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The Ashkhabad cemetery lay in the shadow of an adjoining airbase, the silence of death shattered by an occasional burst of jet propulsion. Five of us walked into the cemetery, negotiating the weeds that choked the fractured concrete paths. As we made our way to Andrei’s gravesite, I noticed that most of those in repose were teenagers, barely younger than me. Youth, once again, had fallen victim to politics. This airbase in ancient Turkmenistan had been one of the major deployment points for the Afghan War, a supposedly quick-win military exercise that would drag on for ten years and contribute to the fall of an empire.
Portraits of the deceased, carved in slabs of stone standing some four or five feet tall, captured their spirit. This gallery of death was alive; you could look into their eyes and see their innocence.
Gennady’s annual visit was a chance to be close to Andrei again and bring order to a messy grave. Over the course of a year weeds shot up and leaves littered the concrete platform surrounding the tall shaft of stone. Atop the pillar was Andrei, his youthful innocence looking out over a field of death. He was a handsome boy judging from the granite likeness. I couldn’t imagine the anguish and frustration Gennady must have felt, a man so proud, talented, and accomplished, unable to pass along his considerable gifts to his only son.
I was almost thankful for the disarray at the gravesite. The five of us would busy ourselves with cleaning while small talk filled the air. When we finished, though, the place fell to silence once again. It wasn’t a weepy scene; there were no deep, desperate embraces, a vain struggle to recover the past. Gennady and his wife were stronger than that; they had been through this many times before. Fresh flowers had been placed in a vase at the base of the stone pillar and a bottle of vodka stood awaiting the traditional silent toast. We formed a semicircle around the plot, about six feet of space hung heavily between each of us. As was his nature, Gennady took charge, helping each to a mouthful of vodka made warm by the overbearing heat of the desert.
I stood at that gravesite in Central Asia staring at this 17-year old boy, remembering how Dad’s life slowly slipped away less than two years earlier.
The vodka burned my throat, all the more harsh without bread to chase it down. We stood in silence for a moment looking at Andrei’s fresh face carved in the smooth stone. Gennady’s eyes were moist. I put my arm around his back and we walked out of the cemetery.
November 1990
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