For a Life Taken

By Lazar J. Trubman

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 26, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469118819

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FOR A LIFE TAKEN

Lazar J. Trubman

Copyright © 2009 by Lazar J. Trubman.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2008910839

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4363-8873-3

Softcover   978-1-4363-8872-6

ISBN:   ebook   978-1-4691-1881-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

A NIGHT VISIT

DEATH OF A MODERN SOVIET BOOKKEEPER

LAST DAY

QUEEN’S GAMBIT

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

GRANDMA

ONCE IN A LIFETIME

TRANSACTION

A SLICE OF A CHILDHOOD

DAY OF THE VICTORY

A TRIP WHICH NEVER HAPPENED

THE RECOMMENDATION

MY OWN LITTLE WAR

A MEETING

FOR A LIFE TAKEN

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

A NIGHT VISIT

To Grigorii, Valentina, and Yuri

Gendler—wherever they are.

They drove up to our house in a dark-blue Volga, when the sun was still asleep, One-Two-Three-Four of them, tall, handsome, in long black-leather raincoats, hands in their pockets. The First one, probably the highest ranked, with a cigarette in his left hand, knocked on the door and glanced around suspiciously.

I saw them through the tiny window of my upstairs bedroom. Today was my birthday and, given the importance of the upcoming event, I woke up early.

How may I help you? asked my father in an unusually loud voice.

KGB, said the First one. Open the door!

Three others blocked the door as though afraid that my father will somehow escape from a house with only one entrance, and, with their arms crossed on their chests, stood motionless, silent monuments. The First one, whose smiling face would remain in my memory forever, looked at my father as if he were an alien and said abruptly:

We’re here to perform a search.

Search? asked my father, What are you looking for?

No one answered his question; they walked in, One-Two-Three-Four of them, tall and silent, with cigarettes in their mouths’; then the Fourth one pushed my father away from the front door and landed a short punch straight on his chin. The stranger was young and strong, stronger than any man I’ve seen before, that’s why my father found himself on the floor, spitting blood on the rug.

Any more questions? asked the Fourth one.

So, it’s a secret, my father concluded with a bloody smile.

You’re damn right it is, agreed the First one.

The reputation of your institution speaks for itself, said my father, but you can’t do this to me and my family: last time I checked, there was still law in our country.

Which law, asked the First one in an artificial tone of voice, Jewish?

I was eight today. I was born at one o’clock in the afternoon, with a lot of hair on my head and a pair of big green eyes, which within the next few days became dark-brown: my father’s eyes. I dreamed all night about my presents and guests, especially Valentina, the daughter of the school accountant who lived two blocks down the street in a white brick house, the only white brick house in the neighborhood. I always thought she was a sorceress, either because of her long black braid or because of the strange tickle in my throat every time I saw her approaching me in the school hall. I had sent her an invitation, and her mother—also with a long black braid and a permanent smile on her youngish face—confirmed yesterday that the present has already been bought…

A minute later my mother walked into the kitchen, stopped next to my father and helped him to his feet. Thank God, Yurochka is at grandma’s place, she said, wiping the blood off my father’s lips.

Thank God, agreed my father.

Yurochka was me. That’s how my parents called since I could remember; it was a pet name, a sweet version of Yuri, which I actually liked more because it made me feel older and independent. I understood that it was a sign for me to be quiet and ready to hide in case the uninvited guests decided to check the upstairs bedroom.

Expenses of the system, explained the First one, meaning the impatience of his subordinate who stood beside him smirking, as someone mentioned recently: we’re choosing from the best, but we’re still humans.

Is that so? asked my father rhetorically.

What was bound to happen sooner or later to any family in our country—finally happened to ours, but my parents seemed to be openly surprised by their own prescience. My mother kept squeezing my father hand behind his back, silently, as if she was suddenly afraid to utter a word.

Well, said the First one after giving his partners a short sign to check the living room and the library, let’s answer a few simple questions while my boys are working, shall we?

Only while your boys are working, said my mother, surprised by her own bravery.

I thought feverishly: where am I going to hide if someone comes into my bedroom. The big box from the TV set, which had been adapted for my books and notebooks, was half full; same as my toy closet; the only safe place was the narrow and sometime slippery cornice—assuming that they will not go out on the balcony.

The First took out his notebook and opened it to the marked page; he was serious all of a sudden, he asked: Do you keep firearms in your house, Irina Borisovna, and by that I mean any firearms, including homemade ones? For some strange reason he was addressing my mother.

That’s a twenty-years-in-a-Siberian-camp question! my father hissed through his teeth.

No, said my mother, we don’t.

Forbidden literature, narcotics?

Thank you very much.

That means—no?

You’re welcome to understand it as you like.

I’ll take it as a no.

Thank you again.

One of the three men approached his superior and whispered something in his ear.

