The rabbi had to call out to Slava a second time. Slava had concealed himself in a corner, where he was pretending to make a careful study of the columns and stained glass.
“Yes,” Slava answered. “Sorry, yes.”
The rabbi smiled. “I said, what brings you by? First time in a synagogue?”
“I saw an interior once from the door,” Slava said. “In Vienna.”
“The Vienna synagogue?” the rabbi said. He had a light, carefully trimmed beard.
“I don’t know,” Slava said.
“Big?” He opened his hands.
Slava nodded. The aid society, which would not leave the Gelmans alone, had organized a bus trip to a synagogue.
“Before the war in Vienna,” the rabbi said, “only a church could stand freely. So when they built that synagogue, they had to connect it to a residential building. And so they also had to make it look similar, I mean aesthetically. So in 1938, when the Nazis were trashing Jewish property, they skipped it. They thought it was a regular old apartment building. Isn’t that a story?”
Slava nodded, trying to think of a way to extricate himself. His mark was vanishing into the evening.
“You know that man?” the rabbi said, indicating the doorway.
Slava shrugged.
“Comes every week. I’ve tried to show him”—he gestured at the bureau that held the tasseled cloth—“but he likes it his own way. He’s seen more than I’ll ever see, so I leave him alone. Get him a book once in a while or some matzo. We did have his son’s bar mitzvah here. At the ripe old age of thirty-two!”
“Yuri?” Slava said.
“So you know him,” the rabbi said.
Shit. “I’m the grandson,” Slava blurted out. From one hole into a deeper. Never a dawdling organ, his heart throttled in his chest.
“I don’t understand,” the rabbi said.
“Two marriages?” Slava said, inventing.
“I had no idea,” the rabbi said, raising his eyebrows. “But I can see the resemblance, sure. Why were you hiding?”
“You know,” Slava said. “We worry. Crossing the road, things like that. He’s proud, though. Don’t want to embarrass him.”
“I’m Rabbi Bachman,” the rabbi said, approaching and extending his hand. “I should have introduced myself at the start. Wonderful to meet someone who knows Israel. I’d love to see you here with your grandfather some time. Maybe even”—he raised his hands to indicate that a man could hope for only so much—“a service?”
“What was he muttering after he was talking about his wife?” Slava said.
“I’m not sure,” Bachman laughed. “He’s got a language all his own. If I were guessing, blessings. For his children and grandchildren. For you!” He laughed again. “For his son.” The rabbi shifted his feet. “I know they have a disagreement. Israel didn’t even come to the bar mitzvah. But he’s welcome here no matter what; I don’t see the point of pushing people away. Hey, I bet you speak Russian.”
Slava nodded carefully.
“I’ve had this idea,” Bachman said. “A Russian minyan. A service in Russian once a week. With commentary. I do the English, someone like you does the Russian. And brings the crowd, obviously. We’ll throw a little Hebrew in, too. Is that something you might be interested in? Talk to some people? Maybe start with your grandfather? The neighborhood’s changed a lot in the last decade.”
Slava considered the possibility of starting with his grandfather. That day at the Vienna synagogue, he — the real grandfather — had snatched Slava’s hand and slipped away from the group, which had been made to stand waiting for the end of services by their guide, an Israeli in a leather jacket. Slava’s insides knitted in worry. His mother and father had not come on the tour, grateful they didn’t have to. It was only Grandfather and Slava, and they were breaking the rules.
Holding his hand, Grandfather leaned an ear to the door of the synagogue, on the other side of which a group was praying. “Woo-woo-woo,” Grandfather mimicked, and shrugged. Then he slid his hand inside the handle, as large as a torso, and carefully deposited his nose inside the opening. Slava peeked from behind his trousers, which smelled of wool and naphthalene. Inside, in a room as ornate as a Turkish palace, men lurched epileptically, humming like an apiary.
Grandfather looked down at Slava. “Woo-woo-woo,” he said again, and turned his finger into his temple. Crazy. “Boy,” he said with a formality that made Slava’s insides twist again. “Of this, we’ve seen all we need to. Time for ice cream. The vanilla one they tie up like a sausage.”
“But we’re not allowed to leave,” Slava whispered.
“We, Slavik”—Grandfather leaned down, placing the tip of his finger on his nose—“can do whatever we want.”
Slava considered Bachman again. No, Rabbi, I won’t be able to provide you with a minyan from the grandfathers, the real or the fake. Their children, perhaps. Their grandchildren, quite possibly. But this — candles, mongreling — was as close as the grandfathers could come. A little foreplay, a forshpeis. Slava was overcome by a desire to hear Grandfather’s voice, the real grandfather’s, as if, like Grandmother, he was going to die and Slava would no longer be able to.
“I’ll talk to him about the minyan,” Slava said. “I should go now.”
“I’d like to see you here again,” the rabbi said.
Slava smiled politely and turned to leave. Halfway to the door, he looked back. “Tell me,” he said. “When is the mourning over after a death?”
“The shiva?” Bachman said. “There isn’t anything else. Judaism’s not big on stretching out mourning. You mourn hard, so to speak, but then you let go. You light a candle on the yahrzeit, but otherwise you make your way back to life. Why do you ask?”
“You’re supposed to not think of the person?”
“Of course you can think of the person. You can think of the person whenever you want. It’s only the rituals that are finished.”
Slava considered this. It seemed all right. He thanked the rabbi and started again for the door, his steps echoing on the cold churchy stone.
When Slava thrust open the door, he discovered waiting for him, draped over the stair railing and illuminated from behind by the sun like an arthritic god, Israel Abramson. He looked pink, like a baby.
“Privet, mal’chik,” Israel said. Hello, boy. “You took your time in there. What were you discussing, the soul of man? I thought you might want to walk together, help me down these goddamn stairs. They build stairs like they’re sitting in heaven.”
Slava blinked, adjusting his eyes after the interior’s dimness. Maybe Slava was imagining him.
Then Rabbi Bachman opened the door of the synagogue and emerged into the sunlight.
“Hava-yoo, Ravvin!” Israel shouted, raking the air with his paw.
Slava felt sweat on his back.
“Israel,” the rabbi acknowledged.
Slava was about to speak when Israel pointed at him and spoke first. Slava closed his eyes as if to shield himself from the blow. But what Israel shouted was: “Grensun!”
You, world, always make new mysteries.
Rabbi Bachman smiled. “I know! We spoke. He’s going to help me with a project. Maybe.” The rabbi spoke with the extra volume with which Americans speak to those who don’t speak English.
Slava turned to Israel. “He says—” he started in Russian.
“Nais, veree nais!” Israel answered with the Soviet immigrant’s indifference to comprehension as a primary objective of dialogue. “Bai-bai, Ravvin!” He twirled his crooked fingers.