Boris Fishman - A Replacement Life

As they made their way down, two male voices entered the house. Garik, Lyuba’s husband, clutched a singing cabdriver’s materials: a two-liter Pepsi bottle half filled with water, a seat cushion, and several slovenly sections of Novoye Russkoe Slovo . With his free hand, he pushed Lazar, Vera’s grandfather. The older man seemed not to recognize Slava even though they had seen each other at Grandmother’s funeral dinner only weeks before, but Uncle Garik brightened.

“Slava, you’re an oak! Look at him.” He came close and hugged. “What’s more historic, the Germans giving us money or Slava Gelman showing up in this house? This is an occasion for a glass. Come, let’s eat. Lyuba, why isn’t the table set? Papa, let’s eat. Papa, it’s Slava!”

While everyone was trooping to the table, Slava’s cell phone rang. He excused himself into the hallway.

“I called the big one, but no one picked up,” Grandfather said.

“What big one?” Slava said.

“The earth line. You said I can try you on the little one if no one answers the big one. What are you, sleeping?”

“I’m not at home,” Slava said.

“Did I ever tell you about Misha Grandé?”

“Who? No.”

“There was a guy in my barbershop back home — Misha Grandé. They’d given him a real shoe box of an apartment, and he had to live there with his wife and his mother. He had begged them for something bigger, he even tried to bribe a guy. Of course, he found the one guy in Minsk who wouldn’t take bribes. Then the shah of Iran comes for a visit.”

“Is this a joke?” Slava said.

“No, it’s a real story, listen to me. The shah of Iran comes to Minsk. And Misha knows the motorcade has to pass by his house, because it’s the one road in from the airport. So in the middle of the night, Misha drags his bed into the street. And when the shah rides by in the morning, they all see Misha Grandé snoozing. Naturally, the shah wants to know why there’s a man sleeping outside.”

“What did they do to him?” Slava said.

“They gave him a bigger apartment.”

“Oh. I thought something worse. Look, I’m not at home. I’ll call you later.”

“With a lady?”

“Yes, with a lady. I need to go.”

“Let’s talk like men — is she going to pass through your bed?”

“What? I don’t know.”

“You have to wear a rubber. Because if she’s lying down with you, she’s lying down with Ivan, and with Sergei, and Isaac.”

“It’s Vera!” he yelled.

“Aha!” Grandfather said. “Attaboy. Ass like a pear. I guess we’ll see each other.”

“Not a tomato?” Slava said. “How will we see each other? I have to go home afterward.”

“Never mind. I’ve got bad news.”

Slava straightened. “What happened?”

“Volodya Kleynerman. Uncle Pasha’s uncle on his mother’s side. You don’t know him.”

“What about him?”

“They got a letter. They sent in their application a long time ago. They got on it early.”

“And?”

“And they just got an answer.”

“My God, just tell me.”

“They got a rejection. ‘Ineligible.’ What does that mean? They can appeal? If they can send different information? I don’t understand it.”

“And their story was… the truth?”

“And their story was the truth. At the Jewish Center, they told me they’re trying to get the deadline extended,” Grandfather said. “And the rules expanded for who’s eligible? I don’t really understand it. You need to come over here and talk to someone. Those goddamn Germans — Volodya Kleynerman was a tank commander. You know what that means? How many Jewish Red Army tank commanders do you think there were?”

“But you know Red Army doesn’t qualify,” Slava said, feeling relief. “If that’s what they said, of course they didn’t get it. They told the truth?”

“He’s got metal in two hundred places in his body.”

“I’m sure it’s not two hundred.”

“Oh, who can talk to you?”

“Have you thought for one moment what happens if they catch us?” Slava said.

“I’m an old man, Slavik. My wife just passed away, and Section 8 is raising the rent by twelve dollars this year. Did I tell you that? The letter came the other day.” He added resentfully: “Mama translated.”

“You’re an old man, you don’t speak English. You’re just drooling into your shirt cuff.”

“I am an elderly man.”

“Have you thought about what happens to me?” Slava said. “Do you know what an indictment is? Extradition ?” He had to say the words in English.

“I know extra,” he said feebly.

“Yes, you know extra. You’re worried about twelve dollars. How about market rates? You don’t know what market rates are. They can take away everything you have. Section 8, Berta, everything.”

“Okay, let’s not wet our underpants right away,” Grandfather said. “It’s not your name on the thing. I’ll tell them I wrote it myself and an agency translated.”

“Why did you need this?” Slava said. “Israel lives like a political prisoner. His kitchen looks like there hasn’t been food cooked there since his wife died. He’s got these blocks of cheddar, you want to kill yourself looking at them. You have a one-bedroom apartment for a hundred dollars a month, and you have a woman who cooks all your food. How much more do you want?”

“I need you to figure out this eligibility business. You could get more people if they expand it and postpone the deadline.”

Slava closed his eyes. “If they expand eligibility,” he said weakly, “maybe you could get in honestly.” But that wouldn’t change anything. Always there would have to be some deception for more. More, more, more.

“Berta sent in your letter and the affidavit this week,” Grandfather said. “It’s too late.” He used the English word — effie-davey. “The Katznelsons came over the other day. They said you wrote them a good one. I haven’t seen them in two years. They didn’t even call after the funeral.”

“You saw people who didn’t call after the funeral?”

“You lose a little steam in the late years, Slavik. Thirty years ago, they would’ve heard from me. They would’ve heard from your grandmother . But they came, I’m telling you. They brought flowers, they brought your letter, they wanted to see mine. One of their grandsons translated their letter, they said he couldn’t get his nose out of the dictionary! But I still like mine the best, with the cows.

“The Kogans came, the Rubinshteins came,” he went on. “You remember him, with the cross-eye. Their son just had a boy, they invited me to the bris next week. And you’re telling me you don’t want to do this.”

“Can’t you see, devil take it, this is what I’ve been trying to explain,” Slava said.

“I’ve always been your biggest supporter, Slavik. Who is your number one supporter?”

Slava dropped his hands. “Forget it.”

“How’s progress with Vera?” Grandfather said conspiratorially.

“Leave me be,” Slava said.

“You’re talking to someone who can find out what he needs to know. That girl has a twinkle in her eye.”

“That was a kilo of mascara you saw, not a twinkle.”

“So she knows how to take care of herself, what’s wrong with that? Did you write their letter?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not yet?”

“I just got here!” Slava said. “It’s not a bread where you add the ingredients together and the dough rises. Look, I have to go.”

“Good luck,” Grandfather said. “You are my only joy in this world.”

In the kitchen, Garik and Lazar sat while Lyuba and Vera busied with dishes and cutlery. Crossing the kitchen, Lyuba paused to admire her daughter. Vera laid her arms around her mother’s formidable circumference and smooched her upper arm three times.