The Free World

1

My dearest Lola,

Belated Rosh Hashanah greetings to you and Igor! May you both have a good and sweet year! (See how I’m expanding my cultural horizons!) How did you celebrate the holiday in Rome?

Here, I was invited by my new friends to a special dinner. Thanks to you, I’ve been made an honorary member of their circle. They’ve even given me a new name: Naomi. They’re all very amused by the idea of me as Naomi. The name is from the Bible, which some of them claim to have read. As a work of literature, it’s gotten mixed reviews. Our mailman says that God was no Tolstoy. But everyone agrees that it’s the best source to consult when you need to name a Gentile.

So now I have three names. The plain one, Brigitte, and Naomi. Can you believe that an ordinary girl like me should have so many identities? You’d think I was Mata Hari.

I’ve come to feel more and more at home with these new friends, and with our mailman in particular. It certainly wasn’t what either of us intended to happen. In almost every way, it’s inconvenient, if not completely absurd. But I think he’s witty and sympathetic and resilient. And he says I’m the only free spirit in Riga. So, for the time being, we’re proceeding as if everything were normal.

This past month we’ve spent a lot of time together. I’ve kept this from Mama and Papa because I know that they would strongly disapprove. Our apartment is still gloomy, like the bottom of a lake, and we drift through the rooms silently, like eels. I am trying not to contribute to the gloom.

I know that I won’t be able to keep this up indefinitely. You probably find this hard to believe, but I’ve been very careful. I’ve avoided going places where we might be seen. Only yesterday, people went to the Riga synagogue to dance and drink in honor of Simchas Torah. I thought better of it. Our mailman went. (I should give him a name. I’ll call him Alain. After Alain Delon.) He said that he’d seen you there two years ago with Igor. You never told me. I didn’t know you’d been so daring. What other secrets have you kept from me?

Do you recall how many people were at the synagogue two years ago? Alain says that most of them are gone. Alain and I have talked a little about what we might do if he were to get his permission to go. What do you think about it?

(Funny how it’s Jewish women who are called “vehicles,” when, with us, it’s the men who provide the passage.)

2

Over the course of her brief stay in Rome, Masha had strayed from the pensione only a handful of times: twice to appear at the offices of HIAS; once for a disheartening interview at the U.S. embassy; and once to make some purchases at the round market in Piazza Vittorio. All of those times, she’d been under the supervision of her mother and brother. Consequently, she never got to see anything.

It was only because of her mother’s trust in Alec that she had allowed Masha to take the train by herself from Ladispoli. Alec met her on the platform at Termini and led her down into the metro. They rode four stops to Flaminio and emerged at the gates of Piazza del Popolo. Traffic on the avenue that circumscribed the ancient walls had ground nearly to a halt. It was a Sunday, and a great number of people were gathered in the square. Alec saw nuns in full habit scampering down from the plinth of the Egyptian obelisk.

The warm November sun was directly overhead, and the obelisk cast only a thin rim of shadow. A crowd streamed down Via del Corso, where it formed something of a procession.

— What’s all this? Masha asked.

From the little he overheard, Alec gathered that they had just missed seeing the new Polish pope. Only a few weeks into his papacy, he’d caused a sensation by going out among his parishioners on Sundays. The newspapers reported an epidemic of swooning nuns.

With the city before them, Alec asked Masha what she’d like to see.

— Show me what you think I’d like to see.

— It’s a big city, Alec said.

— If you know me at all, you’ll know where to take me.

Alec steered Masha away from the Catholic faithful and onto Via del Babuino, which ran like a spur directly to Piazza di Spagna and its famed steps — where one could see the city’s birds in all their plumage: wily immigrants peddling their souvenirs and tchotchkes; American tourists, with the movements and features of overgrown babies; long-haired bohemian kids, their limbs casually intertwined, treating the steps like a huge communal bed; pious middle-European pilgrims, resting between epiphanies; and snooty Roman socialites returning from the elegant shops on Via Condotti. Alec proceeded past the window displays of the famous fashion houses, the Versaces and the Guccis. From Via Condotti through a series of tributary streets, they emerged in front of that great wedding cake ornament, the Trevi Fountain. After four-plus months in Rome, Alec’s knowledge of the city inhered in him physically, like sense memory. He knew his way around just as he knew how to ride a bicycle or dribble a soccer ball. He looked to Masha to see if she was impressed.

With a note of petulance, Masha said, Is this all you wanted to show me?

— There’s more, of course, Alec said, his tone upbeat. Not two minutes away is the Pantheon, with its perfect round blowhole; and not five minutes from that is Campo dei Fiori, where there is a statue of a monk whom the Church burned at the stake.

Masha’s expression didn’t brighten.

Alec went on: On the Corso, there’s a large shopping center, unlike anything we had in the Soviet Union. And set off, practically on its own, is the Colosseum, where the gladiators fought and the emperors sent Christians to be devoured by lions. The stands remain. You can sit right where Caesar sat two thousand years ago.

Alec couldn’t tell if Masha was genuinely peeved, or if this was just part of a game. But, glumly, she said, If that’s all, then I guess you don’t really know me.

They made one or two more circuits like this before Masha finally unburdened herself.

What she really wanted to see was where Alec went when he left her in Ladispoli. She wanted to see the square, the building, the very window that faced the street. She wanted to see more still — the apartment itself, and the bedroom, and the bed. But that exceeded even what Alec was willing to do.

It seemed reckless to show her where he lived and Alec knew that he would only be indulging a childish need in her. But then, his address wasn’t classified. If she wanted to find him badly enough, she could. So better show her himself — and get the surge of tempting fate.

Through the ghetto and over the bridge they went. Past the pharmacy and the hospital on Isola Tiberina and across the second bridge to Trastevere. Alec steered Masha to the intersection of Via Anicia and Via dei Salumi, from where it was possible to see the building, its front door, and Lyova’s window. Alec regarded Masha as she gazed up at the window and the apartment. No movement could be seen through the window. Lyova had, that morning, gone again to plead his case at the American embassy. Just to keep in practice, he’d said. Polina was at her job.

They stood there for some time, with Masha looking fixedly at the apartment house. At last, she relaxed and leaned against Alec.

— Well, now you’ve seen the palace, Alec said.

— Don’t mock me, Masha replied in an injured tone.

— I’m not mocking, Alec said. It’s a building like any other.

— No it isn’t, Masha said. But I don’t expect you to understand.

— What should I understand? Alec said.

— That I can’t feel close to you if I don’t even know where you live.

— All right, Alec said. So you know. — Yes, Masha said. — Are you happy now? Alec asked.

— Yes, Masha said, and slid her hand into the back pocket of his jeans.

3

Just south of Verona, on his most recent tour of northern Italy, Lyova had been involved in a car accident. Two women inside his van had started quarreling and Lyova had momentarily taken his eyes off the road. When he looked back, the rear of a bus loomed massively before him. To avoid the bus, he swerved to his right and collided with a Fiat. He sheared off the Fiat’s side mirror and dented the driver’s door. It had cost him a week’s wages — one hundred thirty mila lira — to settle with the Fiat’s owner and thus avoid police involvement. His own van had fared little better than the Fiat.

Ordinarily, Lyova would have fumed over the accident and the lost wages, but upon his return he’d heard some news that had lifted his spirits. Through a diplomat at the American embassy he’d been made aware of some new legislation before the U.S. Congress. The loosening of strictures that related to his case.

It didn’t exactly mean he could start packing his bags, but it provided a reason for optimism. In the near term he would still have to keep earning money. The more the better. And for this, he needed to repair his Volkswagen, which had sustained superficial body damage, but also structural damage to the wheel well. Bent metal brushed against the driveshaft and caused a grinding sound.

At higher speeds, the grinding became more of a high-pitched squeal, and this is what Alec heard as he and Lyova drove the highway from Rome to Ladispoli. To help Lyova, Alec had proposed a visit to the body shop that Karl either owned, had a partial stake in, or managed — Alec didn’t pretend to know the intricacies of the arrangement.

To find the body shop, they first stopped by his parents’ house. Emma answered the door, a wooden spoon in her hand. A faint crackle of frying oil, and the associated smells of eggs, onions, and sausage, wafted over from the kitchen. It was eleven in the morning.

Alec said, Breakfast?

— For Papa, Emma replied. And added in a conspiratorial whisper, He’s been sleeping late.

They followed Emma into the kitchen, where Samuil sat alone at the table. Rosa had taken the boys to the apartment of an acquaintance, where they could play with other children. Karl had left, customarily, at dawn. She’d stayed behind to attend to Samuil — he was alone so much of the time as it was. She didn’t like the idea of him preparing his own meals and eating by himself.

Samuil eyed first Lyova, then Alec, and asked, Official HIAS business?

Emma said from behind the stove, where she transferred the omelet from the pan to a plate — We have plenty of food. Syoma, invite them to sit.

Alec watched his father raise an unenthusiastic eyebrow.

— If you’re going to eat, you might as well sit, Samuil said.

— He doesn’t mean to be impolite, Emma said, mostly to Lyova.

— Not at all, Lyova said. I’m grateful for the hospitality. And inhaling the aroma from the steaming plate, he asked, Are those veal sausages?

— They are, Emma said proudly.

With a butter knife, she divided the omelet into three sections.

She distributed the food and turned back to the stove. Alec watched his father poke absently at his eggs.

— I’ll cook up some more, Emma said. It won’t take five minutes.

— It’s hard to find veal sausages here, Lyova said. Mostly, they sell pork.

— Rosa, our daughter-in-law, has become very close with the rabbi and with the rabbi’s wife, Emma said. I go with her to classes on Jewish subjects. The rabbi’s wife teaches us what is the right way. It’s harder, of course, and you have to make an effort. But we do it. We have almost no pork in the house.

— I applaud your efforts, Lyova said, and dug into his omelet. I’m not religious, but I appreciate variety. In Jerusalem, for example, it is the other way around. There, it is nearly impossible to find a piece of pork. The religious Jews don’t eat it, and neither do the Arabs. It’s the one thing they can agree on. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to make it the basis for peaceful coexistence.

— You lived in Israel? Samuil inquired, exhibiting his first mild interest in his guest.

— Syoma, Emma said, he’s the one who shares the apartment with Alec and Polina. I’ve spoken to you about him.

Samuil cast her a disparaging look that implied that he couldn’t be expected to account for every piece of flotsam.

— I lived there for five years, Lyova said. Near Tel Aviv.

— And no longer? Samuil said.

— No longer, Lyova said. I’m a serial dissident. A rootless cosmopolitan, as they used to say. A “seeker of happiness,” Lyova added, citing the title of the classic Birobidzhan propaganda film.

Samuil wasn’t amused.

— I’ve heard of people like you, Samuil said. I’ve also heard of others who, having quaffed the Israeli waters, developed a thirst for home.

— There are those, too. Some unfortunates couldn’t adapt, others were merely dopes, and a few were KGB plants, sent abroad to serve as object lessons for the benefit of the press.

— KGB plants? Samuil scoffed. According to whom?

— Lyova imagines KGB agents everywhere, Alec volunteered cheerfully.

— Naturally, Lyova said. I lived in the Soviet Union with my eyes open. I was an officer in the army, a tankist who rolled into Czechoslovakia in August of 1968. I have a healthy appreciation for Soviet power. What I’m saying is realpolitik, not criticism. In the history of the world, was there ever a nation that thrived without spies?

— They didn’t need to plant you, though, did they? Samuil countered.

— I suppose I wouldn’t admit it if they had, Lyova said and grinned.

— Now there’s an idea that never occurred to me, Alec mused.

— Everything is a big comic revue for my son, you see, Samuil pronounced, but let me ask you a foolish question. If you had to return to one or the other place, which would it be?

Lyova surprised Alec by appearing to seriously contemplate the question.

— No, it’s a good question, Lyova conceded. I think about it often, but nobody has ever asked me. When I go out with my placard to attend protests and I speak with journalists, they — depending on their politics — want to know either why I left Israel or why I will not return there. Even the Communists don’t imagine that a person would trade life in the West for life in the Soviet Union. Other than Christina Onassis, who could afford to? This is why her story made headlines. It wasn’t that the world’s wealthiest woman had renounced her fortune and had thrown her lot in with the citizens of the workers’ paradise. She renounced nothing. She kept her millions. That was the point: she proved what most people already suspected, that only a multimillionairess could afford the luxury of living in the workers’ paradise. The average person knew that he could no more afford to move to the Soviet Union than he could afford a private jet. The only exception to this mind-set is that of the former Soviet citizen. Only the former Soviet citizen, dazed and pummeled by emigration, could yearn for home and imagine a better life in the Soviet Union. Did I have these thoughts? I did and I do. Do I have similar thoughts about Israel? Yes. But don’t we all have our pathological thoughts? Rapists and murderers also have pathological thoughts. So what separates a rapist from a normal person? The rapist submits to his pathological thoughts, and the normal person resists them. To return to Israel is, for me, pathological, and to return to Kishinev, also pathological. Which is worse? How to answer such a question? Which is worse: rape or murder? To a normal person, neither is acceptable. So that’s all. Zehu, as they say in Hebrew.

Alec watched his father for a reaction. He’d heard Lyova expound like this before, many times, and had found it entertaining. Samuil said nothing, and instead looked at Lyova as if from the seat of an intellectual throne. When he finally deigned to speak, he said, with a mixture of pity and reproach, What you are looking for doesn’t exist, and you’re not going to find it.

Taking no offense, Lyova said, That may be so. Then again, I’m not looking for perfection. So far I’ve been a citizen of two utopias. Now I have modest expectations. Basically, I want the country with the fewest parades.

4

Karl’s body shop was at the southern edge of town. From where Lyova stopped the van, they could gaze out at the autumn stubble of harvested fields. In the immediate vicinity there were a few small houses with crumbling stucco exteriors, spaced widely apart. The last of the houses on the street looked to be uninhabited. The second to last was the one that had been converted or commandeered to serve as the body shop. Three Fiats were parked bumper to bumper to bumper just shy of the house, their body panels sanded down and blotched with primer. Directly in front of the house two kids were kicking a white leather soccer ball around. Alec guessed that they were about fourteen or fifteen years old. One was fair, tall, and skinny, with knobby elbows jutting out of his plain white undershirt. He wore Adidas track pants from the Americana and Russian canvas sneakers. He had lank hair and a few blond whiskers emulating a mustache. His counterpart was shorter, darker, and stockier. He was clothed much like the first kid, but his features and body language identified him as Italian. Alec and Lyova watched them kick the ball around for a few moments before Lyova put the van in gear and rolled up to the house.

