their Slavic heritage and that familiarity was just what he needed when feeling down.
He was walking along the boardwalk early one Sunday morning as Napoleon was off on assignment and that cancelled out their Sunday brunches that were becoming a sort of tradition.
Illya stopped, looking out at the waters of the Atlantic and sat on a bench beside an old man who was leaning forward on his cane. Before he knew it the old fellow had struck up a conversation with him in Ukrainian.
Through the course of their chat Illya found out he was from Kyiv, the man having been born and raise in that city, Illya once called home. After the war he escaped with his wife Olena to the United States and moved here to Brighton Beach where whey raised their two sons.
The man, looking to be in his late eighties, switched to heavily accented English, introducing himself as Olek Andriyenko, and told Illya he had once lived not far from Andriyivskyy Descent in Kyiv.
"That brings back memories," Illya couldn't help but smile.
"My family went to church at St. Andrews when it was permitted. Thought I am no longer a believer... I remember the priest Father Demya vividly, but I was very little. He stayed with us for a night after the government closed the church and were hunting down the clergy. He escaped to Hortitsa, and there he was killed by the Germans while fighting to defend the remaining Cossacks who lived there. I was able to visit his grave.* He was Kubanskiye Kаzak himself." *
"I knew him quite well lad, as Demya was my cousin." Illya's mouth hung open in shock. What were the odds of him meeting this man at all, much less here in the United States.
"I apologize," he said," but I have been remiss and not introduced myself. My name is Illya Nicovich Kuryakin."
"Kuryakin? I remember that name from home and there was only one family who lived in a red dacha outside of the city. Judging by your age, you would not happen to be one of Marina's grandsons would you?
Illya hesitated at first, mostly because he was now dumbfounded. He hadn't heard another human being say his grandmothers name since he was a little boy.
"Yes, Marina Ivanova Kuryakina was my babushka."
Olek smiled, pausing for a minute as he recalled cherished memories from so long ago.
"I remember her well when we were young," he sighed, " a stunning woman she was. And I remember your parents, though you favor your mother Tanya and not Nicholaí."
Illya froze, realizing here was a living breathing human being who'd actually known his family, and not just by name.
"How is your family, how did they fare during the war?"
Illya lowered his head, "None of them survived. I am the last of the Kuryakins."
"You have my deepest sympathies young man; so many of our people perished, it was terrible, such inhumanity. I am going to turn ninety in a few months and I think I have seen too much sadness in all my years... I lost my Olena not long ago to the cancer and my children live in a place...San Diego. Entrepreneurs they call themselves, whatever that means. Sadly I do not hear much from them. It is not like in the old country where families stuck together."
Olek looked into Illya's eyes," I remember you now and those striking blue eyes of yours, you were the second eldest and the oh so serious one." He pointed a crooked finger at Illya's nose."Your babushka was very proud of you and I recall she would boast of how smart you were when we would see each other on market day at Yevbaz Bazaar.
"Thank you Olek, that means a lot to me," he politely answered, though Illya's heart hardened at the naming of that place, as his mother and twin brothers Sasha and Misha were murdered by the Nazis while the four of them were on route to the market in search of food.*
Olek saw the look on Illya's face, and knew he'd struck an unhappy chord with the lad.
"Come help an old man up, and I will take you to my apartment. I have something to show you."
Illya steadied Olek as he stood, and together they crossed the road and turned a corner to the apartment building where the old man lived.
His place was on the first floor so there were no steps to climb, even though he was surprisingly hale for a man of his age.
Olek unlocked the door and beckoned Illya to enter. Though Kuryakin felt no threat from the old man, he still poked his head around, looking to make sure they were alone and things were secure.
"I see your Soviet upbringing has made you cautious. Given your age, you must have fled home for a good reason. Your Ukrainian is that of a native speaker, yet I know the Kuryakins prided themselves on being Russian. Your grandfather the Count was a good and generous man, that is why the Tsar awarded him his title, because he was an honorable man. He was one who could truly be trusted and in the Russian court, that was a rare commodity.
Illya's eyes went wide, again being astounded to the reality that Olek knew his grandmother, it would stand to reason he would have known Alexander Kuryakin as well.
"I never knew my grandfather; he was sent to the gulag before I was born. Illya's heart ached to tell Olek so much, but knew it was better to remain silent, and let the old man do the talking."
"Count Alexander Sergeivich Kuryakin was the best of men and it was a crime the proletariat and their masters did not see that..." Olek sighed, as that made him a little sad. "Now I am getting melancholy, and it was my intention to cheer you up. Sit sit, I will make us tea."