So, smiled the First one, nodding at the same time to his subordinate, you are prepared to accomplish a revolution with your bare hands?

Revolution? repeated my mother with a laugh.

It’s all right, honey, said my father. It’s a playbook question.

So, no literature? the First one asked again, ignoring my father’s brave remark. He was about the same age, maybe a bit younger, but much taller, with a pair of strong hands and actually attractive.

Excuse me, what century are we in? asked my father—and to no purpose: the Third one, who was busy now with the drawers of the sideboard, took a quick step toward him and lightly, as if in a gym, threw his left hand straight forward. There was no pain on my father’s face, just suddenly tears in his eyes.

We agreed to answer the questions, reminded the First one, giving the Third one an order to go back to his job. And please note: there’s no such thing as freedom to do anything. Some things always have to be forbidden.

My mother—not a tear in her eyes—helped my father to stand up.

Something fell on the floor—probably a flowerpot.

Well, concluded the First one, we’re done with the literature.

Why did they come so early in the morning, I thought, keeping an eye on all four of them, why not during the day when I’m in school? And why this particular morning, when all my thoughts were about Valentina, her mysterious smile, her graceful step, as though she was walking on water? (I knew I loved her, and the only thing that always worried me was her inability to realize that simply by looking at me…)

The Second and the Fourth ones meanwhile disappeared into the master bedroom, and the Third one began emptying the bookshelves, slow, reading the titles first, and soon the entire floor was covered with precious books.

God, said my mother, is this really necessary?

The Second one came out of the master bedroom and whispered something in First one’s ear. They both grinned. Rubbish, said the First one after a pause, we need more interesting things, more valuable.

My mother shook her head in disbelief.

How old is your son, ma’am? asked the First one.

He’s in second grade.

Innocent age, huh?

Today is his birthday.

Let’s move on, comrades, ordered the First one, giving the Second one a sign to go back to his search. Sorry for repeating myself: any army knives, explosives, unauthorized amounts of poison? Any weapons at all?

Is the kitchen knife considered a weapon? asked my father ready for another blow.

You’re a fast learner, the First one approved my father’s step backwards.

What kind of poison are you looking for… Captain? asked my mother.

Major, ma’am, Major Orlov—with your permission.

We have a tiny bottle of acetic acid, for household purposes of course.

Now the Fourth one came out of the master bedroom with his question; he was a bit skinnier than the Second one but taller, with a sharp Adam’s apple and a profile of a Greek warrior. Two men whispered for a while; then the First one finally announced:

I’m going to forget the acid, but what about the rifle in the winter closet?

We have a permit, Comrade Major, hurried to assure my mother.

A Jew a hunter?

I know, said my father, it’s a laugh.

Killed anyone lately?

Yes, a couple of hares last year.

I want you to be as honest as you possibly can, Grigorii Illich, said the First one and paused for a moment as though trying to gauge the reaction his request had had on my parents. You do understand that we would prefer to spend a night in a much better place than your fucking house?

I don’t recall sending you an invitation, Comrade Orlov.

The Third one turned around and looked inquisitively at his superior.

He is right, Anatolii, the First one came to my father’s rescue, we are never invited; it’s a very thankless job and in your case, my dear comrades, a very lonely one: you don’t even have a daughter to make the night go faster.

You! . . . began my mother, but had to swallow the rest of the sentence.

Calm down, honey, interrupted my father in a trembling voice, we really don’t have a daughter, he said that keeping his eyes on the Third one who was working now on the interior shelf of the library.

I sensed a shade of agitation on my mother face and regretted that I couldn’t open the door wider in order to see the rest of the living room. My main concerns were the Second and the Fourth ones: they could appear quite suddenly and, using their long legs, run up the stairs in a matter of seconds. Thank God, it wasn’t raining. A year ago I could easily hide under the pillow holder—that’s how skinny I was. Not anymore though. The cornice was my only chance, unfortunately.

And what do we have here! exclaimed the Third one, pulling a dog-eared notebook from under the collection of Tolstoy’s books. My mother’s face became white all of a sudden. Don’t tell us it’s your precious diary, continued the Third one, opening the notebook to the first page. For a moment no one spoke. The First one was all attention; he sensed something; he stood up and looked intently at my father. The smiley eyes of the Third one meanwhile wandered over the page, getting wider by the second. We have some fucking poetry here! he finally said and read sarcastically: Whither flies the soul of the executioner, when he, having swung his ax like a butcher, then wipes the sweat off his eyebrows, incoherently whispering the holy prayer? Whither flies the soul of the executioner…

That’s enough! interrupted the First one. I’ll take it from here—with your permission of course, Irina Borisovna, and when I come back from the bathroom, we will have a nice chat, he gave the Third one a sign to keep an eye on my parents and disappeared into the bathroom. Now it was dead quiet, just pieces of the conversation between the Second and the Fourth ones in the master bedroom.

