David Bezmozgis - Natasha and Other Stories

As Itzik lay dying, strange and not-so-strange visitors appeared at Zalman’s door. Zalman’s apartment was on the same floor as Itzik’s and these visitors no doubt heard the sound of coughing and rasping as it echoed through the hallway. In the last days, Itzik’s son came from New Jersey to sit at his father’s bedside. Many years had passed since he had seen or spoken with his father. Herschel stayed mostly in the kitchen cooking their meals and reading at the table. To allow Itzik and his son some privacy, Herschel spent several hours each day at my grandfather’s. As he waited for the elevator to ride the four floors up to my grandfather’s apartment, Herschel saw the people who knocked on Zalman’s door. Those who knew him avoided his eyes.

Seated at my grandfather’s table, Herschel seemed oblivious to the conspiracies that were threatening to turn his tragedy into disaster. He spoke about how wonderful it was that Itzik’s son had finally returned to his father. No matter what happens, in the end a father is a father and a son is a son. His own regret was never having children. But after the Holocaust there were two types of people. There were those who felt a responsibility to ensure the future of the Jewish people, and then there were those, like Herschel’s wife, who had been convinced that the world was irrefutably evil. Those were the two kinds, Herschel said, and as always he was neither one nor the other. For him, the world held neither mission nor meaning, only the possibility of joy. But because of the way he was, for the same reasons that he never had any money or became an important man, he allowed his wife to decide for them. He had rationalized that if joy existed in the world, then joy would continue to exist even if he didn’t have a child. He was capable of these rationalizations, he said. His wife wasn’t. She had made a decision in a Polish cellar and no amount of America could change her mind. He could understand her, Herschel said. He could also understand Itzik’s son, and the people in the building who wouldn’t meet his eyes. He could understand all of them. That was his problem, he said, he could understand everybody.

Itzik died on a Friday night and the funeral was held on Sunday. To ensure a minyan at the grave site, Zalman insisted that all of the synagogue regulars attend. I drove my grandfather, Herschel, and two of the old women to the chapel. Zalman came with his wife and the two Polish Jews. Itzik’s son called Itzik’s three cabbies and they brought everyone else. Aside from the people from the synagogue and the cabbies, almost nobody else came. Itzik had lived in Toronto for twenty years but hadn’t had much to do with anyone after his wife died. The rabbi who had written my grandfather the letter of recommendation delivered the eulogy. He had not known Itzik well and made no secret of it. Zalman wrote some notes on a loose piece of paper and the rabbi studied the sheet before speaking. Itzik had been an unusual man, the rabbi said. He came to this country already an old man and had become successful. He had his own business and never asked anyone for anything. He supported his family and always gave money to the Jewish Russian community. In his last years he rediscovered his Jewish roots. For two years he never missed a Saturday service. Not looking at the sheet, the rabbi added that with the passing of Itzik the world lost another piece of the old Jewish life. His death was a tragedy not only for the people who loved Itzik but for all Jews everywhere.

After the rabbi spoke he asked if there was anyone who wanted to say anything more about Itzik. Herschel, who sat between me and my grandfather, wiped his eyes and looked over at Itzik’s son. Itzik’s son did not look up from the floor. Nobody moved and the rabbi shifted nervously beside Itzik’s coffin. He looked around the room and asked again if there wasn’t someone who had a few words to say about Itzik’s life. If someone had something to say and sat in silence, they would regret it. Such a time is not the time for shyness. Itzik’s spirit was in the room. To speak a kind word about the man would be a mitzvah. Finally, using my knee for support, Herschel raised himself from the pew and slowly made his way to the front of the chapel. Each of Herschel’s steps punctuated silence. His worn tweed jacket and crooked back delivered a eulogy before he reached the coffin. His posture was unspeakable grief. What could he say that could compare with the eulogy of his wretched back?

Facing the room, Herschel composed himself and spoke clearly. Itzik was my last and dearest friend. Hitler killed my family and I never had children. When my wife died I thought I would be alone until God decided it was finally time to take me also. That Itzik was my dear friend these last years was the blessing of my old age. Without him I don’t know what would have become of me. He was a wonderful man. He was an honest man. He was a strong man. He said not one word he didn’t mean. I will miss him like I would miss my right arm. Living a long life is both a blessing and a curse. Today it is a curse. I don’t know if it will ever again feel like a blessing.

At the cemetery, there were two-foot-high snowbanks. The earth from Itzik’s grave was frozen in clumps and piled slightly higher than the snowbanks. The gravediggers had cleared a semicircle around the grave. Herschel stood by himself. Itzik’s son held a shovel, another shovel was lodged in the frozen mound. The old people stamped their feet and wiped their noses. Zalman sang the prayer for the dead and the rabbi said some other prayers. Everyone dropped a hard earthen clod onto the lowered coffin. Then the rabbi, Itzik’s son, and I filled the grave. Digging into the mound was like striking concrete. Each thrust sent a shock through my shoulders. Iztik’s son stopped to rest but never relinquished his shovel. The rabbi and I would each dig for a minute and rest for a minute. It took nearly twenty minutes to finish the job. By the end sweat had stiffened my hair and milky icicles hung from the rabbi’s beard.

As everyone stomped back through the snow toward the cars, Itzik’s son thanked me for helping to bury his father. He hadn’t said a word to me before. The only time I heard him speak was when he had asked the rabbi how he was to pay him for the service. Ahead of us the old people tottered through the snow. They walked in twos and threes, their arms linked to steady one another. Itzik’s son stopped and watched them. Look at them, he said, who knows how many they robbed and cheated and screwed? He turned back toward Itzik’s grave. He spent seven years in jail, my father, did you know that? I have brothers and sisters all over Russia. I don’t even know how many. For him nothing was forbidden. That was my father, you understand? He raised his fist to his face. He was like this, Itzik’s son said. He drove his fist into a snowbank. He looked at me to see if I understood. I nodded that I understood. Like this, he repeated, his fist in the snowbank.

No death in the building went unnoticed and Itzik’s was anticipated. The people who had knocked on Zalman’s apartment now slipped envelopes under the door. A bottle of vodka was left on his threshold. There were many in the building who disapproved of this behavior. My grandfather overheard conversations. But even those who disapproved felt they had no choice but to act. Everyone knew someone on the waiting list. Not to act was to guarantee that only people without principles would succeed in getting Itzik’s apartment. The people with principles came to see Herschel as he sat shivah for Itzik. They brought eggs and bagels and honey cake and apologized for what they had to do. Herschel said he understood. He understood it had nothing to do with him.

For the week Herschel sat shivah Zalman refused to make any decisions. Still, everywhere he went that week, Zalman was oppressed with desperate stories. He had to understand. The list was, figuratively speaking, a cage, old Jews peered out through its bars and stretched their plaintive hands out to Zalman for salvation. It was no longer a secret that Zalman had the manager’s ear and that soon enough the manager would come to him looking for a suggestion. Everyone also knew that Zalman needed to fill another place at the synagogue. With Iztik’s death and not counting me, he was down to eight regulars. All kinds of pressure were being applied. The one-armed Russian man swore he would stop attending services if his brother-in-law was not allowed to take Itzik’s apartment. His brother-in-law was a good Jew. He lived in an overpriced apartment. His building was full of blacks. He had diabetes. Why should he have to suffer because of Herschel? Just because this one shared a bed with another man he should be rewarded with an apartment? In Russia he would have been given ten years! And if this was the kind of synagogue Zalman was running, he’d sooner go to church than sit through another service.