Love Is Never Past Tense... (22 page)

No one remains indifferent to the country! Millions of tourists stream to Italy like pilgrims, but for their short vacation they see less than a hundredth part of its sights. A whole life will not suffice to glance into all the corners of Apennines Mountains, where each stone can tell about the events that occurred during the long centuries.

Rome. The skeleton of the Coliseum. The all powerful Vatican—the center of the Catholic world. It is a small country squeezed into the cathedral of St. Peter and the papal palace. The Vatican is the keeper of the Sistine Chapel—an outstanding monument to the Renaissance. Its walls and arches were painted by Sandro Botticelli, Pinturikkio, and Michelangelo, which made the Chapel a masterpiece of mural painting.

At the gate of the sanctuary stand robust Pontifical Swiss Guards in their exotic uniforms. And crowds of inquisitive tourists wait for the truly theatrical changing of the guard.

The motley public mills about in the streets. Rushing cars and brisk motorcyclists dodge between them. Youth sit on numerous steps. Children are near the fountains. Actors entertain the idlers. The cafes, which have crept out onto the sidewalks, have begun radiating the delightful smells of espresso with air foam and cinnamon.

The Milan cathedral spins your head and takes your breath away. Time connected on a small plot of land the masterpieces of the gothic style, the Renaissance, a baroque of classicism, and modernism. Moreover, many architectural styles have arisen in Italy. Saturated by antiquity, they create the color inherent only in this country. A person wanders in the centuries, and in a second, penetrates the millennia.

The Leaning Tower of Pisa managed to bend in 1173 during its construction, and became frozen in time, for centuries. Galileo threw stones of different weights from its top, but did not explain why the force of terrestrial gravity had not laid the tower flat.

Verona, brought to light by the grace of Shakespeare, and the love of Romeo and Juliet…

Venice, rolling in water; magnificent buildings and palaces stand on 118 islands, supported by pillars made from the Siberian larch. Four hundred viaducts and bridges connect among themselves these small land patches.

Gondoliers cheerfully dash about on sea streets, exchanging words amongst themselves, like female traders in the Odessa flea market. They tell jokes and address the gaping mouths of passengers. “This is the house of Casanova. But to come nearer is not recommended for innocent girls.”

There is always a congestion of people and pigeons in the plaza of St. Mark's. And everywhere cafes and restaurants sate the lovers of ancient exotics by the aroma of fragrant Italian dishes—only the appetizers they serve you are ten plates of mussels in various culinary styles. All this creates the impression that the area is an eternal festival. The Rimini Resort has the widest beaches, on which ladies easily stroll in the evenings in light fur coats. And half-naked prostitutes walk the curb of the main highway wagging along the coast of the Adriatic Sea.

San Marino—a small country which has gone into the mountain, towers alone above the plain. There, you are treated with wine and fried meat. There, they sing ancient songs. In fact, songs are sung everywhere in Italy, and not only ancient.

Florence is the wellspring of painting. Here in a small space so many unique works of art are located, like nowhere else in the world. The historical center of Florence is easy to classify as a gigantic museum arranged directly under the open sky.

The motherland of the Italian pizza—Naples. The word ‘pizza’ comes from Latin ‘pita’—a flat cake. Neapolitans themselves claim that the first ‘present day pizza’ was prepared in their city. Annually in Naples, the ‘Pizza Fest’ holiday is held. The best cooks fight for first place in preparation of this simple, but very tasty flat cake. The well-known ‘Margarita’ pizza was specially prepared in 1889 for the first queen of Italy, Margherita of Savoy.

It is difficult to believe that from the moment of the formation of the Roman Empire, two and a half thousand years ago, this nowadays cheerful country conducted terrible bloody wars, and with a handful of friends, Spartacus went into his last battle.

It is not clear why, in such a beautiful country, this was the last staging post for emigrants from the Soviet Union.

