David Bezmozgis - The Free World

— Not so horrible that she wouldn’t betray you.

— We already shipped the furniture, Karl said, shaking his head. She doesn’t have anyone else in Chicago who could sponsor us?

— I don’t know, Emma said. She didn’t say. I didn’t think to ask.

Emma was still halfway inside the booth when she said this, and as Samuil, Karl, and Alec started to walk back to the counter, she remained rooted in place.

— What are you waiting for? Samuil asked, either not noticing or ignoring that she had started to cry.

For all his mother’s agonizing and worrying, and for the harsh treatment she often received from Samuil, Alec rarely saw her cry. As a boy, after an argument with Samuil, he would often hear the unmistakable sounds of her crying behind his parents’ bedroom door. Later, by the time Alec was old enough to understand the reasons for those arguments, they had subsided. New arguments replaced them, the subject typically concerning his and Karl’s questionable behavior and misdirection. These arguments were conducted in the open, and didn’t merit tears. They participated in them as a family and, in time, the arguments standardized into the routine that represented life at home. It wasn’t until the talk of emigration that his mother found reason to cry again. If one of these arguments escalated beyond a certain point, she would leave the room. Karl and Samuil and Alec would then fall silent, temporarily chastened by her muffled sobs.

Now, in the telephone booth, with no place to hide, Emma cried openly. At first, she allowed only a few quiet tears, but after Samuil barked at her, she dropped her shoulders and covered her face with her hands.

A long interval followed during which nobody moved. They remained in this awkward standoff until Polina rose, walked over to Emma, and gently placed a hand on her elbow.

She leaned close to Emma and Alec heard her whisper, Emma Borisovna, come and let’s sit for a minute.

Emma kept her hands over her face but allowed Polina to lead her to the seating area. Polina sat down and eased Emma into the chair beside her.

— It’s nothing terrible, Polina said as she stroked Emma’s shoulder.

The dramatics had attracted the attention of the phone operator and the Arab laborer, both of whom turned their heads to observe her — the phone operator with evident concern. Karl and Samuil, meanwhile, stood several paces away, in the neutral space between the seating area and the operator’s counter.

— What are you crying for? Samuil demanded.

— It hurts, so I cry, Emma said, lifting her eyes above her hands.

— Cry, then. For all the good it will do.

— It’s like a bad dream, Emma despaired. I can’t believe it has happened.

— What’s not to believe? Samuil countered. It’s your own dream. You wanted it. You got it. So don’t complain.

— Now we have nowhere to go, Emma said, wiping her cheeks with the base of her hand.

— Why? On the contrary, now we can go anywhere, Alec said.

— It’s possible, Karl said, that we could still get into Chicago. Anyone can apply. We could explain our situation to HIAS.

— I will not live in the same city as those people, Samuil decreed.

— Chicago is a big place, Karl said.

— They have spat in our faces. I will not associate with them.

— Oh, for fuck’s sake, Karl fumed.

— Don’t you curse at me, Samuil thundered.

— Louder, Alec said, they can’t hear us across the street.

Samuil strode indignantly ahead on the return trip to the train station, where he announced that their straggling had cost them one train, with the next one not due for another forty-five minutes. At this rate, he assured them, they would miss dinner.

To their mutual displeasure, he was correct.

In the morning, soon after Karl had departed for Ladispoli to renew the search for an apartment, a doctor from the Joint arrived with, to everyone’s surprise, a young Italian man who spoke a very passable Russian.

— I am studying Russian at university, the young man said and added proudly, I am a Communist.

— Then it may interest you to know, Alec said, that my father, the very man you see before you, once caught Molotov’s hat when it was blown from his head by a gust of wind. — I don’t need a doctor, Samuil said.

— I’m sorry, comrade, the interpreter said, running his finger along a column in a file. It is mandatory for persons over sixty years of age or for those who have an illness.

— What does it say there about me? Samuil asked. — It gives your year of birth as 1913 and your age as sixty-five. Is that correct?

— You can tell your doctor that there is nothing wrong with my health, Samuil said. Tell him that I was already poked and prodded in Vienna.

While the doctor examined Samuil, Polina and Alec left the room. With Chicago a dead issue, Rosa seized the moment to advocate for Israel, where, she did not need to remind them, her parents and brother were enjoying a comfortable life surrounded by their own people. And unlike Emma’s relatives, her family would not spurn them. How many times had they already extended invitations? The Israeli government would provide for their basic needs. They would not be guests in a foreign country, but rather valued citizens residing in their ancestral homeland. When Rosa uttered the words “ancestral homeland” she managed, pointedly, to avert her face completely from Polina.

— The ancestral homeland will always be there, Karl said.

— I wouldn’t be so sure, Rosa said.

— Well, it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

— No thanks to the likes of you or your brother, Rosa said.

— Why bring me into this? Alec said. I said before that Polina and I were willing to go to Israel. Or at the very least Egypt. I hear good things about Cairo. Especially now that there will be friendship among nations.

— Everything is a joke to you, Rosa said.

— Who’s joking? I expect Sadat and Begin, arm in arm, to personally greet us at the airport, Alec said.

Throughout the discussion— Zionists! — Samuil’s unspoken epithet swelled above them like dark wrath.

— What do you think, Polina? Rosa asked. Alec does all the talking. We never hear from you.

— I don’t know enough to feel strongly one way or another, Polina said.

— You understand that you’re talking about your own life, your own future, Rosa persisted.

— Thank you, I understand that, Polina said.

Nothing was resolved. The word “Queens” was uttered and New Jersey was referred to several times. A fledgling community of acquaintances from Riga had settled in a town called Fehr-lon. If all else failed, they could say “Fehr-lon” and be no worse off than anyone else. Nobody expected an answer today, tomorrow, or the next day. More pressing was getting out of the pensione and finding an apartment, Karl said. Or two apartments, Alec offered, and received no argument.

There had been signs up at the pensione, and, evading the Krasnansky surveillance ring, Alec had also taken down the phone number of the listing at the Joint offices. Before the family conclave he had descended to the lobby and called the number. Another refugee had been in the phone booth ahead of him and, out of the goodness of his heart, he had shared with Alec his gettone. The man had drilled a tiny hole at the top of the gettone and tied it to a length of black thread. To make a phone call, he dropped the coin into the slot, listened for the click, and then — like toying with a cat — yanked it free of its grasp. He had performed the same operation on another coin, he explained, which he used in elevators.

The phone moaned twice before a man said, Pronto.