Vyacheslav Gelman, though she, Sofia, called him Slava for short; until they left the place that was soaked with the blood of her family for a place that meant nothing to her except what it would do for her grandson, for whom she had lived since the moment she had approached Zhenya Gelman atthe Spartak Dance Club in 1945 and said can you help.
When Slava abandoned Brooklyn, he bought a small notebook, intending to keep it filled with details about his grandmother’s life. That was how he would remain close to her. The problem was that he didn’t know a great deal about Grandmother’s life. Even when she was well, she regarded her personal history as one regarded a tragic mistake. Some people can’t stop working over their tragic mistakes—Slava was this type of person; he turned over in his mind endlessly the mystifying details of his failures at Century —but other people prefer to live as if their tragic mistakes never took place. Slava’s grandmother was this kind of person. She wanted to know whether Slava had finished his homework; whether he had a girlfriend; whether he had enough to eat: She could make a poached carp that lasted for a week. Slava’s life seemed insignificant next to hers, and he felt hot shame in regaling her with what girl had said what to him at school, but Grandmother followed his words with such transport that her lips followed his as he spoke.
With everyone else, Grandmother was prim, unforgiving, impermeable. Even as a young man, Grandfather whined about aches in his chest, aches in his legs, aches in his head; this irritated Slava’s grandmother. She glared at her husband as if at a child, embarrassed and angry.
So Slava took advantage of their connection and, in high school, invented a ruse. He pretended that for history class, he had been assigned to extract a family story, for a pastiche on the personal histories of the class. No such thing had been assigned—Slava’s teacher, Mr. Jury, was a red-nosed tippler who gave out class-long assignments and napped in his chair—but Grandmother wouldn’t dare cost Slava a good grade. “What can I tell you, cucumber?” she said. “Tell me why you call me that,” he said. “‘Cucumber’” she said. She smiled shyly; she didn’t know; she had never thought about it. “Tell me about the war,” he pressed cautiously. She smiled again and began, “Well . . .” The sentence ended there. Her tongue moved but no words emerged. He wanted to say, Tell me because I’d like to tell my grandchildren one day. Tell me because it happened to you, and so I should know. Tell me because it will bring me closer to you, and I want to be close to you. But he was fifteen years old, and he didn’t know how to express thoughts like these. He only knew that he wanted to know. He could tell that she would tell him anything but anything, only if he could stand it please don’t make her talk about that . And though he grasped how important it was for him to know—even if everyone in the family had acquiesced not to trouble Grandmother about it—he couldn’t bring himself to make her. So he said to her: “Forget about the war. Tell me about how you and Grandfather fell in love.”
He wrote out the Spartak Dance Club story in his little notebook days after he decided not to go to Brooklyn again. His family had yet to understand what was happening, though his mother was already beginning to leave messages on his answering machine, first hectoring, then begging, then feigning poor health, then feigning good news, then claiming to need advice, then loudly giving up. But Grandmother understood why he had to disappear, he reassured himself. Even though she never called, somehow she understood, if only because she believed that everything he did was blameless and true.
But the story of how Grandmother and Grandfather fell in love was the only story that Slava had. He traced and retraced its slender collection of details, his pocket notebook as
When Slava abandoned Brooklyn, he bought a small notebook, intending to keep it filled with details about his grandmother’s life. That was how he would remain close to her. The problem was that he didn’t know a great deal about Grandmother’s life. Even when she was well, she regarded her personal history as one regarded a tragic mistake. Some people can’t stop working over their tragic mistakes—Slava was this type of person; he turned over in his mind endlessly the mystifying details of his failures at Century —but other people prefer to live as if their tragic mistakes never took place. Slava’s grandmother was this kind of person. She wanted to know whether Slava had finished his homework; whether he had a girlfriend; whether he had enough to eat: She could make a poached carp that lasted for a week. Slava’s life seemed insignificant next to hers, and he felt hot shame in regaling her with what girl had said what to him at school, but Grandmother followed his words with such transport that her lips followed his as he spoke.
With everyone else, Grandmother was prim, unforgiving, impermeable. Even as a young man, Grandfather whined about aches in his chest, aches in his legs, aches in his head; this irritated Slava’s grandmother. She glared at her husband as if at a child, embarrassed and angry.
So Slava took advantage of their connection and, in high school, invented a ruse. He pretended that for history class, he had been assigned to extract a family story, for a pastiche on the personal histories of the class. No such thing had been assigned—Slava’s teacher, Mr. Jury, was a red-nosed tippler who gave out class-long assignments and napped in his chair—but Grandmother wouldn’t dare cost Slava a good grade. “What can I tell you, cucumber?” she said. “Tell me why you call me that,” he said. “‘Cucumber’” she said. She smiled shyly; she didn’t know; she had never thought about it. “Tell me about the war,” he pressed cautiously. She smiled again and began, “Well . . .” The sentence ended there. Her tongue moved but no words emerged. He wanted to say, Tell me because I’d like to tell my grandchildren one day. Tell me because it happened to you, and so I should know. Tell me because it will bring me closer to you, and I want to be close to you. But he was fifteen years old, and he didn’t know how to express thoughts like these. He only knew that he wanted to know. He could tell that she would tell him anything but anything, only if he could stand it please don’t make her talk about that . And though he grasped how important it was for him to know—even if everyone in the family had acquiesced not to trouble Grandmother about it—he couldn’t bring himself to make her. So he said to her: “Forget about the war. Tell me about how you and Grandfather fell in love.”
He wrote out the Spartak Dance Club story in his little notebook days after he decided not to go to Brooklyn again. His family had yet to understand what was happening, though his mother was already beginning to leave messages on his answering machine, first hectoring, then begging, then feigning poor health, then feigning good news, then claiming to need advice, then loudly giving up. But Grandmother understood why he had to disappear, he reassured himself. Even though she never called, somehow she understood, if only because she believed that everything he did was blameless and true.
But the story of how Grandmother and Grandfather fell in love was the only story that Slava had. He traced and retraced its slender collection of details, his pocket notebook as
Similar Books
