All Russians Love Birch Trees (8 page)

When I arrived they were just handing out dinner. A plastic bowl full of brown soup and two slices of wholegrain bread. From the shared bathroom came the sounds of a thundering flush, followed by violent snorts and farts. Elias looked bad: his face was haggard and pale, his eyes red. His hands rested flat on the bed. I asked if he was doing better and he nodded, which again was a lie.

His stubble prickled me as I kissed him. Silently we drank the hospital tea and I climbed into bed next to him and he held me. We had not made love in a long time and now, lying next to him, I remembered the lust and thought that he felt it, too, and I felt guilty. The fall in Minna’s apartment had left a big purple bruise on my knee and I hoped that he wouldn’t see it. Then I realized that he was crying, without making a sound, just his chest trembling a little. I clung to him tighter, slipped my hands under his pajamas, and kissed him on the mouth. He looked at me apologetically, his eyes full of tenderness and love.

Elias had gotten a new roommate—a small, burly man, artificial hip, Jewish quota–immigrant from Ukraine, presumably demented. He thought Elisha was his grandson Stasik and called for help all night long: “
POMOGITE, boze moi, da POMOGITE mne
.” HELP, for
God’s sake, HELP me. When Elias got up, despite the pain, and walked over to the man’s bed, asking what was the matter, the man replied: “Stasik, adjust my right leg. It’s hurting so much.” Once Elias had finished this task, hobbled back to his bed, and had almost fallen asleep again, the screams would start all over. “
POMOGITE, boze moi, da POMOGITE mne
.” Of course Elias got up again and helped. The procedure went on like this all night. After two nights and three days Elias was done with the world. His eyes were bloodshot and his leg swollen from constantly getting up.

When I visited Elias in the evening, the grandpa snored complacently. I lay down on the bed next to Elias. He whispered into my ear, I stroked his arm and felt his breath. When I traced his breastbone down to his navel, the neighbor started calling for help again. I asked him in Russian what was the matter and he repeated his slogan: “
POMOGITE, boze moi, da POMOGITE mne
.” I rang the bell for the nurse. She came right away and asked him, also in Russian, what was the matter. When she didn’t get a reply, she waited for a moment and then repeated her question. This time, the man answered, as if under torture, “Water.”

She gave him water, spoke a few encouraging words, and he said: “
POMOGITE, boze moi, da POMOGITE mne
.” Whereupon she shrugged, shot us an apologetic look, and left.

“I would love to travel with you once I’m out of here,” said Elias.

“Where should we go?”

“Where would you like? Tel Aviv?”

“
POMOGI, Stasik, POMOGI
.”

I went over to him and again asked what was wrong. He called me Stasik as well and asked me for water. I gave him his sippy cup but he changed his mind and asked me to adjust his pillow. I adjusted his pillow, but then he wanted me to move his left leg, and when I did it, I saw that he grinned. The grandpa grinned.

It was time to take action against the grandpa. The next day I skipped my seminar on French engineering terminology and went to the hospital early in the afternoon. The grandpa’s daughter stood at the entrance of the ward. She was shrouded in a cloud of Chanel and cigarette smoke. I had seen her once, briefly, in Elias’s room. Next to her was a frail old lady with noticeably expensive jewelry and purple hair, accompanied by a nurse.

When I greeted them they paid no attention to me. Nevertheless I joined their group. The old lady lamented heartrendingly in Yiddish. About her fate. Her husband’s fate, her cat, the hospital, the hospital sheets. I took a deep breath and introduced myself. Then I said that something had to be done regarding
her father and husband, respectively. They said nothing and stared at me. They stared at my dirty white sneakers and my tattered jeans.

The younger one stubbed out her cigarette and started speaking loudly and quickly: her father had been a partisan, fighting against the Germans in the Ukrainian forests. Was it too much to ask to take care of a veteran, or was my husband a Nazi? Or maybe he wasn’t even my husband? Maybe that was the reason why he hadn’t married me yet? If I had the irrepressible urge to complain about an honorable man, I should talk to his nurse, Bella. Thereupon the daughter left. Her perfume remained.

Bella grinned. She wore brown leather shoes and a beige suit. A butch through and through.

