by Zhanna Slor
At the End of the World,
Turn Left
Zhanna Slor
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Zhanna Slor
Cover and jacket design by 2Faced Design
ISBN 978-1-951709-25-9
eISBN: 978-1-951709-54-9
Library of Congress Control Number: available upon request
First hardcover edition April 2021 by Agora Books
an imprint of Polis Books, LLC
44 Brookview Lane
Aberdeen, NJ 07747
www.PolisBooks.com
Dedicated to the memory of my mother, Edit Vaynberg, and my grandparents, Nikolai and Khaya Vaynberg.
FEBRUARY 2008
MASHA
________________
CHAPTER ONE
The second I land in Milwaukee, I’m a different person. My whole body tenses, from my leather-booted feet to my long brown hair, crimped into stifled curls during the fourteen-hour flight from Israel. If my dad notices any of this, he doesn’t mention it. He’s smoking again, staring out the window. I haven’t seen him with a cigarette in years, and for a second I can’t help but wonder if I got in the right car. But there is no mistaking his dusty, maroon clunker in which I spent much of the nineties dreaming of other continents. Nor is my unsmiling Russian father difficult to distinguish from the other middle-aged men idling at the arrivals terminal.
“Hey,” I say, sinking into the old sun-bleached passenger seat. I decide not to ask about the Marlboro Lights on the dash next to a Nirvana sticker I’d once pasted there, nor why the right mirror is still duct-taped on at a strange angle, like a misplaced limb. When it comes to my dad, it’s better to wait until he offers information. Normally this drives me crazy, but I’m too tired to feel much of anything. I attempt a smile anyhow. “I appreciate your efforts to save money for my inheritance, but you might want to consider getting a car that’s not held together by superglue?”
Papa starts driving onto the highway, Mitchell Airport a giant brown slab in the rearview mirror, along with my regular life; schwarma, Nescafé, sirens and underground bunkers. David’s faded Golani t-shirt coiled around his tanned biceps, his gun never too far from his body, or mine. I suddenly miss it in a way I hadn’t noticed throughout my hastily planned flight. Gone is my semi-upbeat disposition, buoyed by three mini-bottles of wine and an endless stream of movies I’d watched on the plane. In its place a familiar, unsettling discomfort takes root.
Papa, more at home in this discomfort than not, is still mulling over my failed attempt at levity.
“If it ain’t broke...” he finally replies, in a thick Russian accent that makes me momentarily homesick before finding its way into the humorous part of my brain.
I find myself stifling a laugh. “Papa, I don’t think you understand that saying.”
“Right. I just stupid old man.”
“But it is broke…” I start. “Forget it.” I don’t bother trying to explain.
My dad’s hands are so tight on the wheel it pains me to look at him. Maybe coming back was a bad idea. I generally try to avoid lending credence to his anxieties, which have always hung over us like humid air that never draws rain. I try to tell him: everyone’s healthy, everyone’s safe. Isn’t that something? But in his mind, it’s still 1980s Soviet Ukraine. No matter how much money we had growing up, it was never enough; no matter how safe, it was not safe enough. This is how we ended up in the middle of Wisconsin, the only Russian kids for hundreds of miles, not to mention the only Jews. Well, that, and my great-aunt Rachel happened to live in Wisconsin, and since she sponsored us to immigrate, we had to come here too. That didn’t mean we had to stay.
“Papa!”
“What?”
I grab his phone out of his hand, stopping him from typing instead of looking at the road. I catch what I think is an email header from a law firm. Without looking at it again, I put the tiny machine into the cupholder with two fingers, as if touching it will spread some disease I don’t want.
“People crash from doing this every second of the day,” I explain. It’s the first iPhone I’ve seen in real life, and something about it gives me the chills. Or maybe I’ve been spending too much time among the Israeli Orthodox.
“Maria Pavlova.” My dad rolls his eyes, his use of my full name and patronymic inducing a slight cringe. No one ever calls me anything but Masha. “Forty years I driving.”