The curse word didn’t bother me, not as much as the color of my mother’s face, not white anymore but slightly gray, and her lips, colorless all of a sudden, bloodless. I had never seen anyone as frightened as my mother seemed to be. On the other hand, I could see the hopelessness of my father’s thoughts when he glanced at the Third one’s wiry hands: to escape was impossible.

Once the Fourth one came out to ask his next question, but had to wait—like all of us actually. Nothing, as far as I understood, could be done or changed without the approval of the First one who now flushed the toilet. He returned to the living room a minute later, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Do you understand that I can make you disappear? he asked.

My mother nodded agreement.

The Fourth one, his question ready to fly off his lips, raised his hand like an exemplary second grade student, but the First one stopped him at once: I want you to check the upstairs bedroom, he said quickly, under the beds, under the rugs, every closet and box! he paused again. And don’t forget the balcony!

What am I looking for? asked the Fourth one.

My dead grandmother, stupid! said the First one. Go!

A moment later I found myself on the cornice. I was able to take only a few steps and had to stop: this was as far as I could go. Thank God, it was still dark. Seconds later the Fourth one came into the bedroom and turned on the light. I couldn’t hear any noises, but I could see his shadow: he was now checking my closet. I was afraid to look down where the only functional streetlight was far away at the intersection.

There’s no one here! shouted the Fourth and turned off the light.

I was standing on the cornice, unable to move. What if he was trying to trick me? Now, with the light off, I couldn’t even see his shadow. My hands were tired, my back sweaty, but the decision to wait a bit longer seemed to be the right one: these people were dangerous. I counted slowly to three hundred and almost fell asleep. In the bedroom, I stood still for a while, giving my eyes time to get used to the darkness. It was ominously quiet. Once in a while a car passed by, waking a few street dogs; then quiet again. Was it possible that they were gone already? The door of my bedroom was shut and not much could be seen through the keyhole. If they were gone—where were my parents? Slowly, holding my breath, I set the door ajar and looked down the stairs: my father lay on the sofa and judging by the stillness of his body seemed to be asleep. But where was my mother?

The First one was on the phone, talking in an undertone; the Third one sat in the middle of the living room peeling an apple with our kitchen knife. Now what? he asked after the First one finally hang up the receiver.

We need to go, said the First one, I think we found everything that was on the list.

Thank God, said the Third one, I’m getting pretty hungry.

I heaved a sigh of relief: my mother was probably in the kitchen, treating the Second and the Fourth ones to some tea and cookies. I should’ve guessed that. I still wasn’t sure what happened to my father while I was hiding on the cornice, but his face seemed peaceful, and I didn’t see any more blood on his lips.

Tell them to be quick and messy, the messier the better, said the First one and once again glanced over a few pages on my mother’s notebook. Suddenly my father opened his eyes and tried to stand up but in vain: he only managed to roll down on the floor. The Third one, shaking his head in disbelief, plunged the sharp end of his shoe into my father’s stomach; then again; then he left the living room and soon came back with a smirk on his face:

You would die laughing, he said. She doesn’t make a sound.

We’re leaving, said the First one ignoring the Third one’s remark. You drive. They both looked around and, satisfied with the view, walked out of the house, one after another, closing the front door behind them.

I thought: what was so funny about my mother not making any noise? Curiosity forced me down the stairs. I had to make a short stop at my father’s body: his eyes were black, his lower lip broken—he looked a lot worse that I thought he would.

Don’t go there, Yurochka, he said suddenly, wait until they all gone.

But what about Mom?

Please, son, listen to your daddy!

I was so curious, so curious!

Let’s not make them madder than they already are, added my father and ran out of strength. I sneaked up to the half open door and peeped into the bedroom: my mother lay motionless on the floor, with the Second one on top of her, moving up and down: that’s why he couldn’t see me. The soles of his shoes scared me to death. My mother’s eyes were wide open; she was trying to tell me something, but I could only see a brown belt next to her, which I knew didn’t belong to my father. I was so hypnotized by the worn-out soles and the snake-like belt that I almost forgot about the Fourth one, who now turned on the water in the bathroom to wash his hands. I felt powerless, powerless and small.

Move, bitch! said the Second one breathing heavily, but my mother just bit her lip until it bled. So, I thought calmly, that’s how a human being in pain looks like: pale and voiceless, voiceless and pale. The water in the bathroom was turned off. I barely escaped into the living room and ran up the stairs, stumbling over my father’s body. I moment later I was under the bed, where it was dark and dusty.

An eternity went by.

