The Free World (5 page)

I
t was bad enough, Samuil thought, that he’d been forced to listen to Alec voice his decision to take an apartment separate from the rest of the family; it was worse that Emma, after acceding to Alec, underwent a complete and total conversion that manifested itself in a pressing need to see this new apartment. That was the way it was with his wife. She was a simple creature. He had always known this. She had been simple when he married her, but he had attributed her simplicity to the fact that she was hardly more than a girl. However, over the years, rather than acquire shadings and complexities, she had become simpler still. Her brain was in her womb. But if he was to be honest with himself, he hadn’t sought much more in a wife. He had believed that a household should have one head. When Samuil’s division had been driving the Germans from villages around Minsk there had been a woman partisan who had mounted an ammunition crate and harangued the soldiers.
You fight as if you fear death more than you love your country!
People said such things then. She was a bold and electric woman. In the ensuing battle Samuil had seen her charge a self-propelled gun and not die. But what sane man would want such a woman for a wife? Better Emma, one moment treating their grown son like a boy leaving Mama for
the first time, the next gushing as if he were establishing a new home for himself and his bride.

—Of course, while the tsar and tsarina cozy up in their apartment we stay in the pensione, Rosa said during dinner.

—We leave the day after tomorrow, Karl said, not bothering to look up from his plate.

—Boys, Emma said, a dacha near the beach. Just like we had in Jurmala. Do you remember the dacha in Jurmala?

—Will there be bugs in my bed? Zhenya asked.

—Grandmother will make sure that there aren’t any bugs, my dear heart, Emma said.

—There were bugs in my bed in Jurmala, Zhenya said.

—In mine, too, Yury said.

The dacha in Bulduri had cost Samuil plenty. He had had to threaten, to cajole. It was a quarter of a kilometer from the beach, yet all his grandsons could remember were bugs in their beds.

Two days later, one of the Jewish agencies—HIAS or Joint, why bother keeping track?—sent a truck for their belongings. Alec, always an eager candidate for a joyride, volunteered to remain at the pensione to oversee the loading. The rest of them took the train. From the station Karl led them left and right until they reached a street of wooden bungalows and larger apartment buildings. Fruit trees grew in the yards. Hedges were manicured. Samuil had to concede that the street seemed altogether respectable. The apartment buildings were well maintained. On the balconies, Samuil saw potted plants, beach umbrellas, tables, and chairs. Through an open balcony door, he saw a woman contentedly sweeping. Passing them on the sidewalk were not only Italian children on bicycles, but also older Russian men, his coevals, promenading in leather sandals, looking the part of vacationers. They nodded at Samuil in greeting, as though recognizing one of their own.

Karl stopped in front of a bungalow the yellow of rancid butter. He lifted the metal hasp on a chain-link gate and proceeded down a short stone walk to the front door. He knocked and the door was
opened almost instantly by his friend Boris the Bodybuilder. Boris looked over Karl’s shoulder at the agglomeration of the family Krasnansky and grinned beatifically, like the world’s master of ceremonies.

—Did I not promise you a suitable place?

The door was pushed open yet further so as to allow a dark-haired Italian woman with a baby in her arms to join Boris and Karl at the entrance. With the least shift of her eyes, Samuil saw the woman make a rapid assessment of her new tenants. Using an inquiring lilt, Samuil heard Boris utter what sounded like the Russian letters
veh, beh.
The woman nodded and repeated
Veh beh, veh beh.
She then handed Karl a silver key.

With a sweep of his hand, Boris beckoned everyone inside to acquaint themselves with their new home. The boys darted past Samuil’s legs, competing with one another to be first. The front doors led to a kitchen, with a gas stove and a narrow refrigerator, both of which would have been antiquated by Soviet standards. At the feet of the appliances and at the edges of the room, the linoleum floor bore some kind of pattern or relief, but it was worn smooth everywhere else. Through the kitchen, in the sitting room, Boris was demonstrating how the sofa unfolded to become a bed.

At the doorstep, Samuil observed Karl handing Boris a thin stack of bills. Boris went through the motions of protesting and trying to press the bills back onto Karl before he counted them out, returned one, and pocketed the rest. He then withdrew his hand from his pocket, waved goodbye, and bounded out into the yard.

—Some friend, your friend, Samuil said.

—I gave him what was rightfully his, Karl said. He didn’t ask for it.

—And what did his valuable services cost us? Samuil asked.

