The Free World (2 page)

T
his is Rome? Samuil Krasnansky heard a man his age inquire in the hall.

Slight variations on the same question rippled through the car.

—Can this be Rome?

—Such a small station for such a big city?

—Do you see a sign that says Rome?

—You can read their language?

The train came to a halt and radiated its heat into the heat of the early morning.

—It’s not Rome, Karl said when he returned to the compartment. Rome is another hour. But someone from HIAS is here. We’re to get off the train.

Samuil Krasnansky looked out his window and saw Italian militia with their submachine guns lined up the length of the platform. He did not like being under foreign guard, but he preferred the Italian militia in their blue uniforms to the Austrians in their green. The Austrians offended his sensibilities. When last he had seen Austrians like these they had been marching in long, dejected columns under Soviet command. He had been a young officer then, a revolver
on his hip and the soles of his boots worn down by the rubble of Eastern and Central Europe. Men still chose their words carefully when addressing him. Fussy women with clipboards had not felt entitled to pry into his thoughts and personal affairs.

Once again the baggage had to be deposited onto the platform. The same method they had used to get the baggage into the train was now reversed. His daughters-in-law descended and stood waiting beneath the windows. His sons wrenched the bags and suitcases from the floor and the sleeping berths and lowered them to their wives. Samuil and his wife, Emma, were assigned the task of looking after the grandchildren. Emma held each boy by the hand. At first, still half-asleep, they were obedient. But that lasted only a short while, until a suitcase slipped out of Rosa’s grasp and crashed loudly and heavily to the cement. From the train, Karl cursed and Rosa responded that he had handed her the suitcase improperly. She could not be expected to manage all that weight if he practically dropped it on her. She wasn’t going to risk her head for souvenirs and tchotchkes. She had the boys to think about. Did Karl want the children to grow up motherless orphans? If that’s what he wanted then he had nearly succeeded.

At the sound of the word “orphans” the boys started to revolt. They didn’t want to be orphans. They didn’t want their father to cripple their mother with the suitcases. They thrashed in Emma’s grip and tried to free themselves to assist their mother.

—Stay, don’t move, Samuil instructed them, but they didn’t heed him.

—Boys, you can help your mother by behaving, Emma said.

Just then another bag fell from the window and somehow wedged itself between the train and the platform. This time it had been Alec who had released the bag. It was one of the duffel bags, extremely heavy and unwieldy, and Polina tried in vain to dislodge it.

—Why even have them down there if they can’t catch the bags? Samuil said.

—They’re doing their best, Emma said.

—I could do less damage with a hammer.

—With your heart don’t get any ideas.

—I can’t stand here and watch their bumbling.

When Emma spoke again in protest, Samuil glowered at her and said, Not another word. He stalked to the train. Awkwardly, grasping for decent handholds, he and Polina ultimately managed to free the bag.

—Now let’s have the rest, Samuil said, his face crimson with the exertion.

Karl gazed down from the window, wordlessly.

—What’s the matter with you? Samuil demanded. You forget what you’re doing up there?

—For God’s sake, be careful, Emma implored.

—Don’t speak to me as if I’m an invalid, Samuil snapped.

With three of them receiving the bags, the job progressed faster. Soon they found themselves before another woman with a clipboard at the doors to the bus. Meanwhile, Italian porters appeared and heaved their belongings into its belly. A Russian interpreter accompanied the woman and called out the names of the émigrés. One after another they passed before him to be counted and checked off the list.

—You think terrorists couldn’t attack the buses? a gaunt, intellectual-looking woman said to Samuil.

—Rumors. Fearmongering, Samuil said.

—They’d hire all these soldiers because of rumors? the woman asked.

—Attacks have already happened, a man behind Samuil offered. That’s a fact. Palestinian terrorists.

—Italian Fascists, corrected another man. Shot up a train compartment. A woman from Odessa, mother of three, lost an eye. A tragedy.

—They always change the routes, Rosa said. I heard it from HIAS in Vienna. Sealed orders. Even the train engineers don’t know where HIAS will meet them until they get to the station.

The interpreter called out “Krasnansky” and Karl cleared a path to the front of the line. The others fell in behind him.

—You’re one family? the interpreter inquired.

—Three families. Same last name, Karl said.

—But related?

Karl withheld his answer.

—No point playing games. It’s all in the files.

—Who’s playing games? Karl said.

—Don’t worry, there’s no penalty. You have three family heads. Go find your seats.

