At the End of the World, Turn Left

by Zhanna Slor

  “Who was it?” my dad asks, getting out of the car too. He goes to the backseat and removes my bags, dropping them on the cement floor beside some dusty work boots. “Was it Anna?”

  “I think I’ve answered enough questions for today,” I say, in barely a whisper. The conversation we had has drained me of all energy required to talk, or move, or do anything. “It’s your turn.”

  “Hmm,” is all my dad says before taking my bags inside. I know asking him a third time won’t help, because if he doesn’t want to tell me something, he won’t tell me. So I go inside too, and head straight for the shower. I spend an enormous amount of time in there, closing my eyes and letting the hot water run over me. I stay so long my skin turns bright red and prunish and yet I still don’t move. I’m too tired. I think I’m possibly more tired than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m so tired I don’t even know what to think anymore, and possibly I finally understand why it took so long for the human race to come up with all the complicated words they have for emotions. They were too exhausted to feel guilt, shame, nostalgic; or at least too tired to know what it was. You can follow the complexity of emotion arising at the same time as more and more color words became part of the vocabulary; in ancient Biblical times, there were mostly only words for dark and light. Now we have the entire rainbow. We have cultures crossing and vocabulary continually shifting, languages dying (Latin) or emerging (texting). Some languages, like Russian, have so many variations of color words that they use several different words for blue, while others, like the Dani language, spoken in Papua New Guinea, have only two color words: one used for darker, cooler colors, one for all the lighter, warmer tones. Which makes you wonder: if you don’t have the words for something, can you still see it? Can you still feel something if you don’t know what it is you’re feeling?

  In some ways, I might have to admit you cannot. But this is the beauty of our global culture: if there’s not a word for what you want to say in your language, then most likely, you can find it elsewhere. In this moment, for example. I can channel the Germans; I am the epitome of Lebensmüde, which, roughly translated, means weary of life. Part of me wants to go back to sleep, but I know I won’t be able to sleep in this house. It’s too weird; the energy is all off. And it’s not only because there’s nothing to look at outside besides a vast array of flat, dry land with trees planted in perfect little rows. Houses so far apart you will never see your neighbors. It’s too quiet. It’s the exact opposite of Israel, where everyone is on top of each other, and it’s impossible to ever feel alone. In Israel it’s never quiet. Here, I can hear every single creak in the floorboard, every sneeze and cough from another room.

  Once I’m dry and dressed again, I feel like a new person. I take a walk around the house, looking at how my mom has rearranged everything she moved from our previous house in Hartland. Even though she has the same hand-painted vases and custom mirrors and Kandinsky prints, it all looks so different here in the vast emptiness of the wide-open single-floor design. I can’t really pinpoint why. But something is staler. Maybe it’s the actual building, or maybe it’s just that no one is here but us.

  Finally, after several tours around the house and finding nothing of interest, I go to Anna’s room. I’d figured they would turn it into a guest room or an extra office or something by now, but it looks like no one’s been in here since she moved out. It’s still totally filled with her stuff. There are piles of old canvases and art supplies and textbooks, even some old dolls. Her bed is there, unmade, like she could return at any moment, and the closet is full of clothes, thrift-store items, full of holes and stains.

  Next, my glance falls on Anna’s desk, adorned with more paintbrushes than I can count and a small tabletop easel held together by duct tape and two lamps. And a computer that looks as though it’s been hastily dropped off, not even plugged in.

  Then it hits me. That’s my computer. The one I gave her before I left. Surely, as her only computer, she had taken it to school with her? Which means she must have brought it here along with all her art supplies before she left town. That’s why there’s so much stuff in her room. Wherever she was living before she disappeared, she is no longer living there, that’s for sure. Which means everything she owns is basically in that room.

  I plug the computer in and wait for it boot up, hoping she hasn’t changed the password, and ideally, that some of her logins are saved. If I could get into her emails or maybe her MySpace account, there might be a chance of finding some kind of clue. A nineteen-year-old girl, in this day and age? Her whole life would be on this computer.

  I’m so used to laptops that for a moment I think the computer might be dead. Apparently it’s just slow, because eventually it starts to make a very loud whirring noise and text begins to appear on the screen. There’s not even a password required to login and the house Wi-Fi automatically connects, so in seconds I’m all set to go. I open an internet browser and open MySpace. A message prompts me to update the browser, which I decline. I write in Anna’s screen name, then wait to see if the password bar is populated automatically. But no, it remains blank. Crap.