—Less than the going rate. But don’t concern yourself. I’ll answer for the money.

—If we both live in this palace, I’ll pay my share. I’ve not sunk so low as to depend upon my children’s charity.

—It has nothing to do with charity. I’ll answer for the money now. When the time comes for us to leave, I’ll find our replacements and get the money back with profit. It’s the way things work.

—Well, if that’s the way things work, Samuil said acidly.

Out on the street, there was the squeaking of brakes and the sound of an engine coming to rest. A truck door slammed and Alec jogged into the house, smoking a cigarette.

—The truck driver, eighteen years old, listens to Vysotsky. He has samizdat some émigrés have sold him and also recordings made in France. Doesn’t understand a word of Russian but sings all the lyrics to “My Gypsy Song.”

The young man kept his cassette player on and Vysotsky, whom the authorities had rightly censored for his cynical anti-Soviet attitude, rasped hoarsely as they, yet once more, unloaded their belongings. Once the truck had been emptied, Samuil went out the front door without a word of explanation and walked in what he determined to be the direction of the beach. He crossed the highway that ran the length of the shore, and removed his shoes and socks on a slab of concrete not far from an array of changing booths. It was the late afternoon on a weekday, if he could remember correctly (the days of the week bore little significance anymore), and the beach was not crowded. At random intervals, often with large gaps between them, people had laid out their towels and staked their umbrellas.

Samuil plunged his feet into the warm black sand, which he found to be pleasant, not scalding as it surely must be at midday, and pressed ahead to the firmer footing at the edge of the surf. A girl and a boy, dressed only in white underpants, crouched not far from him, digging at the wet sand with tin shovels. The boy wore a blue cap; the girl had a pink kerchief tied onto her head. Nearby, Samuil saw the children’s corpulent minder—a triangle of torn newsprint adhered to her nose. She wore a green woolen bathing suit, her stomach balanced like a watermelon in her lap. Substitute the color of the sand, and these same children, this same grandmother, could have been in Jurmala or Yalta. They looked and acted as if nothing had changed for them. One beach, one seashore, was as good as any other.
The same sun shone down on their heads and shoulders. What did it matter to them where they were? How were they different from the birds who landed in one place or another, unmoored by allegiances or souls? What troubled them? That they might come home after a day at the beach to discover that there is no sour cream for their sunburned backs? After a life such as mine, Samuil thought, this is where I find myself. Somewhere I went wrong. But where? He looked up from his horned feet, along the retreating peaks of the sea, to the flat line of the horizon beyond which was France or Spain. This was the Mediterranean. From here one could sail to Greece or Israel. His own father and grandfather, trapped and murdered in their Ukrainian shtetl, had only dreamed of such a wonder. He would have gladly gone to his grave without ever having seen it either. After everything I sacrificed, Samuil thought, where did I go wrong? And then he allowed himself to submit to sentiment and grieve: Reuven, Reuven, look how I failed you.

O
utside the Joint and HIAS building, a primly dressed middle-aged woman approached Alec and Polina. Alec had watched her and another man circulate through the crowd of émigrés, offering pamphlets.

—Do you speak English? the woman asked.

—A little, Alec said.

—And your wife?

—No.

—Well, perhaps we can be of help. The woman beamed, handing Alec a pamphlet. I am with an organization offering services. Free English classes and assistance with immigration processing, for example.

—What is your organization?

—We are with the Baptist Church.

—What is she saying? Polina asked.

—Jesus Christ wants to solve all our problems.

—That’s a relief.

As the woman filtered into the crowd of émigrés, Alec saw Karl, Rosa, the boys, and his parents advancing down the street. Before they could reach them they were intercepted by the woman’s associate,
the other missionary. Shielding her children, Rosa refused his pamphlets and brushed the poor idiot aside. Alec hoped he wouldn’t try his appeal on Samuil. Alec remembered the day in the spring of 1961 when it was announced that Yuri Gagarin had become the first man in space. At nine years old, he’d been dizzied by the thought that a human being had traveled beyond the limits of the sky and, hovering in the blackness, had watched the clean blue globe of the planet rotate below. His father had repeated with great satisfaction Gagarin’s comment that he hadn’t seen any God up there. In his father’s presence, only a fool or a masochist would dare question the nonexistence of God.

—So I see you’re converting, Rosa said when she drew near.

—I’m keeping my options open. Besides, they’re offering free English classes.