When the front door finally closed with a bang, I didn’t feel any relief. I tried to imagine Valentina’s face and her swinging braid when she was walking toward me, but couldn’t: the image was faceless, the hallway dark. I wanted to scream, but the fear was stronger than my will. I’ll never wear shoes with worn-out soles, I vow, never gird myself with a brown belt, never. The echo of the closed door was still in my ears, vibrating inside them like an echo of a distant train. The new day was coming and it was getting lighter by the minute. What if the First and the Third ones had come back? The garbage truck outside the window told me that it was six o’clock. I used to like the first light behind the window blinds, not as sharp as the later ones, soft somewhat, not as blinding. I used to enjoy the mornings when I was awake before the alarm went off. First light, the truth of the day, first people in the streets: milkmen, breadmen, sweepers. Would the world ever survive without them? At six o’clock exactly the garbage truck drove into the neighborhood, waking everybody up, and the stink of rotten vegetables and fruits hung in the air forever.

Steps behind the door interrupted my reminiscences. Now I was confused. I really hoped that everyone was gone by now. Crawling as far from the edge of the bed as I possibly could, I thought suddenly: what was my mother trying to tell me, suffocating under the big body of the Second one: to run, to hide, to scream? To think about it, there was not much I could’ve done.

Now the door opened.

I was all fear.

Someone walked into the bedroom and stopped.

Come out, honey, I heard my mother’s voice, it’s safe now.

Slowly, still afraid that it was just a trick, I crawled out. My mother looked pale and tired, much older suddenly, with her arms around her shoulders. I wanted to ask about my father, why wasn’t he in the room, but asked instead the more important question:

What were you trying to tell me back in your room, Mom?

A couple of crystal tears appeared in her beautiful eyes.

Back in your room, with that big man on top of you?

Happy birthday, Yuri, she said, happy birthday, son.

DEATH OF A MODERN SOVIET BOOKKEEPER

Lev Krotkin, a thirty-two year old bookkeeper with bright-blue eyes and a head full of wheat-colored hair, stood in the midst of a motley crowd waiting for the light to turn green. It was Friday, payday. He had just spent one hour in line to the cashier’s window, hearing stories he didn’t want to hear, inhaling the heavy air of an overcrowded lobby, a mixture of smoke, cough and bad breath. As with everyone else, he had to go through this torture once a month despite being an employee of the accounting department.

The sun had just touched the horizon, balancing on the thin line as a gigantic yolk. A tall man in a light-gray jacket attracted Lev Krotkin’s attention as the crowd began moving across the street in order to get to the approaching trolley. The man stopped at a kiosk for a moment and paid for his paper.

Excuse me, said Lev Krotkin, but you look awfully familiar!

The man turned around and exclaimed:

Lev, Lev Krotkin?

Victor? exclaimed Lev Krotkin. Victor Dolsky?

They hugged: they hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years.

So, how’s life? asked Victor Dolsky. Married, I presume?

Can’t live without them, said Lev Krotkin with a smile, you?

Of course, Galina from the B class—you should remember her.

Do I? She was in all my dreams!

The trolley came to a halt.

How about a drink for the occasion? asked Victor Dolsky.

I’m buying, agreed Lev Krotkin, just got paid.

We’ll see about that, promised the newly found friend.

They got off and crossed the Market Square.

Fifteen years, said Lev Krotkin, trying not to fall behind his tall classmate. I can’t believe we never met one another since the graduation, even occasionally. Were you in town all this time?

Oh, no, answered Victor Dolsky. Spent seven years in Leningrad: five as a student at the state university, then worked a couple more in the city of white nights, he stepped over a puddle of rain and concluded: Best years of my life!

Lev Krotkin, still shaking his head in disbelief, said:

Well, I wasn’t as fortunate at the exams and had to content with the local college, but I’m not complaining: have a stable job as a bookkeeper, moved in a three-bedroom apartment recently, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his chest pocket: Smoking?

They were almost at the restaurant.

Go ahead, poison yourself, said Victor Dolsky opening the door and holding it for his beaming classmate. The last time I tried I was in the seventh grade. Felt sick for a month! Since then—never. Wasn’t made for it probably.

Reading the menu, Lev Krotkin estimated the cost of a bottle of vodka, two roasted chickens and some lemonade, and the number he came up with frightened him: approximately twenty-five rubles: his whole paycheck was fifty-six rubles and thirty-four kopecks. Intercepting his worried gaze, Victor Dolsky said reassuringly:

Don’t worry about the money yet, we have a lot of talking ahead of us.

After the second toast the conversation took an unforeseen path.

Damned fate! said Lev Krotkin filling up the glasses at the same time. But who can you blame for that—the century, the system? Senseless waste of time if you ask me. Every day is the same as the previous one, every year, decade! To your health!

They touched glasses.

