David Bezmozgis - Natasha and Other Stories

As I listened to the story I tried to anticipate the ending. I had heard something similar from one of my Hebrew school teachers.

After Jim finished his story he wrote a list of verses that he was certain would help me to develop a personal relationship with Christ.

When Charley woke up, the doctor called Jim in and I decided it was time for me to go. A nurse caught up to me as I waited for the elevator and said I had to go see Charley right away. Charley was calling for me; he was getting excited, and I had to come right away.

Inside his father’s room Jim was kneeling by the bed. He was weeping and repeating:

— Daddy, I love you; Jesus loves you. Jesus loves you very much, Daddy! Do you know Jesus loves you? Jesus loves you very much, Daddy!

The nurse held the pad so Charley could scrawl. Ignoring his son’s hysterics, Charley wrote: MAKE SURE ABOUT MY THINGS.

I told him I would.

MAKE SURE JESUS DOESN’T GET THEM, he wrote.

In the elevator, my phone rang. It was well past one in the morning and I felt sick as soon as I heard it. I let it ring once more even though I could have picked it up. When I picked it up a man’s voice without a Russian accent said hello. A doctor, I thought, although it didn’t make sense.

— It’s Jim Davis.

— Yeah, Jim, what is it?

— What do you mean, what is it? What happened to my father?

— What do you mean?

— What do you mean what do I mean? You called, didn’t you?

— I don’t understand. Where are you?

— In Fresno. Where the fuck do you think I am? Where the hell are you?

— I’m—

— What the fuck is going on?

— Are you sure you have the right number?

— Are you fucking sick? Whoever the fuck you are, you talked to my maid this afternoon.

Just after I hung up, the phone rang again. This time it was my cousin.

— Why was your phone busy?

— I don’t know.

— Come home.

In the background I heard everyone crying. My mother was already reaching for the phone. She said in Russian:

— Kitten, babushka is gone. There is no more babushka. Charley’s place was only fifteen minutes away from the airport. I went there first and found the Choynski picture he’d promised me. It was one I didn’t already have. It had been taken in the early 1890s when Joe was at his peak. In the photo he is wearing black tights and his shoulders and arms are taut with muscle. I didn’t feel bad taking it since I was sure Charley meant for me to have it anyway. For the rest of his things, I intended to call Canastota and the Hall of Fame.

There was a morning flight to Toronto and I slept for a few hours on Charley’s couch before going to the airport. It occurred to me how, with technology, it was possible to never miss a funeral.

On the plane I read over Jim’s list of verses for a personal relationship with Christ.

John 1:12We can become Gods children Rom 3:23We are all sinners and need Gods grace Hebrew 9:27We ultimately must pay the consequences of our misdeeds Revelation 3:20We must open our heart to Jesus and ask Him to come into our life

At the bottom he left me his phone number and drew the sign of the cross.

I never called him or looked up the verses. At home we didn’t own a New Testament, but I found the prayer I had loved best in Hebrew school. It was taught to me by a beautiful Sephardic woman who was also my fourth-grade Hebrew teacher. We sang it every morning during prayers.

From out of distress I called to God; with abounding relief, God answered me. The Lord is with me, I do not fear — what can man do to me? The Lord is with me among my helpers, I will see the downfall of my enemies. It is better to rely on the Lord than to trust in man. It is better to rely on the Lord than to trust in nobles. All the nations surrounded me, but in the Name of the Lord I will cut them down. They surrounded me, they encompassed me, but in the Name of the Lord I will cut them down. They surrounded me like bees, yet they shall be extinguished like fiery thorns; in the Name of the Lord I will cut them down. My foes repeatedly pushed me to fall, but the Lord helped me. God is my strength and song, and He has been a help to me. The sound of rejoicing and deliverance reverberates in the tents of the righteous, “The right hand of the Lord performs deeds of valor. The right hand of the Lord is exalted; the right hand of the Lord performs deeds of valor!”

It was a fighter’s prayer.

They buried my grandmother in a plain pine box. By the end there was hardly anything left of her. In her final week she had been unable to eat, and ultimately it had become too painful for her to even swallow water. I was told that she had died unconscious, shrieking for breath with an IV in her arm.

During the funeral I only cried for my mother’s sake, and before that a little because I saw my grandfather lost and weeping like an old Jew. Even when her pine coffin reverberated like a bass drum with the first shovelfuls of dirt, I was okay.

It was only later, that night, when I was on my hands and knees in the cemetery searching for her dentures in two feet of snow, that I wailed in Russian: Babushka, babushka, g’dye tih, maya babushka? Babushka, babushka, where are you, my babushka? I cried shamelessly, up to my elbows in the snow, looking for the new teeth which they had forgotten to bury with her. Bearing the dentures I had driven out into the worst blizzard since 1944 with neither a flashlight nor a shovel. I had gone to the cemetery even though my mother had forbidden it and even though Jewish law dictated that nobody was permitted at the grave for a month. But I felt that I was following other laws. And so I dug — first with purpose, then with panic. My hands burned and then went numb. Snow soaked through my shoes and pants. By the end, I didn’t even want to bury the teeth anymore, I just wanted not to lose them.

AFTER MY GRANDMOTHER’S DEATH, my grandfather announced he wanted to move out of the apartment they had shared for ten years. Too many memories, and also, for one person, it was expensive. My mother and aunt filled out forms for subsidized housing and my grandfather was placed on a waiting list. If a spot opened up he would be able to save hundreds of dollars each month. Of course, the money wouldn’t change his life. His needs were minimal. Tea, potatoes, cottage cheese, black bread, chicken, milk, preserves. My mother and aunt bought him his clothes at Moore’s — a discount chain whose labels read: Made in Canada. He never traveled, never went to concerts or movies, and had no hobbies aside from the synagogue. That he had no immediate use for the money wasn’t the point. When he was gone, the grandchildren would have more.

My grandmother’s yartzheit came and went and my grandfather was still no closer to getting an apartment. Thousands were on the waiting list and there was no way of knowing how much longer he would have to wait. My mother told me a year wasn’t that long, she had heard of others who had waited three or five. The waiting list outlived more applicants than she cared to mention. Sholom Zeydenbaum’s son, Minka, received a letter a month after Sholom’s death. Minka said he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. When he told the story, he laughed.

The system was inscrutable. At least in Russia you knew who to bribe.

But, unable to give up, my family sought angles. My mother made inquiries in the community. Apartments had been had. Others had experienced success. No doubt an apartment existed, and waited, like America, to be discovered. My father canvassed his patients in search of a lead. Many patients were the children of Polish Jews who had made their money in real estate. They owned buildings all over the city. Surely one of them could find a suitable place for an honest man, a war hero and a pious Jew. My uncle played his trump card and exploited a political connection from his days doing business with the new Russia. The man had been an ambassador, the man had served on the city council. Such a man must be able to help. My aunt wondered why it had to be so hard. Didn’t all these people have parents of their own? Were their hearts made of stone? My uncle informed her that these people did indeed have parents of their own and that their parents were probably the reason why my grandfather couldn’t get an apartment.