All Russians Love Birch Trees

by Olga Grjasnowa

  The ash of my cigarette left burn marks on the sheet. I lay in the half-empty bed and saw the corpse of the young woman in the blue gown hit the pavement directly in front of my feet. Eyes rolled up, bleeding abdomen. I freed myself from my father’s grip and ran over to the woman. Her dress was soaked with blood that pooled around her on the asphalt and ran up to my shoes. Dyed them red.

  My mother greeted Cem with overwhelming geniality and made him coffee.

  Cem sat down at my bedside and said that he and his friend had hired professional mourners in Greece for Elias, who during the next forty-eight hours would wail over Elias’s death. I could watch them over a live stream on the Internet. He had set up a YouTube channel specifically for that purpose. He pulled a laptop from his bag and on the screen I saw two veiled old women who did nothing but sit on two white plastic garden chairs in an almost empty room. Cem stared at the screen disappointedly and cursed in Turkish. Then he called Konstantin, whom I heard cursing on the other end of the line as well. Konstantin in turn must have called somebody in Greece, as a mere fifteen minutes later the professional mourners got to work: they screamed, wailed, and sobbed. We watched them for a while and they kept repeating one sentence over and over. At least it sounded like one sentence to us. I asked Cem what it meant but he didn’t know. We called Konstantin again.

  “I can’t hear it,” said Konstantin. “It’s too quiet.”

  We held the phone closer to the screen.

  “Wisdom cometh by suffering,” translated Konstantin.

  “Why are they quoting from the Oresteia?” Cem asked.

  “They are Greeks,” said Konstantin.

  “Call them again,” said Cem.

  I lay alone in the double bed, running my hands over the empty half of the bed and trying to find a different sleeping position from my usual one. My thoughts kept returning to his last night. I examined every second, certain that I could’ve averted his death if only I’d woken up earlier. I should have taken a look at the wound the day before. I felt responsible for Elias’s death. Most nights I fell into a restless sleep in the early morning hours and then delayed getting up. I imagined Elisha lying next to me. I would reach out for him and he would be there, lying on his side of the bed, with bent knees and disheveled hair. I would lean over him and wish him a good morning. His stubble would be scratchy. I would touch him. His body would be warm. I would hold on to him and never want to let go. Then he would push me aside, get up, go to the bathroom, come back, and maybe briefly snuggle up again. He would wear clothes that didn’t match. I would make fun of him for it. The sheets still had a faint smell of him and I wore his clothes to sleep. It was only when the morning came that I would look for him in the bed and remember.

  3

  Before turning the key in the ignition my father silently folded his hands for a moment over the steering wheel. Not in prayer, but in accordance with a Russian tradition that all travel should begin with silence and in a seated position. After the silence he pulled out and began accelerating immediately, even though we were still in the residential area. The pine-scented air freshener swung wildly from the rearview mirror. Mother smiled contently and sank deeper into her seat. I sat in the back, between Cem and Sami, both of whom were asleep.

  Sami’s student visa for the United States had expired. Normally something like this took two weeks, but if the passport lists an Arabic name and Beirut as the place of birth, even German citizenship was of little help. Once a month Sami went to the U.S. consulate, filled out forms, and was assured that it wouldn’t take much longer, just a few weeks, a routine check. This is what he was told, every month, for almost a year.

  The glowing red of morning hung heavy in the sky. As my father drove his Volkswagen insistently in the left lane and well beyond the speed limit, giving way to neither BMWs nor Mercedes, my mother looked at him tenderly. Sometimes I asked myself what our life would have looked like if my father had made it into space. I asked myself if he would have been happy then. If my mother would have been happier. Most likely it would have been enough if we had stayed in the Caucasus. Or if I had been a better daughter.

  Horst and Elke lived in a peach-colored house in the Mediterranean prefab style that looked a little lost in the eastern German province. An oak tree growing next to a white front door. The curtains drawn. Meticulously cut lawn. Toolshed. Behind their house the village ended.

