After the rabbi spoke he asked if there was anyone who wanted to say anything more about Itzik. Herschel, who sat between me and my grandfather, wiped his eyes and looked over at Itzik’s son. Itzik’s son did not look up from the floor. Nobody moved and the rabbi shifted nervously beside Itzik’s coffin. He looked around the room and asked again if there wasn’t someone who had a few words to say about Itzik’s life. If someone had something to say and sat in silence, they would regret it. Such a time is not the time for shyness. Itzik’s spirit was in the room. To speak a kind word about the man would be a mitzvah. Finally, using my knee for support, Herschel raised himself from the pew and slowly made his way to the front of the chapel. Each of Herschel’s steps punctuated silence. His worn tweed jacket and crooked back delivered a eulogy before he reached the coffin. His posture was unspeakable grief. What could he say that could compare with the eulogy of his wretched back?
Facing the room, Herschel composed himself and spoke clearly. Itzik was my last and dearest friend. Hitler killed my family and I never had children. When my wife died I thought I would be alone until God decided it was finally time to take me also. That Itzik was my dear friend these last years was the blessing of my old age. Without him I don’t know what would have become of me. He was a wonderful man. He was an honest man. He was a strong man. He said not one word he didn’t mean. I will miss him like I would miss my right arm. Living a long life is both a blessing and a curse. Today it is a curse. I don’t know if it will ever again feel like a blessing.
At the cemetery, there were two-foot-high snowbanks. The earth from Itzik’s grave was frozen in clumps and piled slightly higher than the snowbanks. The gravediggers had cleared a semicircle around the grave. Herschel stood by himself. Itzik’s son held a shovel, another shovel was lodged in the frozen mound. The old people stamped their feet and wiped their noses. Zalman sang the prayer for the dead and the rabbi said some other prayers. Everyone dropped a hard earthen clod onto the lowered coffin. Then the rabbi, Itzik’s son, and I filled the grave. Digging into the mound was like striking concrete. Each thrust sent a shock through my shoulders. Iztik’s son stopped to rest but never relinquished his shovel. The rabbi and I would each dig for a minute and rest for a minute. It took nearly twenty minutes to finish the job. By the end sweat had stiffened my hair and milky icicles hung from the rabbi’s beard.
As everyone stomped back through the snow toward the cars, Itzik’s son thanked me for helping to bury his father. He hadn’t said a word to me before. The only time I heard him speak was when he had asked the rabbi how he was to pay him for the service. Ahead of us the old people tottered through the snow. They walked in twos and threes, their arms linked to steady one another. Itzik’s son stopped and watched them. Look at them, he said, who knows how many they robbed and cheated and screwed? He turned back toward Itzik’s grave. He spent seven years in jail, my father, did you know that? I have brothers and sisters all over Russia. I don’t even know how many. For him nothing was forbidden. That was my father, you understand? He raised his fist to his face. He was like this, Itzik’s son said. He drove his fist into a snowbank. He looked at me to see if I understood. I nodded that I understood. Like this, he repeated, his fist in the snowbank.
No death in the building went unnoticed and Itzik’s was anticipated. The people who had knocked on Zalman’s apartment now slipped envelopes under the door. A bottle of vodka was left on his threshold. There were many in the building who disapproved of this behavior. My grandfather overheard conversations. But even those who disapproved felt they had no choice but to act. Everyone knew someone on the waiting list. Not to act was to guarantee that only people without principles would succeed in getting Itzik’s apartment. The people with principles came to see Herschel as he sat shivah for Itzik. They brought eggs and bagels and honey cake and apologized for what they had to do. Herschel said he understood. He understood it had nothing to do with him.
For the week Herschel sat shivah Zalman refused to make any decisions. Still, everywhere he went that week, Zalman was oppressed with desperate stories. He had to understand. The list was, figuratively speaking, a cage, old Jews peered out through its bars and stretched their plaintive hands out to Zalman for salvation. It was no longer a secret that Zalman had the manager’s ear and that soon enough the manager would come to him looking for a suggestion. Everyone also knew that Zalman needed to fill another place at the synagogue. With Iztik’s death and not counting me, he was down to eight regulars. All kinds of pressure were being applied. The one-armed Russian man swore he would stop attending services if his brother-in-law was not allowed to take Itzik’s apartment. His brother-in-law was a good Jew. He lived in an overpriced apartment. His building was full of blacks. He had diabetes. Why should he have to suffer because of Herschel? Just because this one shared a bed with another man he should be rewarded with an apartment? In Russia he would have been given ten years! And if this was the kind of synagogue Zalman was running, he’d sooner go to church than sit through another service.