***

We—are not tourists. On us, is the brand of refugee. Yet we are being helped. For this, many thanks are due to the Jewish communities scattered worldwide. They are united. And through them, the Jews living on the planet are all united. Altogether, there are fifteen million. Forty percent live in Israel. Thirty-five percent—in North America. The rest are in other countries, wherever they were thrown by destiny. And the destiny of Jewish people does not look like any other. It is a constant struggle for survival, continuing through the millennia. External aggression (it is enough to remember the Holocaust), oppression in the Soviet Union, and the permanent struggle against Islamic factions—all this promoted the rallying of Jews. Now, this unity is at a genetic level. Here is an example of the base laws of development of nature and society: action prompts counteraction.

The American Jewish community is powerful. The Presidential Conference unites the majority of the Jewish organizations in the country. After my arrival in America I talked to Joe Bettman—the ranking officer of HIAS, the organization which was engaged in our relocation and was responsible for all current expenses. “Why do you help Jews?” I asked. Wide-eyed, he replied immediately, “Jews should help Jews!” It sounded like an axiom, or a mantra like the Lord’s Prayer. I even felt the foolishness of my question. After our arrival we received brightly lit apartments and warmth from the people who met us. They looked after us, as if watching over patients. But on the way to the U.S., my nerves had been stretched to the limit.

***

January 9, 1990. We are herded like animals, for the next stage, to the town of Ostia. It is not far from Rome, and is directly on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. The rooms in comfortable hotels are not expecting us, but the camp for re-settlers waits for us in the wet forest.

It’s winter, but there is no snow. The air is saturated with moisture. Feet slide on the earthen trodden paths. The dirt is mixed with fallen down foliage, pine needles and wet snow. You try not to fall flat there. My mom—is a hero, not only of World War II, but of the emigration of the nineties. Only they don’t give medals for emigration. She walks beside me, silently. To her, it is her 78th year. She is strong. My daughter is younger than her, by more than sixty years. As a teenager, it is permissible for her to whine. But she, too, silently moves her legs and drags the luggage.

Here is the small house which is allocated to us. It is possible to have a rest, to sleep. How much I longed to sleep! What a miracle—to be stretched out on a cot and to plunge into a dream. Soon, soon it will happen … We only have to wait for the guy who has taken our carts to transport our suitcases. He said that first he will transport his suitcases, then ours. The bus which delivered us did not go into the woods—it would simply get stuck—so we go on foot from the road. Mom has gotten acquainted on the train with the parents of this young man. She defines them as a decent family.

And here he is, our guy. Now we shall quickly reach the small house. But where are the carts on wheels? We bought them in the Soviet Union. You put on a suitcase, you pull the handle forward, and you drag your luggage. Well, anyway, a monument should be made to the inventor.

“I’m very sorry,” the guy says, “but your carts are broken. Made in the USSR.” He spreads out his hands with his palms up, as a ‘what can you do when nothing can be done’ gesture.

“Why the hell do I first help others,” I mutter, “then suffer? It would be OK, if it was just me. In fact with me are my two most precious women. Why should they suffer because of me? I will give nothing to anyone, anymore. If you didn’t buy it, then you don’t have it—untangle your problem yourself …”

To repair the carts is impossible. The wheels have flown off the axle. The guy left. Well, at least he is from a decent family! We transfer, no, we haul the suitcases by ourselves. They are dragged on the ground and turn into something unimaginable. You would need to use a spoon to take the dirt off. It is a joke from my youth. But now it is not funny …

At last, we get into a small cardboard house. Well, it isn’t actually cardboard—it just looks like it. It is made of wooden boards. It looks like a strong one, like it will not fall apart. However, there is no electricity. On one hand, there are shabby bunk beds and the walls are damp. On the other hand, there is a roof. And here is a small closet. There are probably blankets and pillows. Yes, dream about it—it’s empty. We get our thin blankets that were packed just in case. Here, the ‘case’ became the reality! We try to fall asleep with Alla on one plank bed. But there is not enough room. Alla moves to one of the empty plank beds.

Mom is making herself comfortable on the bottom bunk, covering herself with a blanket and a coat. Oh, Mom, I thought, just don’t get sick. I need to deliver you to a new life, no matter what! Bear it a little bit longer, just a little more. We are together; we will not let you go.

