by Marek Halter
Marina sighed and flopped back onto her pillow. In the shadows of her room, she could now just make out the silhouette of the old woman sitting on her bed. The soothing flannel did her good and slowed down the drumroll in her temples.
“Thanks. … ”
“You were sick in the hall. I’m surprised at you.”
“Sorry.”
“So you should be.”
Grandma Lipa’s tone belied the harshness of her words. Perhaps she was even smiling. She took her hand away from Marina’s forehead and picked something up off the floor.
“Drink.”
Marina’s fingers met with a glass.
“What is it?”
“Drink.”
Marina lifted the glass to her lips. The memory of Levine’s kiss and Apron’s disappearance came flooding back to her the moment Grandma Lipa said, “The American, ‘Mr. Doctor Apron’ as Nadia calls him, arrived in his truck after midnight with a good woman and her son. The poor kid had to have his leg amputated after stepping on a Japanese mine while out fishing on the Amur. The American couldn’t treat him out there, because of the risk of gangrene, so he had to bring him all that way. He drove for two days without a wink of sleep and kept stopping to make sure the boy didn’t bleed to death. And once he was here, he operated on him without even taking a rest. The whole Committee has gone to congratulate him, even Zotchenska.”
Grandma Lipa gave a little laugh before getting up.
“Well, I expect you’ll sleep like a babe, now that you know. A little cry and a lot of alcohol do you good when you’re in love, but not as much good as sleep.
The day after the festival, the Birobidjanskaya Zvezda published the speeches made the previous day, accompanied by a number of photos of the speakers and the dance. The paper had been appearing without its Yiddish counterpart since April. On the last page, a brief article praised Apron’s courage. Braving a field of mines planted by the vicious Japanese on the banks of the Amur River, the American doctor had saved sixteen-year-old Lev Vatroutchev from a horrific death.
The following day, the Birobidjanskaya Zvezda printed more commentary on the festival. Four pages were given over to the MAT troupe and its revolutionary interpretation of Tevye. On page one, beaming from the very front of the stage was Levine, holding Marina’s hand triumphantly in the air. In an interview, he explained the concept of modernity and the profoundly political significance of his work. He also announced his trip to Moscow at the summons of “the top-ranking officials of the Central Committee Department of Culture.” On the last page, there was a small portrait of the mother of the young amputee. In an article alongside her picture, she told how Apron had to saw through her son’s thigh on the bare deck of his truck. According to her, he had spent an entire night battling to stop it from hemorrhaging. The article explained that the boy, under the constant supervision of the medical team at the hospital, was still fighting for his life.
The battle went on for a week. Every day, the Birobidjanskaya Zvezda would supply snippets of information about the boy’s state of health. Finally, a headline declared him to be out of danger. Lev Vatroutchev was going to pull through. He would soon need to have a prosthesis fitted. The newspaper suggested that this was an opportunity for a Birobidzhan carpenter to do his country a good service.
Lastly, there was a full-page spread from the pen of Party Secretary Priobine herself, singing the praises of the Birobidzhan hospital. The other pages were full of news from the Western front and Comrade Stalin’s latest strategic decisions. In the Ukraine, on the Donets and toward Kiev, the Red Army was still winning victories at the expense of horrific battles.
Every day, Nadia would provide the communal dacha with an enthusiastic summary of the care given to the survivor of the Japanese mine. As soon as Levine was on the train, Nadia, encouraged by Bielke and Grandma Lipa, had dashed off to volunteer her services at the hospital. The head nurse had welcomed her with open arms. Mr. Doctor Apron himself had promised to prepare her for the next nursing exam at the Khabarovsk School of Medicine. In the meantime, Nadia was one of four helpers ministering to the poor amputee night and day.
While Nadia raved about the American’s feats, Bielke and Grandma Lipa’s eyes would meet Marina’s from time to time. On such occasions, the young actress would detect an amused glint, a hint of complicity, nothing more. In the days following the festival, old Lipa hadn’t mentioned Marina’s drunken episode once.