As the van crept closer, the boys looked up from their game. Both eyed the van with street-kid bravado. The Italian lifted his chin and called out first in his language.

— Hey, dove stai andando?

Lyova slowed the van to a stop.

— Dal meccanico, Lyova said.

— Quale meccanico?

— Che cos’è quella dietro di te? Non è un’officina?

— Chi ti ha detto che è un’officina?

Lyova grinned wickedly and said, Tua madre.

Naturally, this provoked the kid to fly at the van, spewing curses and their accompanying hand gestures. His Russian friend followed close behind.

When the Italian kid started banging on the hood of the van, Alec called out to the Russian kid to calm his friend. He received the inevitable response.

— Calm him down, if you know what’s good for you, Alec repeated.

— Who the fuck are you?

— You don’t want to know who I am, Alec said leisurely.

This got the kid’s attention. He turned to his friend and motioned for him to desist.

— So who the fuck are you? the kid repeated.

— If that house behind you is a garage, and if the guy who runs it is named Karl, then I’m his brother. If not, then never mind.

At the mention of Karl’s name, both kids’ faces grew rigid. Their eyes flashed from Alec to each other.

— So I guess it is a garage, Alec said.

— Wait a minute, the Russian kid said, and hustled off to the back of the house.

The Italian kid remained as sentinel, his expression still hooded, suspicious and belligerent.

In short order, the Russian kid returned with Karl, who wore blue jeans and a denim work-shirt, its sleeves rolled up. Using a dirty rag, he wiped his grease-stained hands.

— You’ve become a mechanic? Alec asked.

— Not exactly, Karl said. But now and then I have to get my hands dirty.

Alec watched as Karl glanced ambivalently at Lyova’s van. He then turned to his two lookouts, complimented them on their vigilance, and sent them back to their ball playing.

Karl stepped over to the passenger side and said, So what brings you?

— Have you met Lyova? He shares the apartment with us.

— Nice to meet you, Karl said, and raised his dirty right hand in lieu of a shake.

— As you can see, Alec said, gesturing toward the dented fender, Lyova banged up his van.

— Right, Karl said.

— And I thought, seeing as how you’re now in the garage business, Alec said.

Karl listened stonily and made no motion to invite Lyova and his banged-up van into the garage.

— The accident cost him a lot of money. He gives tours of Italy, and he needs the van for work, Alec continued.

Karl’s expression didn’t mellow. He allowed his gaze to travel from Alec to the damaged van and then over to Lyova, who had been sitting patiently all the while, wearing a look of calm, worldly comprehension.

— All right, follow me, Karl said finally. He pointed at the pitted cement drive that led to the rear of the house. But next time you have a brilliant idea, do me a favor and ask me first.

Creeping along behind Karl, they went along the drive and, at Karl’s signal, stopped the van at the entrance to a small workshop under a corrugated tin roof. Thin shafts of light streaked into the workshop through small holes in the tin. Inside the workshop, Alec saw four or five men — it was hard to be precise — two of whom wore handkerchiefs over their faces and were busy spraying white paint on a yellow Renault. A third man was engaged in removing a side panel from an Alfa Romeo. A fourth man was seated at a small card table beside the wall, drinking from an espresso cup. Alec didn’t see a coffee pot, only a bottle of vodka. He believed that he saw a fifth man duck out of the workshop, but in the haze of dust and spray paint, he couldn’t say for sure if he’d seen a man or a shadow.

Karl crossed to the man at the card table and motioned in the direction of the van. They exchanged a few words. Then Karl waved for Alec and Lyova to approach. As they did, the two guys in the handkerchiefs briefly paused to observe them, as did the guy working on the Alfa. At closer range, and despite the handkerchief, Alec recognized one of the painters as Dmitri. Alec nodded in passing, a gesture Dmitri didn’t bother to reciprocate.

The man at the card table Karl introduced as Angelo. The house and the workshop were his. He looked to be in his fifties, powerfully built — heavy through the shoulders, chest, and gut. Karl spoke to Angelo in Italian, which, to Alec’s surprise, he commanded admirably. He introduced Alec, the word “fratello” eliciting a smile from Angelo and an invitation to join him at the table.

— We taught him to drink vodka, Karl said. Lately we’ve been getting decent Polish stuff. It arrives in good quantities through Germany.

A chair was dragged over for Lyova, and Angelo poured shots of vodka into the espresso cups.

After they drank, Karl quickly sketched the situation.

— Ma tuo fratello, che tipo di lavoro pensa che facciamo qui? Angelo smirked.

— Non ne capisce niente di queste cose, Karl said. Sa solo correre dietro alle ragazze.

— Anche quella è una dote. Angelo grinned, and then turned to Lyova.

— Parli italiano?

— Sì, Lyova said.

—È il tuo furgone?

— Sì, è mio.

— Niente male.

— Grazie.

— Funziona bene?

— Funzionava bene, prima dell’incidente.

— Qui non arrivano tanti furgoni come questo.

— Agli italiani piacciono le macchine piccole.

— Ma qualche volta fa comodo avere un furgone.

— Sì, qualche volta.

— Se ripariamo il furgone, forse saresti interessato a cambiarlo con una di queste auto?

— Una qualsiasi?

— Sì, eccetto l’Alfa.

—È molto generoso da parte tua ma per il mio lavoro mi serve un forgone.

— Peccato, Angelo said, and turned the matter over to Karl.

Resuming in Russian, Karl told Lyova that there was only so much they could do for the van.

— If there’s mechanical damage, our guys won’t be able to fix it. We don’t have the tools or the parts.

— And if it’s just body work?

— That we can do, Karl said. Though it depends what you can afford.

— What Alec said is true. I can’t afford much.

— Tell me what you think is fair.

Lyova named a figure and Karl accepted it without haggling.

— If you want to wait around, Karl said, I’ll have Valera do it after he finishes with the Alfa. Or if you don’t feel like waiting, you could leave it here overnight.

— If I leave it overnight, what are the chances it will be here tomorrow? Lyova grinned.

— I suppose anything could happen, Karl replied blankly.

— Anyway, it’s our means back to Rome, Lyova said. I don’t want to speak for Alec, but I’ll wait.

— No problem, Karl said. I’d keep you company, but there are some things I need to do.

They spent the rest of the afternoon, several hours, in and around the garage. They had another drink with the idle Angelo. They rested their chairs along the rear wall of the house — as far from the dust and the fumes as possible — and watched the activity. Nobody paid them any mind. Dmitri and his partner finished painting the Renault, and Dmitri drove it out of the garage. A Ford Escort sedan pulled in, and its driver, another Russian, fetched several wooden packing crates out of the trunk. Karl greeted him at the back door of the house and helped him carry the crates inside. At the same time, two uniformed policemen dropped by to have a drink with Angelo. The afternoon ticked by.

Alec and Lyova made peace with the two kids out front, and periodically joined them to have a smoke and kick the ball around.

Eventually, Valera swapped the panel on the Alfa with another that he drew from a stack of body parts stored at the far end of the workshop. He then turned his attention to the van.

— It’s some operation your brother’s running here, Lyova observed.

— Is it? Alec asked, not because he didn’t have a sense of its illicitness but because he found it hard to believe that the proceeds could compensate for spending so much time in such squalor.

— I’m sure I don’t understand half of it, Lyova said, but the half I understand is no joke. To pull this off, he’s got to be involved with serious people.

— Even so, Alec said, I haven’t seen a sty like this since our fiasco at Chop.

Lyova had also crossed at Chop. His experience had been bad, but he’d freely admitted that Alec and his family had been subjected to a more diabolical order of humiliation.

The fact was that, one night, in July of 1978, in a small, dingy booth at the Chop railway station, a scrawny Russian customs inspector, who reeked of tobacco and looked like a prime candidate for cirrhosis, had said to him: Bend over and hold your balls and your cock. I don’t want them swinging in my face. Clutching a flashlight in one hand, he had tried to force the rubber-gloved finger of his other hand into Alec’s rectum. And when Alec’s body had instinctively resisted, he had barked: Don’t play the virgin and open your ass! I didn’t have this trouble with your father.

They had all been subjected to this same violation. Samuil had gone first, followed by Alec and Karl. A matronly female customs inspector had taken charge of the women. First Emma, then Rosa and Polina. In a neighboring booth, equipped with a gynecological table, the customs inspector had done her work with the aid of a speculum. For long minutes after they emerged from the booth, they all averted their eyes and didn’t speak. Even the boys, who were not spared, came out this way.

When the customs inspector had tried to take them, Rosa had shrieked with the ferocity of a jungle creature, They are children! Seven and five! What kind of monster would do this to a child? Karl had silenced her with a searing look. In a level tone, he had said to the customs inspector, There is nothing on the boys. The inspector remained unmoved. He took Yury by the wrist. Karl said, What will it take to leave the boys? The customs inspector leered and said, We have our regulations. As the inspector tried to pull Yury in the direction of the booth, Karl clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder and shot the agent a withering look. Their mother goes with them, Karl said, or, I swear to God, I will tear your throat out. The inspector regarded Karl for an instant — long enough to gather that Karl wasn’t the type to issue idle threats — and relented.

Resentful thoughts, like a flock of bats, wheeled around them. Alec tried hard not to blame Samuil. His father’s stubbornness had incited the first customs agent to single them out for the cavity searches, because h e had refused to part with his brother’s letters from the front, or even to allow the customs agent to lay hands on them. The agent had already confiscated his father’s medals. They had only a very short amount of time to clear customs before their train left for Bratislava. If they missed the train, they would be stranded overnight in Chop, a closed border city, without passports or permits, where they could easily be arrested. Alec felt the likelihood of this increasing as his father brandished one letter after another, taking pains to unfold them and display first one side and then its obverse. It was a ludicrous exercise. It seemed like every letter was written in Yiddish, in an alphabet the customs agent couldn’t pretend to understand. Behind them, other families stirred impatiently.

In the end, after Zhenya, the last of the boys, had been searched, they already knew that they had missed their train. They were stranded in the station amid jumbled belongings. They now appeared very conspicuous. The customs agents who had impeded their departure eyed them darkly. And Alec felt other sinister characters in the station taking their measure.

We have to get out of here, Karl said. Rosa had looked despondently at their pile of baggage and asked, How?

At that moment one of the sinister characters, a Gypsy, detached himself from a pillar and sidled over to them. He was squarely built, unshaven, with a greasy forelock, shabby trousers, dingy canvas shoes, and an impressive red silk shirt. Missed your train? he asked, scanning them all, but gravitating intuitively to Karl. What’s it to you? Karl said. If you’re in a bind, I can help, the Gypsy said.

From the station they walked three kilometers to the outskirts of Chop, an area of partially constructed panel apartment houses. The Gypsy and his fourteen-year-old son had helped them load most of their belongings onto a cart harnessed to a lethargic donkey. The cart was large enough to accommodate all their belongings, but Karl and Alec elected to carry some things to allow the boys and Emma to ride instead of walk. Emma had confessed to feeling weak and lightheaded, symptoms she attributed to nervous exhaustion.

The Gypsies brought them to a clearing set back behind one of the apartment sites. The ground was rife with weeds and strewn with windblown trash. Lodged in the middle of the field, like a dinosaur egg, was the rusted drum of a concrete mixer. There was a large shanty at one end of the clearing, and a larger structure at the rear edge, abutting a little wood. The Gypsies deposited them and their belongings in the shanty, and retired to the other building. They’d arrived in early evening and had only a few hours to adapt themselves to their quarters. The shanty was derelict and dark. It had two windows, both thick with grime. The walls and floor were of plywood and infused with mold. Vodka and beer bottles were littered throughout the place, and along one wall were three stained mattresses, two of which were outfitted with crumpled, and equally stained, sheets. The place smelled heavily of rot, tobacco, urine, and debauch.

Where have you brought us? Rosa asked Karl. A question he disregarded. How do I put the children down in this place? They are wearing their good suits, she persisted. We have all of our shit with us, Karl said. We have sheets, pillows, blankets, all kinds of crap. You’re their mother. Improvise.

They all regarded the place with disgust. Nobody wanted to touch anything. Emma gaped in horror and spoke one word: “Taman.” Lermontov’s epitome of squalor.

By nightfall they managed to clear a quadrant of the space for themselves. In a discarded barrel, previously used for a similar purpose, Alec lit a fire. Through the walls they heard the sounds of the Gypsies across the field. When Alec and Karl stepped out to smoke, they saw the lights aglow in the Gypsies’ house.

At some point in the night, they fell asleep. Alec remembered drifting off beside Polina. He remembered saying, A fitting way to spend our last night in the Soviet Union. Then he’d been startled awake by Karl, in what felt like the middle of the night, but what was in fact was not even midnight. Karl hissed, Zhenya’s gone. Get up. Except for Rosa, who peered at them with blazing feral eyes, everyone else was still asleep.

They slipped from their shanty and out into the dark clearing. Across the way, the lights were still burning in the Gypsies’ house. Karl hunched forward, his body coiled for violence, as he strode toward the Gypsies’ house. Alec followed in step, and felt the same apprehension as when he’d feared that Karl’s schoolyard enemies might come to their street for a brawl.

Alec remembered passing the black outcropping of the cement mixer, and then standing with Karl at the lit window of the Gypsies’ house. The window granted a view of the living room. Inside, they saw mismatched furniture, a large ornate rug, and also the man who’d brought them there, his fourteen-year-old son, an old woman, two middle-aged women, and three small children. Two of the children were girls, the other was a boy roughly Zhenya’s age. The boy, Alec was quick to note, was wearing Zhenya’s little suit. Everyone was smiling, in high spirits. But there was no sign of Zhenya himself. Then Alec felt his brother tense beside him. He turned to see what had caused Karl to react. Opposite the Gypsy children, at the edge of the rug, stood Zhenya. He was naked except for his underpants. In the lamplight, his pale skin was translucent. Alec could see the delicate web of blue veins in his chest. He didn’t look precisely frightened or upset. If anything, he looked confused. However, the scene was so bizarre that Alec didn’t know what it implied. He had no time to consider it because Karl leaped past him and barged through the door.