“That was before Steve Jobs,” I explain. I cover his phone with my hand so he can’t retrieve it. No way I’m going to die on Highway 43 surrounded by dried-out empty fields and fireworks warehouses. “These things are dangerous. Trust me, in twenty years they’ll call it a plague.”
“Plague,” my dad laughs. “Bozhe moy, you sound like your sister. It’s 2008, Maria. Soon cars drive themselves. If you don’t use all tools at disposal—”
“Then you’re always going to be at a disadvantage, I know,” I finish. “The thing you always forget is that tools can also be weapons.”
“Oh, I don’t forget.” He shakes his head and lights another cigarette, his expression dark again. Watching him chain-smoke like that, I feel myself get worried for the first time since he called. Or maybe it’s the familiarity of the drab Wisconsin roads, all that flat, dry land, punctuated only by strip malls and convenience stores. The sight of it produces an agitated feeling in my gut. Only then does it occur to me I could have said no to coming back. But my dad had been so riled up—it was Yom Kippur so, like most of Israel, our phones had been turned off for almost two days by the time he got through to me—that I’d automatically agreed to everything he said. There’s a German adjective for this, fisselig, which means flustered to the point of incompetence as a result of another person’s direction. If our phone call—admittedly, our entire relationship—could be summed up by one word, it would probably be that one.
That isn’t entirely why I said yes—I said yes because my dad has never directly asked me to come home, not once. He is not the kind of person to request favors. It was a sign, him asking me to do this on Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. Even I couldn’t ignore a sign so obvious. I’d done the unthinkable, in a Russian immigrant family: not only did I avoid becoming a doctor, lawyer, or engineer, I’d dropped out of college. And left the country on top of it. The country they had chosen. I can’t explain exactly why, but once my eyes saw the landscape of Israel—its ancient, dazzling architecture sprinkled across endless hills, the overly friendly young parents and bustling cafés sprouting up on pieces of land so old it’s impossible to fathom—it was inevitable. I was, to put it simply, meant to live in Israel. As immigrants themselves, you’d think my parents would understand this, but it had proved to be the opposite, if anything.
I turn to face Papa. “So. What’s the plan?” I ask. Downtown flies past us, a measly constellation of skyscrapers split down the middle by the snake of the Milwaukee River.
“Huh?” he asks, his forehead lined with confusion.
“What do you mean, huh?” I ask, louder, equally confused. Papa blows out a cloud of smoke through the crack of the window, the rush of air making it suddenly loud. I can’t get over how weird it is to see him smoke again. Like I’ve jumped through a time portal and I’m suddenly twelve, not twenty-five. Any minute now, I’ll sprout acne and gain ten pounds of water weight. “You made me come all the way out here, and you have no plan?”
My dad inh
ales again before he speaks, his words coming out smoky. “What are you saying? Is that Hebrew?”
“Oh! Sorry. I didn’t even notice,” I sputter, switching back to English. I could probably go with Russian, but I am too jetlagged to attempt untangling the wild mess of grammar that my native language calls for. If we’d come from the Soviet Union a little later, say when I was thirteen as opposed to nine, I would probably have a native’s perfect grasp of Russian. But my parents were really into the whole American Dream thing when I was growing up, and our Russian skills suffered as a result. They didn’t know that by the time we could attain it, the American Dream had morphed into something else entirely, and no one could pinpoint what it was anymore. Maybe that was the whole point. In America, the dream is whatever you think it is.
“Papachka,” I start, trying to get to the heart of the matter quickly, the reason he’d asked—no, begged—me to return. Seeing him so frazzled over what is probably nothing is making this whole trip seem less like a friendly visit home and more like an intervention. “Have you considered that, uh…maybe Anastasia is just…mad at you? That she’s not really… missing?”