Samuil and Emma settled for a pair of seats near the back. Once they were on the road it became evident that the bus lacked proper ventilation. For relief Samuil slid his window open but encountered resistance from the woman behind him.

—I have a young child, sir, do you want her to catch pneumonia?

—We’re elderly people, you’d prefer we suffocate?

—Citizens, let’s be civilized, another voice chimed in.

—We could exchange seats, Emma suggested.

—And wake my child? the woman said.

—If your screeching hasn’t woken her, moving won’t either, Samuil said.

Samuil thought, as he had time and again, that the Soviets had wisely managed to rid themselves of the least desirable elements. In his long life he had never had the misfortune of being cast among such a lot of rude and unpleasant people.

Gradually, the bus approached the suburbs. Up front, the Russian interpreter assumed the role of tour guide. The road they were on was called Via Flaminia, built by the ancient Romans. Those familiar with the famous saying “All roads lead to Rome” might be interested to know that they were now on such a road. It was interesting to consider, the interpreter continued, the traffic that the road had conveyed over the centuries. Roman legions used it when returning from their campaigns against the Gauls. Merchants from across Europe traveled its length from antiquity through the Middle Ages. Barefoot pilgrims walked it for hundreds of kilometers on their way to the Via Conciliazione, at which point they crawled on their knees to St. Peter’s Square. The carriages of kings and aristocrats had passed
here, as had convoys transporting Italian troops to the Alps during the First World War. And during the Great Patriotic War, German Panzers had descended this way from the north to occupy Rome after the Italian king sued for peace with the Allies. It would not be an exaggeration, the interpreter said, to propose that the history of Western civilization could be plotted along this road.

—Their history: imperialist aggression, dogmatic theocracy, totalitarian monarchy, and fascism, Samuil muttered to Emma.

When they penetrated the ring road that circumscribed the city, the interpreter announced that they had officially entered Rome.

—Rome: the word tolls like a bell, the interpreter said.

Their route took them through a neighborhood called Parioli, the interpreter explained, home to many of Rome’s wealthiest and most powerful people.

Morning found these people emerging from their apartments. The boulevard was bordered at either side by a wall of pastel-colored stucco buildings. Trees in full leaf dotted the boulevard and nearly every window was ornamented by a flower box. Here and there, Samuil noticed young men in tailored suits holding open the doors of black sedans for older men in tailored suits. The superior quality of the suits and the cars was the only exceptional thing about this scenario. Not eight months earlier he had himself been a man with a sedan and a personal driver. For twelve years, he had stepped from his building promptly at seven in the morning to find the black Volga at the curb. Rain or shine, Arturs preceded him to the rear door of the sedan. The man always executed his duty with proper decorum—neither too formal nor too familiar. He also provided for Samuil that day’s editions of
Pravda
and
Izvestia,
folded neatly on the backseat. Before Arturs, Samuil had had a Russian driver who was far less reliable. Felix had been the man’s name. His mustache always looked greasy and he had a pronounced stutter that intensified when he was nervous. Nothing had tried Samuil’s patience so much as enduring Felix’s excuses for his tardiness. Most frequently, he blamed a neighbor in his communal apartment.

—H-h-h-h-he oc-oc-oc-occupies the tah-tah-tah-toilet with nah-nah-nah-no re-re-re-regard for others.

—You’ve informed him that his behavior is compromising your job?

—H-h-h-h-he resp-resp-resp-responded in a ru-ru-ru-rude manner.

—Well, either straighten him out or wake earlier.

When Felix had shown no improvement Samuil had dismissed him.

He had experienced none of these problems with Arturs. Samuil had observed that, broadly speaking, compared to Russians, Latvians possessed a superior regard for discipline. Samuil attributed this to the years of German influence. One could criticize the Germans for many things, but it was difficult to fault their discipline. Arturs had been a good man; Samuil did not even blame him for his denunciation, which, in any case, had been rather pro forma.

Samuil preferred not to think about that day. He had had no defense. In fact, he had, in principle, agreed with his accusers. He had attended similar meetings in VEF’s main theater and had also furiously denounced traitors to the state. Given his position, he neither expected nor received mercy. He prepared himself for the worst. He even allowed Emma to press upon him his blood pressure pills. He had carried the pills in his trouser pocket and had not felt the need for them until Felix with the greasy mustache rose in the front row, pointed his finger, and cried: Hyp-hyp-hypocrite!

On the street, the stucco apartment blocks gave way to large, gated villas. Palm and poplar trees jutted above the gates. Samuil saw garden terraces on the rooftops; on a balcony, gathering the wash from a line, he saw a maid in uniform; on the walls of another villa Samuil saw what was unmistakably a swastika graffito.