Alec felt that he’d been only seconds behind Karl, but somehow, in that span, Karl had managed to seize the Gypsy by the ear and bend him over backwards. The women and children started shrieking, and Zhenya, who hadn’t looked upset before, had burst into tears. Alec saw a trickle of blood at the Gypsy’s earlobe and he feared that Karl might tear the man’s ear off. He threatened to do as much if everyone didn’t quiet down. Between gasps, the Gypsy protested that they’d done nothing wrong. Zhenya had wandered over to their house. They had let him in. The Gypsy’s youngest son had admired Zhenya’s suit. The Gypsy’s wife had offered Zhenya a trade. For the suit, they would give something of theirs. His son was only trying the suit on to see how it would fit.

Karl said, Enough. He told the Gypsy’s little boy that if he preferred his father with two ears, he should be quick about removing the suit. Alec helped the sobbing Zhenya get dressed. When Zhenya was clothed, Karl released the Gypsy. Tomorrow, Karl said, I expect you to be there with the donkey at eight. No surprises. Everything like we agreed. Alec didn’t remember if the Gypsy said anything in compliance. The only sound in the room seemed to be Zhenya’s sobbing.

On the way out the door, Karl slapped Zhenya sharply on the back of the head. Keep quiet, he said. And not a word about this to anyone. He looked over at Alec and said, You, too.

5

On the thirty-sixth anniversary of the loss of his leg, Roidman came to visit, armed with a bottle of cognac.

— I call it my second birthday, Roidman said.

Samuil invited him in and joined him at the kitchen table to raise a toast.

— So, a happy occasion, Roidman said and smiled. One has to remember to rejoice — especially when everything is not going quite according to plan.

By “not going quite according to plan,” Roidman meant that, after nearly a year, and after all of his son’s machinations, and all of the letters written on his behalf by Jewish ladies in Winnipeg, the Canadians still had no interest in him. Roidman confided that he would continue to wait until one of two things happened: either Canada accepted him or he finished his opera about Fanny Kaplan. He found Ladispoli to be conducive for musical composition. There was the seashore, the mild climate, stimulating company, and few practical obligations. This was how he had always imagined the way creative people worked in their exclusive rest homes and union retreats. How engaging and fulfilling it was. He had been working in one trade or another since boyhood: finishing boots with his father, a sapper’s duties in the Red Army, later his occupation in Kiev, tooling leather. He’d never objected to the work, but it had never felt like anything other than what it was: work. His time in Ladispoli confirmed what he had always suspected — that artists were indeed the most fortunate people. What a charmed life they led! What they did could not even be considered work — it was such a pleasure. When he sat down to compose, the music simply poured out of him.

In his opera, he had now reached the most stirring and hopeful part of the story. Up to this point, much has happened. Fanny Kaplan is no longer a girl of sixteen. She has long since left her family and their traditions. Seduced away by the anarchist Mika, she has joined a terrorist cell. In a hotel in Odessa, she has helped to fashion a bomb for a tsarist governor. By accident, this bomb has exploded in the hotel room, wounding her in the eyes. Injured, she is abandoned by Mika and arrested by the police. A trial follows and a life sentence in a Siberian prison.

For more than a decade, she is exiled and imprisoned. Because of her injury she is nearly blind. She expects no reprieve from the tsar, and her future seems as bleak as the taiga. She waits and waits, and her youth and idealism drain away with the passing years. The only comfort she finds is with the other prisoners — radical revolutionists of various stripes.

In their captivity, she and her fellow prisoners plot the revolution and dream of a just world.

Will we forever be the childless mothers of the revolution? Up on the frozen brow of the earth, our hearts and wombs burn to give birth to the future. Our hearts and wombs burn to forge a new world.

Then, miraculously, spontaneously, comes the February revolution. The divine eternal tsar, monarch of the Holy Russian Empire, abdicates his throne. All that Marxist rhetoric and doctrine — previously just compressed heat and air — takes solid form. Amnesty is granted.

As a show of gratitude, Fanny is sent to a clinic in Kharkov. A doctor performs surgery. It is the spring of 1917 and she can see again. She is fit to take her place among the political workers. She is fit to instruct the masses.

— She is fit to shoot at Lenin, Samuil said.

— She is, Roidman said, but she has no mind to yet. This is still only the spring of 1917. The October Revolution needs to be waged. The Constituent Assembly dissolved. Armistice signed with the Germans at Brest. In the spring of 1917 Lenin has not yet become Lenin. There is no reason to shoot at him yet.

The spring of 1917 was as far as Roidman had progressed. He had arrived at the enchanted moment where, as in a fairy tale, the clouds part and the golden light streams in. In a fairy tale, this is where the story ends. Not so in life. But that doesn’t detract from the enchanted moment. The moment remains the moment. And that which comes later, comes later.

For the enchanted moment, Roidman envisioned a scene in the hospital ward. All is white. The iron beds painted white, the bedsheets white, the doctors and nurses in their coats white, shafts of white light through the windows, and Fanny in a white nightgown with white bandages over her eyes.

Carefully, a doctor bends down and removes the bandages, placing them in a white enamel bowl. Fanny’s dark eyelashes are revealed, her eyes still closed. Slowly, tentatively, like petals to the sun, her eyelids open.

With a contented grin, Roidman said: Our day will also come, Samuil Leyzerovich. I am certain of that. Our patience will be rewarded and we, too, will be released.

6

My dearest Lola,

Prepare yourself, because I have some big news …

Alec had collected the envelope from the mail slot and, as was their habit, he’d left it on the kitchen table for Polina to discover when she came home. He then went out to the corner store for groceries and cigarettes. When he returned, Polina was at the table with the letter spread out before her. At the sound of his entrance, Polina raised her head and gave him a tentative, perplexed look.

Alec asked, What is it? and joined her at the table.

— Arik Farberman got his visa, Polina said.

— Imagine that, Alec said. They’re really cleaning house.

Polina paused.

— He’s proposed to Nadja, she said.

— You don’t say.

— She asks me what I think she should do.

— Arik is a real Zionist, down to the bone, Alec said. Or at least he was when we left.

— He still is, Polina said.

— And is there more going on between them than just the visa?

— There is.

— A lot? Alec asked.

— How much does there need to be? Polina asked dryly.

In response, Alec could only smile.

— If Arik is the same as when we left, he won’t go to Canada or America. Only Israel. Is she ready for that?

— She says she is, but he’s filled her head with ideas and you know how she can be.

— What are you going to say?

— She’s my sister; I love her, and I want to see her.

— So then tell her.

— Is that reason enough, that I want to see her? It’s not like I’ll be next door.

— You think she’ll be worse off in Israel than in Latvia?

Alec had asked the question almost without thinking, as if it could have only one plausible answer. But in the way Polina received it, in the flash of acrimony in her eyes, he saw himself reflected as a dullard and a fool.

— She is asking if she should leave her home and abandon our parents in their old age to follow a man she hardly knows to a strange country: What would you have me tell her?

— If you put it like that, then of course, Alec said, feeling a swell of anger. You must write to her immediately and keep her from making this terrible mistake.

Polina continued as if she hadn’t heard him.

— And she’d be going to Israel, with its wars, its terrorist attacks. Where she would never be completely accepted.

— Into the lair of the Zionist aggressor, Alec said, now surprising himself with this upsurge of patriotic indignation.

— Don’t twist my words, Polina said. I’m not saying anything I haven’t heard you or Lyova say.

— Fine, so what are we debating? It seems we are all in agreement. You, me, Lyova.

Alec found that Polina’s invocation of Lyova also irritated him. He thought: What is Lyova doing in our private conversation?

Polina looked at him coldly and said, I see that I was wrong to say anything to you.

It felt to Alec like a storm had blown in out of nowhere. He couldn’t understand what had given rise to this strange disagreement. Why was he being attacked? He hadn’t designed the Soviet Union. He hadn’t founded the state of Israel.

They sat locked in this stalemate when the intercom buzzed and Alec got up to go to the device. Through the speaker, swirling with electric clicks and pops, a man’s voice burbled out. The voice wasn’t one Alec could place immediately. Who’s asking? Alec said, and the response came back: It’s me, Iza. Iza Judo.

— It’s not a good time, Iza. Come back later.

— Would I bother you for no reason? Iza said.

— Later.

— Five minutes, Iza said. I’ll come up.

Alec looked ruefully at Polina.

— Go, I’m not keeping you.

— Wonderful, Alec said, and trudged down the stairs.

When Alec opened the door, he came face-to-face with Iza, who wore an overeager expression, as if he’d been wound up like a child’s toy. Or, more precisely, wound himself up.

Since the day Iza had propositioned him in front of the briefing department, Alec had seen him only in passing, now and again, usually at one of the pensiones, where Iza would be accosting a batch of new arrivals. But it had been weeks since he’d seen him last. If Syomka hadn’t still been employed by the briefing department, Alec would have assumed that the brothers Bender were safely naturalized in Australia. Instead, here was Iza, emitting urgency and venality.

Over Iza’s shoulder, the late afternoon sun had ripened and saturated the pastel colors of the buildings down to their grains. Iza’s close-cropped head was rimmed in ocher. His tan vinyl jacket, the sleeves pushed up over his thick forearms, had a warm translucence.

Assessing the building and the street, Iza mused, I don’t think I know anyone else who lives around here.

— It’s not popular with Russians.

— How’s the rent?

— Not too bad.

— A lot of drug addicts?

— They keep to themselves. And, besides, we don’t have anything to steal.

— It’s all right here. Very Italian. If you like that sort of thing.

Iza grinned and interrupted his patter long enough for Alec to take note of a white Fiat 500 parked half on the sidewalk just at the edge of the building. The driver’s window was rolled down and Dmitri was leaning out, watching them. Beside him in the passenger seat, white as a bulb, was Minka the thief. Neither of them twitched a muscle in greeting.

Iza glanced at the Fiat and back at Alec.

— Something big is going down, Iza said conspiratorially.

— What’s that?

— A serious deal. High stakes.

— Great, Iza, but what’s it got to do with me?

— Your brother’s involved.

— I’m sure it’s not the first time. But I don’t meddle in his affairs. Which is how he likes it. Me, too.

— Not this time.

— Not this time, what?

— This time he wants you along.

— Why’s that?

— I couldn’t say. Those were his words. I didn’t think to ask why. You know him. He doesn’t like to be questioned.

— It doesn’t seem a little strange to you, Iza? This is how you prepare for a big deal? Karl wants me along but I don’t know anything about it? Instead he sends you over without any warning? Let’s say I wasn’t here.

— But you are here.

— What if I wasn’t?

— What if? What if? Look, if Grandpa had tits he’d be Grandma.

Alec considered Iza to be a dolt and he wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of going anywhere with him, or with tight-lipped Dmitri or with Minka the thief, but at the same time he felt a masochistic urge to spite Polina — to punish her by going on this rash, dubious adventure.

— Where’s this happening?

— Ostia.

— And how long will it take? Alec asked.

— No time, Iza said and grinned, tasting victory and enamored of his powers of persuasion.

He spun himself around and headed toward the car.

— And what about getting home? Alec called.

— Don’t worry about it, Iza said, glancing backwards.

— I’m not interested in taking the train, Alec said.

At this, Iza turned dramatically, a pained expression on his face, as if Alec had just uttered something petty and outlandish.

— What train? Iza said. Who said anything about a train? We do this and you go home in a taxi.

On the way to Ostia, Dmitri drove without uttering a syllable, the back of his neck a truculent pillar. Minka the thief gazed out the window and smoked indolently. Iza was the only one to do any talking. The other men’s silence did nothing to inhibit him. He was full of energy, twitchy and garrulous. As they jounced together in the back of the Fiat, Iza announced to Alec that his and Syomka’s documents had finally been approved for Australia. In six days, they would be on the plane to Melbourne.

— Eleven months of chasing my tail in Rome, Iza said, but that’s all over now. No more HIAS, no more Joint. No more groveling like a schlepper from one office to another begging for handouts. That’s it. We finally go and live like free men in a free country. Over there, you have money in your pocket, you do as you please. No more of this bullshit where some bureaucrat with a pike up his ass goes: Not for you; unavailable; off-limits; forbidden. Twenty-nine years of that was enough. I think about my mother, who nearly died giving birth to me and Syomka. Did she go through all that so we could live our lives like neutered dogs? You can be sure, I’m kissing all that shit goodbye. The glorious Soviet Union, the refugee caravan. Let me ask you, by the way, when you leave here, how many bags will you have?

— Leave Rome?

— That’s right.

— I couldn’t say.

— I’ve got none, Iza said. A round zero. You know why?

— Why? Alec obliged.

— Because there’s not three things worth keeping from the entire Soviet Union. And everything I bought in Italy is also crap. The only thing worth bringing from here is capital. Dollars. For which you don’t need a suitcase. So that’s what I’ll be leaving with. Capital and my Australian passport. And fuck everything else in the eye. You get what I mean? Iza asked.

— Sure, Alec said.

— That’s why I’m doing this deal. My last deal in Italy. A serious deal with real money on the table. Not like the Americana and the pensiones. That was crumbs; this is the loaf. I do the deal, I take my profit, and arrivederci Roma.

They drove west toward Ostia. Ahead of them, beyond the horizon, the orange sun eased itself gently into the sea. Everything went orange in the expiring light. Orange-hued cars barreled along the orange-hued Ostiense until Dmitri pulled up and veered off onto a side road. The road led to a paved parking lot, with posted signs from the tourist bureau and a ticket booth. But for their car, the lot was empty and the ticket booth closed.

— I thought we were going to Ostia, Alec said.

— We’re in Ostia, said Minka.

— Ostia Antica, Iza elaborated.

