David Bezmozgis - The Free World

— You love your son, Polina said. Why don’t you go back?

— It’s for him that I left Israel, Lyova said. I want him to grow up in a different sort of country.

— What sort of country?

— A psychologically easier sort.

— My sister-in-law’s parents and brother are in Israel. She says they’re happy.

— I’m sure they are. Many people love it. To live there, you need to love it. The country asks a lot of you. If you don’t love it, you should leave. That’s me. I also loved it, but then I saw some things and I didn’t love it anymore. I said to myself, Time to go. I didn’t want to have to see those things again, and, even more, I didn’t want my son to have to see them.

— A year away from your wife and son is a long time. You must be sure that America doesn’t have those same things. Or other things just as bad.

—”Those things.” Lyova smiled. I don’t mean to be cryptic. How to explain it. I know it’s hard to believe, but I was a military man, a tank officer. I grew up on my father’s war stories and I also wanted to be a hero. But instead of a war, I drew Czechoslovakia. I was one of those poor bastards on top of a tank in Prague, pointing a submachine gun at a bunch of students. Pretty girls in raincoats spat at me. After that, I was done with the army and the Soviet Union. And when people started applying for exit visas, I didn’t think twice. We lived a very good life in Israel for three years. I had a job and a car. And then in ‘73 I even got my war. If you remember it.

In 1973, Polina hadn’t had any reason to pay attention to Israel. To the extent that she’d been aware of the country, it had seemed a tumultuous land forever at war.

— Well, there’s nothing good to remember about it, Lyova said. I was almost thirty then, with a wife and son. I no longer had any desire to be a hero. All I wanted was to get out in one piece. I was a tank man in the Sinai. I served with young boys from the kibbutzes who had never been anywhere. They’d never been on a train. They’d never seen a museum. They left life having barely tasted it. When the war ended, they sent us to Gaza. Once again I found myself on top of a tank pointing a gun at civilians. When they saw us coming, women clutched their children, and the men turned to face the walls. In Czechoslovakia, I had consoled myself with the thought that my people weren’t responsible. The Russians were doing it, and I was a Jew. In Gaza, I couldn’t think this. With me was an Israeli, another reservist with a wife and kids. He said, It’s shit, but it’s our shit. For me this wasn’t the excuse, this was the problem. I’m sure there’s much I don’t know about America, but I know that their sons don’t have to go and do this.

They left the piazza and headed back to the apartment. As they went, it occurred to Polina that she had never seen a photograph of Lyova’s wife and son. He hadn’t any up in the apartment. Early evening was approaching, and they were in the narrow Via Della Lungaretta with the growing ranks of tourists who loitered in front of the souvenir shops that lined both sides of the street. Lyova stopped in the middle of the street and withdrew a snapshot from his wallet. He showed it proudly to Polina.

— One month ago, he said.

His wife and son were side by side in front of an ice cream parlor, each holding a cone. Some distance behind them could be seen the crowns of palm trees. There was, in the light and the architecture, the intimation of a beach. Lyova’s wife stood not much taller than his son; in a sleeveless dress, her upper arms were soft, her shoulders round. She wore her brown hair cut short and she peered into the camera defiantly, her expression at odds with the backdrop and the ice cream. The boy, lanky like his father, but otherwise bearing a closer resemblance to his mother, beamed.

— People say he looks like his mother, Lyova said.

— The smile is yours.

— He’s a handsome boy, Lyova said. Good that he didn’t get my face.

— What’s wrong with your face? Polina asked.

— Mine is the archetypal Jewish face. Like something formed on the run and in a panic. Nose, eyes, ears, mouth: finished. He has a face for a new age, I hope. No more running, no more panic.

My dearest Lola,

Now I can finally reply! I will write you at least one letter a day for the next week. Just watch, you’ll get so many letters from me you’ll dread going to the mailbox. “Oh God, her again. How she babbles on.” You see, this way it will feel like we were never separated at all.

In case you were wondering, I think I’ve received all of your letters. I have four so far. Two from Vienna and two from Rome. I’ve read each of them a thousand times and could recite them by rote like verses from Eugene Onegin. It all sounds like a fantastic adventure, including the miserable parts. Not that you asked for my advice, but I’ll give it anyway: enjoy yourself and don’t spend any time worrying about me. I miss you terribly, but other than that I’m just fine.

It felt very strange waking up the morning after you left. I didn’t sleep well and when morning came I looked out my window and saw that it was raining. I thought that was fitting. It seemed perfectly reasonable that the weather should reflect how I felt. But after breakfast the sun came out and it turned into a brilliant morning. I thought that this had some kind of significance too. Maybe it meant that everything would turn out for the best? And then, when I went out, the sky darkened again and I was caught in a thundershower. It lasted no more than ten minutes and then cleared completely. So I read something into that as well. This was the way I felt all day — everything had to do with you and me. Outside our building, a boy rode past me on his bicycle, shouted something, took his hands off the handlebars, and plowed into a parked car. Going to meet a friend, I thought I would miss my bus; it passed me on the way to the stop and I didn’t even bother to run after it. But then, conveniently, it delayed at the stop for a long time. When I got there, the ticket taker was arguing with a drunk. People were shouting at the drunk and several men rose from their seats to physically remove him. When they put their hands on him he started to wail that they should have pity on him seeing as how he was a veteran who’d been heavily wounded in the battle for Berlin. As they pushed him out the door he struggled to undo his shirt and show everyone his scars. I’d never seen this drunk before, but people on the bus said they were familiar with his act. Other times he’d claimed to have received his wounds in Stalingrad and in Kursk.

And finally, the strangest of all. When the bus reached the city center, at the stop across from the store, Children’s World, who should get on but Maxim? I could scarcely believe my eyes. I couldn’t have been more shocked had it been Jesus Christ himself. It had been so long since I’d seen him last and I was amazed by the coincidence. The bus wasn’t very full and so there was no way we could avoid seeing each other. But he said nothing to me and so I said nothing to him. All I could think about was whether or not he knew that you had left the previous day. I was so uncomfortable being on the same bus with him that I got off three stops early. Since we’d not said hello to each other, we also didn’t say goodbye. Not that it matters, but he looked well. It seemed like he’d gained some weight and, if I’m not mistaken, I think he was wearing a new shirt.

In other matters, the weather is fine. I go to Jurmala when I can. I’ve become friendly with your mailman, who is very courteous, funny, and energetic. I’d always thought someone in his position would be depressed, but he seems to be in better spirits than most. It could be that he’s just a happy idiot.