—Imagine, another passenger said, they do not even remove such filth from the walls.

—In Leningrad such outrage would never be tolerated.

Rome was a city divided, the interpreter went on. Parioli, being home to wealthy and powerful people, was traditionally a Fascist
neighborhood. Other neighborhoods were Communist in nature. Typically, one could identify them by their graffiti. Fascists or Communists, all Italians liked to write on walls. This should come as no surprise given the Italian origin of the word “graffito.” That said, it was illegal to deface public property and any émigré found doing so would risk criminal charges. But this was getting off topic. A complete list of things that were forbidden to them would be provided at the first Joint meeting. Meanwhile, if they looked out their window to the right they would be able to see a section of the Villa Borghese park. It was a good place to go for a walk or for a picnic. It also contained a museum with an impressive art collection. Not to be missed was
The Rape of Persephone,
a masterpiece by the sculptor Bernini.

I
n Vienna, Alec and Polina had had a tiny, but private, room. In Rome they had no such luck. Karl, Rosa, and the boys were given a room of their own but Alec and Polina were directed to share a room with Samuil and Emma on the fourth floor of the hotel. The elevator was either broken or off-limits, it wasn’t exactly clear which. On the ground floor, a sign composed in both Russian and Italian had been posted on the elevator doors. In one script was written,
Elevator is not functioning,
though in another script someone had scribbled the words
“For Russians”
before the word
“Elevator.”
To ensure that nobody misunderstood the prohibition, the hotel’s manager planted himself in front of the elevator doors. He was a grim little man, his face a mask of blunt suspicion. To Alec he seemed like a bad comic actor. The effect was reinforced by the man’s red hair, which he styled in a pompadour roughly the size and hue of a cheap fox fur hat. Who could get angry at an Italian gnome with a red pompadour? Alec mentioned this to a man who lurched past him, crippled by the bulk of two suitcases. The man hissed curses at the manager as he mounted the stairs.

—Swine. Son of a whore. —What’s the point? He’s a clown.

—How many floors do you have to climb?

—Four.

—So who’s the clown?

Theirs was one of the rooms not equipped with a toilet. A shared bathroom was down the hall. It served three other rooms, each occupied by four people. Karl, who helped Alec bring up their bags, recommended the use of their bathroom. It would demand climbing another flight of stairs, but at least they would not be hostage to the bowel and hygiene peculiarities of a dozen strangers.

When Karl returned to his room, Polina stated to Alec that she’d rather take her chances with strangers than ask Rosa’s permission every time she had to pee. From his parents’ half of the room there was silence. Alec didn’t need to look to confirm the magnitude of his father’s disapproval; he was an expert in the many tones of his father’s silences. He could have written a dissertation about them.

—We had it much worse during the evacuation, Emma said. People would have paid anything to have such a room for even one night.

Samuil remained silent. He refused to respond to Emma’s pacifying overture, even though the war was one of his favorite subjects.

—You know, I’ve thought about it, Emma said, and what is this except another evacuation? Emigration, evacuation; I don’t see such a difference. At least this time everyone is together.

—Think before you speak, Samuil said. In the war you ran from the enemy. Now who are you running from?

To Alec’s relief, this interlude of family harmony was interrupted by a knock on the door. Alec hopped over a suitcase, opened the door, and was greeted by the momentarily startled face of Iza Judo. Alec, whose own expression must have mirrored Iza’s, could not at that instant imagine a less likely visitor. He said the only thing that came to his mind.

—Iza, how did you know we were here?

Iza shrugged ambiguously.

—I heard, I guess.

Alec had never been so happy to see Iza Judo—hadn’t supposed that the sight of Iza Judo could bring him happiness. They had never been close friends. Sometimes they socialized in the same company. In the summers, they played soccer together on the beach in Jurmala. He’d never particularly liked Iza, preferring Iza’s brother, Syomka. The two were identical twins, although nobody would ever mistake one for the other. Iza had shaved his head when he enrolled in the Institute of Sport, where he specialized in judo. Syomka grew his hair long and studied engineering and languages to become a translator of technical literature.