Dmitri turned off the ignition and got out of the car. Minka and Iza followed suit. Alec, observing the others, did the same. Dmitri went around to the rear of the Fiat and opened the trunk. He reached inside and retrieved two identical brown leather briefcases. He handed them to Minka and bent down to get two more. These he gave to Iza. He repeated the process once again and extended the next two briefcases to Alec. When Alec didn’t immediately reach for them, Dmitri snapped, What are you waiting for? We don’t have all night. Dmitri bent one last time into the trunk and collected the final two cases. He slammed the trunk closed and started in the direction of the ticket booth. Minka fell in step, and Iza followed only slightly behind. Alec picked up his pace and joined Iza.

They walked past the unattended ticket booth and along a dusty path that led to the entrance to the ruins of Ostia Antica. As they advanced, nobody spoke. They went with single-minded purpose past the jagged wrecks and orphaned columns. Dmitri led the way with practiced, confident strides. From the main road, he cut to the left and went through a complex of redbrick walls and stone foundations. Fragments of bricks and loose stones crunched underfoot. Lizards darted through the coarse grasses and scampered up the walls. Set into these walls were niches, meant for funerary urns.

Dmitri led them out of the necropolis, past a statue of a headless, armless man in a toga, and along a street of bleached stone ruins, with their exposed floors mutely resigned to the whims of sky. They passed an amphitheater, remarkably well preserved, with curved stone benches and, upon the stage, stone masks mounted atop marble columns — their petrified mouths laughing, leering, and grimacing.

Dmitri pressed ahead. The evening light began to fade. Alec thought for sure that in a matter of minutes they’d be stumbling around these ruins in the dark. So far as he knew, nobody had bothered to bring a flashlight. And he didn’t expect to find any in the briefcases. What there was in the briefcases, he could only speculate. His appeared to be packed tightly, with nothing shifting about. Both cases were of equal weight. They had a heft, a solidity. Alec guessed at something between books and cigar boxes. Though for such a caper, Alec presumed something more substantial. Swiss watches in velvet cases or stacks of dollar bills. The one thing he couldn’t understand, though, was his role. So far as he could see, he seemed to have been brought along because they needed another pair of arms.

Following after Dmitri, it seemed to Alec like they covered the entire length of Ostia Antica, passing through all manner of squares, temples, and interchangeable ruins. But Dmitri kept going, leading them beyond the heart of the settlement, through a field, and toward the lights and sounds of an adjacent road. He finally came to a stop not far from a fence that separated the ancient site from the intermittent traffic. Where he stopped, there was one last ruin, not unlike the others — collapsed walls, jutting columns — only it was essentially isolated, set apart.

The headlights of passing cars flashed between the pillars. Silhouetted in the headlights, Alec saw the form of a large fat man. The man came toward them and, in a booming, gregarious voice, greeted them in Italian. At his side was a second man. Backlit, their faces were obscure, but as they drew near Alec was able to identify them. The larger man was Angelo, owner of the garage, and the smaller one was the Italian kid who’d been playing ball outside the garage when he and Lyova had first pulled up.

As Angelo approached, Dmitri set his cases on the ground and shook hands with the Italian. Angelo, looking jovial, grinned broadly at everyone.

—È un piacere vedere tutti i miei amici Russi, he said.

Dmitri, not one to accommodate to social graces, kept his face blank, but Alec saw that Minka and Iza Judo bared their teeth and made obliging noises.

— Where’s Karl? Alec asked.

— Looks like he’s not here, Dmitri said.

— Looks like, Alec said. Is he coming?

— How should I know? Dmitri said.

— Iza said he’d be here. That’s why I came.

— Looks like Iza was mistaken, Dmitri said. Karl’s not here. And you are. Looks like that’s the way things stand.

— Cosa c’è? Angelo inquired.

— Cerca Karl. Ma Karl non c’è, Dmitri replied.

— Ho capito, Angelo said, and smiled at Alec. Certamente, è normale che vorresti tuo fratello. Tu gli vuoi bene. Anch’io gli voglio bene. Karl è bravo. Molto bravo. Ma Karl non può essere dappertutto.

— What did he say? Alec asked.

— He said what I said. Karl’s not here.

— That’s all he said?

— What’s with you? Dmitri snapped. Karl’s not here. You see that. I see that. Everybody sees that. So why are we still talking about it? What are you so worried about?

Alec felt the eyes of the other men on him. Their eyes were full of impatience, smugness, and rebuke. Their eyes said that he was behaving badly, dishonorably.

— Who said I was worried? Alec said. What’s there to worry about? Just because it’s night, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and I don’t know what the hell’s going on?

— This isn’t the middle of nowhere, Minka said. It’s a famous touristical destination.

— And what do you need to know, anyhow? said Dmitri. Are you some kind of child? You need to have everything explained to you? Wait one fucking minute and you’ll see.

Alec concluded that there was nothing more to say. He had no grounds to complain. He’d been sober when he signed up.

Snatching the briefcases from Alec’s hands, Dmitri said, Here, give me those fucking things so we can get down to work.

Minka said, Let’s step inside and do this.

Carrying his two briefcases, Minka lifted a leg, stepped over a low stone ledge, and effectively “entered” the ruin. Since there were no walls to speak of, everyone could still see him just the same as before. Where they were, the terms “inside” and “outside” were arbitrary. Even so, everybody filed in. All eight briefcases were lined up. Angelo and the Italian kid switched on the flashlights Alec hadn’t noticed they’d been carrying. They shone the beams on the briefcases and on the floor. The pale floor bounced the light back into their faces. It also roughed in the dimensions of the ruin and picked out details in the floor itself. Alec saw the vestiges of a crude mosaic. He discerned two objects composed of small black tiles — one looked like a lemon, the other like a candelabra.

— Let’s get to it, Dmitri said.

Iza Judo, who’d been standing next to Alec, stepped forward and released the clasps on one of the briefcases. He lifted the lid and Angelo turned the beam of his flashlight onto the contents. Alec saw dozens of slim objects, each wrapped in green felt. Iza reached inside, withdrew one of the objects, and unwrapped it for Angelo. Angelo fixed his light on it and Alec saw a glint of gold. Held this way, Alec was now able to identify it as an icon. He was far from an expert in icons, but to his eye it looked impressive, authentic, probably valuable, and certainly contraband. These were the sorts of things that could never have left the Soviet Union through legitimate channels. Somebody somewhere had bribed a whole legion of customs agents.

— Bene? Bellissimo? Iza asked.

— Benissimo, Angelo said, taking the icon in hand for closer inspection.

Alec looked around at the other men. Minka and Dmitri were opening the clasps on the other briefcases and examining the icons. The Italian kid also reached inside and took one. As he fixed his light on it, Iza eyed him apprehensively.

— Ei! Iza said. È Gesù Cristo. Molto caro.

Iza turned to Dmitri and warned, Watch he doesn’t damage that. That’s a fragile thing and he’s pawing it like a piece of ass.

Dmitri, unflappable, ignored Iza and made no move to caution the kid.

— Now this is more like it, Minka said, admiring the icons and clucking his tongue approvingly. You know who would have liked this?

He said this to everyone and no one in particular.

— Who’s that? Iza asked.

— My grandfather. A shame he didn’t live to see it. It would have warmed his heart. In Minsk, everyone knew of him. Isn’t that so, Dmitri?

— Sure.

— You remember him, right?

— Could be.

— Sure you remember. He did business with your late father.

— A big fat guy?

— Like a steamer. Twice as big as Angelo. Lived to be eighty-five. He used to tell stories about what it was like before the Revolution. His father traded, smuggled, made a good living. My grandfather learned from him. Those were some clever Yids. He told me, You know why the Bolsheviks closed the synagogues? Because they wanted to stop the trading. It had nothing to do with religion; it was because Jews made deals in the synagogue. All those musty Jews sitting in the dark, mumbling in their strange tongue — the tsar’s agents had no idea what was going on in there. But a lot of the Bolsheviks were Jews and they knew. So they turned the synagogues into theaters, stables, and warehouses. Oh, how my grandfather hated Soviet power. He missed the old days when a Jew could come to the synagogue and do some business.

Minka paused as though out of solemn respect for his departed grandfather.

— If he could look down and see us now. Just like our ancestors. Jews in a synagogue once again, doing business. That’s why we left that Soviet shit heap. Isn’t that so, Dimka?

Dmitri picked up another icon and didn’t bother to answer.

— You know how old this synagogue is? Minka asked.

Sensing a limited audience, he’d put the question to Alec.

— Old, Alec said.

— Very old, Minka said. Older than these icons. Maybe older than Christ himself.

The beating started soon after. Dmitri, Minka, and the Italian kid rained blows down on Iza Judo. They beat him savagely, the Italian kid even using his flashlight to strike Iza on his hands, shoulders, and back, after Iza curled up in a ball to protect himself. Briefly, Iza had put up valiant resistance. He’d hurled himself at Minka and wrenched Minka’s hand until he’d howled with pain. Beneath the howl, Alec had heard the crisp sound of a twig snapping. Minka fell back temporarily, but Iza hadn’t been able to seize the advantage. Dmitri and the Italian kid descended on him with insatiable ferocity and quickly overwhelmed him. They kicked and punched him indiscriminately until he sank to the ground, and they kept beating him as he curled up, grunting and moaning pitiably.

Alec had been stunned by the display; he’d stood and watched, unable to budge or to speak out. The whole thing had flared up so quickly and the scene itself seemed so unreal. Much of it transpired in the dark. He intuited what was happening mostly from the sounds. But then a car would pass on the road and its headlights momentarily illuminate the grisly scene. Or the beam of the Italian kid’s flashlight would slash across Dmitri’s face or Iza’s body as he beat him with the heavy metal barrel.

One minute, everything had been calm, even jovial, with Angelo approving the icons and Minka spouting his nonsense about his grandfather and the synagogues. If there had been any evidence of hostility, Alec had thought it was directed at him. But then Angelo had started to negotiate the terms with Iza. Angelo claimed that he’d expected a certain number of icons and that Iza had brought fewer than this number. Iza had objected, saying that he’d brought precisely the number they had agreed upon. Dmitri, speaking on Angelo’s behalf, offered Iza less money since he’d fallen short in the quantity.

— The hell I’m going to take less, Iza had said. I did my part. Don’t try to jerk me around.

— If Angelo says you’re short, then you’re short.

— Angelo can say whatever he likes. He can say the earth is flat. He can say day is night. That doesn’t make it so. We had a deal, and now he’s making up tales.

— Here’s how it stands: you should take what he’s offering, before you get nothing at all.

Alec had watched Iza swell with rage, his neck engorging, like a bullfrog’s.

— You say how it stands, Iza fumed. I say differently. If I don’t get the money I was promised, fuck this, the deal is off. This fat shit can go crawl back up his mother’s cunt. I got others who’ll pay what the icons are worth. Maybe more.

— Who’s going to carry the cases back, Iza? To what car? That’s not the way this works.

It was at this point that the situation crystallized. Everyone realized it. Including Iza, though evidently too late. Alec saw a hunted look enter his eyes. He lost the arrogance of the predator and took on the edginess of the prey.

— You think you can just do what you please? Iza demanded. You can’t do business like this. People will find out. I’ve got a witness.

— Who’s your witness? Dmitri asked, and motioned disparagingly to Alec. Him?

— That’s right, Iza said.

— First you get him out here so we can smack him around, and now he’s supposed to be your witness?

— Now don’t you go making up tales, Iza said bitterly, and sought Alec’s eyes in solidarity. We’re friends from way back. He knows the truth. He knows nobody would dare touch him, because they’d have Karl to answer to. Everybody knows this.

— Is that right? Dmitri asked. Is that what everybody knows?

It was after this that the violence started.

When Iza fell silent, Dmitri, Minka, and the Italian kid stopped beating him. They stood panting from their exertions and the Italian kid trained his flashlight on Iza’s huddled form. Dmitri kneeled down and placed his hand on Iza’s neck to check for a pulse. He then frisked him, going into his pockets and pulling out loose change, his wallet and passport. The passport was the only thing that held his interest. Alec watched him open and study it.

— Stupid piece of trash, Dmitri said to Iza’s inert body. I should piss on your fucking Australian passport. A piece of trash like you gets out while I’m stuck in this shit.

He flung the passport down on top of Iza.

He then wheeled around and slugged Alec in the face. Alec felt the impact like black shards inside his head. Before he knew what had happened, he found himself on the ground next to Iza.

— So that you understand who you’re dealing with! Dmitri spat.

He peeled off a number of bills and threw them in Iza’s general direction.

— That should be enough for a taxi to the hospital.

Alec didn’t bother to get up as Dmitri, Minka, Angelo, and the Italian kid packed up the briefcases and took them away. Minka, with his broken hand, could carry only one case, so the Italian kid carried three. They stepped out of the ruin and into the field. Before too long, their flashlight beams were swallowed up by the dark streets of Ostia Antica.

7

At four in the morning, from a hospital in Ostia, Alec was finally able to call home. Polina picked up after one ring, and answered in a voice completely alert.

— I thought I’d have to apologize for waking you, Alec said.

— Where are you? she asked, her tone balanced on a point between anger and fear.

— In Ostia. In the Villa del Lido hospital.

— What happened to you?

— Nothing too terrible. It’s just my face. A few stitches over the eye. I think they’ll still let me into Canada.

— What’s the name of the hospital again?

Alec heard Polina turn from the phone and ask, Do you know where the Villa del Lido hospital is? She turned back and said, Lyova says he knows. We’ll be there soon.

It took an hour, and Alec spent that hour sitting in the emergency waiting room, drifting off to sleep and then jolting awake when his hand made accidental contact with the plaster over his left eye. Dmitri’s punch had cut him for six stitches, and he’d done a considerable amount of bleeding before the Italian doctor had treated the wound. On the dark road on the outskirts of Ostia Antica, his swollen, bloody face hadn’t helped him to flag down a car. Several cars had slowed, only to speed away when they caught sight of his face. Add to that his poor command of Italian and then, worst of all, Iza — compared with whom Alec looked like the picture of health. Hours passed before an elderly couple picked them up, the old man even helping Alec to lift the unconscious Iza over the fence — no easy task — and put him in the car. Alec didn’t have the words to craft an explanation for their predicament, he managed only grazie and ospedale. It didn’t much matter since the man and his wife, though kind, were not naïve. They even declined the money Alec offered. As they drove, Alec’s main concern was that if Iza croaked, he’d have the courtesy to wait until they were out of these people’s car. As for himself, he tried his best not to bleed on their upholstery.