  As we pulled up, they came to the front door, both wearing black. When we got out of the car the doors shut noisily and Elke winced.

  My mother hugged Elias’s mother, careful to keep their bodies from getting too close. Father shook Horst’s hand, as firmly as he could. Cem and Sami also offered their condolences. In the hallway, Horst took our coats and passed them off to Elke. Having dealt with the coats, Elke ran her palms over her thighs. Her satin pants were a little on the tight side. She smiled nervously, brushing the hair out of her face. Mother grinned, feeling superior, and pushed her purse into my dad’s hands. She wore a black dress that showed off her underweight figure, high heels, and a pearl necklace from my great-grandmother’s prerevolutionary times.

  Cem and Sami, embarrassed, took off their shoes. Elke started asking questions. Whether we had found the way easily, how the drive had been, when we’d left, if it hadn’t been too strenuous a drive. The questions came at a machine gun pace, but no one answered. Horst pointed at a brown leather couch. Seven coffee cups and pieces of cake had been placed on the coffee table. The room was a perfect German Democratic Republic still life.

  “That’s from the bakery. Right around the corner.” Horst’s voice trembled. He jerked up and closed the window, blocking out all sounds from outside—chirping birds and children laughing in the distance.

  After a while, when nobody could bear the silence any longer, Cem asked, “Do you collect clocks?”

  On the opposite wall hung dozens of clocks, carved from wood and painted. Their collective ticking amounted to a nerve-wracking clatter.

  “No,” said Horst, the alcoholic.

  “I see,” Cem nodded.

  Sami choked on the cake and my father patted him on the back.

  “You’ve got quite a few, though.”

  Elke placed her chubby hand on Horst’s knee and smiled at us. “They were my father’s.”

  “Did he collect clocks?”

  “Yes.”

  Horst cleared his throat and asked me, “Did you bring his things?”

  “Since you may not have the space for them,” Elke said in a soft voice. She ran her hands over her pants and looked past me.

  “But it’s your decision.” Horst went over to the window again.

  “She doesn’t want to.” My father looked from one to the other. In his eyes, I could see he was ready for a fight, if needed.

  My mother hastened to praise the cake. Elke hastened to offer more coffee.

  My father said, this time with more emphasis, “If she doesn’t want to, she doesn’t want to.” His German always came out sounding a little rude. In Russian he was more diplomatic. His posture was different when he spoke German: straight back, muscles flexed. His German remained basic, accompanied by a Turkish sound, Russian syntax, and Latin foreign words.

  Cem passed the sugar bowl to my father and resumed the conversation: “How many clocks do you have?”

  “I don’t know. Strange that you should ask,” said Elke.

  “Thirty-six,” Horst replied peevishly.

  “Çüs,” commented Cem.

  “Really? That many? I would never have guessed.” Elke smiled shyly and topped off everyone’s coffee. “Yes, it is exhausting. They always have to be wound up. That takes time.”

  “And the noise doesn’t bother you?”

  “The noise?”

  “Well, the ticking.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  We remained silent and looked past each other until my father got up to repark the car.

&n
bsp; Horst and Elke drove to the church. My parents trailed them. I wanted to walk and the guys didn’t dare to leave me unsupervised. The village was well kept and clean. There wasn’t much to it: an ice cream parlor, a bank, and round faces without makeup. In the yards poodles went about their business and posters for the right-wing NPD party hung low.

  The priest called Elias a good Christian and our brother. There weren’t a lot of mourners. The townspeople and distant relatives kept their composure. The employees of the funeral home had their hands folded. Friends—I wasn’t sure anymore whether his or mine—cried. People stood around in small groups and looked away when our eyes met. Because I had forgotten to change, I wore a gray T-shirt and jeans. Cem’s hand rested on mine. He didn’t let go of me. The smell of incense and rotting flowers hung in the air.

