by Marek Halter
That was how suspicion perpetuated, everywhere and about everyone, in Birobidzhan, as in the rest of that vast country under the yoke of Stalin’s madness. Doubt had insinuated itself into the very air everyone breathed. Suspicion was gnawing away at minds and bodies, and nobody could escape it.
She shouldn’t give in to it. It was a mistake to delve into what seemed strange. She shouldn’t wonder why Michael went off into the taiga so often; why he could speak Russian and Yiddish perfectly well one moment but would revert to his peculiar grammar and American pronunciation the next; why, as his photos proved, he was straying a long way from the hamlets and kolkhozy.
But, as she had read in a play that she had performed once, love always made you believe in what you had most reason to doubt. Her love for Michael was the only antidote to Levine’s venom, to his snakelike breath that had brushed across her lips and that she still felt defiled by.
Again she kept quiet, sought Apron’s face, and pressed her mouth on his.
Later Apron murmured, “Are you frightened?”
“I don’t know, a bit.”
“Is Levine threatening you?”
“No, not yet.”
“Is he pestering you?”
“No.”
“You’ve got nothing to be afraid of. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
It was a lie, but doesn’t love feed off those little lies that can prolong happiness?
The day before the festival, Apron had still not returned, and Birobidzhan’s battle against the mosquitos had already begun. All the dacha windows were barricaded with mosquito nets that had been carefully repaired over the winter. Like all the other women in town, Grandma Lipa got out some jars of citronella oil, added some rancid butter, and blended it painstakingly into a smooth, foul-smelling lotion. When Bielke suggested she should rub it into her skin, the look of disgust on Marina’s face incited a laugh.
“The mosquitos hate it even more than you do.”
“It’s vile. I can’t go to the theater reeking like that!”
“Very shortly you won’t have any choice in the matter, my girl. You can either be eaten alive by mosquitos or stink like an old nanny goat.”
“You won’t be able to resist,” Bielke promised.
“And nobody at the theater will complain. They’ll smell even worse than you.”
“Do you know what they used to call it, in the past? Birobidzhan’s contraceptive cream!”
“Nadia!”
“Don’t be such a prude, Grandma Lipa! You’ve told me much worse things.”
“Especially since it’s not true,” Bielke said, amused. “Give it two weeks and everyone, men and women, will stink like a cowshed and nobody will notice anymore.”
Vera and Guita turned up at the theater with their rank ointment. Anna Bikerman had added potpourri to her mixture, but the overpowering fragrance of fermented flowers only made the smell worse, as Vera was keen to emphasize.
Anna agreed, “You’re right. It still reeks, but it’s different.”
That very morning, Yaroslav came in with a smile on his face for the first time in weeks.
“I’ve worked out a way to perform Tevye!”
Vera started to poke fun at him, but Yaroslav put a finger to his lips.
“Shush … ”
Without a word, he pushed the chairs in the lobby out of the way, grabbed Marina’s hand, and started to mime one of the scenes they had rehearsed so many times. Tevye had just found out that the daughter he so doted on, Tzeitel, was refusing to marry the serious-minded fiancé he had chosen for her on the grounds that he was a student whose head was full of absurd dreams. Faced with Tzeitel’s obstinacy, Tevye went from anger to incomprehension, from hugs to threats, from entreaties to fresh rage. The scene was a favorite with actors because it allowed them to display the full range of their talents.
Within seconds, Yaroslav had drawn a smile from his old theatre chums. The silence emphasized his body language and expressions. Marina soon made herself his accomplice. At last, the “silent technique” that she had practiced alone on the stage when she had first arrived was paying off. She slipped effortlessly into miming the scene that Yaroslav was mastering so well.
Delighted, Guita was the first to applaud.
“You’re a genius, Yaroslav! What a marvelous idea!”
Anna was alarmed.
“What, you mean mime the whole play?”
“Exactly, no Yiddish, but no Russian either.”
