All Russians Love Birch Trees (14 page)

Explaining to Horst or Elke that I needed Elisha’s things had been impossible. I needed his things close by, because I would roam our apartment for hours and days on end, telling myself that Elisha would come through the door any minute.

Now I stood in this very apartment, from which I had never ever wanted to move, and packed. It had taken Elias and me a long time to find an apartment. Mostly it was us and thirty other couples looking at a place that was inevitably way too expensive. And then Elisha criticized the layout, the colors, the floor, and the light. If his expression grew sour before we even got up the staircase, I assumed it was my fault.

I started with the kitchen, a big sunny room, semiprofessionally equipped. We had all kinds and sizes of plates, bowls, serving dishes, glasses, forks, knives, spoons, pans, casserole dishes, baking pans, a pasta maker and a rice cooker, but not two matching plates. Our dishes and cutlery had migrated to our kitchen piece by piece. Mostly from restaurants in which Elisha had worked as a sous-chef, or from other places. And because it was difficult for two wineglasses to disappear into a handbag at once, we equipped our table with a wide variety of plates and glasses. We stole everywhere—in cafes, inns, restaurants, snack bars, in Frankfurt and on trips. Everything in our kitchen had a history: the big serving dish with the naked lady was from a diner in New York, the crystal glasses from hotels in which we’d worked, the little baking dishes from Paris.

Of course we hadn’t thought of it as stealing, but rather a strike against the system. If we were exploited in badly paid jobs and our superiors treated us like serfs, then at least a few steak knives should be a part of the deal. The system owed us that much, we thought. Which system didn’t matter.

Elisha was very picky about the table being set right. He always hummed when setting the table and started with the large knives, one thumb’s width from the edge of the table and at a right angle to the chair. Then the
large forks, the fish cutlery—if necessary, the small knives, the small forks, and the dessert fork and spoon. At this point Elisha would stop humming and his forehead would wrinkle, as if he mistrusted his composition. If there was nothing to find fault with anymore, Elisha would repolish the glasses, set the glass for red wine down in line with the knife for the main course, next to it the glass for white wine and then the water glass, most often arranged in a cluster. This
mise en place
seemed almost archaic in combination with our stolen tableware.

I saw Elisha standing by the stove, saw him sitting at the table, saw him pouring coffee into his cereal. My body missed him, reflexively my hand reached out for his and if I forgot, I sometimes leaned onto nothing. I saw silhouettes that resembled his. Sometimes I waited in bed for him to come home. He was still out with friends and had just forgotten to let me know. Sometimes I stood at the Hauptwache S-Bahn stop and waited. The entire station was filled with waiting people and I checked my watch impatiently, thinking that he’d be late again and that I would have to wait just a little bit longer. I looked for his face in every S-Bahn car. And in the line at the supermarket. I still bought double the amount of groceries that I needed.

Now I was wrapping everything in newspaper and storing it in boxes. In two days Horst would lock the
boxes up in the basement of his house in Apolda. I opened the windows as wide as I could. The little herb garden that had grown in a window box had wilted.

I got lost in pots, pans, and flowers, thinking of our old apartment in Baku. How mother sold everything, how our belongings dwindled over time and found new owners. When our sofa was picked up and lost a leg on the staircase, my mother made a chicken that she pushed into the oven with a fatty layer of mayonnaise covering the skin. It must have been during the time when groceries were available again. I got to pick what I wanted to take to Germany. When we stood in front of the shelter for asylum seekers we had three suitcases and soon learned that we couldn’t use any of what we’d brought.

I resumed my packing. Cameras, lenses, tripods, photometers, chemicals. Dozens of frames that Elisha had bought at flea markets and restored himself. Art monographs, sketches, notepads, drawings. I took pictures of Elisha’s things, put up Elisha’s video camera and filmed myself while packing.

The bedroom. I took his pullovers from the dresser where they lay neatly stacked. I had not touched them since he’d put them there. Had only moved his worn T-shirts, which I draped over his side of the bed at night. Now I put everything into a box. I folded every piece of clothing multiple times until it fit perfectly. In
the pockets of his jeans were crumpled train tickets. I didn’t remember where he had gone, or why. In another pair of pants I found a gum wrapper, for long-lasting fresh breath. His mouth had sometimes tasted like this gum. In between Elisha’s winter clothes I found a big box that I’d never seen before. Taped shut and covered with a fine layer of dust. I didn’t know whether I had the right to open it.