Polina and Lyova arrived just before dawn. Alec saw them from a distance and watched as Lyova detained a doctor who pointed them in two directions, neither of which was correct. Alec rose from his seat long enough for Polina to spot him. She walked briskly toward him, her expression becoming graver the closer she came. She stopped before him, regarded his injury, and then, almost as if she might cry, brought her hands up to cover her mouth.

— My God, who did this to you? she said.

— It doesn’t matter, Alec replied.

— Did you call the police?

— It wouldn’t do any good.

Lyova drew up and also appraised Alec’s eye.

— What did they do that with, a belt buckle?

— I think just a fist.

Lyova leaned in closer to inspect the wound. He clucked his tongue appreciatively.

— In the end it will be an improvement. You were too handsome for your own good.

— It’s not a joke, Polina said, reaching across to touch Alec’s cheek below the wound. It’s horrible.

— Have they discharged you? Lyova asked.

— I think so.

— In that case, you’d probably like to go home.

They left the hospital together and crossed the street to where Lyova had parked his van. Alec felt exhausted, but he made a point of walking under his own power. When they reached the vehicle, Lyova turned to Alec and said, I imagined telling you this under happier circumstances, but I’ve received some good news. I told Polina last night. The Americans gave me a visa.

Alec had been leaning on the van, but he straightened up and shook Lyova’s hand.

— Congratulations, you’re a free man.

— More or less, Lyova said.

— What’s the less? Alec asked, and stumbled back. He felt a dark wave wash over him. Lyova still had hold of his hand and prevented him from falling.

In the van, Polina cradled Alec’s head in her lap. They rode in silence. Alec’s mind cleared and he thought gratefully that Polina hadn’t brought up Iza Judo, and so spared him the trouble of getting into it. When they got back to Rome, he planned to contact Syomka. Syomka could assume responsibility for his idiot brother. One way or another, Alec was sure that Syomka would manage to get Iza on the plane to Melbourne. If his arms and legs were broken, he’d put him in a wheelchair and stick his passport in his mouth.

— What did you decide to tell Nadja? Alec asked.

— I decided to tell her what’s in my heart.

— To come?

— I can’t tell her not to come. She’s the dearest person to me. I want to see her. Besides, she would be hurt if I wrote her not to come. But I’ll tell her to choose for herself. I’m no longer there. I can’t help her. Not with our parents, and not once she leaves. And I’ll accept whatever she decides.

It was still very early when they returned to Trastevere. The neighborhood was only just beginning to stir. In the apartment, Polina asked Alec what he intended to do.

— Take a shower and sleep, Alec said. And you? You didn’t sleep either.

They went into the shower together and Polina washed the dust of Ostia Antica from Alec’s skin — also the blood: some of it his own, most of it Iza Judo’s.

In the bedroom they drew the shutters and slipped into bed, Polina resting her head between Alec’s shoulder blades.

— I’m to blame for last night, she said. I sent you out to him.

Her words reached him from the rim of sleep. His body felt like a bottomless cavity through which he plunged in glorious free-fall. The wound over his eye pulsed like a beacon, its round blue signal growing fainter the farther he descended. He tumbled into a dream in which he was pursued along the dark streets of Ostia Antica by large brown Roman dogs, a breed depicted in ancient mosaics. He heard them snarling and panting and felt their breath on the back of his neck. He sought vainly for a place to hide in the ruins, but the dogs kept coming. They would soon catch him and tear him to pieces. Up ahead, standing by the side of the road, Masha watched in impassive silence.

8

Around midday, Alec opened his eyes. At first he felt immobile, as if he had been buried in sand. He turned his head and saw Polina’s indented pillow. The left side of his face ached. The ache had dimension and shape and it extended beyond the familiar plane of his face.

He willed himself out of bed and headed to the bathroom. The cold floor under his feet sobered him. Each step brought him closer to lucidity, until he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror and looking at his reflection — which dispelled any lingering doubts. He saw the bulbous purple swelling and the white plaster from which two sutures peeked out like insect legs. His face looked so gruesome and garish that the only reasonable response was to laugh. Alec stood in the bathroom and laughed, and a lunatic laughed back at him.

He dressed and went into the common room, where he found Lyova at the dining table sifting through a stack of documents. There were coffee cups on the table along with juice, bread, vegetables, cheese, and salami. Alec saw no sign of Polina.

— Have a seat, Chapayev. Your wife left you breakfast, Lyova said.

— Where did she go?

— To send a telegram to her sister.

Alec made himself a sandwich, and chewed delicately.

— She waited for you to wake up, but the telegram office was closing.

— I couldn’t go out like this anyway.

— Do you want to say what happened?

— I’d rather not.

— Whatever it is, is it finished?

— I think so.

They sat for a time without speaking. Alec nibbled his food and Lyova sorted his documents.

— Did I dream it, or did you say the Americans granted you a visa?

Lyova grinned and said, You didn’t dream it. I have a visa. Now all I need is a passport.

Alec didn’t pretend to understand.

— My Jewish luck. The Americans grant me a visa just as my Israeli passport expires. I didn’t even know it was due to expire. I haven’t looked at it in months.

— How hard is it to renew?

— Not hard if I go back to Israel. But if I go back to Israel, I’m cooked. The bureaucracy. And I don’t expect they’d let me travel. My American visa is only good for thirty days. The alternative is a temporary travel document from the embassy here. But it’s purely at their discretion, and the first question they ask is why you allowed your passport to expire abroad. And the second question is why you don’t return to Israel to renew it through the proper channels.

— Still, you should go. What do you have to lose?

— You’re right: nothing. I went yesterday.

— They turned you down.

— I had a very pleasant exchange. As a rule, the Israeli foreign service is stocked with the most rigid apparatchiks, but I drew a nice guy. He looked at my documents and we discovered that we had a lot in common. He was my age. Married with a kid. Served in the Sinai. Lived near Netanya. And his wife had also been driving on the coastal highway when the PLO killed all those people on the bus last March. He was sincere in wanting to help, but he said he’d never get approval from above.

— So what does this mean?

— It means, I think, that I have one last card to play. In five days, I have an appointment with the Ufficio Stranieri. They could issue me a temporary travel document. Or, of course, once they discover that I’m in the country illegally, they could deport me. But, at this point, I’ve got nothing to lose. Worst case, either the Italians ship me back to Israel or the Israelis do.

In the five days that remained before his appointment, Lyova worked to put his affairs in order. He mailed some of his belongings to Netanya, and tried to sell off the rest. For his books, he went to a secondhand bookseller in Trastevere. For his van, he thought of returning to Angelo and the garage in Ladispoli.

This was two days after the incident in Ostia Antica, and Alec’s face, if it was possible, looked even worse than it had before. Alec hadn’t ventured out of the apartment — not to go to his job at the briefing department, not even to go to the corner store for cigarettes. But when Lyova mentioned his plans to go to Ladispoli, Alec volunteered to come along.

When they were on that same road, a few streets shy of the garage — but past the neighborhood where his parents lived, and also past Masha’s building — Alec asked Lyova to let him out of the van. It seemed an arbitrary place to stop — there was nothing there apart from the highway and a street of nondescript residential houses. There was no restaurant, café, or even a bus stop. The only other features of the landscape were the occasional palm trees that lined the road. Alec pointed to the nearest one.

— I’ll wait for you there, Alec said.

When Lyova did not immediately drive off, Alec added, If you see my brother, don’t mention I’m here.

Hiding behind the palm tree, so that he could not be easily seen from the highway, Alec tried to formulate a plan. He tried to envision different scenarios and how he might best behave in each. But no matter how hard he tried to focus, his thoughts became diffuse and drifted apart. It was impossible to plan without a clear objective, and he didn’t have one. He didn’t know what outcome he wanted.

After a time, Alec saw Lyova returning. This time on foot. Alec didn’t step out to meet him, but continued to wait behind the tree. When Lyova reached him, his face bore a sly smile.

— You look unharmed, Alec said.

— Sometimes it’s easier to deal with thieves.

— Tell me, Alec said, who was in the garage?

— I think the same crew as before.

— Can you be more specific?

— Angelo, the fat Italian who bought the van. I caught a glimpse of your brother, though he didn’t come out. Valera, who fixed the van last time. And one young Russian hood. Dark hair, tattoos on his arms — he was painting a car.

— All right, Alec said, and stepped out from behind the tree.

They walked back the way they had come, following the highway north. The road wasn’t meant for pedestrians and so they had to skirt the edge to avoid passing cars. As they neared the more residential section of Ladispoli, a sidewalk appeared. They followed it until they came to the front of Masha’s building, where Alec paused.

— Can I ask a favor?

— What’s that?

— Could you wait here a few minutes while I go inside?

Lyova looked at him with faint amusement, as at an impetuous child.

— A girl? Lyova asked.

— I won’t be long, Alec said.

Alec went into the building and rode the elevator, the same as he had when he’d visited in the past. He padded through the corridor and faced the door to Masha’s apartment — straining his ears to detect movement inside. He knocked and waited, straining still for any sound, as if his entire being were concentrated in his ears. As he prepared to knock again, he heard footsteps come toward the door and stop. He felt the weight of another human presence on the other side.

— Who is there? Riva Davidovna asked.

— Alec.

He believed he heard the sound of another set of footsteps withdrawing.

After a short moment, Riva Davidovna opened the door. He saw her stern face study him, though not unkindly. Her eyes passed fleetingly over his brow.

— Somebody hit you.

— It will heal.

— I am the mother of a son, you don’t need to tell me.

They remained for a few seconds without speaking. Riva continued to calmly study him, while Alec tried to glance subtly beyond her into the apartment.

— I feel like we haven’t seen you in a long time, Riva said. I just recently remarked this to Masha.

— Masha isn’t home?

— No, I’m afraid she’s not, Riva said. I would invite you in, but I don’t expect her until later.

— Of course, Alec said. Tell her I’m sorry to have missed her.

— I will, Riva said, and started to slowly shut the door.

As Alec took his first step toward the elevator, he heard the door swing open again. His pulse leaped and he turned back to find Riva Davidovna in the door frame, looking like she had reconsidered something she had said or failed to say. She hesitated, as if weighing her words, then said, The best thing for your eye is a vinegar compress.

9

When the time came for Lyova’s appointment at the Ufficio Stranieri, they said their provisional farewells in the apartment. Alec offered to escort him to the ministry, but Lyova didn’t see the point.

— If they detain me, you’ll just end up waiting in the street.

Before Lyova departed, Polina surprised him by producing a small gift, a leather wallet from her store, which she had wrapped neatly in butcher paper.

— Something for your American documents and dollars, she said.

— And if they send me back to Israel?

— I hope you can use it there, too.

Alec and Polina watched him walk out the door and Alec was quite certain they would never see him again. The thought wasn’t pessimistic, only empirical. In the emigration, when somebody left, he left for good.

With Lyova’s departure, the sound of his footfalls receding to nothing on the stairs, Alec and Polina were left in a pristine silence. It felt as if they were being reintroduced after a lengthy separation — a jail term or a sea voyage. The place seemed suddenly too quiet and too big. Without Lyova’s mediating presence, Alec felt as if they had each been made transparent and their hidden thoughts exposed.

— I don’t think people were made to live like this, Polina said.

— Like what? Alec asked, fearing something devastating.

— To form attachments only to have them broken.

It was late morning, and they busied themselves tidying the apartment, as if it were a compulsory act, the period at the end of the sentence. Lyova had left his remaining possessions stacked up in one corner, the easier for them to ship to Netanya in case he didn’t return. Alec watched Polina sweep carefully around the stack, as around a household shrine.

When they had finished, Polina considered the contents of the refrigerator and said, I should go to the market.

— Would you like me to come with you?

— You’re no longer worried about frightening the neighborhood children?

— I’d thought it was getting better.

Polina crossed from the kitchen to the dining room table, where Alec was sitting, and lightly traced the perimeter of his bruise with her fingertips.

— Alec, if you’d like to come, come. But only if you want. I don’t plan to pick up more than a few things.

— Well, maybe for the sake of the neighborhood children, I’ll give it another day.

Once Polina had gone, Alec lit a cigarette and sat by the window that overlooked the street. He picked up a copy of the Herald-Tribune left behind by Lyova and he read about some kind of reverse pogrom where a mob of Orthodox Jews stormed a Brooklyn police station and injured sixty policemen. He read articles about the civil war in Beirut and the revolutions in Rhodesia and Iran. He read an article about Soviet workers being conscripted for the annual potato harvest. From his perch at the window, an Italian cigarette between his lips, Alec felt a momentary tranquillity — as though, like a lord, he was gazing down at the grubby idiocy of the world. For that moment, his own grubby idiocy seemed trivial.

Alec finished his cigarette and prepared to flick the butt out the window and into the street. As he did so, he saw a familiar figure walking briskly along Via Salumi. He leaned his head out the window for a better look, to make absolutely sure. But there was the loose-jointed, storklike gait and the wild conflagration of hair. Lyova spotted Alec in the window, broke into a wide grin, and raised a triumphant fist in the air.

Upstairs, Lyova showed Alec the dark green, clothbound little booklet: his temporary Italian passport. His picture had been affixed, his American visa stapled, and the pages bore the official stamps and signatures.

— So tell me, Alec said.

— There’s almost nothing to tell. After all this time, I didn’t have to plead or weep. I showed my papers, Carmela said she deplored the way the Israelis were treating the poor Palestinians, and I said I did too. What the hell? This way, at least one of us gets to go free.

— Mazel tov, Alec said, and fetched a bottle of grappa.

When Polina came through the door, grocery bags in hand, Alec and Lyova were still at the table. They looked up and watched her rein in her delight.

— Don’t be afraid, Alec said. He’s an American, not a ghost.

Polina smiled and came over to the table.

— Congratulations, she said. I’m happy to see you again.

