To lonely Russian women in America – with love, sadness, and hope.
One Hundred Eighth Street
Such a story happened in our neighborhood. Marusya Tatarovich couldn’t resist and fell in love with a Latino man named Rafael. She hesitated for about two years, and then finally made her choice. Although, if you look closer, Marusya practically had nothing to choose from.
Our whole street worried—how would events unfold? After all, we take such matters seriously.
“We” are six brick buildings surrounding a supermarket, populated primarily by Russians. That is, recent Soviet citizens. Or, as the newspapers write, third-wave émigrés.
Our neighborhood stretches from the railway tracks to the synagogue. A little north is Meadow Lake, south is Queens Boulevard. And we are in the middle.
108th Street is our central artery.
We have Russian stores, kindergartens, photo studios, and hairdressers. There is a Russian travel agency. There are Russian lawyers, writers, doctors, and real estate agents. There are Russian gangsters, lunatics, and prostitutes. There is even a Russian blind musician.
Local residents are considered by us to be something like foreigners. If we hear English spoken, we become wary. In such cases, we urgently request:
“Speak Russian!”
As a result, some locals have started speaking our language. The Chinese man from the diner greets me:
“Good morning, Solzhenitsyn!”
(He pronounces it “Solozhenisa.”) We have a complex feeling towards Americans. I don’t even know what there is more of—condescension or adoration. We pity them, like thoughtless, carefree children. However, we constantly repeat:
“One American told me…”
We pronounce this phrase with the intonation of a decisive, killer argument. For example: “One American told me that nicotine is harmful to health!..”
The local Americans here are mostly German Jews. The third wave of emigration, with rare exceptions, is Jewish. So finding a common language is quite simple.
Every now and then, locals ask:
“Are you from Russia? Do you speak Yiddish?”
In addition to Jews, Koreans, Hindus, and Arabs live in our neighborhood. There are relatively few Black people. There are more Latinos.
For us, these are mysterious people with transistors. We don’t know them. However, just in case, we despise and fear them.
Squint-eyed Frida expresses her dissatisfaction:
“They should go to their lousy Africa!..” Frida herself is from the city of Shklov. She prefers to live in New York…
If you want to get acquainted with our neighborhood, stand near the stationery store. That’s at the intersection of 108th and Sixty-Fourth. Come as early as possible.
Here are our taxi drivers pulling away: Lyova Baranov, Pertsovich, Yeselevsky. They are all stocky, grim, and decisive.
Lyova Baranov is over sixty. He is a former hammer-and-sickle artist. At the beginning of his career, Lyova painted exclusively Molotov. His works were exhibited in countless housing offices, polyclinics, local committees. Even on the walls of former churches.
Baranov studied the appearance of this minister with the face of a qualified worker down to the finest detail. He could draw Molotov in ten seconds on a bet. And he would draw with his eyes closed.
Then Molotov was dismissed. Lyova tried to paint Khrushchev, but in vain. The features of a prosperous peasant were beyond his abilities.
The same story happened with Brezhnev. The physiognomy of an opera singer did not submit to Baranov. And so, Lyova, in his grief, turned into an abstract artist. He began to draw colored spots, lines, and swirls. He also started drinking and causing disturbances.
Neighbors complained about Lyova to the district police officer:
“He drinks, causes disturbances, engages in some kind of abstract cynicism…”
As a result, Lyova emigrated, got behind the wheel, and calmed down. In his free moments, he depicts Reagan on horseback.
Yeselevsky was a lecturer in Marxism-Leninism in Kyiv. He defended his Candidate of Sciences dissertation. He was preparing to become a Doctor of Sciences.
One day he met a Bulgarian scientist. The latter invited him to a conference in Sofia. However, Yeselevsky was denied a visa. Apparently, they did not want to send a Jew abroad.
For the first time in his life, Yeselevsky’s mood soured. He said:
“Oh, is that how it is?! Then I’ll go to America!” And he left.
In the West, Yeselevsky became completely disillusioned with Marxism. He began publishing passionate articles in émigré newspapers. But then, he became disillusioned with émigré newspapers as well. All that was left for him was to get behind the wheel…
As for Pertsovich, he was a driver in Moscow too. Thus, little changed in his life. True, he started earning much more. And here, he owned his own taxi…
Here comes the owner of the photo studio, Evsei Rubinchek, hurrying for the morning newspaper. Nine years ago, he bought his business. Since then, he has been paying off debts. The remaining money goes towards acquiring modern equipment.
For the tenth year, Evsei has been eating pasta. For the tenth year, he wears army boots with molded rubber soles. For the tenth year, his wife dreams of going to the movies. For the tenth year, Evsei comforts his wife with the thought that the business will go to their son. The debts will be paid off by then. But—I remind him—more modern equipment will appear…
Here rushes Fima Druker, a budding publisher, for the morning newspaper. In Leningrad, he was considered a famous bibliophile. He spent whole days at the book market. He collected six thousand rare, even unique books.
In America, Fima decided to become a publisher. He was eager to return forgotten masterpieces to Russian literature—the poems of Oleinikov and Kharms, the prose of Dobychin, Ageyev, Komarovsky.
Druker went to work as a cleaner in a shopping center. His wife became a nurse. In a year, they managed to save four thousand dollars.
With that money, Fima rented a cozy office. He ordered bluish company letterheads, pens, and business cards. He hired a secretary, the granddaughter of Ehrenburg, incidentally.
He named his enterprise “Russian Book.”
Druker met prominent American philologists—Roman Jakobson, Malmsted, Edward Brown. If Roman Jakobson mentioned a little-known poem by Tsvetayeva, Fima would hasten to add:
“Almanac ‘Mosty,’ year thirty, page two hundred sixty-four.”
Philologists loved him for his erudition and selflessness. Fima attended symposiums and conferences. He spoke in the lobbies with Georges Nivat, Ottenberg, and Rannit. He corresponded with Vera Nabokov. He carefully preserved the telegrams received from her:
“I resolutely object.” “I categorically disagree.” “I consider the conditions unacceptable.” And so on.
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