Marina still hadn’t seen Michael since. She no longer had any excuse to slip out for “rehearsals” at the theater and found the idea of going to the hospital even more unthinkable.
One morning, she found a note tucked in a corner of the dacha shutter where they had sometimes hidden messages during the winter months. Her heart leaped at the mere sight of Apron’s handwriting. In a few lines, he asked her to be patient and not to do anything foolish. He was very much in the spotlight. The Committee kept bringing him visitors. “That’s the price you have to pay for being famous,” he said, “but it’ll wear off. Be patient, my love. There isn’t a day or an hour when you aren’t in my every thought,” he wrote in a mixture of Yiddish and Russian.
Yes, she was learning to be as patient as Levine.
At first, frustration and a wild urge to run into Michael’s arms and feel his skin under her palms, savor his kisses had clawed away at her like hunger. Then she had calmed herself. She had told herself over and over that she mustn’t spoil everything. The man she loved was there, not so very far away from her, very much alive. She just had to be patient. Apron had become Birobidzhan’s hero. The nasty rumors surrounding him were bound to subside and Levine wouldn’t be there to revive them.
It was following this same logic that old Yaroslav came up with a crazy idea, an idea that brought both good and bad.
One morning, when Marina poked her head around the greenroom door, he pointed the long stem of his pipe at her.
“Come and sit with me, Marinotchka.”
“I promised Vera I’d clear out the old manuscripts in the library.”
“You can do that later. Come on. … ”
Despite the growing warmth of spring, he was still wearing his frayed robe and his purple velvet skullcap. Smiling, he tapped the last page of the Birobidjanskaya Zvezda as Marina took a seat opposite him.
“There’s another article about our heroic American doctor.”
Marina nodded but didn’t reply, crossing her hands in front of her. Yaroslav puffed on his pipe, looking grave. It was difficult to tell when he was serious and when he was pretending to be for the fun of it. After assuring her that he was serious, he reminded her that he was the acting Comrade Director of MAT in Birobidzhan while Metvei was away. He was going to have to present the troupe’s program to the Executive Committee soon. They had set a target of four shows a month until October. Everyone wanted the troupe to put on Tevye again, but that was out of the question in Levine’s absence.
“I’m going to suggest that we put on the show that Vera, Guita, Anna, and I performed in Khabarovsk. It’s very Yiddish. They’re bound to ask us to perform it in Russian, so we’re going to have a long fight on our hands.”
Yaroslav emptied his pipe in the ashtray, smiling broadly.
“And what about me?” Marina asked.
“Ah yes, you … ”
He shot her the same look as he had in the scene in Tevye when he’d told her she was soon to have a peasant for a husband.
“What would you say to a tour of the taiga?”
“Yaroslav!”
“I’m not kidding.”
He reminded her that one of MAT’s duties was to bring Yiddish culture to the hamlets, kolkhozy, and even garrisons dotted along the border up and down the Amur River.
“In the past, the whole troupe used to make its way from one side of the region to the other in the summer months. They used to call us the ‘travelling MAT.’ It was marvelous, a real pleasure, despite the mosquitos, totally different from being here on
stage.”
“You want me to go all by myself?”
“Why not? You have everything it takes to put together the perfect show. You can tell stories, mime, sing, dance, improvise scenes, anything you like. Everywhere you go klezmorim will be falling over themselves to accompany you. There’ll be nobody to stop you from speaking Yiddish. Yiddish is only banned in shows put on by the troupe, not little storytelling evenings in isolated izbas out in the middle of the taiga. … What do you say?”
“I don’t know. … ”
“Is it the mosquitos you’re frightened of?”
“No. … ”
“Anna will give you one of those pots of her cream that would even scare the skunks off. You’d only be away for two weeks or so, be back here for a week, then go off again. … Nothing too rigid. From time to time, you might help out with work on the kolkhozy. They’d appreciate that. And the banks of the Amur are magnificent in the summer, where the Japanese haven’t planted any bombs, that is. … ”
“You’re making fun of me, Yaroslav.”
