The Birobidzhan Affair: A Novel

by Marek Halter

  Word spread like wildfire. The goys rushed over to the Committee building, while the Jews converged on the theater. Levine had the doors thrown wide open and the stage hurriedly decorated. The red and golden velvet banners embossed with the hammer and sickle, which were kept for public celebrations, were taken out of the prop cupboard. One banner, donated by the Jewish community of Kharkiv in the Ukraine to mark the creation of Birobidzhan, had one of Stalin’s quotations in Yiddish embroidered onto it:

  The just cause of proletarian internationalism is the sole unifying cause of all proletarians everywhere.

  A gigantic portrait of Stalin himself was hung from the fly system between the banners, a Stalin with graying temples but sovereign youth. Touched up in glossy pink, his cheeks were as soft and innocent as a baby’s.

  The theater auditorium soon turned out to be much too small to accommodate the crowds that were pouring in. Women, old people, and children piled into the lobby, calling out to one another, clutching one another in a flurry of hugs and kisses that seemed never-ending. Marina’s friends from the dacha were there, of course, in tears like everyone else. Grandma Lipa was comforting Boussia, who was tirelessly bewailing the fate of her husband and sons, gone to their deaths without tasting this long-awaited victory. Inna was asking every woman she got ahold of whether she believed her Itzik was still alive.

  Intimidated and deafened by their cries and the explosion of emotions around her, Marina didn’t dare go near them. She hid in the wings. Quite unexpectedly, the memory of Lioussia Kapler flashed through her mind. Like so many of the women at the theater, she didn’t know whether the man she was thinking of was alive or dead.

  Levine appeared on the other side of the stage. He was busy, giving orders to set up the lectern. Intending to go over and ask him if she could help, Marina pushed the outer edge of the curtain aside. That was when she saw him.

  The American, Mr. Doctor Apron, as Nadia called him.

  A tall man, he towered above the rest of the crowd. He was kissing the women, laughing with them, and hugging them affectionately. The crude glare of the lamps brought out the reddish tints in his hair.

  For a few seconds, Marina couldn’t take her eyes off him. She was hoping he would sense her presence and lift his head to look at her. Almost without thinking, she found herself imagining, fantasizing that he would leap onto the stage again. This time he would take her in his arms and press her to him, as no man had done in a long time.

  Her desire was as naked as it was absurd, as overwhelming as it was surprising.

  Luckily, Nadia and Guita appeared at her side, their arms piled high with boxes.

  “Marinotchka! Come quickly! Come and help us. … ”

  They had dug out some colorful garlands from somewhere and planned to hang them up at the theater entrance, as if for a dance. The next thing Marina knew, a small orchestra made up of three or four women and two old men with long beards, wielding violins, clarinets, and Russian accordions known as bayans was clambering onto the stage. No sooner had they made themselves comfortable under Stalin’s photo did Levine, Commissar Zotchenska, and the other Committee members gather around the lectern for the speeches.

  For the next hour, the auditorium rang with cheers, applause, and sobs. Thrusting their fists in the air, people hailed and chanted Stalin’s name. The orators all bludgeoned the crowd with the same promise. Their victory at Stalingrad was just the first step toward total victory over the Nazis. That first day of glory was only the beginning of the glory promised to the socialist peoples. From now on, the world would look enviously at the Soviet Union. Tomorrow, the Red Army would be in Berlin. The blood and lives of the sons of Birobidzhan sacrificed in the Great Patriotic War would forever after remain an immense source of pride to their mothers, wives, and sisters. The huge sacrifices that had been made to defeat an enemy bent on annihilating the Jewish people all over Europe would become the building blocks for a great nation of geniuses and martyrs, where Jews from all around the globe would soon find refuge, just as proletarians from all over the world were already finding comfort and justice in the Soviet victory and Bolshevik Revolution.

  Levine read out some of the letters written by soldiers to their wives and mothers. All of them said how calmly and confidently they had made their sacrifice. The old actor, Yaroslav, his voice hoarse with fatigue and emotion, recited extracts from Vasily Grossman’s articles describing the unstinting heroism of Soviet troops in the hell of Stalingrad.

  At first, the applause brought the house down. Then, as if exhausted by the hyperbole, the joy and exultation of victory subsided. Silence caught in their throats and their hands were slower to clap. People started to switch off, heads dropped, cast down by the sudden specter of hundreds and thousands of dead men who had fallen in the mud and fury of the Volga.

  Just as another speech was about to begin, one of the musicians jumped up behind the speaker. She adjusted her bayan and struck up the opening notes of an old Russian ballad that the people of Birobidzhan had sung in Yiddish thousands of times before:

  I don’t know any other country in the world

  where people can breathe so freely …

  Around the auditorium, first two, then ten, then a hundred voices echoed hers. Another bayan, together with the violins and clarinets, started to play. The auditorium, the whole theater, burst into one powerful and tremulous song, charged with everything that was left unsaid.

