David Bezmozgis - The Free World

With feeling and conviction, the boy chimed:

— When Lenin was little / With a head of boyish curls / He also gamboled happily / Upon the snowy hills / Stone upon stone / Brick upon brick / Gone is our Lenin, Vladimir Illich / Deep in the Kremlin / A kind heart resides / Sad are the workers / Sad too am I.

By the conclusion of the poem, others had turned to listen and when the boy was finished there was a smattering of applause.

— Now do one about Brezhnev, a man called.

— Don’t be coarse, a woman responded.

— Pay him no mind, a third added.

— Very nice, Polina said to the boy as he relaxed his pose.

— If you can believe it, he knows more of them than I do, the boy’s mother said.

— You must be very proud.

— Thank you. I wish I could take the credit. But it was the kindergarten. Where are you from?

— Riga.

— Do you know Leningrad?

— Hardly at all.

— Do you have children?

— No, Polina said.

— Well, there is a wonderful kindergarten. The best in the city. My husband pulled every string, called in every favor. We had money saved for a car, but once we learned there was a chance, we parted with nearly all of it. It’s probably the same in Riga.

— Probably.

— It was a wonderful kindergarten. Excellent teachers. Progressive pedagogical methods.

— All right, she understands, the husband interrupted, the kindergarten was good.

— At recess the children played in an apple orchard, the wife continued.

— This is her big regret, the husband said. The kindergarten.

— He says that now, but you should have seen him when we picked up Vadik from the kindergarten for the last time.

— Well, the fact of the matter is, I’ve heard mixed things about the educational standards in America, the husband said. Students in the fourth grade who don’t know the capital of France, can’t do simple arithmetic or sign their names.

Inside the classroom, Polina eased into one of the little school desks. Alec appeared and slid into the place directly behind her, even though there was an empty desk beside her.

— I like this better, Alec said. It’s like a fantasy.

— Which fantasy is this?

— The two of us in school together. Young love.

— This is a new one?

— Hard to keep track.

— So how does it go? You pull my braids, dip them in the inkpot?

— I sit all day and admire you. Stare at the back of your neck. Dream about you. Get yelled at by the teacher.

During the orientation, as the woman from the Joint was speaking, Polina twice had to reach back and slap at Alec’s hand when he tugged her hair.

— Are you even listening to what she’s saying? Polina whispered.

— After class, meet me in the hall. I’m having difficulties with algebra, Alec said.

When the orientation was over, Alec leaned forward and said he thought they should rent an apartment in Rome.

— So you were paying attention for that, Polina said.

As part of her talk, which escalated sometimes into a harangue, the woman from the Joint had dissuaded people from trying to rent apartments in Rome. The best and most expedient housing solution for everyone was to be found in Ostia and Ladispoli, where the Joint and HIAS had established satellite offices. Ladispoli and Ostia also now boasted Jewish community centers, created for the émigrés, where there were regular lectures, cultural events, and even programs for children. That past March, in Ladispoli, a professional director, formerly of the Moscow Theater, had helped stage a spectacular Purim pageant. And in April, in Ladispoli as well as Ostia, with the help of the Italian Jewish community, they had managed to organize Passover seders for more than one thousand people. Needless to say, these were very moving celebrations.

— If the Romans are heading to the shore to escape the heat, it might be easier to find a place in the city, Alec said. — I don’t think it’s a good idea, Polina said. — You’re not serious.

— Your family will be in Ladispoli and we’ll be in Rome?

— That’s part of the appeal.

— They’ll say it was my idea, Polina said.

— No they won’t.

— They’ll think it.

— I’ll make it clear, Alec said.

— I’d be happier if you left things alone, Polina said. — Happier sharing an apartment in the suburbs with Rosa? You’d be miserable.

— A happier miserable, Polina said.

In Ladispoli, the hub of Russian activity was Piazza Marescotti, a short distance from the beach. It served as bazaar, employment agency, and social club. When they arrived, Alec saw an old man holding a sign that advertised tutoring in math and physics. Another man offered English lessons. There were women offering to mind children. A few people, men and women both, had also spread blankets on the ground and laid out a selection of small items. Many others were there just to trade gossip and kill time.

Karl was the first to spot a familiar face. It belonged to Boris Tsiferblatt, known at the Riga Dynamo gym as Boris the Bodybuilder. He was at the piazza advertising his services as a mover.

— I see you’re putting your training to good use, Karl said after an enthusiastic greeting.

— I’ve got my hand in a few things, Boris said. But people come and go every day. It’s a good way to make a little extra money.

They had left Rosa behind with the children, and traveled together to look for a place to live and also to make a phone call to Emma’s cousin in Chicago. It was a Tuesday, one of two days when Emma’s cousin had written that she could be found at home. On other days she had her job at the bakery, her driving lessons, her English classes.

On account of his sideline, Boris said that he sometimes got leads on apartments. The day before, he’d seen a family off to Philadelphia. They’d had a good three-room apartment. In the coming days, he knew of other people going to Baltimore and San Francisco. San Francisco: in the Soviet Union the name had possessed magic. California. America. Australia. Canada. Now when people spoke of these places, they spoke mainly about the relative strengths of their economies or the nature of their industries. Boston was in decline. Hadn’t New York City filed for bankruptcy? Calgary, mind you, was booming. They compared climates. San Francisco was wonderful if you didn’t mind rain every day. Atlanta was forty degrees in the shade and you were lucky to find a white cop. San Francisco had the ocean and a famous bridge; New York City had culture and phenomenal buildings. To live in these places you could marvel at them every day, but who did? In the same way you took a beautiful girl and made her into a wife. The wife remained enchanting, full of mystery, to everyone else. Strange men saw her on the trolleybus, concocted brute or intricate fantasies of seduction, while you waited for her to come home with the groceries and wash your socks.

— We are six adults and two children, Emma said.

— It’s not impossible, Boris replied. Maybe not an apartment, but a small cottage. There are cottages.

From Piazza Marescotti they went south along Via Ancona to the post office, which housed the international call center. It had a small seating area where people waited for their calls to be connected. One operator accepted the phone orders from behind a long wooden counter. Beyond the seating area, three numbered phone booths were visible. From one of them, Alec heard a man’s hoarse voice shouting in Russian. I can’t hear you well. Can you hear me? The furs? The furs? Hello? Mentka, you hear me? Yosik wrote you what? Your furs? He was with us at the border. He’s a liar. He saw with his own eyes that the furs were confiscated.