— Thank you, Lyova replied.

Polina looked down at the grocery bags in her hands.

— I’m sorry, I didn’t get nearly enough. I didn’t think you’d be back.

— No need to apologize, Lyova said. I didn’t think I’d be back either.

To celebrate, Lyova went down for a bottle of Chianti and a box of chocolates. Polina threw together a mongrel dinner of boiled potatoes, white Italian bread, cottage cheese with sour cream, green onions, cucumbers, prosciutto, figs, and a wedge of parmesan.

They sat at the table and drank in honor of friendship, Rome, health, wives, fortitude, prosperity, and the future. Polina nursed the same glass of wine, while Alec and Lyova polished off the grappa and most of the Chianti as well.

The sky darkened as Lyova talked about what he expected from America. He’d lived abroad for nearly a decade, and so he didn’t think he’d suffer the shock of the new Soviet transplant. He had taken pains to learn English and to stay current on American affairs. His son had received some English instruction in school. The boy had a good ear for languages and Lyova thought he’d have little trouble adapting. His wife was a different story. Since she neither wanted to leave Israel nor believed that Lyova would succeed in getting them out, she had stubbornly refused to study English. Consequently, she would arrive in New York resentful and ill prepared — not a good combination. But Lyova hoped that once she inhaled American air it would trigger a chemical reaction and her outlook would change.

— What did she say when she found out? Polina asked.

— I haven’t told her yet.

— You didn’t call?

— No. Not her and not my parents.

— You do intend to tell them.

— I intend to tell them, but not over the phone. I don’t need to pay to hear their disappointment. They can read it in a telegram.

— What will you say?

— I haven’t decided.

— How about: “Pack your bags,” Alec said.

— Yes, Lyova said. “The voice of America is calling.”

— You might want to consider having a woman write it, Polina said.

— That’s a marvelous idea, Lyova said. You’d be doing me a great favor. There are some things men aren’t suited for.

— The favor is for your poor wife and son, Polina chided, and began to clear the table.

As she carried the cups and plates to the kitchen, the intercom buzzed. Polina looked over her shoulder at Lyova and Alec and, the hour being late, the three of them exchanged inquiring glances.

The buzzer sounded again — a longer, more insistent note.

— Maybe the Italians have reconsidered, Lyova said.

Alec rose from his chair and went to answer the intercom. He tried to give the impression of lightheartedness. An infinite number of people could be at the buzzer, including delinquents, junkies, and stray tourists — but nothing felt as plausible as the thing he feared. As he approached the intercom, he tried to read Polina’s and Lyova’s faces. If either of them harbored fears akin to his, their faces didn’t show it.

Alec pressed the button and spoke. Masha’s voice surged up in response. She said, It’s me, Masha, her voice pouring into the apartment like a swarm of bees, peevish and severe.

Alec turned from the intercom and looked at Lyova and Polina. Neither of them had moved. They looked at him stiffly, Polina with a keen edge of disgust. From below, Masha pressed and pressed the buzzer relentlessly, sending jagged currents through the silent apartment.

Alec pressed the button again and said angrily, Have you lost your mind?

— Let me up, Masha replied.

Alec removed his finger from the button again and stared at the intercom as it shrieked at him. He didn’t turn to face Lyova or Polina, but he felt their eyes upon him. Though he knew he had no right to, he resented them for bearing witness to his scandal and compounding it by the simple fact of their presence. Still, he had no intention of letting Masha up. Go home, Masha, he said, this is not the way.

— Let me up, you bastard, or I’ll scream, came her reply.

From behind him, Alec heard Polina say, in a firm, steady voice, Let her up.

Alec pressed the button that released the downstairs lock and opened the door to their apartment, letting it swing wide. He stepped back and leaned against the wall in the vestibule. Polina set the dishes she’d been holding on the kitchen counter, wiped her hands on a towel, and took her stand at the mouth of the kitchen. Lyova remained at the dining room table. They listened as the echo of Masha’s steps spiraled up the stairway, and waited for the article in its spectacular detail.

Masha did not disappoint. She appeared in the doorway irradiant, her dark eyes burning and her color high from the climb up the stairs. She wore her peach cotton dress, short-sleeved and hemmed above the knee, exposing the soft tan flesh of her arms and her strong, smooth legs. Her black hair, its generous brushstrokes, framed her face to striking effect. But for all this, the focal point was at her mouth: her upper lip was split and swollen.

Masha took two steps beyond the threshold and let her eyes roam around the apartment, taking in the surroundings and the principals. Alec watched her glance at Lyova and then look defiantly at Polina. Him, she studied last, and Alec sensed something fleeting, like a silent gasp, as though the condition of his face had unnerved her. But just as quickly, she seemed to regroup.

— It looks like I interrupted a party, Masha said.

— What did you come for, Masha? Alec asked.

— You’re not happy I came?

— Say what you came to say.

Masha gazed once more around the apartment and settled on Polina.

— Such a lovely apartment, and such a lovely wife. How nice to finally meet you.

— I can imagine, Polina said.

— And this here, Masha said, directing herself at Lyova, this is your housemate? The one you helped go to America?

— That’s right, Carter came for tea and signed his visa in the kitchen.

Masha looked at him with hatred. A hatred mostly, Alec sensed, at being mocked. Like a self-serious child who has not been taken seriously. He watched her fumble for an instant, as from a loss of confidence, and what anger he felt toward her drained away.

— We’ll see how you joke when I tell people what you did to me.

— What did I do to you, Masha?

— This, Masha spat, and motioned sharply to her swollen lip.

— I did no such thing, Masha, and you know it.

Masha turned the force of her fury on Polina.

— He took advantage of me. Got me into a state. And when I wouldn’t agree to an abortion, he did this.

She pointed again to the violence that had been done to her, but Alec was no longer looking at her but at Polina, who stood as if holding her breath.

— Nothing she says is true, Alec vainly declared.

— Believe what you like, Masha said. But I’m here to tell you that if he thought he could get away without consequences, he’s very mistaken. There will be consequences, I can promise you that!

Masha stared at Polina as if to evoke a reaction. Polina held her gaze for a moment before she turned to Alec and said with cold precision, Get her out of my sight.

Masha didn’t protest, but with a small, satisfied smile, she left of her own accord. Alec stole a glance at Lyova, who sat solemnly at the table, before he pursued her down the stairs. Alec reached the bottom just in time to catch the front door as it was swinging shut. He sprang out into the street only a few steps behind Masha and called her name. She spun to face him and, in the darkness, they studied each other, each other’s wounds.

— What did you do this for, Masha?

— You helped your friend go to America, but you did nothing for us, she said, now with flagging conviction.

— You know I never raised a hand to you. I’ve never raised a hand to any woman.

— So what? You did worse. You caused all of this to happen.

She said nothing more, and turned back to the street, where Alec now noticed the white Fiat 500, with Dmitri at the wheel. He watched Masha climb into the passenger seat and the two of them drive off.

Alec stood on the dark street and contemplated what he might do. He thought to walk around the neighborhood for a while, to allow them all some time to recover, but he couldn’t even do that. In his haste to catch Masha, he had left the apartment without any shoes. He felt the rough, cold pavement through his stocking feet.

The front door to the building had locked behind him, and so he had no choice but to ring the buzzer. Nobody answered, but Alec heard, just as when he and Polina had first come to inspect the apartment, the sound of a door opening inside the vault of the building and the descending pattern of Lyova’s footsteps. Presently, the lock clicked and Lyova opened the door — though he remained in the door frame, a forlorn smile on his face.

— I have no shoes, Lyova, Alec said. I’d like to get my shoes.

— I’ll get you your shoes.

— Is that so?

— Alec, don’t be dim. You think I like any of this?

— You’ll forgive me if I say that I’m not particularly concerned right now with what you like or don’t like.

— I’ll bring you your shoes, Alec. What else do you need?

— My wallet. My jacket. My keys.

Lyova balked at “keys.”

— I need my HIAS keys, Lyova, or I’m sleeping in the street tonight.

— You’re going to sleep in the briefing department?

— Unless you have a better idea, Alec said. By the way, where are you going to sleep tonight?

Lyova drew the door shut behind him and returned a few minutes later with Alec’s shoes, jacket, wallet, keys — and toothbrush for good measure.

— Things will be brighter in the morning, Lyova said.

Alec gathered himself and walked the nighttime streets to Viale Regina Margherita and the briefing department. He had never been inside the building at that hour. There was a light switch on the wall in the entryway but he elected not to press it for fear of attracting attention. He rode the elevator and walked the darkened corridor feeling like an intruder, apt to be arrested. Quietly, he inserted his key into the lock and slipped inside the office. Light from the street-lamps spilled through the windows, casting shadows. He picked his way between desks and chairs to where the large photocopier stood against a wall. Beside the machine were stacks of folders, fat with émigré case files. Alec slid these out of the way to clear a bare patch of floor. He lowered himself onto this patch and lay staring up at the ceiling. He’d kept his jacket on for warmth, so he had nothing to cushion his skull from the hard marble. With his left hand, he reached out and took hold of several file folders and placed them under his head. Like this he tried to sleep, shivering a little from the cold, the Persecution Stories of a half dozen émigrés for his pillow.

10

After Lyova gathered Alec’s belongings, Polina closed the door to the bedroom and turned off the lights. Unwilling to lie down, she sat on the edge of the bed and saw the woeful scene replay itself. It had the grotesque character of a bad dream: the knot of shrillness, violence, and perversity, too strange and horrible to be true. She hadn’t believed everything the girl had said but the simple fact that she was in their apartment proved that there was some underlying substance to it. If nothing else, Alec had allowed himself to become involved with this mixed-up, angry, voluptuous child, and he had brought this ugly scandal into their lives. She recalled Marina Kirilovna’s warning — Alec, a boy with a butterfly net. She had disbelieved her words and disregarded her warning. She’d instead nursed the belief that she saw in Alec what other people failed to see, did not try to see. On the strength of this belief, she had staked her future and her family bonds. Now she was flooded with shame and self-reproach.

Like a swooping bird, the most despicable memory assailed her: when her parents had refused to sign the consent form, she had, in her own hand, written that they were dead. What authority could pardon her for that?

Polina sat stiffly in what felt again like a strange room in a strange city. She saw no way forward with Alec. What options remained for her? If Nadja went, to follow her to Israel? To return to Riga? To venture somewhere else, entirely on her own? The choices made her feel at once captive and terribly adrift. She was dismayed to find herself in this predicament. How can it be, she wondered, to have lived a life that she would have never described as reclusive. To have been loved and nurtured as a child. To have been, at every passage, surrounded by classmates and friends. To have never felt shunned or excluded. To have worked for years amid colleagues — a participant in every party and celebration. To have been twice married. To have been a guest in countless homes, and to have hosted countless guests in return. And after all this, to make a tabulation — sitting in the dark, in tears, in this unfamiliar room — and to discover that you have passed through life like a knife through smoke. That almost nothing has adhered to you. From a lifetime of society, only Nadja, one single wisp.

The prospect of sleeping in the bed, of staying in the room, sickened her. She rose and opened the door. The rest of the apartment was also dark. She had half expected to find Lyova up, reading at the table or in his bed, but she was glad for the darkened apartment. Lyova had drawn the brocade curtain, but Polina brushed it aside and entered his half of the room. She saw the outline of Lyova’s body in his bed. He was facing the wall but, at her approach, he turned toward her. Polina felt that she understood what had brought her to Lyova — the simple wish not to be alone. But she was also aware of another manifestation of this idea: the need to see if she could still act to gratify her desires.

Lyova seemed to wait for her to speak.

— I can’t sleep in that room, Polina said.

He sat up and, after a moment’s hesitation, said, You can have my bed.

Polina easily imagined a scenario in which Lyova gallantly relinquished his bed, and in which nothing more happened between them.

Without saying a word, Polina knelt on the edge of the bed. If she were mistaken, Lyova could still protest, but he didn’t. Instead, he edged toward the wall, making a space for her beside him. For a few moments, they lay silently facing each other before Polina put out her hand and placed it on Lyova’s ribs. She felt Lyova’s hand slide through the bedsheets and onto her ribs in return. She then felt the press of his mouth on hers, and the contortions to undress — the tangle of clothes with the bedsheets and the blanket. The act itself felt like they were assembling a complicated machine for the first time, with pieces strewn about and then forced into place. In the midst of things, Polina thought of Alec, and how this very disorder must have appealed to him.

Afterward, they lay side by side in the narrow bed.

— What will you do? Lyova asked.

— I’m not sure, Polina said.

— I wish I could offer you some help.

— Don’t concern yourself, Polina said. There’s nothing you could do. I’m just waiting for my sister’s letter. When I get it, I’ll know what to do with the rest of my life.

11

Not long after the girl departed, Samuil left the house and set off for the Ladispoli train station, the late autumn sun bright and bolted high overhead. Emma’s exhortations trailed after him as he pressed forward, disregarding her completely and wishing that she might finally sprout the good sense to quiet down.

Syoma, don’t go alone, she called. Rome is a zoo. What if you get lost? Let someone come with you!

As he reached the foot of Via Italia, he heard Emma’s voice fade to the point of irrelevance. Pocketing this small satisfaction, he headed toward the station. As he went, he attempted to quell his emotions. He did not want to undertake the trip in a state of excitement. As a soldier and as a manager — if not always as a husband and a father — his greatest strength had been his ability to maintain his composure. He credited it for his successes, and he tried to invoke it here once again.

The morning’s spectacle had deeply unnerved him. The frantic banging on their door. The girl raving in their kitchen. Spewing her wild accusations. Causing a shameful, disgusting scene in front of his grandsons, his daughter-in-law, and his wife.

When Samuil had heard enough, he had said to her, My son is capable of many things, but not this. Get out of our house.

By the time the train touched off, his anger had subsided. He looked about the train at his fellow passengers — Italians — and, for once, he did not feel estranged from them. He saw people like himself — with a destination, attending to the practical affairs of their lives.

Out his window, he watched the brown countryside unfurl, the fields harvested and tilled. The sky was a flawless blue. Small black birds glided effortlessly across it.

