Boris Fishman - A Replacement Life

“I am sure you have not been to the Statue of Liberty as well. Visitors take a different interest in your country than people who live here. I spent two weeks in Texas visiting the sites of the Mexican War. Don’t mess with Texas, ha-ha. But Lubbock, Texas — it is not quite Shangri-la, Mr. Gelman, if that is what you are expecting.”

“They are installing a bike share,” Slava said desolately. He stared at the coffee, regret forming at the sudden upswell of camaraderie between them. He had to return the conversation to its original subject. “I will tell you everything, Mr. Barber,” he said. “But first I want to give you one last chance to do the right thing.”

Otto smiled combatively. “And what would that be, Mr. Gelman?”

“Pay them all,” Slava said. “Because you are responsible. Or because you can. Fate has put you in this lucky position to do the just thing.”

“Would you call this position lucky?” Otto said. “I do not call this position lucky. I do not wish this position on anyone. Mr. Gelman, please tell me you are noticing that I am handling all of this differently from the way my superiors probably wish.” He shook his head. “Can I ask you something? What is it like, to sit there writing the letter and think: No, this detail is not gruesome enough. I have to find something more gruesome. Is ‘gruesome’ the right word?”

“It’s not hard to find gruesome details,” Slava said.

“But you must choose. This is gruesome in the right way, this is not. Does it give you a chill?”

“No,” Slava lied. “A chill is what was done to them.”

“You are a curator of suffering.”

“And you are the purveyor. Which is better? You have given me too much to work with. You think of that time as a museum, an aberration of history, but someone goes through it all the time. Your Turks go through it. The blacks here go through it. Jews go through it everywhere except Israel and America, more or less. Things get better, there’s no more lynching, and they don’t break your knees for being a kike in the Red Army. But it goes on all the time, somewhere.”

“Don’t use that word, please.”

“Are you sensitive, Otto? It’s quite a business you’ve chosen if you’re sensitive. My grandfather says ‘kike’ all the time. ‘Die among kikes, but live among Russians,’ he says. You ever hear that one? He likes to show his home nurse he’s not clannish. It makes her uncomfortable, just like you. No, Otto. This man lost his family, lost a limb, lost his hearing, lost his sanity, but he is not eligible because he was a soldier. This one was in the ghetto and slipped out — that person is eligible. Who is the curator?”

“But is it not strange to take that memory and use it for profit?”

Slava laughed. “A man of means acquires them God knows how and then lectures the man without means about honor. Is it not strange to kill diligently and then commemorate diligently? That profit is for old, pathetic people who can’t understand anything other than dollars.”

“I am disappointed not to have changed your mind.”

“My mind is changed. By you or not, it is changed.”

“I meant it when I said something better awaits you.”

“You don’t have to tell me who called, Otto. Just tell me if it was one of us.”

Otto considered this new bargain. “And then you will tell me?” he said.

“Then I will tell you everything.”

“Yes,” Otto said.

“Young, old?” Slava said.

“Mr. Gelman.”

“I will guess old.”

“Fine,” Otto said.

They worked over this new information without comment. Then Slava said: “Do you want me to tell you how it works?”

“Very much,” Otto said. “I want to put this behind as much as you, Mr. Gelman.”

“I don’t want to put it behind,” Slava lied. “I had only just started when I heard from you.”

“Are you implying you’re going to continue?”

“That’s for your sleuthing, isn’t it?”

Folding his brows, Otto withdrew a note card from a desk drawer and scrawled something. The pen wouldn’t collaborate, and he threw it into the garbage with irritation, the stem thunking the side of the basket.

“You were in such spirits when I saw you last,” Slava said. “You were laughing, as if we really were just two friends talking in a bar.”

“Do you have many friends, Mr. Gelman?”

Slava pressed his lips together. In his mind, he counted Arianna, Israel, Grandfather. “Yes,” he said. “Average age a hundred.”

“I would like to remind you, Mr. Gelman,” Otto said. “This could have happened very differently. I am trying to be sensitive. I am trying to help.”

“I know.” Slava hung his head. “That’s why I will tell you everything.” He straightened in his chair, defeat on his face. “I don’t know what you were told,” he said, so softly that Otto had to move closer to hear. The German’s eyes shone wetly with anticipation of Slava’s disclosure. Slava aimed for a look of perseverance despite complete conquest. “But I’m going to guess.” He tried to look at Otto, purposefully failing. “Has Lyudmila explained to you about these old people? They live on envy. You had it right — your caller was getting even for something. There wasn’t enough of the most basic things where they lived. If you were a Jew, you got even less. But there was always a guy who had more. Because he knew the right people to bribe. So he could get his ham from the back of the store, the good cut before the rest was laid out, half of it spoiled. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

“I am listening with great interest,” Otto said.

“Well, that was my grandfather,” Slava said. “The guy with more. The guy with china from Germany. Do you know what it meant to have china from Germany? West Germany, not East Germany. East German china would have broken before we finished packing. But he didn’t know how to keep quiet. He was the world’s biggest braggart. He still is. He couldn’t help it. It made everyone angry.”

“So, what are you saying?” Otto said, his forehead creased.

“I like it more when we can talk seriously,” Slava said. “It looks like a joke to you, jumping around, playing investigator, but we are talking about people I love. We are talking about people who have suffered, Mr. Barber. People who eat soup from a tiny can six times a week, and then one day they get something from the synagogue. Even if they are liars, they deserve respect.”

Otto’s face fell. “Mr. Gelman, it is crushing my heart to know that it was received in this spirit. You must forgive—”

“I did forge,” Slava interrupted him. “You have that correct. It’s a relief to say it. But your details are wrong.” He nodded at the stack of applications on the desk. He had forged every one. He could recite sections of many by heart. “I faked only one. I faked my grandfather’s. He was in Uzbekistan, not in the forest. The next morning, he called everyone. Real victims, people who had been in the ghetto, the forest, the camps. Told them I did his and ten others, so they were already behind. You can imagine what a job I had trying to persuade these people, who don’t believe anything, that he was lying. Phone call after phone call, all morning long. Between us, I had a woman in my bed, and not a bad one, and I didn’t even notice her leaving, I was so busy dealing with this. They would not leave me alone. So I made a deal. Even if their stories were real, I would not do it. But I would teach them how to write. That’s why you have the similar phrases, the maneuvers. Do you know what they say about the Russians, Mr. Barber? They don’t make anything, but they copy better than anyone else. The sushi you will have in Moscow is better than the sushi in Tokyo. They followed every rule. They followed the rule to the letter.”