“Yaroslav, nobody … ”
“ … will understand? Come on, Vera! Unless you count the newborn babies, there isn’t a soul in Birobidzhan who doesn’t know this play.”
“They know the play, yes, but not Metvei’s adaptation of it.”
“And you see that as a problem?”
“He’ll never agree to it.”
“So we’ll let him decide. The Comrade Director can say his lines out loud. We’ll keep silent.”
“Metvei is practically only ever onstage with Marina, Yaroslav. He’ll force her to say her lines.”
“What do you think, Marina?”
“I’d be very relieved not to have to launch into my tirades in Russian. If you’re going to mime it, why should I have to say my lines out loud? Plus, Metvei’s the one who’s been getting me to work on my silent technique ever since I arrived.”
“That settles it then, it looks like we have a unanimous decision. I’m going to see Metvei. Since he’s all in favor of originality, he should be thrilled!”
Yaroslav’s discussion with Levine was animated. Neither Marina nor her colleagues ever knew what arguments Yaroslav used, but on the day of the festival, the audience was utterly astonished.
The day started the same as it did every year. The morning was taken up with speeches, marches, and songs. Afterward, a big communal meal served in the covered market was an opportunity for more speeches, but sadness cast a cloud over the celebrations, putting a damper on jokes and laughter.
War was still raging. Over on the other side of Siberia, on the Volga, in the little towns of the Ukraine and Poland known as shtetls, in the hundreds of villages and ghettos that the people of Birobidzhan had come from, the Nazis were massacring, ransacking, and exterminating. Brothers, lovers, sons, and fathers were dying by the millions in a gruesome battle that was only just managing to hold back the tide of carnage. In the evening, when the time came to dance, once again the women of Birobidzhan danced with one another out on the theater promenade, their hearts besieged by ghosts, the absent and the dead.
The ban preventing them from hearing Sholem Aleichem’s play in Yiddish was designed to humiliate them. Ever since the first years of Birobidzhan’s existence, the MAT show had been the highlight of the afternoon, the pride of the little Jewish community. At long last they could take full pleasure in being themselves and having a homeland. At long last they could enjoy their freedom to use their own language, art, and memories that centuries of pogroms had not succeeded in blotting out. Every year, on May 7, crowds would cram into the theater. The auditorium was never big enough. People would squeeze into every corner. Children would pile onto their parents’ laps, bursting into laughter and applause.
When the doors opened that afternoon, however, nobody was surprised to see what a poor turnout they had. The auditorium was far from full as Levine made his speech. When Yaroslav went onstage, Vera Koplevna was in the wings, clenching her fists with rage. Her sister Guita did her best to calm her down while Anna clutched Marina’s wrist with a trembling hand.
“Poor Yaroslav! When you think how successful he’s been in that role! I’ve seen him draw crowds playing Tevye in Warsaw, and he won’t give up. He thinks miming it is going to help. … What a disaster!”
Anna was wrong.
From the opening scene, peals of laughter ran through the audience. Children were sent to tell the absentees that something extraordinary was taking place. The auditorium soon filled up. Yaroslav and Vera paused. Still silent, they w
aited for the audience to take their seats before resuming their double act. Soon the spectators’ lips were seen moving, mouthing the lines they weren’t hearing. Yaroslav had been right. Who didn’t know that play?
Levine appeared. His lines in Russian suddenly echoed around the auditorium. There was a second of dumb silence, then a roar of laughter. The applause brought the house down. Nobody doubted that it was a clever piece of stage direction. Once he had gotten over his surprise, Levine handled it all very well. He began to speak exaggeratedly, parodied his characters in front of Marina, ‘Tevye’s daughter,’ beautiful, loving, and silent.
The end of the play was lost in a standing ovation. All hugging one another at once, Yaroslav, Vera, Guita, Anna, Marina, and Levine bowed to the audience ten, perhaps twenty times. And when the klezmorim[8] played the opening notes of the lament of the violins, everyone was on his and her feet singing, eyes misty with emotion.
