Zhanna Slor - At the End of the World, Turn Left

<> It is.

<> Okay, let’s say, for a moment, that it is… If he is ignoring you, it’s probably because he doesn’t believe you. He probably thinks you want money. We’ve had people contact us before from Ukraine asking for money, even old friends of his.

<> I don’t want money! I want a DNA test, that’s it

<> But why? Isn’t it a little late for child support?

<> It’s not for that. I need proof he is my father so I can show I am half Jewish and move to Israel.

<> Oh.

<> I understand that his family is very dear to him. This is why I never reached out to you before. But I must leave Ukraine. This is the only way I know. Please help me.

<> I’m not so sure I can help you.

<> Just talk to him please.

<> But… Is it even enough to be only half Jewish?

Having lived in Israel for the last five years, I know that it is, so I skip ahead a bit past the explanations. This woman really thinks she is our sister ? And Papa refused to answer her? It doesn’t sound like him at all. And how did this sister come to be? My dad is the farthest away from the cheating type that I had ever met. Was it from an ex-girlfriend? It would certainly help to know her age. I can’t help but get frustrated with Anna for not asking how old she is. And also frustrated with Zoya’s side of the conversation. I have trouble understanding her, and wonder how much of what she is saying Anna really understood. I wonder, too, what kind of education Zoya has received. But then, of course, I feel bad wondering this. Maybe she is too poor for an education. It’s not her fault she hasn’t had the privileges I grew up with.

I take an ibuprofen with some water from my purse and continue reading.

<> …I’m sorry you had to find out like this. My whole life I’ve known that you live in America, and I did nothing. But now…

<> I’m sorry. But I’m still not sure I can help you.

<> You can ask Pavel about my mother Olga. Please.

<> I will try.

The conversation ends abruptly shortly after that and doesn’t start up again for another week. I keep going, despite my now-grumbling stomach, because maybe the next conversation will have a clue about her whereabouts.

<> Hey. What’s your birthday?

<> May 23, 1987

I pause again. 1987? That would mean she was born after me and before Anna.

<> Wow. I don’t know how it never occurred to me to ask you that. Why didn’t you tell me?

<> Did you talk to Pavel? About my mom?

<> Sort of.

<> Oh my god. Thank you!

<> Don’t thank me yet. He only admitted to knowing her. He said they worked together. He actually got very mad at me for even asking about you. I really don’t think he will take the DNA test.

<> He thinks I’m a very bad person. An aferistka.

<>Aferistka?

<> Yes… like a criminal. A bad person.

<> Are you really certain he’s the right person you’re looking for?

<> YES.

<> I just don’t see it. He’s not the cheating type.

<> I’m sorry. I know it’s too late for us to be a family, I am not asking for us to be sisters or for him to pay for anything. I was a happy child. But now, it’s different. I need your help.

<> I’m not sure what I can do, Zoya.

<> I told you already.

<> You really can’t stay in Ukraine? Is it because they’re still anti-Semitic? My dad says they still hate Jews there.

<> No. If they do, I haven’t seen it. Everyone has always spoken about Jews in a very respectful tone, at least to me.

<> Do you think it’s because they knew you were half-Jewish?

<> There are very few Jews left here. It’s harder to be anti-Semitic when you’ve never even met a Jewish person, I think. It’s like hating some animal which has gone extinct.

<> Come here and see for yourself! I would love to meet you. And didn’t you say you wanted to visit?

<> I wish I could, but I don’t really have any money.

<> What about your parents? They can’t help?

<> Even if they could, they don’t want me anywhere near Ukraine.

<> Why not?

<> They think it’s dangerous. But it’s not, is it?

<> Depends on how you mean.

<> What’s it like there? Has it changed a lot? I’ve always wondered.

<> It’s a very pretty city. Now there are more restaurants and coffee shops, more tourists, sure. For the ones who live here, it’s not so different. Most people are worse off than before. The country was better when it was still the USSR.

<> Oh. I’m sorry.

<> Anastasia, look. I’m not so good at typing. Can you Skype? I’m supposed to go to a friend’s house for dinner soon, but I’d really like to talk to you.

<> I guess it’s okay, but only for a few minutes. I have to get to class.

<> To art class? I saw your paintings on MySpace. You’re so talented!

<> No, Algebra. I actually don’t really paint anymore.

<> Really? Why not? I wish I could paint like that.

<> You know, people are always telling me that and I have no idea why. It’s not, like, a useful skill.

I stop scrolling again. Anna, not painting anymore? Of everything I’d heard today this is possibly the most shocking of all.

<> But you’re so good!

<> I guess I don’t see the point of it. If I can’t make a living from it, why bother putting all of my energy and time into getting better? I might as well find something else to be good at.

<> This sounds like Russian parents talking.

<> Maybe?

<> My mama wasn’t like that. She always told me to follow my dreams. Problem was I didn’t really have any.

<> What? That can’t be true.

<> I know we only just met, but you’re always welcome to come visit me here. Really and truly.

<> Yeah? I would love to go… sometime. I’ve been wanting to go back for basically my whole life.

<> That’s so funny. I’ve been wanting to go to America my whole life. Too bad we couldn’t switch!

<> Here’s my Skype name: ZoyaC2007.

Then the conversation ends, and besides a few more innocuous messages that don’t amount to anything, it never picks back up. Not on Facebook anyway. But it doesn’t matter—because I think I know where Anna went.

Before Zoya, the closest I came to returning to Ukraine was in high school, during a Baltic cruise, when we spent a day in St. Petersburg. It was a weird trip; even though it was my first time back abroad, I had become anxious the last week, spending so much time locked in a room with my parents, and was looking forward to finally seeing Russia. But being Soviet refugees back in Russia was strange. On more than one occasion we overheard the Russian tour guides joking about how fat and ugly the group from our cruise ship was. They didn’t notice we could understand them; that’s how American we’d come to look in our bootcut jeans and Adidas sneakers. No one suspected us of being in our homeland. Maybe because it wasn’t our homeland anymore. The Jews had gone with the ruble, after all. And like my parents said, we were Jews first and Russians second—at least, this had been the case in the USSR. Our passports listed Jewish under nationality. Who knew, maybe we were Americans first now, or refugees first. I wasn’t sure. My identity was such a mess. It was sort of like wearing layers during the time of year that Autumn turns to Winter: when it’s freezing out, you appreciate every one. But when that sun comes out, you want to shed half of it to the ground; you feel suffocated. This is what identity could feel like, for me, sometimes. Like wearing too many coats, then not wearing enough.