The yellow eyes of the old lady glowed maliciously. The diamonds sparkled in her old ears. She, too, berated me. We should be ashamed of ourselves, unmarried, fucking in her husband’s room as if it were nothing. She actually said
fucking
. I blushed and wanted to reply something, but the nurse laughed, shot her a stern look as if she was her property, and whispered to me: “No worries, she’s a slut herself. I had to take her to the gynecologist countless times. And the things he excavated from her—rags, bottles. For her, only size matters.”

Suddenly the old lady started yelling at me: What kind of a woman was I? How dare I talk to her, the wife of a partisan? My husband must have ordered me from a Ukrainian catalog. Did I have no manners at all?

I left both of them alone.

10

This afternoon Elias was to be released from the hospital. I had spent half the morning painstakingly waxing hair from my body. Then I cleaned, swept, mopped, and went shopping.

At the entrance to the supermarket I took a basket in due form. Then I stood around indecisively in the vegetable section before finally moving to the aisles, where I started filling my basket with random items. I would squeeze oranges, caramelize pears, cut and steam vegetables, stay clear of the pork, knead dough, then roll out and bake it. I just didn’t know how to do all this and therefore added a few housewifey magazines to my shopping basket. Another woman also
stood indecisively in the aisles. She had soft features, wore no makeup, and had on flat gray velvet shoes with a little bow on each rounded toe. She studied the small print on the boxes, wheezed, then lunged at a supermarket employee, waving her tote bag threateningly. “That’s just not possible. The organic lettuce can’t be sold out. Just like that? You’re hiding it. The other one is no good, you understand me? No good. All that stuff comes from America!” And then she broke out in tears. The undercover security guard and I looked at her, stunned.

At the cash register I got a pack of cigarettes and smiled. My fingers drummed a march on the conveyor belt. The female neck on line in front of me was so perfect, so slender and white, that it immediately sparked a desire in me.

Elias filled the bed again. I was grateful that he lay there, on his back, his arms spread wide, breathing calmly and regularly. The comforter wasn’t big enough to cover his feet, arms, and shoulders at the same time. So I covered him with my half and went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and cigarettes. Then I sat down on the windowsill. The bedroom seemed somehow bigger now, and the sticky, grayish layer of dust that covered the white wood of the shelves now rested in the dark—colorless like everything else. The morning air was fresh. I stubbed out my cigarette
and crawled back into bed. In his sleep Elisha turned to me and kissed my shoulder and continued sleeping peacefully.

His absence had come as a shock. It was almost like back when Sibel left. The apartment had been too full of emptiness. Elias hadn’t been there to eat, to sweat, to sleep, to breathe, or to look at me. Everything in our apartment belonged to him. Most of the furniture, the kitchen, the table, the bookshelves. Elias had built our bed himself.

She said she was from northern Germany. She said Rügen, but I didn’t believe her. Her family was Turkish, and very traditional. Three older brothers—all born in Germany, equipped with an old-fashioned sense of honor. Sibel wasn’t allowed to have boyfriends or talk with Germans, Yugoslavians, or Russians. She wasn’t allowed to leave the house after dark. One of her brothers accompanied her to school. When he decided that Sibel had looked at her teacher a little too long he branded her back with a flatiron. Sibel’s father was appalled, he walked in circles on the living room carpet and then beat Sibel’s brother. Then he drank some tea and slapped Sibel’s mother in the face, because the tea had cooled too quickly and because she allowed her daughter to dress like a German. Sibel was pulled out
of school and her father started researching in an Internet cafe for a husband. Sibel’s father was determined to get a good deal. Even if Sibel wouldn’t get a big dowry, she was a German citizen and therefore attractive to many. Marriage was the only legal way to get into Europe and Europe was the big hope.

Sibel refused the first potential husband and the second as well, and for that she got a beating from her oldest brother. The youngest, a year older than she, held her, slipped his hand in her panties and whispered into her ear: “You are a disgrace to our family. We will kill you.” Her mother said: “He is a good man. He will work for you, protect you. Do you think anybody will fall in love with you, just because you are young and pretty? That he’ll stay with you forever? That he’ll love you? Don’t be so naive. Please don’t be so naive.” Sibel stood facing a mirror and cried because she was naive. Wanted to be.