“Not for a minute. You don’t know anything about the countryside, true, but the peasants won’t bite. Most of them are Jewish. I dare say there may be a few Manchurians.”
Yaroslav’s eyes were twinkling. Marina just couldn’t believe he was serious. In the end she argued, “And just how am I supposed to get around on these tours?”
“Now that’s a good question!”
He put his hand over the page of the Birobidjanskaya Zvezda, blocking the photo of the young amputee from view.
“How about you accompany our American doctor on his rounds? He’s got a super truck. What better place for a little trunk of props and costumes?”
Marina froze.
“You’re crazy!”
“What makes you say that?”
“Everyone’s going to think … ”
“Everyone’s thinking that already, so what?”
“It’s impossible.”
“You’re mistaken, Marinotchka. Have you still not grasped how things work around here?”
Yaroslav leaned forward over the table and whispered, “It’s a grave offense for lovers to meet in secret. They should be making the most of life and working for the good of our great nation. That would be a clean bill of health for our country. Never forget rule number one of our valiant nation. Don’t hide anything, especially not what you want to hide!”
Marina tried to protest, but Yaroslav pressed his hands over hers.
“Listen. Now that Apron is Birobidzhan’s hero, his visits to the wider region have become a propaganda exercise for the Committee. Metvei won’t make any objections. He won’t be back for months, and Zotchenska will be delighted to find that you’re interested in someone other than her darling Metvei.”
Yaroslav settled back in his chair, his cheeks glowing with pleasure.
“I’ve already thought up a slogan for the Committee, ‘Culture and Medicine, the weapons the people of Birobidzhan will use to build tomorrow’s socialist nation.’ They’ll love it. We’ll have to get Doctor Apron to agree to it, of course.”
Yaroslav was right. The Committee backed his suggestion wholeheartedly. The time for giving the American the cold shoulder had passed. Klitenit congratulated Marina publicly, predicting that she would be the “new face of culture that would bring a little sunshine into Birobidzhan’s homes.” However, in order to keep up the pretense of a purely professional relationship, Marina and Apron continued to steer clear of each other, even on the evening when Marina gave a preview of the tales she planned to act out during her tours.
Yaroslav and Anna had helped Marina choose from the thousands of Yiddish tales that were among the most prized possessions of the theater library. The titles themselves were a feast for the imagination: The Golem; The Rooster Prince; A Tale of a King and a Wise Man; The Rabbi Who Was Turned into a Werewolf; and The Wind Who Lost His Temper, to name a few.
Miming, dancing, and even performing in Russian, with Yaroslav’s consent, Marina staged a one-woman show at the theater, giving a taste of what the inhabitants of Birobidzhan’s kolkhozy had in store for them. A big red banner embroidered with Yaroslav’s slogan in Russian and Yiddish hung behind her at the back of the stage. The Committee applauded long and loud. Zotchenska was as nice as pie. Apron put in an appearance, clapped now and then, was all smiles and friendly to everyone, but barely even greeted Marina. At the first opportunity, he slipped away. He had patients to attend to.
Nobody was really fooled, but wasn’t that how things went? As Bielke put it, “That crazy old Yaroslav has more common sense than I would have given him credit for.”
Grandma Lipa held her peace. Only Nadia was suddenly distant, moody, and even aggressive on occasion. Marina couldn’t tell whether she was jealous or whether she resented her for betraying Levine. She would have liked to talk to the girl about it, but Grandma Lipa advised her against it.
“Leave her. She’ll get over it. Her feelings are quite normal for her age.”
The Birobidjanskaya Zvezda announced that the first tour was set for the beginning of June. It was a strange send-off. Not long after dawn, Apron came to the theater to load Marina’s huge trunk into the truck. Yaroslav and the Koplevna sisters were there to kiss their comrade goodbye. Zotchenska, Klitenit, and a few other Committee members came along with the photographer from the Birobidjanskaya Zvezda to immortalize the moment.