  The bells tolled and the guests fought their way through the narrow doors of the church.

  I stayed put, alone. The undertakers carried the casket out of the church. I followed them and watched the casket being transferred into the hearse. The motor started. Cem took my hand and sat me in my father’s car. Our car trailed the others toward the new cemetery. We lined up around the edges of the freshly dug grave. The August sun was blinding, searing itself into the mourners’ clothes. The priest was the first to pick up a shovel. Small as a toy. Threw soil onto the casket. Others followed his lead. Spots of sunlight danced on the ground. Elke had slid down to the edge of the grave in a soundless wail. Horst put his arm on her elbow and insistently pulled her up. At the exit the priest offered his condolences. He shook Elke’s hand, patted Horst on the shoulder, and nodded curtly at me. A chubby woman, the kind of person who looked like she voted for a solid conservative party to avoid any deeper engagement with politics, stopped next to me and whispered, “Are you the girlfriend? He was such a young man. And so beautiful.” Then she blushed. A little piece of lightly browned chicken breast was wedged between her front teeth. But Elisha had really been a very beautiful man.

  Elke’s restaurant was dim, an oily gloom of dark wood tables and chairs. Again the mourners were assembled in small groups. All healthy, rosy faces, their skin shining greasily. Otherwise: dying flowers, beer breath, and moist handshakes. Horst and Elke mingled, moving in small steps, receiving condolences. Some said that one shouldn’t die this young and least of all of a broken bone. Older ones begged to differ: In the war …

  Elke showed me a brochure with pictures of gravestones. They had decided to get a simple flat marker made of solid black granite, polished surface, scratch-resistant and highly durable, timeless and classic—that’s how the brochure described it. Then Elke went off to say hello to distant relatives.

  I went over to Elias’s grandmother. For the funeral of her only grandson she’d been given leave from her retirement home. She was a slender woman with thin, white hair tied into a tiny knot. She reached out her bony hand and pulled me close. I could smell her sweet breath and the faint lavender scent of her clothes.

  We got back by midnight. My parents were the first to say good night and go to bed. Cem and Sami didn’t let me out of their sight. I knew what they were afraid of.

  The clocks weren’t in sync. One cuckoo after the other was pushed forward on a small wooden panel to screech its eerie hymn to the night. Following their mechanical bird cry, some of them remained silent on their board for a moment and stared out into the room with dull eyes. Then the mechanism kicked into motion again. The bird disappeared into the clockwork and then another one shrieked. At ten past twelve it was over.

  “Dude,” said Sami.

  “Germans,” said Cem.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Masha?”

  I said I’d have a cup of tea before bed. I opened the door leading out to the deck and sat outside. It was a clear night and with my finger I traced the constellations of the stars, just as I had with my father when I was little.

  The next morning we drove back home. Father sped way past the speed limit. I looked at him and didn’t understand how he could still be alive and Elias could not. The landscape rushed past and never changed much. Fields, grassland, rest stops whose McDonald’s signs looked like the crescents on minarets. Next to the highway a carnival was in the process of being broken down, a half-assembled Ferris wheel reaching up into the cloudy sky.

  4

  My immune system gave out shortly after the funeral. Everything hit me—partly in succession, partly at the same time: an inflammation of the middle ear, bronchitis, a stomach flu, migraine. My body was giving up. I did nothing to get better, but a death wish alone wasn’t enough. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The paper planes that Elisha had made for me because I loved mobiles were still hanging there. I knew neither what day nor what time it was. I wasn’t even clear about the month. I lived in a vacuum. Sometimes I forgot that Elisha wasn’t there. Sometimes I waited for his key to turn in the lock. To hear his footsteps on the floor.

  Cem and my mother gave me medicine and forced me to eat. Sami often sat next to me and looked like the world had just ended.