Others appealed to Zalman with dubious temptations. Word had spread. Men who had never set foot inside the synagogue pledged regular attendance if only Zalman helped their deserving relatives. Zalman should do the math. In one move he would fill two spots. Sure, they hadn’t come before, but now they would repay Zalman’s mitzvah with one of their own. It was only fair. They had nothing against Herschel, but what right did he have to the apartment? Was he Itzik’s wife? Is this the kind of world we were living in?
On Saturday morning more than twenty men appeared for the service. Almost as many women settled in behind the partition. Despite the air of sinister motivations, the room was transformed and Zalman walked through the aisles with a sense of purpose. He threw himself into the service with exceptional vigor. He sang out page numbers in Russian and Yiddish. He called the new attendees up to the Torah. Everyone made an effort at making an effort. Zalman. The new attendees. Voices battled each other for distinction. Herschel sat as usual beside my grandfather. He sang loud, his voice mingling with those of the others. The synagogue swelled with beautiful and conflicting prayer. God in His heaven was left to sort it out.
After the service Herschel followed me to my grandfather’s apartment. My grandfather brought out the checkerboard and Herschel watched as we played. He preferred chess, he said, but he had always liked that all the pieces in checkers looked the same. It appealed to his socialist sensibilities. As if there was nothing else to talk about, Herschel looked over my shoulder as I contemplated moves. He dunked crackers into his tea and hummed a vague Yiddish-sounding melody. We played one game and then another. Herschel watched as if engrossed. He applauded clever moves and clucked his tongue at my mistakes. I finally asked him what he intended to do. He said he didn’t know. What could he do? He’d lived a long life. So many things had happened. God had always watched over him. Why would He desert him now? He was on the waiting list like everyone else. Maybe his name would come up? What was the point of talking about it? You lived as you lived while you lived. Today he was drinking tea and watching checkers, why ruin a nice afternoon worrying about tomorrow?
I left Herschel with my grandfather. They were setting up the board for a game. Herschel was remembering how, so many years ago, his brother carved beautiful birch checker pieces. The Sabbath elevator arrived and I climbed aboard. The elevator descended, stopping automatically on every floor. Two floors down Zalman joined me in the elevator. He thanked me again for coming to the services. If he had more people like me, he wouldn’t have any problems. I told him I was sorry about his problems. The laws were clear, he said. The old rabbis weren’t fools. What do you need for a minyan? Ten Jewish men. The elevator stopped on his floor. Zalman stepped out. He had more to say. I followed him to his apartment and told him I wanted to know what he would do with Herschel.
Zalman looked up and down the hall to make sure we were alone. His eyes shone with intensity. Let me tell you, I am not a stupid man. I have my
own opinions, but I am in charge of the synagogue. Do you think I liked the business with Itzik and Herschel? You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Itzik was a difficult man. And there are people who say they know very well why Herschel has no children. But for two years they came. I never said a word. Because my job is to have ten Jewish men. Good, bad, it doesn’t matter. Ten Jewish men. Only God can judge good from bad. Here the only question is Jew or not. And now I am asked by people here who never stepped into a synagogue to do them a favor. They all have friends, relatives who need an apartment. Each and every one a good Jew. Promises left and right about how they will come to synagogue. I’ve heard these promises before. And they say, With so many good Jews who need apartments, why should Herschel be allowed to stay? This is not my concern. My concern is ten Jewish men. If you want ten Jewish saints, good luck. You want to know what will happen to Herschel? This. They should know I don’t put a Jew who comes to synagogue in the street. Homosexuals, murderers, liars, and thieves—I take them all. Without them we would never have a minyan.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Leonard Michaels (1933–2003), Wyatt Mason, Hannah Young
P.S. Ideas, interviews & features
About the author
Author Biography
DAVID BEZMOZGIS was born in Riga, Latvia, in the former USSR. He immigrated to Toronto with his parents in 1980. He holds a BA in English Literature from McGill University and an MFA in Production from the University of Southern California’s School of Cinema-Television. David currently makes his home in Toronto, where he works as a writer and filmmaker. His written work has appeared in The New Yorker, Harper’s, Zoetrope, The New York Times Magazine, Details, The Walrus, and other publications. His most recent documentary, The Genuine Article: The First Trial, about the recruitment of law students to Toronto’s Bay Street, aired nationally in Canada. His first documentary, LA Mohel, about the lives of three ritual Jewish circumcisers in Los Angeles, played at film festivals worldwide as well as on PBS in Los Angeles. David Bezmozgis is a recipient of grants from the Toronto Arts Council, the Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts. He is a John Simon Guggenheim Fellow for 2005 and works as an instructor at the Humber Summer Writing Workshop. He is also serving as a jury member for the Hot Docs Documentary Festival in 2005. Aside from the many awards given to Natasha, David Bezmozgis has also received the 1996 Lionel Shapiro Award in Creative Writing and the 1995 Clark Lewis Award for Dramatic Writing, both from McGill University.