Alec tried to think back to when he would have seen Iza Judo last. He remembered a small party at the dacha of a friend. There had been half a dozen men and four women. Alec and his friend had met two girls at a café and invited them back to the dacha. Iza had arrived later with other friends and two girls. One of the girls had been very drunk and she had wedged herself at the kitchen table with a guy named Robik. Robik presumably held something in a closed fist and the girl kept whining, incessantly and mind-numbingly, for him to show her what it was.
Robik, show me. Come on, Robik, show me. Robik, show me.
At the same time Iza had been trying to make headway with the other girl. The girl was slight and dark. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she had an idea of herself. Part of this idea included the belief that she was too good for Iza Judo. She was also sober. When she was no longer willing to tolerate Iza she tried to leave. Iza blocked her way and then, somehow, managed to catch her head in the door. That nearly ruined the evening. The girl threatened to call the police, but eventually she calmed down, accepted a drink, and spent the night with Alec’s friend. Alec spent the night with the girl he met at the café. He no longer remembered her name. Mainly what he remembered was that as a child she had owned eleven pet bunnies. Even then, when he spoke of her, he referred to her as Eleven Bunnies.

Alec invited Iza in and cleared a place for him on the bed. Iza seemed to deliberate over the invitation. Hanging from his shoulder
by a vinyl strap was a medium-size valise. Iza eyed this valise before he finally accepted the invitation and picked his way through the bags to take his seat.

—I wish we had something to offer you, Emma said. But as you can see …

—Don’t trouble yourself, Iza said.

—I’m surprised you’re still here, Alec said.

—Australia. Even the embassy is run by kangaroos. We’ve waited seven months.

—Before you left, Syomka mentioned an uncle in New Jersey.

—He lives in a home for geriatrics. We’ve never even seen a picture of him. If we’d gone to visit him and a nurse wheeled out the wrong old Yid we wouldn’t have known the difference.

—So why Australia?

—First, Syomka heard good things. Second, for America, they fly you out of Rome in about a month. But Syomka thought, We’re in Italy, what’s the hurry? So I thought, All right. New Jersey or Sydney: once we get there it will be all the same shit. Pardon my language, Emma Borisovna. And what about you?

—Chicago.

—You have relatives?

—My mother’s cousin from Vilnius, Alec said. They settled two years ago.

—Chicago’s a big city. I don’t know much about it. But people go there.

The conversation then hit an uncomfortable lull. Iza sat on the bed, at something of a loss. Alec kept expecting him to give some indication as to why he had come to see them, but Iza offered nothing and looked instead as if he was hoping that someone would explain the same thing to him. Eventually, Emma eased the awkwardness and asked Iza about his parents.

—Still there. My brother-in-law doesn’t want to leave. He’s the transport coordinator at the fruit and vegetable terminal. They live well. Everywhere he goes he carries a watermelon. My sister has the
two kids. Our parents don’t want to leave without them. Me and Syomka, they’re happy to be rid of. They figure we’ll settle somewhere first and then it will be safer for the others to follow. We’re like the minesweepers.

—I’m sure that’s not what they think, Emma said.

—Maybe; maybe not. In any case, they didn’t want to be separated from the grandchildren. I don’t blame them.

—Of course not. A family should stay together, said Emma, intoning what had effectively become her anthem.

—And how do your parents feel about Australia? Samuil asked.

—They are getting used to the idea.

—You didn’t consult with them before you decided?

—We are here, they are there, you understand. If the day comes when they are able to join us—and I hope it will—then they will have to come to Australia. Or, if they don’t like it, they can always go to Israel. This may not sound very nice, but it’s the truth. Now, of course, you are traveling as one family and so, naturally, it is better.

—Naturally nothing. It remains to be seen what is better, Samuil said.

With that, Iza rose and excused himself. He had enjoyed his visit but had to attend to some affairs. For practical advice, he recommended settling in Ladispoli instead of Ostia. Ostia was overrun by Odessans. Ladispoli was populated more by people from Moscow, Leningrad, Latvia, Lithuania. In short, it was more civilized. But both towns were on the seashore. Both were close to Rome by train. If they liked, he would make himself available to help them find an apartment. Having lived there for seven months, he knew the system. He could protect them from the
meklers,
the unscrupulous apartment brokers. And, if they required, with his experience, he could also help in other ways. For instance, if they had optical equipment—cameras, lenses, telescopes—to sell, he could secure them a much better price than they would get on the open market.

—That’s very generous, Emma said, as Alec accompanied Iza out of the room.

In the hallway, when Alec said goodbye to Iza, he noticed a handful of men roaming from room to room, knocking on doors each with his own shoulder bag.

—Well? Samuil said, when Alec returned.

—Well, Alec replied.

—Glad to see your friend?

—What do you think?

—I just hope you didn’t agree to sell him anything.