  I try the same password I used to use, buffy1983. I get an error in red: incorrect password. I try another version, with her birth year instead of mine. No go. It makes sense, I suppose. Anna was never as big of a fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer as I was. What is Anna into? I can hardly remember; it’s been so long since we had any sort of innocuous conversation about TV or anything really. I look around the room for clues. There’s a Salvador Dalí calendar hanging on the wall above the desk; I try combinations of Dalí with our birth years or her favorite number, 23; at least, what I remember her favorite number being in school. A stack of DVDs on the floor ignites five more minutes of password combinations; characters from Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter and X-Men. I’m about to give up when I have the idea to try my own name. Masha23, I type.

  Bingo! I’m in.

  Before I have a chance to feel guilty that she would use my name as a password—a black hole of guilt that I do not have the time to fall into—I open her profile to see if she is friends with anyone named Zoya. She is, indeed. I go to the page, but there’s only the barest minimum of information on there, no pictures or anything like that. I could try talking to her on the chat sidebar, but what would I say? Have you seen my sister? If only I could read their previous messages….on Facebook, the messages automatically save themselves on the server. Not on MySpace, though.

  Without thinking too much about it, as I doubt it will get us anywhere, I open a chat with Zoya and write Hi. I leave it open while I move to Facebook. As far as I know, my sister never joined this platform. But I never really use any of these websites. I always preferred good old-fashioned phone calls or email. So what do I know?

  Apparently, nothing. Facebook’s login page loads, and lo and behold, Anna’s email address is typed into the login bar. I try the same password I used for MySpace, and now I’ve logged into her Facebook, too. Facebook congratulates me for reactivating my account. Because she had only deactivated her account and not deleted it, all her info is still available.

  I move straight to the messages and find a conversation with “Facebook User” at the top. This is easy to do as there is only one other person she was messaging on here anyway, someone named Ashley who was trying to reconnect from high school, who Anna had ignored. Whoever it was she was talking to on here, she deleted her account. Her name is gone, but the conversation is still there. Getting excited now, I scroll all the way up to the top.

  The best way to understand something, I have always thought, is to start at the beginning.

  MASHA

  ________________

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  <> Hi! Do you speak English?

  <> Yes, but badly. Do you speak Russian?

  <> Yes, but badly.

  <> Haha. We can try to use Google, yes?

  Did you under
stand my message?

  <> Yes. I did. I talked to my dad about it.

  <> And what did he say?

  <> He said I don’t have any cousins named

  Zoya.

  <> Naturally he would say that. I’m not

  your cousin. I am your sister.

  <> Sister, like my dad is your father or my

  dad is your uncle?

  Here I stop for a moment. It’s definitely Zoya, but her messages are all in Russian, whereas Anna’s are in English. In Russian, “sistra” can mean either sister or cousin, depending on who is using it. So I can understand Anna’s confusion, though I am pretty sure I already know the answer. My stomach clenches in anticipation, or possibly hunger, or a combination of both. But I am too invested now to stop and track down food, so I continue reading.

  <> Sister like your dad is my father.

  <> But that’s crazy. Did you tell him that?

  <> Many times. He’s been ignoring me already for months.

  I’ve been emailing him all the time, and he doesn’t answer.

  I want a DNK, that’s all.

  <> Hold on, let me see what that is.

  <> Oh. A DNA test?

  <> Yes. Just a DNA test. I will pay for it myself, I don’t want

  money.

  <> But what makes you think he’s your father? We left

  Chernovtsy a long time ago, and he’s been married to my

  mom forever.

  <> This was before you left. My mother was his accountant.

  You can ask him about it. Her name was Olga. She died

  last year and I found some old letters and photos with Pavel

  Rosenberg written on them.

  <> Sorry to be so blunt, but aren’t there hundreds of Pavel

  Rosenbergs in the world?

  Here I stop again and stifle a laugh. It’s so typical Anna to come out with that question straight away. It makes me miss her, and hope that she’s okay. I also start to wonder what on earth is going on with my dad. It isn’t like him to have secrets. Maybe there is more to him than this middle-aged Russian dad who enjoys Everybody Loves Raymond and mini golf. Maybe Zoya really is his daughter, from an ex-girlfriend perhaps, and he has known about it all along. Maybe he has another secret family out there. It would definitely explain some of the strange things going on at the moment, especially why he wouldn’t explain who Zoya was to me.

  <> I know he is. Since I was little, my mom told me I had two

  sisters in America. And then I found his name in the letters,

  and discovered his profile on Odnoklassniki.

  <> Yeah, okay, but this Pavel Rosenberg? You’re sure?

  <> You can ask him about Olga Oleskin, see what he says. I

  have photos of them together at work.

  <> That doesn’t really prove anything, but okay. Let’s say it

  is him...

  <> It is.

  <> Okay, let’s say, for a moment, that it is... If he is ignoring

  you, it’s probably because he doesn’t believe you. He

  probably thinks you want money. We’ve had people

  contact us before from Ukraine asking for money, even old friends of his.

