Boris Fishman - A Replacement Life

“One salami went to the woman in ticketing at the Aeroflot office on Karl Marx Street. One went to the director of the kindergarten where your little mama was enrolled. One went to the pediatrician at the local clinic, so your mama wouldn’t have to wait three days for a house call if God forbid she got ill. You watched him with awe. My hand never rose to try something similar.”

“Why not?”

“Why not. I don’t know. Just the way you’re made, I guess.” Israel coughed into his sleeve. Slava rose and got him a glass of water. The washer was missing from the faucet, and water sprayed all over the countertop. Slava wiped it up with a towel.

“I envied him,” Israel said when Slava returned. He lapped greedily at the glass. “Oh, this is good. Thank you. After the war, you’d be at a restaurant with a girl, and these drunk zhloby would stumble over: ‘Look at these kikes feasting away!’ And you have to hang your head because you don’t want trouble, because there’s a million more where they came from. But you’re scalding inside, because until then maybe you were trying to impress the girl.

“But your grandfather, he never just sat there. He got up and he beat that zhlob to a pulp, right then and there, while everyone watched, even police. Everybody got stiff when Zhenya Gelman walked into a restaurant.”

Israel drained his glass and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “During the war, there were seven attempted outbreaks from ghettos by Jews,” he said. “Ask me how many times Soviet soldiers tried to break out of German POW camps? Find me enough for one hand. But it was always ‘“Fought” in Uzbekistan, did you, kike?’ Because the war never came to Uzbekistan. At the end of the war, there were more than a hundred, maybe two hundred, Jews decorated Heroes of the USSR, and you can imagine how many more there would have been if that prick Stalin wasn’t an anti-Semite. I mean, you had Jewish war veterans without legs . But the way people looked at you, it’s as if they thought you amputated them yourself to make it look like you’d fought.”

“Were you in Uzbekistan during the war?” Slava said.

“I was getting shrapnel in my leg under Kharkov,” Israel said. He gave Slava a little ballet step and hiked up his gym trouser, revealing a veiny, pockmarked calf. “I could use a new leg, too.”

“Well, your fearless Yevgeny Gelman was in Uzbekistan,” Slava said.

“I’m too old for grudges, Slava,” Israel waved. “It kills me more than the other person.”

Slava sighed. “I should start heading back soon,” he said. “It’s a long way.”

“I was going to make some dinner for us,” Israel said. “Microwave, but not bad.”

“Next time,” Slava said.

“I’ve never been to Manhattan,” Israel said. “I would like to sometime. All those lights. They show it on television. Can you sleep, with all those lights?”

“You said what I wrote needs an improvement,” Slava said.

“Oh, it’s good, Slava,” he nodded. “It’s got that silence of ours. That terrible Russian silence that the Americans don’t understand. They are always making noise because they need to forget life is going to end. But we remember, and so we have silence, even when we’re shouting and laughing.”

“So?” Slava said. “You want silence, I’ll give you silence.”

“But think about it, Slava,” Israel said, clucking his tongue. “You’re Fritz Fritzovich reviewing these claims, may all those people get covered up to their heads. And you get this application. Where was the individual between 1939 and 1945. And you get this… this… Adolf is going to believe that an eighty-year-old man, an immigrant fart, wrote what you wrote?”

“He could have had his grandson translate it for him,” Slava said tightly. “That’s not unimaginable. The English is the grandson’s and the grandson is fluent. Doesn’t mean the story has to be false.”

“The grandson is fluent, all right,” Israel said. “But the story. You’re trying to avoid detection or what? It’s like a puppet theater, you know? What do they call it? Not puppet theater — with the marionettes.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve got this movie scene. Beautiful moment, beautifully written, the cows. But no beginning, no middle, no end. Who are we, where did we live? Look at some books. The Minsk ghetto was formed on such-and-such date. We lived at such-and-such address from this date to this date. This is where we were moved when they put up the wire. And then you can do your beautiful sentences. But you need more than that. Nice sentences is like a beautiful woman who doesn’t know how to cook. It’s not your story. Forget about yourself for a moment.”

“And where am I supposed to put all that silence of yours in this encyclopedia version?” Slava said.

“Oh, but that’s for you to figure out!” Israel giggled.

“A fact can’t be wrong if it isn’t a fact,” Slava said expertly. “You start feeding numbers and dates in there, they’re going to get their record books out. That’s how they check facts, Israel. I have it on good authority.”

“You’ll know what to do.”

“Why don’t you write it,” Slava said. “I’ll translate. That’s the solution.”

“No, no,” Israel said, waving him away. “Don’t get puffy. Listen, you can’t teach an old Jew how to make money. I’ll tell you a joke, and then you can go to your Manhattan. Two guys are panhandling on a street in Moscow. One has a sign that says: ‘I’m Ivanov,’ in other words a Slav. ‘Please help a poor beggar.’ The other’s sign says, ‘I’m Abramov,’ in other words a Jew. ‘Please help a poor beggar.’ And whoever walks by, they give money only to Ivanov, more and more. It’s like they’re giving money to Ivanov just to stick it to Abramov. Finally, a Jewish guy comes up to Abramov and says, ‘Abramov, what’s wrong with you? Change your sign to a Slav name!’ At which point Abramov turns to Ivanov and says, ‘Look, Moshe, this schmuck is teaching me how to make money.’” Israel quaked with laughter. “What those shvartzes pull in the subway? ‘I lost my job and I’m trying to get back on my feet’? Pathetic! An old Russian man could run ten circles around them.”

“I think you underestimate your black-market skills,” Slava said.

“Even a legless man knows how to run when he needs to,” Israel said, shrugging. “We’re all graduates of that particular academy. But it’s too late for some of us. I’m interested in what happens to you, however.”

“I am going to be arrested for forging restitution claims for my grandfathers,” Slava said.

“No need to say it so loudly like that,” Israel said, glancing at the window.

“I’ll be going,” Slava said.

“For your information,” Israel said, peering at him — he was shorter than Slava, but his gaze was strong—“I have no illusions why he mentioned the letter to me. He gives not to give but to show you he gives. Look, it’s a kind of compliment to owe something to Yevgeny Gelman, for a man like that to think you can give him something of use — I can barely take three breaths without coughing. But Slava, don’t pretend you are doing this to be a good grandson.”

“Don’t pretend you’re a writer,” Slava said.

“Opa!” Israel said. “You may be your grandfather’s grandson, but you are also your grandmother’s grandson. She was the fierce one. That’s the nice thing about having children. They take the best of you both. Two for the price of one.”

“You get your letter, and I get to be with my grandmother for a thousand words,” Slava said.

“Oh,” he said. “I see. That’s nice.”