Paul Goldberg - The Yid

Moisey Semyonovich has no plan. Instead, he knows what to expect. When all seems lost, the enemy becomes complacent, and you have a chance. A single chance. Don’t miss it.

* * *

“You are a military man, Dr. Kogan,” says Khromov with a benevolent smile.

Kogan nods.

“You understand that we live in a stern time, when entire nations become unnecessary and therefore must wither.”

“You are a strong Marxist, then,” interjects Levinson. Now the idiot is talking about himself. He is fully engaged. There is hope.

Khromov nods. “Definitely a Marxist.”

“Then how can we help you?” asks Kogan.

“I want you not to be so egotistical,” says Khromov. “All of us do. You have committed crimes, so take responsibility.”

“And what if they have not committed any crimes, as individuals, that is?” asks Ol’ga Fyodorovna.

“If they have not, then they must realize that sometimes in its history, a great people, the Russian people, must disengage itself from the lesser peoples, which have been sapping its strength. If we are a tree, you are a weed, and we must prune you.”

“I promise not to sap your strength, lieutenant,” says Kogan. “Would this cause you to put away your guns, take your wonderful stepson by the hand, and go home to your lovely wife?”

“No,” says Khromov. “Afraid not.”

“Ah. It has begun then?” asks Levinson.

“Poka net,” says Khromov. Not yet.

* * *

Khromov looks like a man at peace, almost relaxed, pontificating about his Great People.

They stand six meters apart, enough distance to gather speed, but is it enough to bring down the prey?

A single hit. That’s all you get, at best. What can you use?

The bread knife is serrated, but it’s at the other end of the table, by Levinson, who glances at it as he spews nonsense.

Fists work quite well, but they require repeated blows, which take time. The hands can strangle, but that, too, takes time.

Moisey Semyonovich needs to inflict instant death, a swap of figures on the chessboard: exchanging him for me. Six meters is a fraction of a second, enough to gather speed, enough to let the body act.

His thoughts: “The carotid artery … It’s big, it’s well-protected. The external jugular, which drains blood from the face, is on the surface … It can be found. Perhaps the carotid will be injured, too. We’ll see — or not.”

It is tempting to leave out the final word of that sequence of thoughts, for Moisey Semyonovich would be deeply ashamed of it. The word is Shema, the opening of a prayer that the fortunate ones are able to utter before their death: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”

Readers who overanalyze the presence of this solitary word to conclude that Moisey Semyonovich makes his peace with God should be ashamed of their erroneous, smug conjecture.

The truth is much simpler: by setting aside his conscious faculties, Moisey Semyonovich allows his inner animal to make strategic decisions and thus is unable to censor its base urge to acknowledge the Supreme Being.

* * *

A shadow is all Mikhail Petrovich Khromov sees before his shoulders, back, and skull spread out against the wall; his arms splay outward, fountain-like; and pressure on his neck starts to constrict air.

Before the pistol discharges and falls out of his hand, before darkness descends, Khromov sees a human ear under his chin. Pressed against the wall, he cannot move. There is an instant when he feels the teeth beneath his chin, and something like a sponge — wet, warm, and sticky — on his neck, but the lack of oxygen overwhelms, and all turns black.

This is the end of their interaction. Neither of the duelists is fully aware of the horrendous melee that follows their exeunt.

* * *

To review the full picture of these events, let us return to the beginning of Moisey Semyonovich’s leap.

Vasyok is quick, but lacking preparation, he has to raise the gun and aim, which he cannot.

His rifle’s bullet would have to fell both men, his stepfather and the Yid who closed his jaws upon Khromov’s neck. Vasyok moves to the center of the room and takes aim, thereby opening his jugular, carotid artery, and windpipe as targets for Levinson’s bread knife.

A shot rings out, and in the smoke three men slump to the ground in this order:

Rabinovich tumbles first, his brains upon the window and wall, his Godless soul speeding toward the red gates of heaven.

Khromov is technically alive. His heart still pumps, but blood is no longer draining in ways that sustain life. His hand shoots up to cover his wound in the futile hope that hands have the capacity to stop bleeding and make us breathe again. His simple, corrupt soul is packing up to make a swift evacuation.

Vasyok comes down last, his rifle resting in Levinson’s firm hand, the ivory handle of the thin serrated knife protruding from the deep nest it has made within his neck, causing his windpipe to whistle softly as his blood gushes to the floor.

“You were as fast as you could be,” says Kogan.

“Not fast enough,” says Levinson as they rush toward Moisey Semyonovich.

Ol’ga Fyodorovna sits silently in her chair.

“A lovely, lovely man,” she says.

“You were close, I surmise,” says Kogan.

“I couldn’t keep him from dying.”

“One never can.”

“Remember The Seagull , the very end? ‘What I wanted to say was, that Constantine has shot himself.…’ Always they die offstage — suicides, executions, beatings at interrogations, wars, the permafrost. Behind the curtain. Not this time, no more! I looked his death directly in the eye!”

* * *

“This is a sad and somber moment, but there is nothing to be done to help the victims,” says Kogan. “I want you to come here and witness something extraordinary.

“Note the bite mark,” he continues, pointing at an uneven red oval beside the Adam’s apple on Lieutenant Khromov’s puffy neck. “As surgeons, we are used to seeing human bites on hands and arms, but almost never necks, and never have I seen one like this!

“Until this moment, I did not believe that humans had the ability to bring down prey with our bite. Our teeth are made for chewing. Now, look, our friend has done what wolves and lions do: he hit the neck with murderous force, and he chomped down and held, releasing only as his brain ceased to command him to continue.

“He didn’t know it could be done, but he took a chance. Now, note this area, around the bite. It’s swelling up. I can find out conclusively later, but for now I believe that the bite has macerated the jugular vein and damaged the carotid artery as well. This bleeding has compromised blood flow to the brain and closed off the windpipe at the same time. It’s a masterstroke and a painful way to die. Not that it has happened exactly this way ever before. I have to be right. You see, the swelling and his fitful breathing are happening too fast for any other explanation.

“If I am right, we are about to see something that hasn’t been in any medical book that I have seen, something that makes me wish I had a camera.”

“Oh, how foul!” says Ol’ga Fyodorovna.

The swelling beneath the tooth marks grows rapidly before the eyes of the plotters, within minutes rising to the size of a cantaloupe. The swelling grows darker as the skin stretches.

“Can’t you alleviate this man’s suffering instead of delivering an anatomy lecture?”

“Ol’ga Fyodorovna, please believe me, I have no way to help. I could attempt a tracheotomy, but even if I succeed, the patient will likely die of a stroke. And considering the events that led to his injury, I am not certain that his survival is in our best interests. If I were to raise him from the dead, Levinson would insist on killing him again.”