Olga Grjasnowa - All Russians Love Birch Trees

Besides, I was afraid. Afraid to find his notes. Afraid of what he had written. Of his thoughts. Maybe I would discover that he didn’t love me. Or not enough. Ever since seeing him for the first time I’d wanted to be loved by him. I was addicted to his love, because he was somebody who loved with his entire body and soul. What if I had constructed that love, because Elisha had an altruistic tendency? He wanted everybody around him to be happy. What if he didn’t love me, but just wanted to make me happy?

I made a coffee for myself and while I waited for the water to boil I took a knife, went back to the bedroom, and cut open the tape.

The box was filled with stacks of paper, held together by rubber bands and paper clips. They were photocopies, printed articles, scientific essays, a few maps torn from books, and notes by hand. All in all, an impressive, unsorted collection of material on the Caucasus. The notebooks were filled with names, dates, numbers, and, in some cases, even coordinates. On the side there were little drawings. And occasionally my name appeared with a question mark next to it.

I sat at the kitchen table and spread the photos out in front of me. Most of them were familiar from my elementary school days. Cattle cars filled with refugees, famished children, burned-down villages, frozen toes scantily bound with rags. Tents, wounds, dead bodies. Protesters, buses riddled with gun shots, smashed cars. Red carnations on the graves. Open casket processions. Aliyev the first, second, third. Azeri-style.

I put everything back into the box, rolled a joint, and put my laptop on the table. I had underestimated Elisha’s desire to understand me. We had fought a lot, often about Elisha being jealous of Sami. That was something he’d never forgiven me for. But mostly we argued about me. He thought I didn’t trust him, but I was simply of the opinion that what had happened was of no importance to us. I didn’t want a genocide to be the key to my personality.

I’d read about people with posttraumatic stress disorders — not that I would ever classify myself as such — that we destroy the people we love. And Elisha was a casualty of that.

On YouTube I listened to Mugam, Azerbaijani jazz, Aziza Mustafa Zadeh, and Muslim Magomayev. I sang along. Azeri, one of the languages of my childhood. All that remained were nursery rhymes and a few poems that I had learned by heart.

I took out Elisha’s photos and held them up, two at a time. I cleared out Elisha’s desk and closet: pictures of Frankfurt, Apolda, mountains of garbage in Eastern Germany, portraits of me. In most I look at the camera somewhat distantly. Or my face is concealed by my hair. On the outside I’m hardly different from his other models. Similar body shapes, poses, posture. It was his love and his fascination with me that made the difference. I taped the negatives to the window and looked at them until the sun went down. I would have none of them developed.

Cem and I sat next to each other on the sofa smoking. The apartment was empty and quiet. There was nothing much left to say, so we smoked one cigarette after the other. The boxes waited in the hallway. Horst was late. A sense of calm had come over me — not due to my natural composure, but thanks to the double dose of sedatives I’d taken this morning.

The doorbell rang. Horst was standing in the doorway. A bulky figure, with a rough face and a mouth that made him look brutal. His hands were clenched into fists and in his eyes shone uncompromising hatred. I was afraid of him. But that was nothing new.

Horst said nothing. Only stood there, his nostrils flaring. We didn’t say a word either. He stared at us.

“The boxes are here,” I muttered, focusing on the delicate silver teapot that had once belonged to my grandmother. I poured him a cup, but he didn’t take it. So I put the cup back down.

“Can I help you?” Cem asked, ostentatiously polite as always. Horst shook his head and picked up two boxes at once. His grip was clumsy and the boxes shook precariously. He stormed out. His stomps reverberated in the hallway. I peeked through the window and saw him load the boxes into a red van. Cem rolled another cigarette.

When he got back up to the apartment his forehead was glistening with sweat.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” Cem asked.

“Everything in there?” Horst asked.

Cem shrugged.

“Doesn’t seem like much,” Horst said.

“Seriously? What are you afraid of? Do you think she’s keeping a fucking sweater as a memento?” Cem yelled.

“I’m done with you guys,” Horst yelled back.

Cem’s body was tense, his throat covered with red spots. He was about to lose it. I took his hand in mine, our eyes met and I whispered: “Don’t. Please don’t.”

Horst stood in the door and didn’t move. His face was distorted with rage. Then he started to cry. First quietly, then more audibly, until his crying broke down into loud sobs. I took a step toward him but couldn’t fully bridge the distance and stopped abruptly. It was Cem who took Horst in his arms and tried to console him. I stood by, unable to move or speak.

After Horst had finally left and nothing remained of our apartment — no memories, no smells — I went into the bedroom and flung myself onto the bed. Cem lay down next to me. His hand stroked my face. After a while he said, “That’s enough now. You’re getting up and we’re going out to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” I answered.

“Right. When was the last time you ate?”

I didn’t remember.

Cem pulled me up, got our jackets, and put a hat on my head. We drove through the city center. The trees were bare. The heating in Cem’s car didn’t work and he kept asking whether I was cold, just like he kept asking what I wanted to eat. I wanted him to pick something. I didn’t want to think or feel, let alone eat. I just wanted to throw up until there was no life left in me. Wanted to puke out the last bit. I told Cem. He yelled that he wasn’t going to watch me slowly die. That he was at the end of his rope and I would finally have to start living again and I said that I couldn’t and he said bullshit and that Horst was an asshole and I said that I couldn’t remember Elisha’s face anymore and instead I only saw blood and Cem yelled that I should stop and that he can’t remember his brother’s face anymore either, but that was no excuse and I yelled that he was lying and then there was an impact and we were both yanked forward.

An older man in a navy blue quilted jacket laboriously climbed out of the car in front of us. Cem and I got out, too.

“I’m sorry,” Cem said. “It was my fault.”

“I should say so!” The man stood up straight, hands on his hips. A white mustache curled over his thin mouth and yellow teeth. His maroon scarf was made of cashmere. Why maroon? I wondered.

“Do you even know how to drive? Do you have a license?” he asked Cem.

“We’re sorry!” I said.

“What gives you the right to talk to me like that?” Cem asked, pulling his scarf tighter.

“Oh, now you want the royal treatment?”

“Not royal, just normal. Respectful human interaction.” His voice was calm, but I knew that his patience wouldn’t last long.

The other guy’s face had turned red: “Pha! Absurd! Completely absurd! You don’t know how to behave on German roads, do you? You’re just a guest here!”

Cem stood up straight. “I was born here.”

“You wish. A kanack , that’s what you are!”

Cem took a step toward him.

“I’m calling the police.” I began to dial.

“Go ahead! Go ahead!” he urged me on. “Your friend here probably doesn’t even have a residence permit. An illegal. Leeching off our system. Like all of you.”