  5

  On Christmas Eve I strolled through the park, along the Main riverbank and its backdrop of skyscrapers, museums, and darkly painted benches. It was the perfect night for outdoor exercise. The only people out on the streets were Muslims, Jews, and a few lonely Christians. My legs were heavy and tired, and in front of me a couple strolled slowly. Their kid cried, looking distinctly like a moth in its yellow snowsuit. Trying to pass, I tripped over a tree root and fell onto my hands and knees. The acute pain brought tears to my eyes. The kid clapped excitedly and stopped crying. My pants had torn and my palms were scratched. I cursed, climbing slowly to my feet. A pair of eyes and a hijab were focused on me. The man asked if I was OK. I nodded and he nodded, too. The woman quickly produced a pack of moist wipes from her bag, came toward me, and handed them to me. When I reached out to grab the wipe, she took my hand and proceeded to clean my wound. Her movements were fast and precise. I thanked her. Then I went home where I wanted to tell Elisha everything while he washed out my wound. He would put his arms around me, caring and lovingly.

  “What happened?” My mother sat on the stairs facing my front door, legs tucked up. Gigantic shopping bags stood at her feet. She came every night around six, an aluminum foil–covered bowl in hand.

  “Nothing. I slipped.”

  “Can’t you pay more attention?”

  “Mom.”

  “Seriously, you’ll have to take better care of yourself. You hardly eat, never clean, and don’t even bother to put on makeup anymore.”

  “Mom.”

  “I know that I’m your mother. As if that was any help to you.”

  I unlocked the door with my stiff, cold fingers and let my mother go in first. She put down her bags, took off her coat and shoes, and put on the slippers she had brought for herself a while ago. Then she went on to fill my kitchen shelves and the fridge with milk, yogurt, cereal, bread, oranges, vegetables, and chocolate pudding.

  “Did you know it’s Christmas?”

  “What do we care?”

  Mother rummaged through my drawers. She thought she knew what was best for me and took advantage of the fact that I had no energy. She found the drawer with the dish towels, took one out, held it under cold water, and cleaned my cuts. Then she poured a generous helping of iodine over my hands.

  “By the way, what I meant to tell you,” said my mother, “I looked at your sheets. You don’t wash them properly. I don’t know what you’re doing wrong, but as it is, they’re going to tear in five years.”

  I looked at her, thankfully, and laughed out loud. Her face was full of tenderness.

  Mother watched me eat. She herself did everything to remain underweight. We sat in the kitchen and Mother smoked one of her long white cigarettes, which in her case looked slightly frivolous. I opened a bottle of Georgian wine and mother spoke in a serious, calm tone that she must have prepared beforehand: �
��I’ll help you sort out his things.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll do it myself.”

  Again, I refused, this time perhaps louder and with more force than strictly necessary. In the apartment above us, children sang “Stille Nacht.” An offkey recorder accompanied them. A moment of silence followed the song. Then a man yelled something that I couldn’t make out. Then the woman. The kids cried. My mother and I sat and listened as doors banged upstairs.

  “I had planned on giving your neighbors almonds. For Christmas. But I didn’t get around to it.”

  The recorder started over with “Stille Nacht.”

  “I tried my best. You had everything you needed to become a happy child,” my mother said.

  “I know.”

  “Your father was one of the first who had to go. They pulled all Russians from the ministry and sent them as nonpartisan observers to Karabakh. I didn’t even know if he was still alive. Well. Supposedly the Russians were neutral, but the Azerbaijanis thought your father was an ally of the Armenians and the Armenians thought he was an ally of the Azeris.”

  The neighbors got louder and louder.

  “Afterward—” She didn’t say after what, but I knew what she meant. “It was just you and me. You didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at me. I wasn’t allowed to touch you either—a little like now. You were like a stranger, and you lost all warmth. You never got it back. From that day onward you became withdrawn and I never regained access to you. It’s absurd. I didn’t want to let you go. I knew it was wrong, but what should I have done? We had a dead body in our house.”