  After a brief hesitation, the Committee officials joined in. Masha Zotchenska grabbed Levine’s hand. Perhaps to cover up his embarrassment or to avoid displaying publicly what everyone already knew, Levine linked hands with Klitenit, who seized his neighbor’s. It was like a sign. Everyone, men and women alike, joined hands and sang of the hopes of the pioneers of Birobidzhan at the top of their voices.

  Hemmed in on both sides by Nadia and Guita, their trembling fingers clutching hers, Marina had a lump in her throat. She was deeply touched by this demonstration of unity. Although she didn’t know a single word of the ballad, not to mention the tune, it struck a chord with her, as if all the people around her were her own flesh and blood.

  As soon as the music died away, a thunderous clamor broke out.

  Guita shouted, “Tantsn! Tantsn!”

  Some of the other girls echoed her in Russian.

  “Yes, let’s dance! Surely a dance is called for!”

  Amid the frenzy, the musicians consulted Klitenit and Zotchenska. The youngsters chanted, “Let’s dance! Let’s dance!”

  The politruk smiled. There was another round of applause. Zotchenska’s face became red under the hail of cheers. Guita’s and Nadia’s cries had helped Levine spot Marina in the crowd. He waved to her but, caught up in the crush on the stage, he couldn’t get to her. The tiered seating made dancing in the auditorium impossible. The musicians filed off the stage and made space for themselves in the doorway of the lobby.

  The music could be heard loud and clear right across the vast forecourt of the building. The youngest girls spilled out onto the crisp snow. Amid much laughter and hailing, they found partners. Tendrils of breath swirled in the golden sunlight. Nadia took Marina’s hand and waist. Other women followed suit. Both light and lumbering in their big winter coats and felt boots, the couples pirouetted in the snow, their shadows as straight as arrows.

  Masha Zotchenska appeared with Levine in tow. They didn’t stray far from the theater porch. Levine was without his coat. One woman threw a big black shawl over his shoulders to laughter and applause. Zotchenska’s broad face was radiant with happiness.

  The music carried well in the icy air. The rest of the goys who had not already flocked over from the Committee building arrived within minutes. About twenty boys appeared. They were very youthful, their faces barely peeking out from under their caps. Guita rushed over to them, then spun around, waving her mittens to call Nadia over.

  Marina encouraged her.

  “Why don’t you go over and see them?”

  �
��No, no!”

  Marina stopped dancing.

  “Don’t be silly. Go and find a boy to dance with.”

  “Grandma Lipa and Bielke will make a terrible scene if I do.”

  “I’ll tell them it’s my fault.”

  She watched Nadia join Guita, who was already dancing. When she turned to go back inside the theater, he was there, right in front of her.

  She jumped, as if she’d seen a ghost. During the speeches, she’d tried to catch sight of him in the auditorium, but he had vanished. There was nothing surprising about that. Why would an American have the patience to listen to such speeches?

  Yet there he was, filling out his thick sheepskin coat, a strange-looking broad-brimmed cap on his head.

  He had come back especially to see her. She could tell at a glance.

  He was close enough to reach out his leather-gloved hands and clasp her waist.

  He pulled her to him. She let him, only resisting enough to leave a narrow gap between their bodies.

  For a moment, she forgot that they were in full view of Levine and Zotchenska, barely a stone’s throw away. It didn’t matter anymore.

  They started to turn, moving effortlessly and naturally as one. Their boots glided over the snow, lifting their shadows as they swayed in unison to the rhythm. Apron knew the Jewish waltzes like the back of his hand. All she had to do was let him lead. He was a good dancer, even in the cold.

  At first they avoided talking to or even looking at each other, but everyone around was watching them.

  Marina wished she could ignore them. She lowered her eyelids and leaned a little more heavily on his steady hand. Through several layers of clothing their hips brushed together, then remained close, giving their spins momentum, slowing them down and then setting them off again. They no longer felt the cold. Their intertwined bodies formed an invisible bubble, impervious to the ice.

  Marina tingled with excitement when he said, “Ever since the other day, I’ve been thinking about it. Every day, I’ve been wondering.”

  She wasn’t sure she understood what he was saying. Tipping her head back, she studied his face.

  In the end she said, “Have you?”

  He smiled, but it was a false smile. His eyes were sad.

  She could see that he felt the same as she did, that he wanted to pull her to him and press his lips against hers, to forget what was going on around them: the cold, the war, Birobidzhan, the prying eyes.

  He might have if the music hadn’t stopped.

  Marina took a step back, but Apron didn’t let go of her hand. Now that they had moved away from each other, it was as if the cold had swept between them. Marina shivered. Swiveling around, she saw Levine watching them, his handsome face as hard as ice. He had taken the shawl off his shoulders and was holding it in his hand, braving the cold. Zotchenska was no longer at his side. She was talking to the musicians, making them get up. Levine turned sharply on his heels and disappeared into the lobby.

  Apron squeezed Marina’s hand through their gloves before letting go of her. He whispered, “We’ll have to watch out for Comrade Levine. I’m going to get you into trouble, it’s not worth it.”

  With that, he turned and strode away. Staggered, Marina watched him retreat across the forecourt with long strides. She couldn’t be sure, but she could have sworn that the American had uttered these last words in perfect Russian, or had she only thought so because he had spoken in a whisper?