Marina had looked for Apron’s tall silhouette hundreds of times during the course of the day, but he was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t in the crowd listening to the speeches, or at the meal, or in the theater, either during or after the play.
As the day wore on, Marina grew increasingly worried. With every passing hour, the knot of fear and questions in her throat tightened.
What could have happened? Apron had promised he’d be back and, until then, he’d kept his promises.
Nevertheless, she didn’t let her alarm show, biting her tongue to stop herself from asking a single question about the American.
As dusk approached, her anxiety led her to imagine the worst. Had Michael had an accident? He might be injured or lost in the taiga. Had he been careless? Had he been swept away by one of those terrifying floods that could destroy a house? Or had he taken risks on the border? Might Levine have something to do with his absence?
Levine who had lavished attention on her all day, who had drummed up a round of applause for her at the end of the show, who had once again had his picture taken with her for the papers. Levine who hadn’t mentioned his proposal even once. …
Levine the patient, Levine the perfect.
Too perfect perhaps?
By the time the dance started, Marina was past pretending. She was worn out with smiling, accepting compliments gladly, promising they would be performing the play in mime again soon, yes, yes, as soon as Levine got back from Moscow. … Because now the whole of Birobidzhan knew that the next day the Comrade Director would be boarding a train that would take him to the Kremlin. And yes, she had repeated for the umpteenth time, the ice of the lie catching in her throat, yes, indeed, they made a handsome couple, but only onstage, wasn’t that right?
Upon which the women within earshot had laughed and given her a wink.
In an attempt to extinguish her fear, strip those words of their foolishness, and numb the panic that was fraying her nerves, she drank. One glass after another, she swallowed the translucent fire of vodka until she was so drunk that she had to sit down on a bench. At least that gave her an excuse to refuse to dance and simply stare mindlessly at the couples twirling and skipping to the tireless rhythm of the violins.
For a moment, she dreamed that she saw Apron appear in the crowd of dancers. He waved at her, laughing to find her in such a state. Then they danced like they had danced that first time.
No, not like the first time, it was different.
Like lovers whose lips had already kissed every inch of each other’s flesh.
“Marina? What’s wrong with you?”
The man who crouched down in front of her and took her hand wasn’t Apron, but Levine. Immersed in her dream, she hadn’t seen him coming. He brushed away the glaze of tears at the base of her cheek with his index finger.
“Why are you crying? You were superb!”
“I’m not crying. It’s the vodka.”
She wiped her cheeks on a corner of her shawl.
“I’ve drank too much, way too much!”
Levine laughed, then gently, tenderly, wrapped Marina’s shawl around her. Levine the perfect.
“Yaroslav did well to come up with the idea of miming the play, but you and I did even better, with you miming and me saying the lines out loud.”
Marina nodded. Yes, it was true. They had given a first-rate performance. There was no denying that Levine had proved his worth.
He continued to fuss over her.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“It’s just nerves. It’s been too long since I performed in front of an audience. Stage fright, that’s all. … ”
“You didn’t let it show.”
Levine stroked her cheek, brushed his fingers across her mouth. She tried to turn her face away, but her head lolled and leaned a bit more heavily against his palm. It was the effect of the alcohol. Levine smiled. Levine the tender.
The music and laughter around them grew raucous. Ultimately, the townspeople’s appetite for fun had overcome their melancholy.
Marina could feel people looking at them. Thinking what deluded fools they were, she stifled a snigger as it rose in her chest. Everyone could see Levine taking care of her. No doubt that was what he wanted. Before he left, everyone in Birobidzhan had to know that Marina Andreyeva Gousseiev would soon belong to him. She would be the envy of the town. Some women would give anything to be in her shoes.
A long shiver went through her. Levine sat down on the bench beside her and put his arm around her waist. She would have liked to push him away and get up from the bench, but she just murmured, “I have to go home.”