Strange things happen around us! continued Lev Krotkin after they chatted about their high school years for a while. Beatings, tortures, even killings. I know of a few. Take my neighbor, for example: an older man, a hard-working truck driver; was surrounded by a gang of young hooligans within a hundred yards from his apartment, beaten almost to death and left alone to die, until purely by accident another neighbor found him behind the lilac bushes. It took him more than two months to recover!

Hope they caught the bastards, said Victor Dolsky slicing a pickle.

Caught them? Certainly not! exclaimed Lev Krotkin leaning toward his old classmate. I knew another man, a younger one, who worked at the local printing shop for twenty years, a very dependable, honest person, non-smoker, too. And what do you know, he switched to a whisper, he was picked up straight from his workplace by two men in civilian clothes. Never came back. His poor wife died soon after. She just couldn’t take it any longer.

What a horrible story! said Victor Dolsky. Did the authorities ever find out who they were?

Don’t be naïve, my friend, interrupted Lev Krotkin. You can complain about police brutality—although it is hopeless and stupid—but you’re out of luck when it comes to dealing with men in civilian clothes. They’re untouchable!

To your health! proposed Victor Dolsky.

And we were told that Stalin’s time had gone forever, Lev Krotkin went back to the interrupted topic after they had a bite of chicken. Not exactly, my friend! They can enter your apartment at any time of day and night and you must open the door! He was surprised by his own bravery and couldn’t stop. There’s no way around it, simply no way!

How’s your family? asked Victor Dolsky rather too quickly.

Everyone’s healthy, thank God, kids are getting colds now and then—but you know how it goes, answered Lev Krotkin separating the chicken leg from the body. Otherwise, we’re a pretty healthy bunch."

Let’s drink to that!

The bottle was empty.

My neighbor from across the street hung himself a few months ago, whispered Lev Krotkin keeping an eye on the bottom of his glass. Or so they say. He was a barber, for God’s sake, the most peaceful profession, but you never know, right?

People have reasons, said Victor Dolsky and gave the waiter a sign to bring the receipt. Was he married, the barber? Not that I’m opposed to it, but a lot of times marriage can create problems.

No, not him, assured Lev Krotkin. I knew his wife—she died two years earlier of cancer; not just a wife but a perfect example of politeness and devotion, a great housekeeper too.

Two years ago, you said? Maybe he felt lonely? Men tend to feel lonely after…

As I said: no one knows. It was strange though.

They talked a little about the inevitability of fate.

Another drink? asked Lev Krotkin.

I’ll pass, said Victor Dolsky. Have a busy day tomorrow, he pulled out a pen and wrote something on a napkin. Here’s my phone number. Call anytime, we should meet more often.

No objection from this poor bookkeeper! agreed Lev Krotkin putting the napkin away in his side pocket. Life’s too short nowadays. He started to light a cigarette, hesitated for a moment and changed his mind. The waiter came by and did some calculations, silently moving his lips; then announced:

Your total is twenty-eight rubles and eighty-seven kopecks.

Please! Victor Dolsky forestalled his classmate’s attempt to pay. I feel guilty for being so forgetful all these years. Here’s thirty, my friend, he pulled his wallet and counted out three ten ruble bills.

Don’t even try next time, warned Lev Krotkin.

Agreed.

At the bus stop they shook hands.

Call me, reminded Victor Dolsky, already on the steps. I mean it.

I will! Lev Krotkin stood motionless until the bus disappeared around the corner.

His wife greeted him reproachfully but was very excited after he had told her about the unexpected meeting with his old classmate. Was he a good student then? she asked.

I really don’t remember, said Lev Krotkin adding some sugar to his tea. He must’ve been though. You can’t pass the university exams being an average student, especially in Leningrad. Take me, for example.

It was nice for him to pay for the dinner, said his wife.

Almost thirty rubles? That would’ve burned a hole in our monthly budget!

They talked a little about Victor Dolsky’s generosity; then watched the eight o’clock movie.

Next day, after lunch, Lev Krotkin unfolded the white napkin and dialed the number. He felt nervous for some reason and wanted to hang up, but a woman’s voice on the other end answered pleasantly:

Dolsky’s residence, Galina speaking!

This is Lev Krotkin calling. he said. You probably don’t remember me.

But of course I do! You were in love with me!

Like everyone else in school!

He heard a child’s cry in the background.

I’m sorry, Galina apologized, it’s feeding time unfortunately. Victor’s work number is 2-13-12. Call him—don’t hesitate: he would be very pleased to hear from you again. And she hung up.

Her voice brought back hot reminiscences of the past and made Lev Krotkin somewhat uneasy. It seemed that he had betrayed his wife just by talking to Galina. According to the clock on the wall, he still had eight minutes left of his break time. He locked the door, even though it was against the rules, and quickly dialed the number.

KGB, where may I transfer your call? a woman asked in a soft voice.

Sorry, wrong number, said Lev Krotkin and quickly hung up.