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Publication History
Books:
Natasha and Other Stories
HarperCollins, 2004
Plays:
“The Last Waltz: An Inheritance”
Montreal Playwrights’ Workshop
Montreal: December 1996
McGill Drama Festival
Montreal: March 1995
Films:
Genuine Article: The First Trial
Feature Documentary
Documenatry Channel, 2003
The Diamond Nose
Narrative (15 min.)
Los Angeles, 2001
LA Mohel
Documentary (25 min.)
Los Angeles, 1999
Interview
Is this a good time to speak?
I suppose so.
Are you sure? It sounds as if I might be inconveniencing you.
What does it matter? I agreed to do this.
If another time would be better I could call back.
No, no, now is fine.
If you’re sure.
Yes. We can talk now. It will come out the same regardless of when we do it.
Alright. To be honest, I sort of expected this. I’ve read that you do not like interviews.
What’s to like about them?
Some writers enjoy them. They enjoy the opportunity to discuss their work. They also appreciate the attention. I don’t have to tell you how many books are published each year.
You don’t have to, but why don’t you?
Alright. Thousands of books. Hundreds of thousands.
And to think of so many authors going uninterviewed.
I suppose someone in your position can permit himself the luxury of sarcasm. However, you might feel differently if you were among the uninterviewed.
I should be grateful.
Some might say.
You don’t think that there is some rationale behind who does and who does not get interviewed?
Rationale, certainly.
How about justice?
Justice is a different story. Look, I’m sorry, but this is becoming a pedestrian discussion. What would you like me to say? Bad books get rewarded, good books get overlooked, et cetera, et cetera. That isn’t really the point of our conversation, is it?
You tell me. You’re the interviewer.
Interviewing is like dancing. It takes two.
What about tap dancing?
Okay, with the exception of some tap dancing.
What about the hora?
Can the hora be danced by one person?
No, the hora, like the Native American round dance, is a group dance. Traditionally it demands more than two people. Tap dancing, on the contrary, can be legitimately executed by a solitary dancer. There are other examples, but I won’t belabor the point. All I mean to say is that the dancing simile is inapt. Commonly used, but inapt.
Very well. But it doesn’t change the fact that an interview, by definition, requires an interlocutor and a respondent. Someone must pose the questions and someone must provide the answers. That is, in any event, the conventional attitude. Personally, I don’t necessarily adhere to that kind of orthodoxy. I prefer to think of it as a conversation. I am open to a give and take. Somehow, I do not think you are. I get the impression that you are hostile. For you the word interview is synonymous with the word interrogation, which is not, in my opinion, what it is. You believe that the interviewer is attempting to reveal something about you which you would prefer to conceal. I can testify that I, as the interviewer, do not, in the standard sense, wish to expose you in any deleterious way. But perhaps it is that you regard any revelation as transgressive. Would you agree with this assessment?
If you are right, and I do agree, any answer I give would be revelatory and hence transgressive and hence a betrayal of my personal trust.
This isn’t going to get us very far. It will also not be very satisfying to a reader. A reader expects some personal revelation. Or, if the word personal strikes you as inappropriate, let’s just leave it at revelation. A reader expects some revelation, be that from a work of fiction—such as your Natasha—or from an interview with the writer of said book. I should say that from reading your book I had the impression that you were sensitive to the reader’s narrative and emotional needs.
I’m interested to know what you mean by sensitive.
Well, I’m glad you didn’t ask me what I meant by reader.
Did you intend that as a joke?
Of a kind. But I am not much of a comedian. I recognize that my humor, if we can call it that, is the kind that elicits polite, clubby laughter in faculty lounges or at cocktail parties attended by intellectuals and those employed in what we now commonly call “the cultural industries.” That said, my remark was only half-intended as a joke. Let’s say, at best, it was my attempt at being clever. Or, better yet, puckish. There’s a word that’s seldom used. I was trying, given the friction that is evident between us, to lighten the mood. But I was also, in, albeit an oblique way, alluding to something about your writing. I think you have a traditional approach to narrative and, as such, to the reader. Your stories are plotted. They are structured in the Aristotelean fashion with a discernible beginning, middle, and end. You do not seem engaged in some post-modernist exercise to subvert the narrative. It does not strike me that your enterprise includes drawing the reader into a debate about the nature of
narrative or the nature of readership. You, as the writer, do not interpose your writerly identity into the stories. Though the stories tease at autobiography, I would not say that they are deliberately self-referential. In fact, I would say that they clearly avoid reference to the authorial self. Some reviewers have described them, in style at least, as classic. I would propose that what they mean by classic is precisely this Aristotelean, let us even say reverent, approach to storytelling. Would you say that this is a fair assessment?
Reverent as opposed to irreverent?
Precisely. I would say that you exhibit a general sense of reverence in your treatment of your characters.
Am I to take this as a compliment?
Natasha and Other Stories Page 12