The farms gave way to larger settlements. Samuil saw more pavement and with it more people, more vehicles. Then, curiously, the train slowed, and presently stopped. There was no station, so far as he could see. There was not even a town to speak of. Looking out, Samuil saw a narrow road that ran beside the tracks, he saw scattered houses, low buildings, with many vacant patches between. He turned to regard the other passengers, and saw many of them also peering out the windows. Then a man’s muffled voice sounded over the public address. Even before the man concluded his statement, passengers began to grumble and shake their heads. Some gathered their belongings and made for the doors. Others he saw settling into their seats — some in frustration, some in resignation. Samuil was casting about for another Russian émigré when he caught the attention of a man of his generation, dressed neatly, wearing steel-framed glasses, his eyes gentle, considerate.

The man walked up the aisle to Samuil.

— Non parle Italiano? he inquired.

Samuil shook his head.

— Français? the man asked.

Samuil shook his head again.

— Español?

Samuil shook his head once more and, though his knowledge of the language was spotty, proposed, Deutsche?

It was the man’s turn to shake his head.

— Ruskii? Iddish? Latviesu? Samuil asked for the sake of formality.

The man smiled regretfully and then paused, as if considering one final, doubtful possibility.

—?u vi parolas Esperanton? he said.

Gingerly, Samuil nodded his head.

He saw the man smile, delighted.

— Many years ago, Samuil said.

— Well, let us try.

— Very well.

— You would like to know why the train is not going?

— Yes.

— The engineers have called a strike. All the trains have stopped.

— For long?

— They did not say. It could be for long.

Samuil digested this.

— How far is it to Rome?

— Fifteen kilometers. Perhaps more.

His feet crunching the gravel of the rail bed, Samuil walked the length of the train, feeling the warmth emanating from its sides, like a great horse at rest. He passed the locomotive and saw in its window the engineer, sitting at his console, reading a newspaper. He could feel no resentment toward a worker asserting his rights in a capitalist system. In the Soviet Union, where socialism had been achieved, workers worked. The country hadn’t seen a strike in seventy years. There, if a train had stopped, he would have gone directly to the engineer and demanded: Comrade engineer, what is the meaning of this?

After he passed the locomotive, a broad panorama opened up on all sides, the railroad tracks running down its middle, like a zipper on the mantle of the earth. Ahead of him, he saw a string of figures picking their way along the tracks. He looked behind him and saw dozens more, some empty-handed, some with bundles, and others with young children — women carrying the littlest ones in their arms.

As a soldier, he had marched with his division along roads and rail lines, at times covering as many as seventy kilometers in a single day. He had walked in every kind of weather: in the mire of the rasputitsa, with the mud pulling at his boots with its ghoulish hands; in the coldest frosts of winter, where comrades made macabre statues out of the frozen German dead; and in the heat of summer, the army crossing the land as a towering pillar of dust.

Compared to all of that, Samuil thought, was he to be deterred by a walk of a mere fifteen kilometers in mild weather? Not to mention that, as a soldier, he had also carried as much as twenty kilos in equipment, ammunition, and kit. Now he was encumbered by nothing other than his blazer. The blazer he removed after fifteen minutes and draped first over one arm and then the other.

From the opposite direction, also along the rail line, he saw other commuters trekking west. He looked, but could not see their train, and, checking behind him, he could no longer see his own. The rail line had snaked and curved, and he had walked a considerable distance. He regretted that he did not have any water with him. There were a few buildings and houses about, but he did not want to stray from his course to appeal to strangers who did not speak Russian. In the time he would lose searching for water, he could gain several kilometers and bring himself closer to the city or the next station.

He walked another half hour. He saw the train that had stopped on the westbound tracks. And he saw, on the horizon, the geometry of some larger settlement, perhaps an outer suburb of Rome. His thirst made his legs feel heavy, his chest tight. The tightness forced him to labor slightly to draw a full breath, and so he decided to rest.

He scrambled down from the rail bed to the dry, weedy embankment. He spread out his blazer and lowered himself onto it. He sat with his knees bent, his hands resting upon them, and his head up and chin raised so as to better draw breath. He gazed ahead, his field of vision incorporating the long stretch of track. The view was bare. Not a soul passed in either direction. Samuil did not know what had happened to the people who had walked before him. He had passed some of them as they rested beside the tracks. Nor did he know what had happened to the people who had followed behind. The people with bundles, the men and women with children. It seemed as if they had abandoned the course. Few had persevered so long and come so far as he had. Samuil thought of his family, of Emma and Rosa, all of them, and how they had misjudged him. How surprised they would be, and how none of them had ever fully appreciated.

Samuil surveyed the scene around him. He saw mindless gravel, railroad, and sky. He thought to rise and continue on his way, but to his consternation he felt as if, rather than diminishing, the pressure in his chest had increased. He tried to rise nonetheless, but felt as if the sky had dropped to prevent him. He inhaled and felt something zealously squeezing his lungs, as if his heart, after biding its time, had finally chosen this moment to revolt. He felt a fleeting panic that quickly turned to rage. His own heart was betraying him, like an enemy inside the walls of his body. He was determined to attack it and bend it to his will. He would wage a battle against it. His treacherous heart would have to wrest the breath from his lips.

12

At the end of the workday, a man who identified himself as an employee of the Joint appeared at the briefing department looking for Alec. He was in his middle thirties, balding, slightly flabby, and with the typical Russian look of fatigue — acquired in the womb, marinated in that broth of disappointments. He said he had an important message to convey and suggested that they retire to the corridor for privacy. Alec felt his colleagues’ eyes upon him as he followed the man out.

He had been the object of curiosity all day. He’d crept out of the office at dawn and lurked about the neighborhood, reporting for work only when he saw others start arriving. His colleagues reacted with shock at the sight of his face — more shock than he’d anticipated. He’d thought that, after a week, it was no longer quite so ghastly, but based on their reactions it occurred to him that he had simply grown accustomed to it.

In the corridor, the man from the Joint looked at him dourly before speaking. Alec felt a mounting apprehension and imagined what else Masha might have done.

— Is your father Samuil Leyzerovich? the man asked.

— Yes, said Alec.

— I’m afraid I have some sad news for you.

They went by foot from the office to a mortuary where the Jewish Burial Society had brought Samuil’s body. The man opened the door to an antechamber where Alec saw a shrunken old Jew in a yarmulke sitting on a chair and mumbling something from a small black hymnal. At his shoulder was a long table that supported the weight of a body enfolded completely in a white sheet. The little Jew barely looked up from his mumbling as Alec and the man from the Joint entered the room.

— You’ll forgive me, the man said, but we need you to confirm it’s your father.

Alec approached the figure, drew aside the folds, and uncovered a wax replica of his father’s face. He saw the full head of gray hair, the stern brow, the distinguished masculine nose, and the shiny white granules stippling the cheeks. Someone had shut his father’s eyes and removed his dentures. The latter detail had distorted his face, collapsing his mouth and making him seem ancient. Alec’s impulse was to look away, but he resisted out of a duty to see all. He tried to reconcile this pale waxwork with the father who had been such a vital, dominant presence in his life. He felt crushed by the mortal paradox: how it was that his father lay by his side and that his father was no more. He studied his father’s face and understood that there was such a thing as a soul and that it had departed and left behind a corpse.

— Is it him? the man asked.

— Yes, it’s him, Alec answered.

He covered his father’s face and looked to the man from the Joint for further instruction.

— What happens now?

— The funeral. They like to do it as fast as possible. Tomorrow afternoon.

— I suppose, Alec said. I still have to tell my family.

As they left the room, Alec glanced at the little Jew mumbling his stream of gibberish.

— What’s he doing?

— He stays with the body all night. So it’s never alone.

— Is that necessary?

— Does it bother you?

— I don’t know.

— It’s a Jewish custom. You want him to go away?

— It doesn’t matter.

— It’s his job. He’s paid for it.

— Then leave him, Alec said.

Alec caught a nine o’clock train out of Rome. He arrived in Ladispoli after ten and walked the dark, empty streets to his family’s house. He saw the world with the clarity conferred by the knowledge of death. He saw everything as it truly was. Every mundane thing existed in terms of death. Everything was tinged by this tragic impermanence.

The lights were on when Alec came to the house. He knocked on the door and heard exclamations and frantic scrambling. He felt the imminence of what was to come. The door would soon open and he would have to look into his mother’s eyes and speak the words so that they entered irrevocably into the world. He felt his intransitive physical bulk on the doorstep. Somehow the fate of his life had designated him for this.

The door was thrown open and he saw his mother — her anxious, haggard expression. Pressed up behind her were Rosa and the boys, followed by Karl, who took Alec’s meaning from across the room. For an instant, his mother was confused, distracted by Alec’s mutilated face.

— My God, what did you do to your eye?

— An accident. It’s nothing.

Then his mother seemed to remember what was uppermost in her mind. She asked nervously, as if fending off the knowledge, Alec, you’re alone? Where is Papa?

Alec managed only to slowly say Mama before she interrupted him, her eyes gaping with terror, and pleaded, What happened, Alec? Where is your father?

On the train and walking the dark streets of Ladispoli he had silently practiced the words. Now he opened his mouth and they tumbled out: Papa is gone.

His mother wailed, Oi, Syomachka! as if something had cracked inside her. Rosa drew her close and the two of them wept into each other’s neck. The boys, bewildered, also started to cry. Karl said, Come, let’s go inside, and they all trailed into the house, Alec shutting the door behind them.

They settled in the living room, where Samuil had spent so much of his time writing his secret memoirs.

— It’s my fault, his mother bemoaned, looking up from her anguish. I should have never let him go by himself.

— It isn’t your fault, Emma Borisovna, Rosa responded. She looked bitterly at Alec and added, It was because of your slut that your father went off to Rome. If not for that, he would still be alive!

— Don’t say that! his mother snapped. Don’t say that to him! He’s not to blame. Syoma went to help him. He was a father concerned for his son.

That night Alec slept on the floor of the living room. Karl stayed in the bedroom with the boys, and Rosa slept in his mother’s bed so that she would not have to be by herself. Before she joined his mother, Alec heard Rosa soothing the boys with a lullaby. The lullaby she sang was familiar, though not because he recalled anyone ever singing it to him.

The half moon shines above our roof

Evening stands at our yard

For little birds and for little children

The time has come now to sleep

In the morning you’ll wake

and the bright sun will rise above you again

Sleep little sparrow

Sleep little son

Sleep my dear little chime.

Alec lay on the floor and listened to her sing. He could not have said precisely why he was so moved. The words and the melody pierced his heart and he lay on the floor and quietly wept.

In the morning they scurried to make arrangements for the funeral. Karl went to coordinate with the rabbi and Rosa deposited the boys at a friend’s apartment. Alec was left alone with his mother. He watched her comb fastidiously through the house collecting the stray items his father had left behind: his reading glasses, his slippers, a newspaper he had been reading. When she finished, she looked at Alec dolefully and he waited for her to say something more about what had sent his father to Rome.

— Will you call Polina? Emma asked.

— I don’t think I can, Alec said.

She studied him for a moment, with a wisdom for which he seldom credited her, and didn’t insist further. Instead she sent him to Club Kadima to find Josef Roidman. He was his father’s friend, and she believed that he would want to attend the funeral.

Alec found Roidman at Club Kadima, sitting alone with a newspaper. He apologized for disturbing him and asked if he remembered who he was.

— What’s to remember? Roidman said merrily. But for the eye, you’re the spitting image of your father.

Alec told him that his father had died.

— It can’t be, Roidman said.

— The funeral is today. I am here to see if you wish to come.

— Vey, vey, the old man said and shook his head despondently.

Roidman gathered himself up and hobbled for the exit.

— I am not properly dressed to pay my respects. Is there time enough for me to go home?

Alec accompanied the old man to his apartment, where he put on a cap and the same blazer with the medals Alec had seen him wearing the day of the pope’s coronation.

Karl secured transport to ferry them all to the cemetery. Despite it having been repainted, Alec nevertheless recognized it as Lyova’s old Volkswagen van. Piled inside were all the members of his family — minus the boys — along with Josef Roidman, the rabbi, and six other Jewish men: three of the rabbi’s bearded adjutants, as well as two idle Russian pensioners and one teenage boy, whom the rabbi had recruited with the promise of a break from their routine and a complimentary meal.

The rabbi directed them to the cemetery and Karl turned off Via Tiburina at Piazzale delle Crociate, where an iron gate stood ajar. They followed a paved road into the grounds. The road, lined with cypress trees, stretched deep into the cemetery and curved away at a high mausoleum wall. Not far from the entrance, at the edge of the road, was a black hearse with a uniformed driver. The rabbi directed Karl to park the van in front of the hearse. The rabbi exchanged a few words with the hearse’s driver and then gestured for everyone to follow him to the graveside. Even without the rabbi’s instruction, everyone had already noticed the mound of freshly turned earth with a simple pine coffin beside it. At the sight of the coffin, Alec heard his mother and Rosa begin to whimper and to call his father’s name. He and Karl lagged some distance behind, at the tail of the procession. Alec looked at his brother to see how he was taking all of this. Karl’s face was grim and brooding.

— You’re a fool, you know that? Karl said.

Alec didn’t think he had anything to say in his own defense.

— You can’t tell when you’re climbing into a nest of vipers?

— I thought it would all come out differently.

— Fool, Karl said with disgust.

He halted and peered up at the sky, as if he could no longer bring himself to look at Alec.

— They’ll go to Germany. They can be smuggled in. I’m sure they’ll prosper. There’s plenty of opportunity. Let them be the Germans’ problem.

His brother went ahead to join the others and Alec followed.

At the graveside, added to their number were two young Italian groundskeepers who indicated how the coffin needed to be lifted and positioned onto the straps. Karl and Alec both stepped forward to take up the coffin, but the rabbi stopped them.

— Immediate kin do not lift the body.

Alec and Karl then watched the rabbi and his assistants perform the task. The neighboring plots, Alec saw, were already occupied by other Russian émigrés who had failed to complete their journies. The white stones were thin and bore no decoration, save for an etched Star of David, the name of the deceased, and the dates each came into and departed the world.