“But I wanted to dance with you before you left.”
She gave a little laugh and staggered to her feet.
“I can’t dance. I’m too drunk!”
She didn’t have to pretend. In fact, she was so unsteady on her feet that Levine had to hold her upright. Laughter broke out around them. Among the figures, Marina spotted Zotchenska watching them.
Following her gaze, Levine murmured, “Masha won’t give you any trouble while I’m away. If you’re sensible, she will be too.”
Marina studied him, knitting her brow.
“Sensible?”
Levine didn’t elaborate. He led her far away from the promenade and the dance. The noise and music grew softer, and so did the light. Levine pressed her close to him. She let him. Her tears returned, as did thoughts of Apron.
Why wasn’t he there? Why hadn’t he kept his promise? What would happen if she asked Levine?
She was tempted to but managed to control herself, reminding herself that she was completely drunk.
She would have liked to stop right there in the dark, sink to the ground, and roll up in a ball like a child on a grassy bank. Already the grass was pushing up under the garden fences. But Levine was taking her further into the night, gently and kindly, once again wiping away the stupid tears wetting her cheeks.
They weren’t far from the communal dacha when he asked, “So you haven’t made up your mind?”
She went a few steps further before replying, her eyes closed, allowing herself to be guided through the darkness, fighting back the nausea snaking its way up into her chest. Without even asking, she knew what he was talking about.
“No.”
“Why not? Am I so disagreeable to you?”
A bit too loudly, she cried, “No, you’re the handsomest man I know. You can even be quite nice sometimes.”
“So? What’s stopping you?”
She laughed a real grating laugh.
“Me! I’m the one that’s stopping me!”
Levine didn’t respond.
They had arrived at the house. A little lamp was shining above the door. There was just enough light to see the grain in the log wall and something of the paleness of their faces. Marina leaned against the front gate. Without letting go of her, Levine jerked her toward him. The chill of night was in the air. Their warm breath slid over each other’s faces. Marina rested her hands on Levine’s shoulders but didn’t push him away.
Levine laughed, an actor’s laugh, she thought.
“What have you done? Have you killed someone?”
She didn’t answer. The cold was going straight through her clothes. She started shivering. Levine put his arms around her. She let him.
Why had she drunk so much? She had no strength left for anything, let alone for defending herself against a man like Levine.
In a flash, a very old memory shot through her, the dancing, the alcohol, the whiny gramophone music. It was such a clear vivid memory that she thought she could smell the tobacco smoke in Joseph Vissarionovich’s coat.
With the groan of a drunken woman, she found the strength to pull away from Levine, but he only tightened his grip, holding onto her.
“Marina!”
She went on struggling, feebly, guessing what was coming next, hearing Levine say, “The American wasn’t there, did you notice? It’s the Birobidzhan festival, and he’s not there.”
She stopped struggling. The cold was clinging to her flesh now.
“Marina … ”
Levine’s mouth sought hers, a very soft, deft, burning, insistent mouth. She didn’t respond, allowing it to explore her face and lips.
Like a corpse, she thought.
Levine realized and loosened his grip.
“Marina … ”
She broke away from him, almost sober, flinging the gate wide open. As she staggered up to the door, Levine called after her that he would still feel the same about her when he got back from Moscow. “And I’ll still feel the same when I know everything about you!”
In the dead of night, Marina awoke with a start, cutting short a bad dream that instantly flew out of her head. Her temples were pounding and her mouth felt as if it were full of sand. She groaned and tried to sit up. A hand touched her forehead and clapped a warm flannel on it.
“Take it easy. … ”
Marina screamed, now fully awake. Grabbing the wrist holding the flannel, she felt hard bones and wrinkled skin under her fingertips. She whispered, “Is that you Grandma Lipa?”
“You don’t hold your vodka very well for an actress, my girl.”