KGB? He felt at a loss. Pretty sure that a mistake had been made, Lev Krotkin dialed the number again.

KGB, answered the same woman. How may I help you?

Comrade Dolsky please.

Major Dolsky will be with you in a moment.

Keeping an eye on the locked door, Lev Krotkin turned over in his mind different variants of the upcoming conversation but as soon as Victor Dolsky answered the phone could exhale only one precipitous phrase:

My tongue is my enemy, Victor… sorry… Major…

Lev? How nice of you to call me. Did Galina give you my number?

I want to apologize for yesterday’s rubbish, Victor… sorry… Comrade Major.

Stop it, we had a great time!

I don’t usually get carried away, but we hadn’t seen one another for so many years, Comrade… sorry, Major… and I don’t drink much ordinarily, stammered Lev Krotkin. It’s just that everything happened so suddenly, that…

Listen, Victor Dolsky interrupted softly, I really must go now, but what do you say if we get together at my apartment this coming Sunday? Bring your wife and kids with you and we’ll have a great time!

I just wanted to tell you that I don’t usually talk about things like…

Gagarin Boulevard, 15, apartment 2. Don’t call—come.

He doesn’t want to listen to me, thought Lev Krotkin, with the receiver still up in the air, because he is angry. And he should be! My damned talkativeness! Like there is nothing else to discuss!

He couldn’t wait until the end of the day.

On the trolley, squeezed between the handrail and a huge woman in a quilted jacket, Lev Krotkin decided to call Victor again from home and convince him that it had been an accident, the talk of a drunken man rather than his usual state of mind. That he is not political, God forbid, just a peaceful citizen. He ate half of his dinner and left the kitchen pleading a headache. His wife offered him an aspirin and a glass of water.

Thank you, my love, he said, I just need a little rest, that’s all.

In the bedroom, he dialed the number and as soon as Victor Dolsky answered the call, blurted out: I know I’m being annoying, but you have to believe me, Comrade Major… sorry, Victor… I had no business bringing those things up!

I’ve already forgotten about it, Victor Dolsky assured him. He then asked: We’re still on for Sunday, aren’t we? Galina just bought some beautiful lamb for a shish-kebab and a chilled bottle of vodka will be waiting.

It’s like a mountain off my shoulders!

Very good—don’t let me down then, said Victor Dolsky and the line went dead.

He’s still mad, thought Lev Krotkin swallowing the pill. He’s just trying to cover his real feelings. We have to meet. He needs to see my face. It’s always better to confess in person, and I do have an honest face—people tell me that all the time.

Next morning, exactly at a quarter till eight, Lev Krotkin sat on the bench next to the KGB building waiting for Victor Dolsky’s trolley to arrive. Busy people everywhere, cooing pigeons in the crown of a huge poplar. He felt calm and convinced of the rightness of his decision.

I never witnessed any of the things I told you about in the restaurant, Comrade Major, and I really had no right to… he began his explanation as soon as his famous classmate jumped off the trolley but didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence.

What? asked Victor Dolsky patting his pockets in search of his office keys. Just go to hell! And forget about Sunday’s shish-kebab! God, what a sorry sight! he walked into the building, slamming the door.

The sun was already up, melting the last morning clouds and promising a warm day. People were coming off the trolley, talking among themselves, laughing. Jealously gazing after them, Lev Krotkin thought about his job, his wife and kids, his purpose on earth—boring things. He boarded the trolley but, instead of going to work, went home.

Once inside, he finished his cold breakfast tea, lay on the sofa and died.

LAST DAY

In the memory of Micheal Stein,

a friend, a fighter, a brilliant teacher.

He packed everything, giving one last glance at his empty apartment. It was Monday, morning like many others. The sun had just shown its smiley face above the tiny horizon line, promising a warm day. His second cup of coffee wasn’t as tasty, bitter somewhat. He washed the pot and cleaned the kitchen table—a habit that might be useful in America. Unlocking the front door, he shook his head in disbelief: sixteen more hours—and everything he’s been through, his servile existence would seem like a long dream, which finally came to an end. He went on foot to the first restaurant, occupied a table by the window and ordered a glass of young cabernet.

Kind of early, isn’t it, teacher? asked the waiter.

I’m leaving the country.

Then it’s late, I guess.

My thought exactly.

There weren’t a lot of customers at this time of the day, a couple of women at the bar having their coffee with a pastry, and an older man, probably a tourist, at the distant table, who greeted him with a nod when they looked at each other. The only thing that irritated him was the mirror facing him, a mirror in a damaged frame. Every time he looked up he saw himself looking like someone he new long ago: Vladimir Goltsman, drinking wine, in a damaged frame. He had dark circles under his once clear blue eyes—that was all; he actually looked pretty good—after all the beatings and humiliations, a man in the prime of life, with a white beard, which surprised him every time he glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

He ordered another glass of wine and fish—he had plenty of time.