—In a church? I’d rather pay.

—Karl might disagree.

—He’s right, I might disagree, Karl said.

—You see, Alec said.

—I think it’s disgraceful.

—I already speak English. I was holding them for you, but suit yourself, Alec said, and let the pamphlets drop to the pavement.

They had gathered at the office that morning to present themselves before a caseworker. The Joint would not furnish them with their stipend if they didn’t file papers for a destination. Rosa continued to agitate for Israel, even though two days before, Begin had officially rejected Sadat’s latest peace proposal. While in Beirut, the Syrians were shelling the Christians, and Israel was massing troops on its northern border. Alec, having successfully avoided the worst of Soviet military service, wasn’t aching to go from Ben Gurion Airport to boot camp. Getting killed or maimed in Lebanon, or Egypt, or wherever the bullets were flying, seemed to defeat the whole point of leaving the Soviet Union. Karl felt the same way and Rosa knew it. But when a man nearby loudly opined that Begin was allowing himself to be led down the garden path, that even Brezhnev would never
be played for such a fool, Rosa interrupted and deflected the conversation onto the subject of the Shcharansky show trial.

—While the rest of the world condemns Brezhnev for Shcharansky you dare to compare him to Begin?

—One has nothing to do with the other, the man said.

—What are Shcharansky’s crimes? Being a Jew. Wanting to go to Israel. Tell me how the two are not related?

—He wants to go to Israel not because of Begin’s ridiculous peace with Egypt. If you want my opinion, he is willing to go in spite of it. He’s a true believer. If Israel was run by a group of half-wits who bayed at the moon—so long as they were Jewish—Shcharansky would go.

—Are you suggesting that Begin is a half-wit?

—Show me the proof he isn’t.

—Brezhnev is an anti-Semite. Begin is a Jewish hero.

—Tell me, please, if you’re such a patriot, what are you doing in Italy? As I recall, the plane for Tel Aviv departs from Vienna.

—My reasons are my own.

—All right, fine, the man said.
Shalom aleichem.

In the crowded HIAS waiting room, Alec stood with Polina until he heard the name Krasnansky pronounced once and then a second time above the din. Alec looked around and saw Syomka Bender stepping over feet and picking his way through the room. Syomka wore a denim jacket, clearly a recent acquisition, but was otherwise unchanged. His face, intelligent and reserved, allowed the trace of a smile.

—I saw your name on the list, Syomka said, and got myself assigned to your file.

—I forgot, Alec said, Iza told us you worked here.

—That’s right, Syomka said, you saw my brother.

—We did.

—The less said about that the better, Syomka said. Follow me into the hall; it’s impossible to talk in here.

—Just me or all of us? Alec asked.

—All of you is probably best, Syomka said.

Karl and Alec had both been friendly with Syomka in Riga. They came across him at parties and at the beach in the summer. For a long time Syomka had dated the same girl. She was from a good family and was studying piano at the conservatory. There was general consensus that the two were ideally matched. At parties, everywhere, you never saw one without the other until it became impossible to imagine them apart. They shared the same disposition, quiet, clever, vaguely aristocratic. Even to each other they spoke little and yet seemed, as if by telepathy, to communicate and agree. More than once Alec had met them after a movie or a play and, just by the measured way in which they listened and considered what he said, he became convinced that they had understood the movie or the play at a level far deeper and better than he. Alec would walk away from these encounters slightly embarrassed but basically full of admiration. Almost everyone held the same opinion of them. Which was why their breakup, unremarkable for any other couple, acquired the level of scandal. Nobody could have predicted that Lilya Gordin might be discovered, unapologetic, in the arms of a cellist two years her junior. For two days afterward it was said that Syomka trailed the cellist. He didn’t confront him or say anything, he just waited outside his building and then shadowed him like a KGB agent. Alec never spoke of the breakup to Syomka. He didn’t know anyone who did. Syomka continued to show up at parties and at the beach, sometimes with his brother. Women treated him with kindness and uncertainty; his longtime unassailability and his eminent devastation conferred upon him the aura of the exotic. A girl explained that it was as if there was something monastic or virginal about Syomka, profoundly magnetic. But Syomka seemed to keep to himself until, very late one night, at Dzintari, after much drinking, a girl wanted a swimming partner and Syomka brushed the sand off his pants and volunteered. After that he was no different from anyone else.

In the hallway, Alec explained their predicament.