Despite the cold, weariness prevails, and we fall asleep.

Morning. I open the doors and my eyes squint from the bright light. I need to procure some warm water. A young man passes by. The day before, I gave him my carton of cigarettes, having decided to quit smoking. But now, I want to smoke so badly—I can’t stand it. The young man is puffing the cigarette with pleasure. Probably, my cigarette!

“Listen,” I address him, “to immediately quit smoking, it appears, is not easy. Can I ask you for a cigarette, please?”

“A cigarette? Sorry, this is my last one.” At the top of his breast pocket, a pack of
Stolichnie
cigarettes is sticking out, looking the same as when I gave it to him the day before. He was also going to America—a “pleasant” fellow traveler. Once again, I order myself: don’t give anything to anybody! Let well enough alone. Have you forgotten that common truth? Now, go find a bamboo to smoke …

Later, I meet a woman who rode with me by bus to the camp, the day before.

“Do you want to tag along with me to Torvaianica, and look for an apartment?” she asks. Certainly, I want to. Torvaianica—is a distant suburb of Rome. It would not be bad to rent an apartment there. And it would be easier to share it. We should leave the small houses after a week, tops, and move to rented habitations. These are the conditions. Probably, we are followed by the next party of emigrants.

We sit down on the bus and we go. Mom and Alla remain in the small house in the woods. If only they do not catch a cold, or fall ill—I pray.

We drive into a small, cozy town. All the houses are occupied. It seems the whole of Italy is flooded by emigrants. There are no vacant spaces. At last, maybe by chance, we find an apartment which we will share with the family of this woman. We will move there in two days. That is so great! We will have a shower! With this joyful news I hasten back to mom and Alla. It is getting late. We searched for living quarters all day long. Unexpectedly, my fellow traveler and my future neighbor meets friends from Kiev and remains with them. But I cannot wait. I hitch a ride with a car. Someone brakes. I sit down. At the wheel is a young man. There is nobody else in the car. He doesn’t speak English. And with Italian I have big difficulties. Using gestures I explain where I need to go. It seems he understands. Well certainly, this camp for refugees is probably known to the whole local population. The car is clean, and well-groomed. The guy is handsome, clean-shaven, and peaceful. I also become at ease and cozy in this car. I relax, and my eyelids close by themselves.

Suddenly, it becomes dark. We left the city boundaries, and the street lanterns remained behind. Relaxation was replaced by stress. We drive down a road framed by a dense wood. It becomes frightening to me. I ask the guy to turn around and take me back to the city. He does not understand, or does not want to understand. I begin to shout. But the sense of shouting is not clear in his language—he only shrugs his shoulders. Unexpectedly, he tears his right hand off of the wheel and reaches in the back seat. What does he have there? A Knife? A pistol? Animal fear takes over me. The car is borne forward, and the road lit by headlights, dives under the wheels. I have not noticed, and now begin to speak in Russian: “Please, stop, let’s return …”

He gets a cigarette from the pocket of his jacket on the back seat and hands it to me. “It is a maneuver,” I think. “Now I will light it, get distracted, and he will knock me on my temple.”

“Prego?” he says, “Emigranto Russo?”

“Dah, yes, yes, sí, perso-lost!” I confirm in all languages which come back to my memory. “The camp is in the forest.”

The car sharply turns into the woods. Ahead, is a barely recognizable train crossing barrier. Around—infernal darkness. He indicates with a gesture that we have arrived. What if I get out, I worried, and he leaves, and I remain alone in the woods at night, in an alien country! But then, I saw a strip of electric light that made its way through the trees. I reach for the ignition keys and I ask him to escort me. “No, no,” he almost screams. “I have a bambina, she waits for me, my bride.” Here my fear sharply passes into impetuous, nervous laughter. I am simply doubled over in mirth. “My God, he thought that I was dragging him into bed to thank him for delivering me! He also laughs, though it isn’t clear to me why. In any case, Soviet-Italian relationships have sharply improved …