Besides, I was afraid. Afraid to find his notes. Afraid of what he had written. Of his thoughts. Maybe I would discover that he didn’t love me. Or not enough. Ever since seeing him for the first time I’d wanted to be loved by him. I was addicted to his love, because he was somebody who loved with his entire body and soul. What if I had constructed that love, because Elisha had an altruistic tendency? He wanted everybody around him to be happy. What if he didn’t love me, but just wanted to make me happy?

I made a coffee for myself and while I waited for the water to boil I took a knife, went back to the bedroom, and cut open the tape.

The box was filled with stacks of paper, held together by rubber bands and paper clips. They were photocopies, printed articles, scientific essays, a few maps torn from books, and notes by hand. All in all, an impressive, unsorted collection of material on the Caucasus. The notebooks were filled with names, dates,
numbers, and, in some cases, even coordinates. On the side there were little drawings. And occasionally my name appeared with a question mark next to it.

I sat at the kitchen table and spread the photos out in front of me. Most of them were familiar from my elementary school days. Cattle cars filled with refugees, famished children, burned-down villages, frozen toes scantily bound with rags. Tents, wounds, dead bodies. Protesters, buses riddled with gun shots, smashed cars. Red carnations on the graves. Open casket processions. Aliyev the first, second, third. Azeri-style.

I put everything back into the box, rolled a joint, and put my laptop on the table. I had underestimated Elisha’s desire to understand me. We had fought a lot, often about Elisha being jealous of Sami. That was something he’d never forgiven me for. But mostly we argued about me. He thought I didn’t trust him, but I was simply of the opinion that what had happened was of no importance to us. I didn’t want a genocide to be the key to my personality.

I’d read about people with posttraumatic stress disorders—not that I would ever classify myself as such—that we destroy the people we love. And Elisha was a casualty of that.

On YouTube I listened to Mugam, Azerbaijani jazz, Aziza Mustafa Zadeh, and Muslim Magomayev. I sang along. Azeri, one of the languages of my childhood. All
that remained were nursery rhymes and a few poems that I had learned by heart.

I took out Elisha’s photos and held them up, two at a time. I cleared out Elisha’s desk and closet: pictures of Frankfurt, Apolda, mountains of garbage in Eastern Germany, portraits of me. In most I look at the camera somewhat distantly. Or my face is concealed by my hair. On the outside I’m hardly different from his other models. Similar body shapes, poses, posture. It was his love and his fascination with me that made the difference. I taped the negatives to the window and looked at them until the sun went down. I would have none of them developed.

13

Cem and I sat next to each other on the sofa smoking. The apartment was empty and quiet. There was nothing much left to say, so we smoked one cigarette after the other. The boxes waited in the hallway. Horst was late. A sense of calm had come over me—not due to my natural composure, but thanks to the double dose of sedatives I’d taken this morning.

The doorbell rang. Horst was standing in the doorway. A bulky figure, with a rough face and a mouth that made him look brutal. His hands were clenched into fists and in his eyes shone uncompromising hatred. I was afraid of him. But that was nothing new.

Horst said nothing. Only stood there, his nostrils flaring. We didn’t say a word either. He stared at us.

“The boxes are here,” I muttered, focusing on the delicate silver teapot that had once belonged to my grandmother. I poured him a cup, but he didn’t take it. So I put the cup back down.

“Can I help you?” Cem asked, ostentatiously polite as always. Horst shook his head and picked up two boxes at once. His grip was clumsy and the boxes shook precariously. He stormed out. His stomps reverberated in the hallway. I peeked through the window and saw him load the boxes into a red van. Cem rolled another cigarette.

When he got back up to the apartment his forehead was glistening with sweat.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Cem asked.

“Everything in there?” Horst asked.

Cem shrugged.

“Doesn’t seem like much,” Horst said.

“Seriously? What are you afraid of? Do you think she’s keeping a fucking sweater as a memento?” Cem yelled.