  Around her, the girls were up in arms because Zotchenska had gone back to the theater doorway to announce that the dance was over. It was too cold. The musicians couldn’t go on playing. Everyone was going to catch his death. After a few more indignant protests, people fell silent. The crowd trickled away in dribs and drabs. Nobody came near Marina, not even Nadia or Guita.

  That night, the dacha was strangely silent. The women seemed to be doing everything in slow motion, their movements almost wooden. They avoided looking at one another. Once they had finished the chores that couldn’t wait, they all went back to their rooms instead of staying in the kitchen chatting as they usually did. It was as if they had been sapped of every remnant of joy they had in them, and all that was left was the crushing weight of fear and sadness.

  Old Lipa didn’t have one cross word to say to Nadia and Guita when they came in after dark. The two girls ladled out the soup that had been kept warm for them on the stove without saying what they had been doing all that time. Nobody asked any questions.

  Silence and darkness descended on the dacha. Sprawled on her bed, Marina kept hearing Apron’s voice repeating over and over, “I’m going to get you into trouble, it’s not worth it.” She wished she could think nothing of it, laugh about it, believe that she’d been dreaming, that she was giving Apron’s words a meaning they didn’t have except in her imagination, fantasizing, the curse of lonely women. There were so many of those women around that it was becoming a hotbed of madness, and the American was toying with them all. Mr. Doctor Apron who took such good care of his patients.

  She was deluding herself. To make matters worse, when she closed her eyes, it wasn’t Apron’s face she saw, but Levine’s icy features. Then anger took over, weariness.

  She had finally dozed off when she became dimly aware of her bedroom door opening. Someone crept in and closed the door quietly.

  Marina sat bolt upright in bed with a gasp, her eyes scouring the darkness.

  “Nadia? Is that you?”

  “No. It’s me, Bielke. Don’t switch the light on.”

  “What is it?”

  Bielke groped around for the edge of Marina’s bed and sat down. Her rough fingers brushed against Marina’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Don’t make any noise. Just listen.”

  Even though it was dark and she couldn’t see Bielke’s face, Marina knew what the old woman was going to say.

  “Have you come to ask me to stop seeing the American too?”

  “Be quiet and listen to me. I know you’re not a child, but neither are we. We haven’t had any emigrants like you arrive these past two or three years. If you’ve come out here, it’s because something’s happened and you’ve got nowhere else to go.”

  Though her voice was stern, Bielke had found Marina’s hand and was pressing it affectionately against her thigh.

  “You don’t need to worry about that. We all have our secrets, and our ‘faults,’ as they say.”

  “I know what happened to your husband.”

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Marina regretted saying them. Bielke groaned but didn’t let go of her hand.

  “So you know what can happen then. You have to be careful. Birobidzhan is like anywhere else. Don’t think for one moment that you’re safe. Beware of Metvei and Zotchenska. Metvei wants you. He’s wanted you since he first saw you. And Zotchenska is so jealous she could poke your eyes out.”

  Marina flopped back onto her pillow. She pulled her hand away from Bielke’s.

  “Great, so I can dance with Doctor Apron all I like then.”

  Bielke’s whisper hardened.

  “Levine won’t share you with anyone.”

  “So? What am I supposed to do about that?”

  “Stay away from the American, whatever you do. … Metvei can handle Zotchenska, but don’t turn him against you.”

  Marina remained silent as Bielke went on.

  “Haven’t you wondered why Metvei’s still here while all our men are off fighting the Krauts in the mud and ice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Proteksia. One of these days, your Comrade Director will be a party hero and he’ll be in charge around here.”

  “What do they have against the doctor? He’s treating the sick, running the hospital … helping people. What has he done wrong?”

  “Don’t be so naive. A few years back, when they didn’t like someone, they’d accuse him of being a Menshevik, a traitor to the Revolution, an enemy of the people. That’s what they did to Moshe. … Tod
ay, they’re obsessed with spies. And what would an American be doing here unless he was a spy?”

  Marina didn’t have an answer to that. Bielke was right.

  After a brief silence, feeling for Marina’s hand again, Bielke whispered, “Be careful, won’t you? Grandma Lipa is worried about you and so am I. We’re very fond of you.”

  Bielke got up. Marina’s face crumpled. Her eyelids were suddenly puffy with tears.

  “Do you really think it’s possible, Bielke? Do you think he might be a spy?”

  “Why not? Anything’s possible.”

  Bielke gave a sardonic groan, then lowered her voice a shade.

  “But the party’s wrong when it trots out that line about all spies looking like vermin and having rats’ faces.”

  Marina smiled. Bielke’s slippers shuffled across the floor in the direction of the door.

  “Bielke?”

  “Yes?”

  “What if it’s too late? What if I can’t help loving him all the same?”

  The silence was so deep that Marina wondered whether Bielke had already left the room. Then she heard her breathe.

  “Then God help you, if there is a God.”

  Contrary to all expectations, Levine made no allusion to the American, either the next day or in the days that followed. Involved in a number of Committee meetings, he rarely showed his face at the theater.