Do you know them?
That’s Jura . . . And Maruska and Serjoža. And Irina and Zina and Ženja. And Oleg.
So you know them.
Unfortunately.
The tune is familiar . . .
Jura and Oleg are singing a song named “Katyusha”. It tells about the Second World War. About a girl longing for her lover on the front.
I know that song too! We sang it in Hebrew at the kibbutz. “The pears and apples were in bloom . . .”
That’s how the song starts. It’s a sentimental, nationalistic song. All Russians love it.
Including you?
Including me.
Slightly inebriated, Polina’s coworkers walk unsteadily, Serjoža as always seeming to move in Maruska’s wake. But there’s no sign of Polina. Silence falls. The laughing people disappear into taxis taking them to bars or their homes. Maybe to strange beds. Maybe to their own.
Polina . . . Have you ever wondered why us?
You and me?
No, all seven of us. Why us specifically?
I don’t know, but I’m sure we aren’t the only ones. It would be pretty arrogant to think that this strange fate only befell the seven of us.
But where are all the others? Where are the men? Where are the children? Why didn’t we find anyone after Ulrike?
Maybe our group was full.
Full from whose perspective?
How would I know? Maybe there isn’t any reason it was us. We were just thrown together. Randomly.
But who did the throwing?
No one. I was speaking metaphorically.
You don’t believe in God?
Not any more.
Somewhere underneath, down where all the most obscure mental swellings tend to hide, a space gradually begins to grow, thought upon thought: a vacuum where a certain familiar, but purposefully forgotten, image might insidiously re-emerge.
Too bad my mother can’t see me now.
Out of all the people in the world, Shlomith, your mother is the one you wish could see you?
She’s dead. But yes. I’d like to see her expression now.
I don’t have any trouble imagining my mother’s expression. It would be the same sort of incredulous dismay as when she died.
My mother died expressionlessly. In her own bed.
Was it a beautiful death?
Not really. At the end she was so full of anger.
I wish Maruska and Serjoža could have seen me a moment ago. It would have given them something to think about.
You have something stuck in your craw?
Oh so many things! Serjoža thinks he knows everything. And Maruska is an idiot.
As if by mutual agreement, Shlomith and Polina release each other’s gaze and glance around. Had there been motion somewhere on the periphery of their vision? Would Serjoža and Maruska return to look for Polina? Would Irina, Zina, and Ženja call her by name? Would Jura and Oleg appear and cry, “Forgive us, Polina!”
But the yard, surrounded by piles of snow, is still empty.
Polina, I don’t think you’re coming.
Seems that way. I don’t understand why we’re here if I’m not, though.
Maybe you are. Maybe we just haven’t noticed you.
But where could I be?
Do you remember when you described your final memories? You talked about warmth.
Then it’s clear we’re in the wrong place!
But you came to the whiteness wearing a sable coat.
And only one boot.
Polina, we just have to go looking for you.
Polina and Shlomith close their eyes as they had done following Rosa Imaculada, so nothing visible would disturb them. The only place Polina can think about now, the place where she herself might be, is Zlom, the back room of Zlom, where the employees sometimes spent the evening.
Polina begins guiding them with determination toward the red painted back door. In her mind she sees the familiar rusty lock that only works if the door is given a swift kick. In her mind she hears the familiar squeak; no one ever oils the hinges. Then they’re on the other side. A tattered corner sofa marked with cigarette burns. A large, shabby, plush rug that’s collected splashes of this and that over the years on its oriental design. Empty bottles and full ashtrays litter the floor. Along with her fur-trimmed handbag.
She’s been in this room.
And then it comes, the first sentence, a familiar purring voice and an accusation like a lightning bolt: “Polina, you’re drinking too fast.” Out of nowhere, just as she’s beginning to relax, beginning to forget her fear. “Polina, you drink too much.” Just as she’s gathered her strength to talk about a serious issue that has been bothering her for some time. “Don’t you think so, Serjoža?” The symmetrical nostrils tremble. “You drink like a Russian man, Polina.”
She doesn’t lap at her champagne like Irina, and she doesn’t forget her glass on the table like Ženja, who has such a compulsion to needle and taunt people that she doesn’t have time to drink. She doesn’t pour herself glass after glass of wine and lemon soda like Zina, or sip prettily from her own glass whenever she remembers, like Maruska, who instead of drinking is always filling other’s glasses—until she suddenly pipes up and says, “I apologize if this question feels intrusive, Polina, but Serjoža and I have been wondering about this together. I guess we can say it out loud now?” Serjoža nods, his large protruding ears wagging. “I’ve also talked to Irina and Oleg about this. We’re all a little worried about you, Polina.”
Then Zina raises a finger. “Maruska, come on!” Zina’s face is red with irritation. “This is my going-away party!” Angrily she looks at Maruska and for some reason starts stuttering for the first time in ages. “Couldn’t we t-t-talk . . . about this some other t-t-t-time?”
But Polina has no intention of talking about this anytime. Staggering, she stands and flamboyantly takes her sable fur coat from the back of the couch and pulls it on. Striding to