“Maria, please. I may be old but I no idiot. I not heard from her in weeks,” he roars, in English. “She started hanging around in that stupid Riverwest.” Here he frowns at me like this is my fault. Which it probably is. I’d been the one to first show Anna Riverwest, an eclectic but semi-dangerous neighborhood of Milwaukee full of artists and musicians and, most importantly to my dad: a lot of crime. “I think she shacked up with guy.”
“Her roommate? They’re just friends. Get with the times already.”
“No, not Anarchist.”
I stifle a laugh. “I don’t think he’s an anarchist. He fixes bikes.”
“Not him. A boyfriend,” my dad explains.
“Oh. Well. It isn’t a crime to have a boyfriend. She’s an adult. She’s allowed to do whatever she wants.”
“This is what cops said, too.” He shakes his head again, frustrated. “Gospodi, I wish I’d had boys.”
“Papa!”
“When you last talk to her?”
“I think a few weeks ago, online,” I say. “I gave up calling her a long time ago. You know how much she likes to answer the phone.”
“Her phone is dead. I called AT&T and guy couldn’t tell me something except phone is dead, which I already know,” he says. “Durak.”
“That doesn’t prove much, except that she’s nineteen,” I explain. “Right now, the most rebellious thing a person can do is get off the grid.”
“It just like what happened before,” my dad responds, pointedly. “This why I ask you to come. You think it was easy for me?”
I sit on this for a moment, that old familiar uneasiness bubbling up inside me. Guilt. It coursed through every interaction I’d ever had in my family, even before I’d had reason to feel it; the unfortunate outcome of surviving when so many didn’t, I’d supposed—pogroms, Hitler, Stalin, mass poverty, my family had escaped it all. How would I ever live up to that? All I’d managed to do was escape them.
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to find her,” I tell my dad, quietly. “You should talk to the cops again if you’re worried.”
“You think I did not talk to cops again? They have better things to do than look for girl who no longer posts on Bookface account.”
“It’s called Facebook, Papa. And she wasn’t on Facebook, she was on MySpace.”
“Okay. My space,” he parrots, as if speaking in an alien tongue. He exits the highway via Locust Ave., instead of continuing north to the suburbs, where he still chooses to live for some reason I will never understand. “I ask you to try. You used to live down here. You familiar with area. You know...young people.”
“Not really. I’ve been gone a while. And I’m not so young anymore.” I turn my head to the side, confused. A sign directing traffic towards UW-Milwaukee appears on the left. On the right, the standard string of rundown houses, baggy-clothed youth with paper-sack forties and cigarettes lingering in groups. My dad goes left. “Where are we going?” I ask. “I need to sleep, Papa. And I stink. People will think I’m homeless.”
“This is better. You blend in,” my dad says, with a hint of a smirk. It’s the first relatively positive emotion he’s expressed since I got in the car. Not that my father is a man of many positive emotions in general; Dostoevsky was right when he said, “The Russian soul is a dark place.” Still, for a moment the knot in my stomach loosens, until I realize he’s serious. I turn to the back seat.
“What about my stuff? What about Mom? I haven’t seen her since...I can’t even remember. When was it that you came to Jerusalem for Totya Lana’s funeral?”
“So you wait few more hours, big deal.” He pauses for a moment, then exhales another long plume of smoke out the window, where the familiar landscape of Riverwest begins to pass us by. Center Street, Uptowner, Foundation’s bamboo door and candlelit windows. A line of parked, multicolored road bikes. They shimmer in the bright, hot sun all the way down to Fuel Café, patios filled with aging hippies and crust punks in black-and-beige thrift store fare, all smoking cigarettes above some scraggly dogs. It’s like seeing an old lover again; half adoration, half punch in the gut.
“Seriously, Papa? This really can’t wait?” I ask, in Russian now.
“I’ve been waiting, Masha,” my dad sighs. “You know this not good for me,” he adds, tapping his chest. “With my condition.”
