David Bezmozgis - The Free World

Mercifully, a woman from Sachnut appeared on the stage and demanded the people’s attention. Slowly, the talking and bickering subsided and the auditorium grew quiet.

The woman began with introductory remarks about the pageant. She explained everything at a rudimentary level, presuming that her audience was unfamiliar with the basic tenets of the religion. Everyone listened obediently. Polina noticed that the woman beside her, livid only moments earlier, had miraculously relaxed. She nodded her head and smiled receptively at the mention of the words “torah,” “Rosh Hashanah,” and “the Jewish people.”

The pageant began with the adult choir performing three songs. They then exited to make way for the children, who marched in, sweetly self-possessed. From the audience came cries of instruction and encouragement. Also commands. Larachka, be a big girl: don’t cry! The choirmistress scurried out and helped the little ones into their ranks. The older children tried to shepherd the younger ones. Watching the children stumble into their places, mount the risers, and straighten their costumes, Polina felt the familiar pang. She wondered if, for the rest of her life, she would continue to react this way. It wouldn’t do.

The children sang five or six Hebrew songs to the accompaniment of violin and piano. Samuil’s friend, the one-legged Josef Roidman, was the violinist. He smiled ebulliently now at the children, now at the spectators. The pianist was a boy in his teens — gangling and serious — the very opposite of Roidman. A prodigy, Emma whispered deferentially. Sixteen years old. A big career ahead of him. His teacher was Horowitz’s student. Practices here three hours every day. One time they didn’t let him; he wept. A great talent. Hands of gold.

The ebullient Josef Roidman, the solemn piano prodigy, the sweet disharmony of the children’s choir: Polina felt an upswell of emotion, a tenderness that moved her nearly to tears.

Near the conclusion of the program, as the children’s choir was complemented by the adult, Karl arrived and claimed the place Emma had so valiantly guarded for him. The choir had launched into the first verse of the Israeli national anthem, and the choirmistress had bid the audience to rise. Groans and the scraping of chairs greeted Karl as he edged into the row. As he brushed past the woman and her husband they both looked at him briefly, contumeliously, before they dared not look at him any more. Polina saw them turn toward the stage, pretending at patriotism. Polina, who hadn’t seen Karl for a month, perceived the change in him. He’d always had a formidable character, but now he seemed somehow more intimidating, like a man grown contemptuous of talk, who could afford to say less and less to more and more people.

At the conclusion of the concert the woman from Sachnut held the stage for her closing remarks.

5738 promised to be a remarkable year. It would be a historical year for the state of Israel. After many wars and many sacrifices, 5738 would bring peace to the land. Those people who feared Israel because of war no longer had anything to fear. There is no longer any reason for a Jew to say “Next year in Jerusalem”—”This year in Jerusalem!”

With this exhortation, the woman from Sachnut signaled to Josef Roidman and to the pianist, who then led the choir in a final spirited Hebrew song — the youngest children joining together to dance in a circle around the woman from Sachnut, who clapped her hands, waved her fist, and encouraged the audience to lend their voices. The song was familiar to Polina from the drunken celebration that Alec had taken her to, now nearly two years ago, at the Riga synagogue.

That day at the synagogue she gave herself over, if not precisely to Alec, then to the affair, which she felt existed somehow independent of the two of them. She recalled even the moment of letting go, when Alec had pulled her into the frenzied circle inside the synagogue courtyard. In public, in view of coworkers, in the center of the city, under the watchful eyes of the police, she’d allowed herself to be claimed by a man who was not her husband. Even a child who had glimpsed them that afternoon would not have been deceived.

It was a wonder to her that word didn’t reach Maxim that same day. A wonder that he gave no sign of suspicion, and that months later, when she’d made her decision to leave him, that he met her announcement with a blank and uncomprehending look. She might even have thought it a wonder that, after she’d submitted to the second abortion, he hadn’t noticed anything awry about her emotionally or physically even though she bled and suffered from cramps for days afterward. Maxim never posed any questions, as if, being a man, he was unwilling to delve too deeply into that obscure gynecological precinct. And he’d also not protested or even remarked that Polina was physically remote in the weeks that led up to the abortion and also in the weeks that followed. All told, they hadn’t had sex for months. But Maxim behaved as if he was unaffected by this. As if it didn’t bear mentioning. What in courtship would have been grounds for separation, in marriage was accepted as a matter of course.

After the abortion, she’d felt as if there was nobody to whom she could turn for comfort. Naturally, she’d kept it from her parents. She’d also kept it from Nadja — whom she didn’t want to saddle with the shambles of her personal life. She felt completely adrift. Her marriage was finished. It was only a matter of time before she informed Maxim and made it official. She no longer knew why she’d agreed to the abortion. Alec’s proposal seemed absurd in the wake of what she’d done. How could she marry Alec or emigrate with him when she didn’t even want to see him? She didn’t want to see anybody.She felt as if she never again wanted to be spoken to, looked at, or known.

When, in the days immediately after the abortion, Alec had come to see her, she’d released him from all promises and responsibilities. He didn’t owe her anything and should consider himself free to go when and where he pleased. She imagined that this would come as a relief to him, but even if it did not, and even if he was sincere in wanting to honor his promise, she was no longer willing to go along. When Alec returned a second time — to persuade her, or confirm that she was serious, or assuage his conscience — she’d told him the same thing again. He didn’t need to feel bad or guilty or upset. She had no ill feelings toward him. She asked of him only that he let her alone.

Then, one afternoon, at the conclusion of the workday, she was visited by an older woman whom she’d never met before. The woman approached Polina at her desk. Polina had noted her when she entered the office, as had the others. Her entrance had been so tentative that she’d succeeded in arousing everyone’s attention. As she crossed the room, seemingly in Polina’s direction, Marina Kirilovna had leaned over to Polina and said archly, Well, here comes Mamasha.

Polina didn’t know what Marina Kirilovna meant, but watched the woman come near, her face nervous, sympathetic, and polite.

The woman introduced herself by saying, Forgive me, but if I am not mistaken, you know my younger son, Alec, and she asked Polina if she wouldn’t mind joining her for a short stroll.

For half an hour they walked the streets around the factory in the pale late-afternoon light. It was nearly April and spring was making its first cracks in winter’s shell, but here and there, on the pavement, there remained patches of ice. Emma asked if she might hold on to Polina’s arm for balance.

Emma began by saying that she had come to Polina of her own accord. Alec hadn’t asked her and he didn’t know that she was doing it. Though, in another sense, she believed that he had asked her and that he wanted her to help him — he had just not said it in so many words.