“I’m done with you guys,” Horst yelled back.

Cem’s body was tense, his throat covered with red spots. He was about to lose it. I took his hand in mine, our eyes met and I whispered: “Don’t. Please don’t.”

Horst stood in the door and didn’t move. His face
was distorted with rage. Then he started to cry. First quietly, then more audibly, until his crying broke down into loud sobs. I took a step toward him but couldn’t fully bridge the distance and stopped abruptly. It was Cem who took Horst in his arms and tried to console him. I stood by, unable to move or speak.

After Horst had finally left and nothing remained of our apartment—no memories, no smells—I went into the bedroom and flung myself onto the bed. Cem lay down next to me. His hand stroked my face. After a while he said, “That’s enough now. You’re getting up and we’re going out to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” I answered.

“Right. When was the last time you ate?”

I didn’t remember.

Cem pulled me up, got our jackets, and put a hat on my head. We drove through the city center. The trees were bare. The heating in Cem’s car didn’t work and he kept asking whether I was cold, just like he kept asking what I wanted to eat. I wanted him to pick something. I didn’t want to think or feel, let alone eat. I just wanted to throw up until there was no life left in me. Wanted to puke out the last bit. I told Cem. He yelled that he wasn’t going to watch me slowly die. That he was at the end of his rope and I would finally have to start living again
and I said that I couldn’t and he said bullshit and that Horst was an asshole and I said that I couldn’t remember Elisha’s face anymore and instead I only saw blood and Cem yelled that I should stop and that he can’t remember his brother’s face anymore either, but that was no excuse and I yelled that he was lying and then there was an impact and we were both yanked forward.

An older man in a navy blue quilted jacket laboriously climbed out of the car in front of us. Cem and I got out, too.

“I’m sorry,” Cem said. “It was my fault.”

“I should say so!” The man stood up straight, hands on his hips. A white mustache curled over his thin mouth and yellow teeth. His maroon scarf was made of cashmere. Why maroon? I wondered.

“Do you even know how to drive? Do you have a license?” he asked Cem.

“We’re sorry!” I said.

“What gives you the right to talk to me like that?” Cem asked, pulling his scarf tighter.

“Oh, now you want the royal treatment?”

“Not royal, just normal. Respectful human interaction.” His voice was calm, but I knew that his patience wouldn’t last long.

The other guy’s face had turned red: “Pha! Absurd! Completely absurd! You don’t know how to behave on German roads, do you? You’re just a guest here!”

Cem stood up straight. “I was born here.”

“You wish. A
kanack
, that’s what you are!”

Cem took a step toward him.

“I’m calling the police.” I began to dial.

“Go ahead! Go ahead!” he urged me on. “Your friend here probably doesn’t even have a residence permit. An illegal. Leeching off our system. Like all of you.”

“Your fascist system, of course!” I yelled.

“Which all of you?” Cem yelled.

“Me, a fascist? I’m no fascist! This keeps getting better and better.”

“But a racist.”

“This has nothing to do with racism! Everyone is allowed to speak their mind. Freedom of speech and such.”

14

The roses in my parents’ garden were in bloom. Cem was on the phone, pacing the lawn, gesticulating with his free hand. My parents looked at me with a mixture of silent accusation and relief. My mother was going back and forth between
She’s over the hump
and
Two lonely old people in a foreign country
. My father had other things on his mind.

“What kind of a job is it?” he asked.

“I was hired as an interpreter for the international branch of a German foundation.”

My mother stirred her tea, lost in thought. Food smells drifted over from the house. My guess was trout
stuffed with thyme. Cem’s gestures became bigger and bigger.

“But don’t you think you’re overqualified for this job? You had such good grades.” My mother sighed. “You always said that you wanted to work for the UN. What about the UN?”

“Which UN? Do you think it’s easy getting into the UN?” my father said and went back into the house to get more tea for himself and my mother. When he returned he laboriously sat back down on the garden bench and said, “No.” Then he shook his head to further emphasize his words. “She has to climb the ladder slowly. It doesn’t go that fast. First she has to prove that she’s reliable. Then maybe she’ll be appointed to the UN.”