“And you know this place isn’t good for me,” I say, looking back down at my hands, which are clenched. I unfold them onto my lap. I feel angry, then immediately after, like I could cry. I can’t explain why exactly. What am I so scared of? This used to be my favorite place in the world. And Center Street is abuzz with activity—a leather-clad couple walking two spotted pit bulls in bandanas. A dreadlocked mom with a baby attached to her chest, a face-tattooed cyclist splashing past on a bright yellow tall bike.
It’s exactly like I left it.
My dad, noticing all this too, shakes his head in confusion. This type of rebellion, more aesthetic than political, is inexplicable to a Soviet immigrant, where going against the grain could mean gulags or death.
“I told you not to move here, didn’t I? You could have lived at home. Anastasia too. Nothing would be happening if you girls listened to me.”
“We don’t even know if anything is happening,” I say, not taking the bait. “All I was saying is that...” I start. I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’s, I don’t know. It’s really weird. For me to be here.”
Papa drops his cigarette out the window and double-parks in front of the alley right past Fuel Café, where a purple-haired barista is throwing out a large bag of garbage. She turns and looks in our direction, squints, then drops the bag inside the dumpster.
“I could care less about weird. Your sister is gone,” he says. He reaches across me to open the door, essentially kicking me out of the car. “You still young. You manage.”
MASHA
________________
CHAPTER TWO
Before I know what’s happening, I’m back outside in a barely-there leather coat watching as my dad’s car disappears down Fratney Street. For a moment I stand there, numbly, staring at his bumper—plastered with Bush/Cheney stickers, something you could probably get punched for around here these days—and forgetting what it is I am meant to do. Then I turn to find myself in front of Fuel Cafe’s awning. Right. Fuel. A good place to start, if I’m really here to find Anna. Anna loves Fuel. Plus, I could definitely use some coffee.
Walking through the narrow, flyer-covered vestibule, I’m immediately bombarded with a vivid memory of her. My parents had gone to China for the week, so I stayed at the house and brought her to Fuel with me a few times. There was nothing unusual about the hours we’d spent. She doodled mugs and smoke rings in her sketchpad while I studied for my linguistics fina
l: A group of dragonflies is called a dazzle. Tsuris is a Yiddish word for grief and trouble, especially when caused by a son or daughter. Bamboozle derives from the French word, embabouiner, meaning “to make a baboon out of someone.” To explode originally meant “to jeer a performer off the stage.”
To unhappen something means to make it look like it never took place.
This word made so much sense to me when I was in Israel, but now I can suddenly see what it’s really referring to is an illusion. Unless you are capable of erasing your memory, it is impossible to succeed in unhappening an experience. Already, things are coming back to me that I’d somehow forgotten. How at some point, during our evening at Fuel, I had caught Anna looking around the smoky room and smiling. She had been becoming rather stingy with her smiles (see: Dostoevsky), and it surprised me to catch one.
“What?” I had asked her.
“Oh, nothing,” she’d said then. “I just like this place.” She released a shy sort of shrug that reminded me for a moment that she was only fourteen. It was hard to remember sometimes, with all her painting skills and sharp remarks, that she was still basically a kid. I almost felt bad for being annoyed that I was stuck watching her. In retrospect, I realize now, that week had been a gift; it almost felt like maybe, if one of us had been more keen on trying, that we could have been friends again.
Now, back in Milwaukee, alone, every single thing is telling me that I missed an opportunity. As the eldest, wasn’t it my responsibility to keep up with our relationship? Well, perhaps it’s not too late just yet. I look around Fuel to see what’s changed, and am relieved to find that except for the right wall, which used to be painted yellow and teal but is now covered in a floor-to-ceiling photo of young motorcyclists, nothing much has. There are still the same old, creaky wooden floors and tables, an ornate white ceiling that would be better fitted for an old downtown bank. The long gray radiator is steaming next to the windows, causing a slight fog. The stereo is playing The Cure’s “Lovesong.” After so many years of cheesy Israeli pop, it’s a shock on my system to hear something familiar and agreeable to the ears. A good shock.