  <> I don’t want money! I want a DNA test, that’s it

  <> But why? Isn’t it a little late for child support?

  <> It’s not for that. I need proof he is my father so I can show

  I am half Jewish and move to Israel.

  <> Oh.

  <> I understand that his family is very dear to him. This is

  why I never reached out to you before. But I must leave

  Ukraine. This is the only way I know. Please help me.

  <> I’m not so sure I can help you.

  <> Just talk to him please.

  <> But… Is it even enough to be only half Jewish?

  Having lived in Israel for the last five years, I know that it is, so I skip ahead a bit past the explanations. This woman really thinks she is our sister? And Papa refused to answer her? It doesn’t sound like him at all. And how did this sister come to be? My dad is the farthest away from the cheating type that I had ever met. Was it from an ex-girlfriend? It would certainly help to know her age. I can’t help but get frustrated with Anna for not asking how old she is. And also frustrated with Zoya’s side of the conversation. I have trouble understanding her, and wonder how much of what she is saying Anna really understood. I wonder, too, what kind of education Zoya has received. But then, of course, I feel bad wondering this. Maybe she is too poor for an education. It’s not her fault she hasn’t had the privileges I grew up with.

  I take an ibuprofen with some water from my purse and continue reading.

  <> …I’m sorry you had to find out like this. My whole life I’ve

  known that you live in America, and I did nothing. But

  now...

  <> I’m sorry. But I’m still not sure I can help you.

  <> You can ask Pavel about my mother Olga. Please.

  <> I will try.

  The conversation ends abruptly shortly after that and doesn’t start up again for another week. I keep going, despite my now-grumbling stomach, because maybe the next conversation will have a clue about her whereabouts.

  <> Hey. What’s your birthday?

  <> May 23, 1987

  I pause again. 1987? That would mean she was born after me and before Anna.

  <> Wow. I don’t know how it never occurred to me to ask you

  that. Why didn’t you tell me?

  <> Did you talk to Pavel? About my mom?

  <> Sort of.

  <> Oh my god. Thank you!

  <> Don’t thank me yet. He only admitted to knowing her. He

  said they worked together. He actually got very mad at me

  for even asking about you. I really don’t think he will take

  the DNA test.

  <> He thinks I’m a very bad person. An aferistka.

  <> Aferistka?

  <> Yes… like a criminal. A bad person.

  <> Are you really certain he’s the right person you’re looking

  for?

  <> YES.

  <> I just don’t see it. He’s not the cheating type.

  <> I’m sorry. I know it’s too late for us to be a family, I am not

  asking for us to be sisters or for him to pay for anything.

  I was a happy child. But now, it’s different. I need your help.

  <> I’m not sure what I can do, Zoya.

  <> I told you already.

  <> You really can’t stay in Ukraine? Is it because they’re still

  anti-Semitic? My dad says they still hate Jews there.

  <> No. If they do, I haven’t seen it. Everyone has always spoken

  about Jews in a very respectful tone, at least to me.

  <> Do you think it’s because they knew you were half-Jewish?

  <> There are very few Jews left here. It’s harder to be anti-

  Semitic when you’ve never even met a Jewish person, I

  think. It’s like hating some animal which has gone extinct.

  <> Come here and see for yourself! I would love to meet you.

  And didn’t you say you wanted to visit?

  <> I wish I could, but I don’t really have any money.

  <> What about your parents? They can’t help?

  <> Even if they could, they don’t want me anywhere near

  Ukraine.

  <> Why not?

  <> They think it’s dangerous. But it’s not, is it?

  <<
ZOYA>> Depends on how you mean.

  <> What’s it like there? Has it changed a lot? I’ve always

  wondered.

  <> It’s a very pretty city. Now there are more restaurants

  and coffee shops, more tourists, sure. For the ones who

  live here, it’s not so different. Most people are worse off than before. The country was better when it was still the USSR.

  <> Oh. I’m sorry.

  <> Anastasia, look. I’m not so good at typing. Can you Skype?

  I’m supposed to go to a friend’s house for dinner soon, but

  I’d really like to talk to you.

  <> I guess it’s okay, but only for a few minutes. I have to get

  to class.

  <> To art class? I saw your paintings on MySpace. You’re so

  talented!

  <> No, Algebra. I actually don’t really paint anymore.

  <> Really? Why not? I wish I could paint like that.

  <> You know, people are always telling me that and I have no

  idea why. It’s not, like, a useful skill.

  I stop scrolling again. Anna, not painting anymore? Of everything I’d heard today this is possibly the most shocking of all.

  <> But you’re so good!

  <> I guess I don’t see the point of it. If I can’t make a living

  from it, why bother putting all of my energy and time into

  getting better? I might as well find something else to be

  good at.

  <> This sounds like Russian parents talking.

  <