—We have contemplated New Jersey, Los Angeles, Miami, Atlanta, and Seattle, Alec said.

—Do you want my advice? Syomka asked.

It was understood that the question was purely rhetorical. They lived in a fog of doubt and apprehension. Nobody refused advice.

—My advice, Syomka said, is Canada. Safer, cleaner, and in climate not all that different from Latvia. They have just increased their numbers. They want young, professional families.

—And our parents? Karl asked.

—Any serious health problems? Syomka asked.

Emma started to speak when Samuil cut her off.

—Nothing extraordinary for people our age, Samuil said.

—I can give you the forms for the United States, just in case. But now is a good time for Canada. I’d consider it myself but I’ve been waiting on Australia for so long I already feel Australian, Syomka said.

—Do we have to decide this second? Karl asked.

—No, you can think about it, Syomka said.

—We’ll think about it, Karl said.

—You can use the stairwell. It’s quiet. I’ll come and fetch you in ten minutes, Syomka said, and opened the door that led to the stairwell.

In the stairwell, Karl’s sons, sensing the gravity of the situation, hooted once to hear the echo, and then were silenced. Karl remained standing and leaned his back against the door.

—This is how you decide your family’s future, ten minutes in a stairwell? Samuil asked.

—Are we talking seriously about Canada? Rosa asked.

—I am, Karl said.

—Just like that you’re prepared to go and say Canada? What do we know about it? Rosa continued.

—What do we know about anyplace? Karl said. You watched the Olympics. You liked what you saw of Montreal. And in 1972 they also showed something of Toronto, Winnipeg, and Vancouver.

—You’re talking about the hockey games? Rosa asked incredulously.

—Da, da Canada; nyet, nyet Soviet,
Alec said.

—If you have nothing intelligent to add, Rosa said.

—It’s more European than America, and more American than Europe.

—What does that mean? Rosa asked.

—It means, Alec said, that a person can eat and dress like a human being, watch hockey, and accomplish all this without victimizing Negroes and Latin American peasants.

—Basically, Karl said. Their dollar is also strong.

—It doesn’t concern you that we will have to stay for months in Italy? Rosa asked.

—That’s a reason against Canada?

—It’s something to take into account.

—Very well. I take it into account. We won’t be the only ones. We’ll manage. The boys will spend the summer at the beach. In the fall we’ll leave and they’ll start school.

—Now I’ll have to explain to my parents that we’re going to Canada, Rosa said, essentially to herself.

—What’s there to explain? Karl said. They understand how it is. One door closed, another door opened.

At this moment, Syomka reappeared. As he ushered Alec and Polina toward one of the small HIAS offices, Alec heard Syomka say to Karl, Now, for the rest of your lives you’ll remember me.

—For good or ill, it remains to be seen, Rosa said.

And then Alec and Polina were alone with their caseworker. The nameplate on her desk read Matilda Levy. She was a woman of a certain age whose hairdo, perfume, and bulky rings identified her as a fading continental beauty. Though Alec was certain that they had never met her before, she didn’t bother with the formality of introductions. Almost before he and Polina sat down Matilda recited what she believed to be the pertinent information.

—Riga, Matilda said, I knew it before the war. My father had business there. A European city. That works in your favor. The Canadian government prefers people from the Baltics. They took enough of them after the war, not a few of them Nazi butchers. You speak English?

—Yes, Alec said.

—Your wife doesn’t.

—No.

—But you we could use. Semyon said your English is as good as his. It could take six months or longer to process the papers for Canada. Meanwhile we could use you as an interpreter. It would mean eighty
mila
lire more for you each week. Come back tomorrow and I will explain everything. It isn’t very complicated. Now, we will have to make some appointments for you and your wife to see a doctor. You don’t have tuberculosis, do you?

—No, Alec said.

—They will x-ray you anyway. You both look healthy enough to me.

The woman proffered a document for them to sign.

—This is to confirm that you want to go to Canada. You will get a notice in the mail for the doctor’s appointment and for your interview with the Canadian consulate. A word of advice: if you want to go to Toronto, don’t ask for Toronto. Good? Good. Now, if you could call in your brother and his family.

Like that, Alec and Polina left the office. Karl, Rosa, and the boys entered in turn, then Samuil and Emma. Later, when Alec and Karl reconstructed the first meeting with Matilda Levy, neither could recall having ever told her that they had decided to change their destination from America to Canada.