Olga Grjasnowa - All Russians Love Birch Trees

“Your fascist system, of course!” I yelled.

“Which all of you?” Cem yelled.

“Me, a fascist? I’m no fascist! This keeps getting better and better.”

“But a racist.”

“This has nothing to do with racism! Everyone is allowed to speak their mind. Freedom of speech and such.”

The roses in my parents’ garden were in bloom. Cem was on the phone, pacing the lawn, gesticulating with his free hand. My parents looked at me with a mixture of silent accusation and relief. My mother was going back and forth between She’s over the hump and Two lonely old people in a foreign country . My father had other things on his mind.

“What kind of a job is it?” he asked.

“I was hired as an interpreter for the international branch of a German foundation.”

My mother stirred her tea, lost in thought. Food smells drifted over from the house. My guess was trout stuffed with thyme. Cem’s gestures became bigger and bigger.

“But don’t you think you’re overqualified for this job? You had such good grades.” My mother sighed. “You always said that you wanted to work for the UN. What about the UN?”

“Which UN? Do you think it’s easy getting into the UN?” my father said and went back into the house to get more tea for himself and my mother. When he returned he laboriously sat back down on the garden bench and said, “No.” Then he shook his head to further emphasize his words. “She has to climb the ladder slowly. It doesn’t go that fast. First she has to prove that she’s reliable. Then maybe she’ll be appointed to the UN.”

“You don’t get appointed to the UN, Dad.”

“Of course you get appointed to the UN.”

“Nope.”

“Yes. We always got appointed.”

“Here you apply directly.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you apply?”

Awkward silence and rhythmic stirring in teacups followed.

“Back in my day, there was still wiggle room,” said my father, who couldn’t get over the fact he no longer had connections.

“Daddy, so far I’ve managed fine on my own.”

My father shot my mother a concerned look.

“I don’t need help,” I tried again.

“Do you need money?” my mother asked.

I shook my head.

“What kind of an organization is it?” my father finally asked.

“A political organization,” I responded.

“A leftist one?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then at least we didn’t fail completely as parents.”

“You really needed to attach that nice afterthought, didn’t you?” said my mother. “After chasing your own child out of our house.”

“I chased no one out of the house. Besides, we can hardly claim that it’s our house if the lion’s share of your salary pays the rent.”

My mother bit her lip nervously. She feared that the argument would escalate, but my father’s face relaxed again. Silently we sat next to each other and watched Cem. He yelled into the phone: “Dude, I don’t have a problem with my national identity … Don’t give me this crap again. National identity. I’m pressing charges. I’ll go to court. I don’t care about this nation bullshit … I need a lawyer, not a lecture in cultural theory. Shit, man.”

“What’s he saying?” my mother asked and took a sip of her tea.

“He’s having a fight with a friend, Mom.”

“What’s wrong with his friend?”

“Cem, don’t step on my roses!” my father yelled in Turkish.

On the plane I sat next to a woman and her baby, who was sleeping peacefully in a cradle in front of our knees. In the row behind us were four more children, who also belonged to her. The woman spent the four-hour flight standing, watching over her children. She addressed them in plural: “ Les enfants, asseyez-vous! Soyez calme! ” The flight attendants had trouble allocating the kosher meals. Every single one was noted on a list, but the list was off. The kids ate kosher, but not the in-flight meals. Instead, they had the cookies their mother had brought.

I had tried calling Sami before takeoff. I hadn’t said goodbye and he didn’t answer. As soon as the seat belt signs turned off, the Israelis got up, walked around — looking for familiar faces.

I waited at Ben Gurion Airport underneath a bunch of colorful balloons that congregated at the ceiling. I read the display panel, ate a sandwich, watched people look around, clueless. Soldiers, Russian grandmothers, Orthodox Jews, and extended Arab families. A mezuzah was affixed to the gate that led into the arrival hall. Many of the arriving passengers kissed it by running the fingertips of their right hand over it and then touching their mouth. Most faces displayed joy and great expectation. Again and again, people ran toward each other, hugged, let go, and examined each other’s faces as if trying to make up for lost time. Next to me an ultra-Orthodox man in a black suit and a wide-brimmed hat dropped to his knees and kissed the ground. A young woman, holding a little boy in her arms, was picked up by an older man. The boy kicked and screamed as the man tried to touch him. An older woman lectured her grandson. In the arrival hall all the different languages mixed into a wave of sound: Russian, Hebrew, English, Italian, and Arabic. A deep woman’s voice repeatedly warned over the loudspeaker not to leave any luggage unattended, adding: “It’s prohibited to carry weapons in all the terminal halls.” Fifteen minutes ago my computer had been seized and shot with a firearm, and now I would have to wait for a letter of acknowledgment that would allow me to apply for financial compensation from the state of Israel.

It all started at the passport check. I’d been asked about my name.

“Maria Kogan.”

“Maria, of all names.”

I shrugged and said, “My mother liked the name.

Masha.”

“Masha?”

“My nickname.”

He made a note in one of his forms and studied my work visa.

Why was I here?

“To grieve.”

Another note on his form.

“How long are you planning to stay?”

“As long as possible.”

“Are you sure that this is your computer?” He scowled at the stickers with Arabic characters on my keyboard.

“Yes.”

“You are interested in our neighbors, huh? Can I take your computer for a little test?” he said, grinning, and left with my computer.

The situation was serious. Now my suitcase had to be searched as well. This task was assigned to two young soldiers, neither of whom could be older than twenty. They were wearing translucent rubber gloves and told jokes to loosen up the situation. The girl dug through my stuff, respectfully trying not to look too closely. This earned her repeated reprimands from the other soldier, who was bald. He stood next to her, bow-legged, examining the contents of the suitcase and giving orders. Every piece of clothing, every scarf, every pair of panties was unfolded. All jars were opened. Even my electric toothbrush was tested for explosives. The fact that I’d hardly brought any clothes, but instead many dictionaries, aroused suspicion.

During this examination they questioned me. Whom do you know in Israel? With whom are you going to live? For whom are you going to work? What are you going to do? The bald soldier looked me directly in the eye. Why had I come to Israel, and why had I not come sooner, and why not forever? The female soldier leafed through my Arabic dictionaries with her long red fingernails; her tone, too, becoming increasingly aggressive. Why had I traveled to Arabic countries and what did I know about the Middle East conflict?

“Do you speak Arabic?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”