It had been weeks since Apron and Marina had last seen each other or touched. Marina’s stomach was in knots. She could barely manage a goodbye or a smile, still less promise that it would all go smoothly. Apron was his usual relaxed and jovial self, too relaxed and jovial for Marina. When the politruk kissed him goodbye, his response was a little too warm for her liking. While old Yaroslav found the send-off highly amusing, Marina ended up hating it and let her irritation show.
After the ZIS had driven away, trailing a small plume of smoke, Klitenit frowned and muttered to Yaroslav, “I thought those two got along well together. Don’t they?”
Yaroslav pursed his lips wearily.
“Our Marina isn’t easy to get along with. She’s a beautiful actress, but not easy to get along with at all, Comrade Klitenit. To tell you the truth, I’d rather she was with the American in the taiga than here in the wings.”
They left Birobidzhan along a wide dirt track. The ZIS stirred up a cloud of dust, bouncing and creaking in the potholes. The engine backfired, the rear deck rattled, the spare gas cans and trunks jolted, and the axles squeaked in concert, creating a deafening hullabaloo for the unaccustomed ear. A cigarette stuck between his lips, suppressing a smile, Apron kept glancing across at Marina. She was clinging to the door. The springs of her seat groaned under her, apparently intent on throwing her against the metal roof. The morning sun was already shining brightly and the temperature was rising fast. Inside, the ZIS smelled of oil, gas, and worn leather. Marina couldn’t bring herself to speak. She didn’t even dare turn her head toward Michael, waiting for him to make the first move. The truth was she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t know why not. He had to touch her first.
They drove along for another quarter of an hour that way, flying past the last izbas in Birobidzhan sprawled along the track. Women in headscarves raised their hands.
Apron tooted and called out greetings in Yiddish. Then there were only fields covered in white flowers, waving like an enormous sheet right to the slopes of a forest of beech and larch trees.
They reached its edge faster than Marina had expected. The truck left the wide track behind and dived into the forest, braking as it bumped down onto a trail.
Marina finally shouted above the racket, “Where are you going, Michael?”
He laughed but made no reply. Branches whipped at the sides of the ZIS. A narrow clearing opened out in front of them. A tiny coal miner’s izba stood in the middle of it, its tin roof gleaming like silver.
Apron stopped the engine. An palpable silence fell. Before M
arina could move, Apron took her in his arms and kissed her long and deep. Then he lifted her up and carried her into the izba. Above them, the leaves were rustling in the wind.
“Where are we, Michael?”
“This is our place. Don’t worry, it’s quite safe. I thought I would die waiting.”
Happiness began, a pure happiness that knew no shadows, fears, or bounds.
Apron told Marina how he had found the izba falling into ruin at the end of the previous summer. Every time he was away from Birobidzhan, he had been secretly fixing it up.
“When I was a child, in the United States, I dreamed of having a cabin in the woods,” he said.
“You never told me.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. I was trying to think of a way to bring you here, when Yaroslav persuaded the Committee to let you go on tour!”
It was incredible to think that Birobidzhan was so near and yet so far away. The izba was made up of a single room. Raised flooring with broad floorboards stopped the damp from the ground getting in. The bed was built into a kind of wardrobe with sliding doors. A cast-iron oven served as a stove. The rest of the furnishings consisted of two chairs, a table, and a zinc sink with a drainage pipe running through the wall. It was a doll’s house. Water could be fetched from a nearby stream in buckets. In winter, snow would do just as well.
Everything was impregnated with the smells and life of the forest. The birds and animals that had kept away since their arrival started to fill the silence again. The sun played between the trees. After they made love, when their naked flesh was still rippling with desire, Apron dragged Marina out onto the thick grass of the clearing. Like children, they danced on the golden patches of light that darted away under their feet. Marina had never felt so free in her life, without anybody’s eyes on her but her lover’s, without any desire other than to love.
That evening it was warm enough to leave the izba door open. Apron rolled out a mosquito net before lighting a small paraffin lamp in the cabin. He threw some pyrethrum powder onto embers left over from heating up the billycans of food prepared by Grandma Lipa. Marina had never smelled anything like it before. Amused, Apron spoiled her with caresses.