In an aching, reedy voice, the rabbi sang some verses from a prayer book. At certain predetermined moments his assistants responded, Omayn. They were the only ones. Nobody else knew what he was doing.

When the rabbi finished his portion, he flipped through the book and extracted a laminated card that he’d filed away between the pages. He presented the card to Karl.

— It is the kaddish. For you and your brother to read together.

Alec stood at Karl’s side to read. The card was typed with Hebrew words transliterated into Russian.

— What does it mean? Alec asked.

— It sanctifies God’s name, for your father’s sake.

— Our father wasn’t a believer. If it’s for his sake, he’d want nothing about God at his grave.

— Alec, the rabbi is showing us how to do it according to the rules, his mother admonished.

On the rabbi’s cue, he and Karl read the unfamiliar words, mispronouncing some. But after they’d read everything on the card, Alec still felt troubled by misgivings. He asked the rabbi what more there was to the ceremony.

— Only to fill the grave. Though if there’s anything you wish to add, there’s no law against it.

— I feel we should do something he would have wanted.

— And what is that? the rabbi asked.

— What is done at the burial of a Communist?

— What is done? You want us to sing the “Internationale”? Rosa asked.

— Not a bad idea. At least everyone knows it.

— You’d ask the rabbi to sing the “Internationale”?

— Why not? I’m sure he also knows the words. The rabbi was probably a Pioneer and maybe even a Young Communist. Am I wrong, rabbi?

— We all make mistakes in our youth.

— But do you have any objections against singing this song in our father’s memory?

The rabbi smiled faintly and shrugged his shoulders.

Alec expected that Karl would disparage the idea and so put an end to it, but his brother didn’t say a word.

The first to sing was Josef Roidman. He raised his voice martially and proudly. Alec turned to see the little man standing at attention, his eyes wet, gripping his crutch, his chest with its medals thrust forward.

Arise you branded and accursed,

The whole world’s starving and enslaved!

Roidman began and the others gradually joined in. The old men and the teenage boy who had come along for the car ride and the free meal. His mother, her arms linked with Rosa’s. Karl with his heavy bass. And singing softly, the rabbi and the other bearded men.

13

After the funeral, instead of returning with the others to Ladispoli to begin the week of mourning and eat the kosher dinner furnished by the rabbi, Alec boarded the train to Rome. His family’s grief, and the expectation to grieve with them, was too oppressive. That house, with its rigors, felt like the one place where he wouldn’t be able to mourn.

Riding the train, Alec tried to think about his father and about himself as his son. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that it had been many years since he and his father had shown any affection toward each other. To no small extent, as soon as he had been able, he had structured his life so that it intersected only glancingly with his father’s. Now, guilt and sentiment bade him to repudiate this fact and to imagine that things could have been different between them. Could he have made more of an effort? Had he been guilty of making a conveniently low assessment of his filial debt? How great was his portion of the blame? But he knew that these questions were irrelevant and had nothing to do with what he actually wanted, which seemed like a very small and humble thing. And what was it? Merely to sit in the same room with his father once more. Exchanging not a word. Only to gaze at him, at his face and at his hands, to perceive him again in the realm of the living, and to inhabit that feeling for as long as he could.

The sun was beginning to set as Alec walked from Trastevere Station back to the apartment. In his mind he felt a sense of mission, as though he were about to make of himself an offering, to abase himself before a righteous judgment. The last time he had felt this way had also involved Polina. Then, too, he had taken a long walk through an industrial suburb. He had carried forms that needed to be signed by Maxim, Polina’s ex-husband. Alec had never seen the man before, but Maxim had asked for him specifically. Send your pimp, he’d told Polina.

Alec met him in the communal apartment where he and Polina had lived together. Alec had gone, uncertain of what awaited him. Did Maxim have any intention of signing the document or was it just a ruse? What indignities might he have in store? But the exchange had been nothing like he’d anticipated. The man he’d met had been like a bad actor playing a role for which he was sorely ill cast. He seemed to be clumsily following someone else’s script. His role demanded that he project indignation and anger but his true emotions seemed closer to confusion and hurt. It looked like he still did not understand why all this misery had befallen him. Alec suspected that a woman’s hand guided him. The word “prostitute” recurred too often in the script for it to have been written by a man. Alec pictured some squint-eyed crow perched on Maxim’s shoulder, playing on his bewilderment, dripping poison in his ear.

— Nobody gets a prostitute for free, Maxim had stammered.

So Alec had signed his apartment over to Maxim, and Maxim had signed the form, absolving Polina of her “material obligations” to him.

At the time he had come away from Maxim’s feeling as if he were coated in grime. But now the recollection evoked a different feeling. He felt ashamed of everything to which he had subjected Polina.

Alec reached the building on Via Salumi and stood before it under the weight of his grief and shame. In his pocket he had a key, but it didn’t occur to him to use it. He had lived in the apartment with Polina for nearly five months, but after two nights away, he felt utterly banished.

Lyova answered the buzzer.

Though he did not want to desecrate his grief, Alec nonetheless said, I just buried my father. I’d like to come up.

The lock released and Alec entered the lobby, which was cool and quiet. He mounted the steps, counting the flights, regretting that only three separated the lobby from the apartment. He still didn’t know what he might say to Polina, and three flights didn’t offer enough time to compose his thoughts. He imagined a climb of thirty flights, arduous and purifying, like one of the pilgrims crawling on his knees along Via Conciliazione.

From the landing he saw that the door to the apartment was open. As he neared, he found Lyova waiting for him in the vestibule, where he himself had stood and waited for Masha.

— My condolences, Lyova said, and put out his hand.

Alec accepted the hand and allowed Lyova to usher him into the apartment. Polina sat at the dining room table and regarded him silently. Alec looked at her, and then, instinctively, past her, around the apartment, alert to any changes that might have cropped up in his absence. The curtain separating Lyova’s half of the apartment was partially drawn, and the kempt bed visible. The door to their bedroom was open, but there, too, Alec detected nothing incriminating.

— I’m sorry about your father, Polina said. What happened?

— He died walking to Rome to straighten me out.

Alec looked meaningfully at Lyova, laying claim to what negligible rights remained to him.

— I’ll go, Lyova said, then took his coat and tactfully withdrew.

Alec and Polina were left together in the apartment, as if under a vast ponderous cloud. Alec thought to speak, though without any confidence in what he might say, but Polina preempted him.

— Alec, there is nothing to say.

As she spoke the words, Alec noticed that on the tabletop, framed between her hands, was a Soviet airmail envelope.

— It’s from Nadja?

— Yes.

— What does she say?

Polina smiled grimly and slid the envelope across the table. — Read it for yourself.

Alec eased himself into a chair at the table and examined the front of the envelope. He saw Nadja’s familiar script, addressed, for the first time, to Polina and to him using their real names. He removed the pages and unfolded them.

The letter began:

My dearest Sister,

It is so hard for me to write this because I imagine that it will cause you disappointment and pain. Even as I write the words, my tears are falling. I have made the most difficult decision I have ever had to make and I am still not sure that I have decided correctly. But after thinking about everything a thousand times over, I have decided not to marry Arik and not to go with him to Israel. I have decided to stay here, in Riga, with Mama and Papa. Does this sound crazy to you? It still sounds crazy to me. But every time I thought of leaving them it broke my heart …

Alec turned the pages facedown on the table. He raised his eyes to meet Polina’s and perceived the change in her — as if a tenacious light had finally been extinguished. — I’m sorry, Alec said. — What are you apologizing for? — I have enough to apologize for. — It doesn’t matter to me, Alec. — I understand that, Alec said. But it matters to me. Polina looked at him blankly. — I’m serious, Alec said. — Alec, it’s too late. — I don’t agree. It doesn’t have to be. Polina rolled her eyes with exasperation.

— Alec, I knew who you were when I chose to go with you. Nobody forced me. If I’ve made a mess of my life, and am now left alone, it’s my own fault.

— You don’t have to be alone.

— Alec, please don’t be dense.

— I’m not being dense. I have lost your trust — I recognize that. You don’t want to go to Canada with me — I understand. You regret leaving your family — so return to them. The same borders you crossed to get here, you can cross in reverse. It needn’t be hard. For all we know, it might even be easier in reverse. If that’s what you want, you should do it. And if it’s what you do, I will go back with you.

— Alec, now you’re being more than dense.

Alec prepared to object. He didn’t see it that way at all. Instead, he had begun to feel illuminated by the idea of returning. It had dawned on him purely spontaneously, but it possessed a seductive logic. If he was looking to commit an act of sacrifice, there was no better altar. If he wanted to prove his devotion to Polina, here was the perfect symmetry. She had forsaken her family for him, now he would do the same for her. He envisioned their return, and his mortification. He saw himself making public statements and disavowals — maybe even on television and radio. He saw himself prostrating himself before one official body after another. He saw himself entering into moral compromises. Becoming a tool of the KGB. Joining the Party. Giving formal speeches against internationalism and in support of the Revolution. Fervently espousing beliefs he did not hold.

14

The following morning, they bade farewell to Lyova for the third and final time. They descended with him to the street to await the taxi that would take him to the airport. Their farewell was muted, colored by everything that had just passed. When the taxi arrived, Lyova embraced each of them in turn — first Alec, then Polina. With a vagabond smile, Lyova uttered the old Red Army creed: No one and nobody is forgotten! He then ducked his head inside the taxi and was gone.

The night Lyova left, Alec slept on an eiderdown on the floor in Lyova’s half of the apartment. Once Lyova was gone, he assumed his bed.

Before the week of mourning was over, they received word about their papers. Without Samuil, there were no longer any constraints to their application. After such a long period of waiting, they were once again obliged to rush. They packed up their things quickly. The majority of what they’d brought to Rome they had sold, and they’d purchased very little in exchange. Polina did most of the packing, maintaining a barrier of activity between them.

Days before their departure, Alec and Polina traveled to Ladispoli to allow Polina to finally pay her respects and to help with the preparations. The house, when they arrived, was in a state of upheaval. Objects and clothes were piled up in the corners. In the kitchen, Alec saw his mother displaying one of his father’s shirts for Josef Roidman, who stood before her and examined the garment. On the table before her, neatly folded, were other of his father’s clothes — his shirts, his trousers, his blazer. Also on the table were a pair of tailor’s shears and a knitting kit with needles, thimbles, and multicolored spools of thread. When his mother saw them enter, she beckoned them into the kitchen. Seeing Polina, her face flushed and she wiped her eyes with the backs of her wrists, overcome again as if for the first time.

— He is gone, Polinachka, Emma said.

Polina went to embrace her, and everyone observed a solemn moment, until Emma collected herself and remembered what she’d been doing.

— I don’t want them to go to strangers or to waste, Emma said. Josef was his friend. Your father would have been happy for him to have them. Unless, of course, you want anything.

— It’s probably better that Josef take them, Alec said.

— I consider it an honor, Roidman replied.

— They just require some alterations, Emma said.

Polina offered to help, and joined her at the table.

— There are more of your father’s things in the other room, Emma said. It breaks my heart to touch them. But if you feel you can do it, you should do it. And look to see if there is anything you want for yourself.

As he started away for the living room, Alec heard Roidman say, God willing, I will come to Canada soon and visit you wearing this shirt.

In the living room were several cardboard boxes of his father’s things. Alec sat down to sort through them. From the bedroom, he could hear Yury and Zhenya chirping some song in what may have been English. Rosa opened the door and the boys’ voices spilled out louder. Seeing Alec amid Samuil’s effects, she came over.

— Karl took your father’s wedding ring and left you his watch, Rosa said. He’s the firstborn son, so I hope you don’t have any objections.

— No objections, Alec said.

Alec saw Rosa glance at the kitchen, where Josef Roidman was wearing his father’s blazer, with Polina folding and pinning one of the sleeves.

— So she took you back after all.

— She says she will leave me once we get to Canada.

Rosa kept her eyes on Polina as she went about her task.

— She would be right to, Rosa said. But I suspect she won’t. That’s the way we women are.

She looked away and returned to the bedroom, leaving Alec alone with the boxes. They consisted almost exclusively of papers, notebooks, and documents. There were very few personal items. He saw his father’s razor, an unopened bottle of cologne, two pairs of pewter cuff links, and the inexpensive watch, of Soviet manufacture, that Rosa had bequeathed to him. He found that he was able to handle these objects without feeling too much distress. His father’s papers and notebooks he felt far less equipped to handle. To look at his handwriting felt exceedingly personal and painful. He glanced quickly through the documents and packed them away for some future day.

Among the papers, at the bottom of a box, he came upon the stack of letters that his uncle had sent from the front. They were yellowed, brittle with age, and carried the scent of loss and the past. For that reason they seemed hallowed, but also because Alec knew that these were his father’s dearest possessions. Alec leafed through them carefully, unfolded them, and regretted that he would never understand what they said. The only thing he could decipher were the dates, which his uncle had written in Roman numerals at the top of each letter. His father had filed them chronologically, beginning with the first correspondence from the summer of 1941. Alec counted more than sixty letters in total, ending in late December of 1942. This final letter was composed in Russian and in another hand.

29 December 1942

Dear Comrade Krasnansky,

I am still entirely under the influence of the great tragedy which today befell you and your loved ones. I am here undertaking the sad task to tell you that your brother Reuven was killed by a German bomb near the zemlyanka where we live. Just by chance he went out and at that very instant a Messerschmitt flew past. It dropped two bombs and one bomb exploded near your brother. In the time we tried to help him and carry him away from there, he died. We buried him in the same place where the bomb hit.

It is a terrible task to tell you this, but I see it as my duty to him and to you. I know what it is like when one sits and waits for a letter from the front. Together with this letter I am also sending 336 rubles and some photographs we found in your brother’s pocket. You will be surprised that I am writing to you since we do not know each other well. My name is Chaim Obadya and I was a student in Riga at the 2nd Grunt School.

This is all I can tell you about this sad end. Take hope, my friend. You, too, are a soldier and understand that this is war and many of our friends, brothers, and loved ones have already fallen. We don’t know what any moment will bring us. It is possible that many more will meet the same fate as your beloved brother. But we will go forward and find our compensation in the struggle against dark reactionary fascism.