Illya deposited himself on the old sofa, looking about the room that was filled with so many Russian and Ukrainian trinkets and chachkas. Matryoska dolls, a beautiful Lomonosov blue netting tea set was displayed neatly on a shelf. The walls had a number of colorful icons hanging on them, and in the corner, standing on a dark wood table was a beautifully polished samovar.
Olek returned with two tea glasses in traditional holders, containing freshly brewed piping hot Russian tea. Illya had not seen tea glasses such as these since he'd left the Soviet Union years ago. Though the holders were made of base metal, they were brightly colored with enamel.
"You have so many wonderful things here Olek, they remind me of how much I miss seeing these little reminders of my past life."
"Oh the chachkas, I keep them because my late wife loved them. They remind me so much of her...tell me Illya Nickovich, you do play chess do you not?"
"But of course," he smiled.
The old man pulled a carved wooden chess set from a drawer and placed it on the coffee table. "Then we must play!" He winked.
It was beautiful, made of fine rosewood and ebony inlay, Russian made...
Olek Andriyenko was a sly old fox and played a brilliant game of chess, with Illya losing to him several times. It was getting late though, and it was time for him to leave.
"OIek, what was it you wanted to show me?" Illya asked as he stood.
"Oh, the mind forgets nowadays." Olek hobbled over to a bookshelf, leaning heavily on his cane, and taking hold of a small photograph, he held it up for Illya to see.
He squinted at first, and again his eyes widened as he realized it was a portrait of Father Demya. That was a face he hadn't seen since he was eight years old, though the memory of the priest was forever etched in Illya's mind.
"Thank you so much for showing me this Olek," he hesitated. " Meeting you makes me feel like I am not so alone anymore."
"Yes it was good to meet someone from home,: the old man smiled. "Perhaps you might come visit me from time to time Illya Nickovich and we could talk about things, that is if you would like to? Maybe play some more chess?"
"Yes Olek, I would like that very much. Impulsively Illya reached for the old man and gave him a bit of a bear hug, holding onto him for a moment.
Olek understood what this meant to the young Kuryakin.
"Perhaps I could stand in for your family now and then and you mine?" He whispered.
Illya quickly wiped a tear from his eye, agreeing with Olek. Having someone in his life who knew his mother and father, all his siblings and his grandparents was as close to family as Illya had since they all died.
.
For the next six months the UNCLE agen spent at least one day a week, when he was in town, visiting Olek Andriyenko and together they shared their very private memories and gave each other what comfort they could.
It was raining, the last time Illya Kuryakin went to Brighton Beach, the landlord had called him and said Olek had passed away in his sleep.
Napoleon had met Olek once and was glad his solitary partner had befriended the man. It seemed to lift Illya's spirits, and that was never a bad thing.
He followed behind the Russian, keeping him company at the funeral and stood back as well, both remaining distant as Illya and he weren't really family. There were times that Illya felt as though he were more of a son to Olek that his real sons were.
Kuryakin finally met the entrepreneurial siblings and he introduced himself, offering his sympathies.
"Oh you are the one papa talked about. Thank you for befriending him, it meant a lot to him. It was so hard for us being on the other side of the country trying to keep our business afloat."
Olek's eldest son Michael pulled something small of his pocket. "Here this is for you, it's the picture of the Orthodox priest who was papa's cousin...I don't remember his name."
"Father Demya," Illya spoke quietly.
"Yes, was it, anyway papa said he wanted you to have this as he said you knew the priest when you were little. Wow, amazingly small world huh?"
"Indeed," Illya took the photograph, tucking it reverently into his jacket pocket.
Once the Orthodox rites had been performed, Illya and Napoleon left the small funeral home in Brooklyn.
Solo drove, as Illya seemed distant.
"What was it the son gave to you tovarisch?"
"Oh nothing, just a little memento of his father, and old photograph." That was as much as he was going to tell his partner. Illya didn't know why, but he was just not comfortable discussing his past with Napoleon. He feared perhaps that his friend would only pity him for his harsh life, and that just wouldn't do.
Napoleon dropped him off at the steps to their apartment building, and apologized for leaving, but he had a date with an airline stewardess.
"I am fine, seriously. Do not worry about me," Illya waved him off and watched the silver convertible pull away into traffic.
He pulled the photo from his pocket, staring at it for a moment, before tucking it safely back there.
At home in his little apartment it would sit with honor beside the painted icon of Ignatius Brianchaninov, the very icon he'd rescued from the carnage on the steppes when the Kubanskiye Kаzak tribe he'd been living with was murdered by government troops as part of yet another attempt at ethnic cleansing.
Thanks to Olek, he had a little piece of his past returned to him, and would treasure it forever.
Illya looked at his sparsely furnished apartment, thinking he'd like to get himself a tea set, Russian made of course...
.
* ref "поцелуй (the kiss), An Iconic Image, Beginnings," ** "Zaporoche"