His last dinner.

Why is it always something in life for the last time, he kept asking himself, every day, practically every hour, minute, moment, but abandoned the thought before it had matured in his head. Another question—why was he so unsure all of a sudden of the rightness of his decision—didn’t last much longer.

You fish, teacher, said the waiter arranging the plates on the table.

Thank you, Georgii, you’re efficient as always.

We’re not busy this morning, but when the bus comes from Kishinev, my effectiveness will go down the drain—I know, they’re always a pretty hungry and impatient bunch. The waiter left a few more napkins and went back to the kitchen.

The fish was excellent, but he didn’t enjoy it at all.

His mind was elsewhere.

He paid for the dinner and on his way out stopped at the bar to have another glass of wine. Suddenly it was more painful than he thought it would be, even though he seemed to be glad that it was over, once and forever. A woman at the end of the counter, a gypsy in a colorful dress and a leather vest, looked at him tiredly and said:

Someone always feels worse than you, teacher.

He nodded and emptied his glass: the wine was young and bitter.

The barman stopped drying the glasses and uncorked a new bottle.

Worried about your future? asked the gypsy. All I need is a glance at your hand

How about my past, beautiful?

It’s a bunch of lies.

The barman intercepted his silent gaze and refilled his glass.

A long journey is ahead of you, teacher, began the gypsy caressing his palm with her long, soft fingers. I see clouds high above and water down below, she fell silent for an instant, added: Many obstacles, teacher! You’ll find yourself among strangers and you’ll become a stranger yourself.

He gave the barman a sign to pour a glass for the fortune-teller and asked:

Do you know a man named Anatol by any chance?

Yes, quite a few, said the gypsy with a short laugh.

He’s a tall, good-looking fella, with a head full of wheat hair?

No, not that one, said the gypsy and left, leaving her glass untouched.

He let her go.

Crazy bitch! said the barman watching her crossing the street, but harmless like a flea; does this kind of things all the time. Men get upset, but there is not much anyone can do really. People say she was cursed by the gypsy’s encampment for killing her husband’s mistress: probably, a lie—like everything else about them.

What if it’s not?

As I’ve said: she is harmless, the dark bitch, repeated the barman. Sits here all day long, staring at the wall, never creates any disturbances, never gets picked up by a man, and never buys anything. Does a reading of the future now and then, but mostly sits in the corner like a statue. It seems at times that she doesn’t even exist!

I’m leaving for America tomorrow at noon, he said placing twenty rubles on the shiny counter. Give her a glass of wine every day of the next week. And don’t tell her that I paid for it.

Will do, promised the barman hiding the banknote in his chest pocket.

The day was already in full swing, with the sun climbing to the top of the sky, motley groups of people in the streets, puddles in the same places. Thank God, he thought, no new rain. Rain every day tired him, made his thoughts wet and heavy. He felt a sharp stomach ache, probably because of the young wine, and used the restroom in the cinema. No customers yet, just cashiers and the cleaning crew. He’ll remember their sleepy, indifferent faces, suddenly a cat in the lobby. When was the last time he sat in the theater waiting for the magic to begin? His face, after he washed himself up, was pale. Out again, he carefully walked around the puddles and entered a department store, where he spent some time talking to the bored clerks. What bothered him all of a sudden: he couldn’t say it was a bad life! Shoes and shirts were not the best quality and rarely available, but priced accordingly. Long lines, yes, and angry cashiers never greeted him with a smile. Yes! So what? It wasn’t the end of the world. Some days were better than the others, all he had to do was to get used to it. LIFE… WAS… GOOD! These three words had been hammered into his brain since the first day of his existence. LIFE… WAS… GOOD… The only things that were unchangeable and therefore betrayed him were his face and the fifth column in his passport, which stated in strong writing his nationality: Jew. No matter what he said, no matter what he did or thought, he was a Jew, a second grade man, someone who could always be pushed around without any fear of being punished for the horrible deed. It was sad, it was inhumane; it made him feel like he came from a different planet. So what? Some days he hated himself even more than they did! Thank God, for the liquor, he thought with a secret smile, thank God for the liquor…

Hey, teacher, shouted someone from around the corner, need a watch?

How much?

A bottle will do.

Where, in what country, a conversation like this one is possible?

If he could live quietly day after day, year after year, he told himself walking away from the peddler, with his head in the sand and his mouth shut, he could probably survive the big storms and the small ones. A few wounds to his naked butt from time to time? Rubbish, he had seen more painful things. He still had twenty-five rubles in his possession and right around the corner there was a tiny grocery store glued to the side of the mechanical plant, where he hoped he could get a glass of wine from under the counter. He knocked on the cracked counter and said after the clerk, an older man in a quilted jacket, unlocked the tiny window.

