“Why don’t you write it,” Slava said. “I’ll translate. That’s the solution.”
“No, no,” Israel said, waving him away. “Don’t get puffy. Listen, you can’t teach an old Jew how to make money. I’ll tell you a joke, and then you can go to your Manhattan. Two guys are panhandling on a street in Moscow. One has a sign that says: ‘I’m Ivanov,’ in other words a Slav. ‘Please help a poor beggar.’ The other’s sign says, ‘I’m Abramov,’ in other words a Jew. ‘Please help a poor beggar.’ And whoever walks by, they give money only to Ivanov, more and more. It’s like they’re giving money to Ivanov just to stick it to Abramov. Finally, a Jewish guy comes up to Abramov and says, ‘Abramov, what’s wrong with you? Change your sign to a Slav name!’ At which point Abramov turns to Ivanov and says, ‘Look, Moshe, this schmuck is teaching me how to make money.’” Israel quaked with laughter. “What those shvartzes pull in the subway? ‘I lost my job and I’m trying to get back on my feet’? Pathetic! An old Russian man could run ten circles around them.”
“I think you underestimate your black-market skills,” Slava said.
“Even a legless man knows how to run when he needs to,” Israel said, shrugging. “We’re all graduates of that particular academy. But it’s too late for some of us. I’m interested in what happens to you, however.”
“I am going to be arrested for forging restitution claims for my grandfathers,” Slava said.
“No need to say it so loudly like that,” Israel said, glancing at the window.
“I’ll be going,” Slava said.
“For your information,” Israel said, peering at him — he was shorter than Slava, but his gaze was strong—“I have no illusions why he mentioned the letter to me. He gives not to give but to show you he gives. Look, it’s a kind of compliment to owe something to Yevgeny Gelman, for a man like that to think you can give him something of use — I can barely take three breaths without coughing. But Slava, don’t pretend you are doing this to be a good grandson.”
“Don’t pretend you’re a writer,” Slava said.
“Opa!” Israel said. “You may be your grandfather’s grandson, but you are also your grandmother’s grandson. She was the fierce one. That’s the nice thing about having children. They take the best of you both. Two for the price of one.”
“You get your letter, and I get to be with my grandmother for a thousand words,” Slava said.
“Oh,” he said. “I see. That’s nice.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be under your name.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You should be,” Slava said. “We’re committing fraud. International fraud, apparently. I know that means nothing to any of you.”
“We are always behind you, Gogol,” Israel said. He clapped Slava’s arm. “Have a safe trip.”
As Slava walked out, he wondered how Israel had meant it. Behind Slava in defense or behind Slava, hiding.
On his way to the subway, Slava found himself looking around casually — was anyone interested in his progress? The day’s last light was leaking away, so it was hard to tell. The street crawled with the usual suspects, grandmothers with mesh bags, a bowlegged Mexican, a cop chewing gum, everyone moving, no one stopping because he stopped. Slava felt resentful relief.
On the train home, Slava went over the details of their conversation — visions of swinging pricks, quadriplegics, Kharkov, and shrapnel sieved through his mind, refusing to snag on some brain branch and bloom — but all of it was either irrelevant or too broad for a claim letter. What had happened to Grandmother after the close call with the Germans? More forest wandering? No, that wasn’t the right direction. Overly similar narratives — Slava was sure that was a red flag.
It had been bothering him since that first night. He hadn’t gotten Grandmother right in Grandfather’s story. Israel was right that improvements could be made, but he was wrong about which. In Grandfather’s letter, Slava had described Grandmother’s actions, but he hadn’t described her. What was she like? He couldn’t find out through a scene before or after the war, because that wouldn’t qualify. And it was hard enough to conjure her as a fifteen-year-old waif without having to disguise her as a boy.
He had three stations before he would go underground. He sighed and dialed Grandfather.
“Hi,” Slava said cautiously.
“Hi yourself,” Grandfather said.
“News?” Slava said.
“The new bed’s here,” he said. “It’s nice. Smaller but nice. Japanese wood. First they brought a twin, but that’s the width of a hospital bed. I’m not sleeping in a hospital bed. Oh, it doesn’t matter. I can’t live here anymore. How can I live here if I lived here with your grandmother?”
Grandfather had forgotten their argument long ago. He didn’t hold grudges. They were impractical.
“How do you feel,” Slava said, stalling.
“Like a racehorse. You?”
“Spoken to Mom?”
“More often than you,” Grandfather said. “She’s been here every night.”
“Do you need anything?”
“I need it to be 1975,” he said. “Your grandmother and me on the beach in Yevpatoriya. Do you know how difficult it was to get a vacation voucher for husband and wife at the same time? Most people had to take vacations one by one. And the authorities were always wondering why the country had such a problem with adultery. Degenerates. Do you remember when we took you there, you thought it was water in the cup but it was vodka, and you fell asleep under the table on the beach?”
“Can you tell me something else about Grandmother?” Slava said. “Something about the ghetto?”
“I told you everything I know.”
“Try to remember something else. I need it.”
“What for?”
“I just need it.”
Grandfather took a moment to ponder this. “She didn’t like to talk about it,” he said at last.
“I know, you said that. But surely she said something else. How can you live with someone for fifty years and not know!”
“So now you will educate me on how to live with a woman. Why don’t you wipe the snot from your nose first.”
“I’m about to go into the tunnel.”
“Good for you.”
“The phone doesn’t work in the tunnel.”
“There were pogroms,” Grandfather said. “In the ghetto. Thinning the herd, they called it.”
“And?”
“That’s all there is!”
“All right,” Slava said.
“Call more often,” he said. “Remember your grandfather.”
8
SATURDAY, JULY 29, 2006
She slept without any clothes. In the morning, Slava liked to finger the grooves left in her face by the pillow. She twitched so he would leave her alone. He waited and then started again. The cat collaborated by climbing on her head. Its name was Tux, but Arianna always called it the Beast. It didn’t look very beastly, just black and white spots that shifted together with its bulk when it moved. Occasionally, Slava and the cat would stare off across Arianna’s sleeping body, taking the other’s measure.
Finally, she opened her eyes. “You know, if you stopped, he’d stop,” she said.
“We can’t stop,” Slava said. “We’re animals about you.”
She laughed. “If you’re so fond of me, let me sleep.”
“You’re hot as a furnace inside that blanket. You could power a factory.”
“So that’s why you sleep so far away,” she said. She threw off the blanket and jumped on top of Slava. The cat resentfully gave up its position. The weight of Arianna felt solid and reassuring.