Part 4 — At the Base Gate, the Guard Detained Me, While My Brother Laughed — A Few Minutes Later, the Duty Officer Lost Color

The duty officer hung up the telephone and ran straight toward the door.

I followed behind him.

Glub stood up too.

“You are staying here,” the officer told him.

“This is my business.”

“That is exactly why you are staying.”

Red alarm lights came on in the corridor. Their flashing left blood-colored stripes on the white walls.

On the way to the warehouse, the sound of my shoes returned in an echo. The base no longer resembled the place I had wanted to see calmly. Every door was locked, every gaze turned toward me.

Two armed guards met us in front of the warehouse.

“The door is locked from the inside,” one of them said.

“Is anyone inside?” I asked.

“We do not know.”

The officer had the lock broken.

Inside there was the smell of fuel. Papers lay on the floor. One metal cabinet was open, and several folders had been removed.

In the corner I found a small voice recorder.

It was Glub’s voice.

“These numbers must be changed before the new commander comes.”

A second voice answered:

“If the audit sees it, they will arrest both of us.”

I held the recorder in my hand.

Glub was brought into the room a few minutes later. Standing beside him was the head of the base procurement department, Dato Kavtaradze. He was the one who had the key to the night archive.

“This is a conspiracy,” Glub said. “My words have been cut.”

“The recording is continuous,” the officer replied.

“Elene, tell them that I am my brother.”

“That is exactly why I listened to you for so many years,” I said, “but now for the first time I am asking everyone to listen only to the facts.”

At ten o’clock in the morning the lawyer came. He held a sealed folder in his hands.

“General, the independent inspection report is ready.”

Glub lost color.

The lawyer read the text aloud. During the last three years, money from fuel purchases had been transferred to shell companies. One of the companies was registered in Glub’s name, and the second in the name of Kavtaradze’s wife.

“This is impossible,” Glub said.

“The signatures are yours,” the lawyer replied.

“Elene, this was not my decision. I only signed the forms.”

“You signed the forms while others were taking the money.”

The duty officer placed a small speaker on the table.

“Now you will hear the conversation that took place yesterday evening.”

Glub’s voice sounded from the speaker:

“If Elene comes, tell her that her order is forged. She always tried to prove something to everyone. For such a person, one closed door is enough for her to retreat.”

No one in the room moved.

Glub was listening to his own voice and for the first time understood how it sounded through someone else’s ears. His face emptied. It was as if the words he had used as jokes for years now stood before him and had turned into evidence.

The recording continued.

“If she still does not leave, erase the documents. We have time until morning.”

Glub lowered his eyes.

“I did not mean it that way.”

“But that is what you said,” I answered.

That same day the military police took Glub and Kavtaradze for questioning. Yanosh, meanwhile, was temporarily removed from his duties. A case was brought against him not only for the arrest; he was accused of deliberately ignoring security rules.

I did not touch anyone.

Nor did I give Glub any additional punishment.

I simply no longer protected him from the consequences that he himself had brought.

In the evening my lawyer called me.

“Your brother is asking for an agreement,” he told me. “He says that if you change your statement, he will return part of the money.”

“He did not lose the money for me.”

“I still ask you to think about it.”

“I have thought about him my whole life. Now for the first time I have to think about myself.”

Three weeks later I passed through Glub’s apartment. Several things from my childhood had remained there. In the living room they had taken our family photograph down from the wall. In its place there was a bright rectangle where the dust had not touched.

In my old room I found the small wooden box of the copper compass. I did not remember when I had left it.

On the top of the box, in Father’s handwriting, it said: “To Elene, when she loses the direction.”

I stood there for a long time.

I did not feel victory.

I felt only that peace which comes to a person when at last they no longer have to prove their own existence.

Six months later I was living in a small mountain town. I still had command of the base, but now every morning I drove to work and stopped at the same bakery along the way.

The saleswoman knew my order by heart.

“Cinnamon bread again today?” she would ask.

“Again today.”

My nephew, Niko, often came to me. Once he was sitting at the table and drawing something on a sheet of paper.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A door,” he answered.

“Why is it open?”

“Because you can enter inside when you want.”

His answer remained in my heart in such a way that I could not say anything to him for several minutes.

That same evening I received a message from Glub.

“Elene, I know that I did a lot wrong. Just one meeting. I will explain everything to you.”

A second message followed soon.

“You are my sister. You cannot sacrifice me like this.”

I put the telephone on the table.

Niko stood at the window and watched the first snowflakes.

“Auntie, will you come outside?”

“Yes, now.”

The telephone lit up again. This time it was a call.

I did not answer.

Not because I wanted my heart to hurt.

I simply no longer wanted the burden of his life to return to my shoulders.

The next day I wrote a short reply to the lawyer:

“I am not going to meet. What happened will no longer change. Please do not contact me again.”

Then I turned off the telephone.

Outside, snow was quietly falling. Niko placed his drawing on my desk. It showed an open door, a small house, and a round sun above it.

I took out the copper compass and placed it beside the drawing.

It was still showing the right direction.

I remembered Father’s words.

“When the wind confuses you, you will still know the direction.”

This time I did not need the road in order to prove anything to anyone.

I left the door open.

And for the first time, I did not look back.