—Of course not.

—Or tell him what we have. All the time he sat there, his eyes were on our bags.

—I said, Thank you and goodbye.

—With a character like that, what he can’t buy he’ll steal.

—I wouldn’t worry about Iza, Alec said. I know him. If he poses a danger to anyone it’s to himself.

They had no other visitors. After they put the room into some semblance of order, Samuil reluctantly followed Emma up the steps to see Karl and the grandchildren. In their former life, Alec had never seen his father do anything reluctantly. He did what he wanted or he did nothing at all. Almost in spite of himself, Alec couldn’t help pitying his father—-even knowing that the only reason Samuil consented to climb the flight of stairs was that he preferred to sit in a room with Karl, Rosa, and the boys than to sit in a room with Alec and Polina.

—Quick, Alec said, before they come back.

—I haven’t slept. I haven’t washed, Polina said.

—Sleeping, washing. You’re the most beautiful woman in Rome.

Polina gazed at the squalid, overheated little room.

—This is Rome?

—We could open a window.

In the afternoon, everyone was called down to the cafeteria for lunch. Since the Joint Distribution Committee had yet to provide them with Italian currency, the meal was furnished by the hotel. Two Italian waitresses shuffled through the cafeteria, dispensing bread rolls and apricot preserves. For families with
bambini
they also
brought milk. After the rolls were exhausted the waitresses disappeared into the kitchen. It soon became evident that the rolls constituted the entire meal.

—This must be a mistake, Rosa said.

Later, when they were served a dinner of lettuce followed by macaroni, a former dissident circulated a petition among the émigrés. He promised to file a formal grievance with both HIAS and the Joint. A number of people signed, though Alec declined and Karl forbade Rosa from adding her name.

—These people control our fate and you want to antagonize them because of a salad? Karl said.

When his turn came, Samuil sneered at both the petition and the petitioner.

—I didn’t sign your petitions before and I don’t intend to start now.

—What do you mean by “your” petitions,
comrade?
retorted the dissident.

—You know very well what I mean. It’s lucky for you we are no longer back home, because, over there, I assure you, no Zionist agitator would be so quick to call me comrade.

—My luck then,
comrade,
the dissident said, and moved on.

Alec, Samuil, Polina, and Emma retreated to their room. In one suitcase, Emma had stashed several dozen packets of dehydrated chicken noodle soup. In the same suitcase, she also found a box of crackers. Polina had several cloves of garlic, four potatoes, and a Spanish onion which she had bought in Vienna. There was also half the salami that she’d packed for the train. Alec withdrew a pot from one of the duffel bags and lined up with his neighbors by the bathroom to fill it with water. Everyone in line held either a pot or a kettle. Back in the room Emma set the pot to boil on a glowing hot plate. On another hot plate, Polina had placed a frying pan into which she deposited sliced onions and potatoes. The water had just started to boil when the lights in their room dimmed, flickered, and then cut out entirely. Immediately, shouts and curses rang through the hotel. Alec waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and
then, by the vestigial glow of the hot plate, sought out the bag that contained their flashlights. The flashlights were jumbled in with windup, skittering toy chicks; tin Red Army soldiers; pocket knives; abacuses; miniature wooden chess sets. As a mark of Soviet ingenuity, the flashlights did not require batteries. They were mechanical, powered by a long metal trigger. One repeatedly pumped the trigger, thereby generating light and a faint buzzing sound.

Pumping his flashlight at the rate of a quick pulse, Alec stepped out into the hallway. Other people emerged from their rooms also pumping their little flashlights. The effect was reminiscent of the countryside at dusk. It was as if, one after another, nocturnal insects were awaking to pursue their nightly business. Before long, Alec could no longer distinguish individual sources. The buzzing lost all cadence and dominated the hotel. Alec heard it from the floors above and below and, all around, he saw the flitting yellow halos cast by the low-wattage bulbs. Not far from him, crouched against the wall, a boy spooned soup from a metal bowl which his mother illuminated by flashlight. Alec looked the length of the hallway and saw doors open to every room, the occupants peering out or congregating in groups. At the end of the hall, a man strummed a guitar and sang the first line of a melancholic war ballad:
Dark night, only bullets whistle on the steppe.
Interspersed throughout the hallway, other voices joined in and obliged him to continue. Alec passed an elderly woman who leaned against the railing, like a bygone movie heroine, singing, immersed in sentiment. For the first time, a sense of community pervaded. People suspended their quarrels and commiserated about the shitty hotel: no elevator, no food, no power.