Sibel ran away and at first stayed with a German friend. But her friend’s parents were afraid of Muslim men, without even needing to be told about Sibel’s own experience with Muslim men. Or about Islam. After three days Sibel was back out on the street. Bitter and alone.

She only wore dresses, skirts, silk blouses, and shoes with shiny buckles. She walked on tiny, clattering heels and looked like candy. Innocent, irresistible, and
absolute. Twice she fucked my lovers. I had hated her for it, in a Germanly thorough fashion. But I couldn’t stop desiring her. The apartment and landline were in my name. I did money transfers for her and when she had to go to the doctor she borrowed my insurance card.

She slept without a cover. Her underwear shimmered dusky pink. No, she only pretended to be asleep. For a long time I looked at her skinny body, the bent knees and the straight dark hair that spilled across her pillow. The curtains were drawn and the room was bathed in a soft light. We’d had a week of beautiful weather. Nothing in the sky moved. The closest thing to a cloud was the occasional vapor trail from a plane. Sibel breathed calmly and regularly, didn’t hear the buzz of the house-flies. I pulled my dress over my head. In the window across the street the curtain moved. I unhooked my bra, took off my panties, and sat down on the bed. I leaned over her and kissed her shoulder. She smiled without opening her eyes. I traced her areolas with my fingers.

“You dirty little thing,” she whispered into my ear and laughed. “Did you know that Kurdish girls always kiss each other on the mouth, as a substitute for real sex? They can’t afford riding lessons.”

“Are you a Kurd, Sibel?”

She looked at me, grinned, but didn’t answer. Then she turned over onto her stomach. Her entire body was covered with scars.

The calls had started when we made love almost every night, first in the middle of the night, then on late mornings, then during the day. The caller didn’t say anything. We heard nothing but his heavy breathing. Sibel started leaving the lights on in the hallway at night and didn’t leave the house by herself anymore. She took taxis, even if her trip would only take her five minutes on foot.

One evening the entire apartment went dark. At the same moment, Sibel’s cellphone rang. The number was blocked. On the other end, somebody breathed heavily and remained silent.

“My brother works for the secret service!” Sibel yelled, as I fumbled with the fuse box. I was almost as scared as she was, if for different reasons.

When I came home from school the next day, Sibel was gone. She had taken with her her shimmery dresses, hair clips, cosmetics, and perfume samples, as well as my passport, my insurance card, and cash.

11

I met with Sami in a small cider bar that smelled of beer and frying oil. Nonetheless it seemed to be very popular with the local alcoholics and tourists. We sat at the last free table, right by the swinging door that led to the kitchen and the bathrooms. The regulars wore sweatpants and sweatshirts. A group of Irish tourists provided some variety, commenting loudly on their hotel and World War II. Older gentlemen with reddish faces and good spirits. I forgot who had suggested this as a meeting place, Sami or me. At least we wouldn’t run into anyone we knew.

Two waitresses lingered behind the bar, giggling. The older one sported a leathery tan and blue eyeliner.
The younger looked like she still stood a chance. Although the bar was packed, they didn’t have a lot to do. The guests didn’t order much. The younger one glanced at Sami and approached our table.

Earlier, Elias had sat on the sofa while I got ready. I’d put on a tight dress, rouge, and a bit of perfume behind the ears. All for another guy. Where was I going? he’d asked. I’m meeting Sami, I’d answered, and tried to hide my nervousness. But Elias understood anyway. Angrily remained silent. He had used up all his energy on the fifteen steps it took him to get from our bedroom to the living room.

Now, sitting across from Sami, I remained quiet, still feeling Elias’s eyes on me. A cross adorned with rhinestones dangled over the waitress’s generous cleavage. Both of us ordered cider, although neither of us liked it.

“My visa application was rejected,” Sami said. Deep shadows hung under his eyes. He sat across from me with hanging shoulders and held my hands in his.

“Again?”

The waitress placed the two ciders in front of us and smiled at Sami, but he ignored her flirtation. The glasses were scratched. Sami had been my first boyfriend. Before him, love had always ended in rejection.

“Now what?” I said.

“I’ll definitely lose this semester. I just hope it won’t be an entire year. I don’t want to be thrown out of the Ph.D. program.” His voice sounded tired and uncertain. In the past he’d been the stronger one, always busy and determined. The one who blazed his trail undeterred.