Good morning, are you still serving red wine by a glass?

Yes, I do, fifty kopecks, please.

He’ll miss that in America.

The wine was sweet, and he knew what was going to happen next.

A sandwich usually helps, the clerk mentioned indifferently.

Very thoughtful of you, he agreed. I’ll have one then.

After the third glass the conversation became wide open.

All Jews are traitors, said the clerk, slicing a think roll of sausage at the same time. We allowed you to live here for centuries, but when the times got tough—you began running away like beaten dogs.

He felt too drunk to argue, but asked anyway:

So we’re the guilty ones after all?

Another sandwich? asked the clerk ignoring his question.

Yes, please.

Not to mention the education, continued the clerk, now counting the silver change. You’re getting the best education and still complaining about unfair treatment and persecutions. What? You don’t know or you disagree? You want some water? Here you go! I’ll tell you this, though: it’s all about our fucking complex! If anyone is persecuted in this God forsaken place, it’s us, poor Moldavians: for being soft and stupid and most of all for being guests in our own country. We danced under German music when Germans were here; we dance under Russian music because Russians are here. Whose music we’ll embrace next? I don’t know and I don’t want to know. The only thing I do know: this land belongs to us, our forefathers lived here, but now we have Russians who think they eat borscht from God’s bowl…

You’ve got a point here, my friend!

A hungry wolf is your friend! said the clerk angrily. So you agree?

He preferred not to answer, left three rubles on the counter and walked away with a sandwich in his hand. The clock on the awning of the mechanical plant showed 5:05. End of the shift, greasy workers everywhere. His legs were heavy; his head was spinning around as if he had just stepped down from a carousel.

A drunken Jew, said someone from a small crowd. Now I can die.

Is it written on my forehead that I am a Jew? he asked himself, but couldn’t come up with a satisfying answer. Suddenly he thought about his mother who was allowed to leave the country almost ten years ago, right before the Olympic Games in Moscow, when Soviets made a good face by letting some five thousand families go. His mother and his sister with her husband and their six months old son were the lucky ones. His application had been rejected, and the next one, and the next, until its Majesty the System decided that the country will survive without him. For the first three years they couldn’t get a hold on one another, and he was really worried about them: new country, no language, no real jobs. The first foreign envelope came in December, was typed in large letters, double-spaced—in English! He didn’t know what to think. A week later he finally succeeded in translating every word of it, using a couple of dictionaries.

In just two days they’ll be together again…

The bus stop was at least fifty meters away, on the other side of the street, and when he finally got there, the bus was gone. He sat down on a dusty bench and fed the rest of his sandwich to a homeless dog. He wanted to cry, didn’t know why. A few minutes later a woman joined him at the bus stop and asked if it was the sixth or the seventh of the month. He just shrugged his shoulders. The woman was about his age, maybe a bit older: one never knows when it comes to women. Meanwhile another bus stopped at the pick-up line, and she helped him up the stairs. He thanked her and for a while watched the homeless dog finishing his sandwich. The woman tried to strike up a friendly conversation, but soon understood the hopelessness of her attempts: he was sound asleep and slept until the last stop, and regained consciousness only when two hefty men silently threw him out of the bus.

Strangely enough, no one laughed.

Sitting on the curb, he looked up: blindingly blue sky, a few scattered clouds like cotton puffs, nice and warm and no sign of a rain. Buses were coming and leaving the station, picking up and spitting out hundreds of people.

He boarded one of them and occupied a seat next to the window.

Life in his country was going on.

Thank God, without him.

QUEEN’S GAMBIT

I’m not particularly against telemarketers, but if they could only use a little more improvisation, says Bill Stubbs setting out the chessmen for our usual Friday game. It makes me feel ashamed of our language!

I don’t respond to that, but help him with the setup.

Bill will be ninety-four a month from today and, if not for the arthritis, which makes his everyday existence torture-like, he is a pretty healthy man. His mind is sharp, speech clear and his mouth is full of straight healthy teeth: what else could one wish for approaching the century mark? He gets his dosage of colds every year, and his blood pressure is a bit high, but it had been a bit high since he retired at the age of sixty, that is to say in the last thirty-four years. His ’98 Buick Park Avenue, which he drives only occasionally, is in perfect condition, and he keeps its service records in a special folder under the letter B. His neatness is staggering. Everything has its own box, folder, or shelf and cannot be moved or misplaced without his permission. He does his own shopping at the same Safeway and banks at the same branch of Bank of America for many years, where everyone greets him like a long-time acquaintance. At the supermarket he always uses the help of a bag-boy and gives him a dollar only after his groceries are unloaded into the trunk.

I think, this is management’s fault, he continues to criticize the marketing business. "If they could only understand that there is a smart consumer on the other end of