Anastasia

“Sometimes I feel the need to pray to God, to cross myself, to plead,” she whispered. And immediately, as if dismissing an involuntary intrusive thought, she added cheerfully, “We love music. We often go together to concerts and opera. Next week, we’ve got tickets to Khovanshchina, but Anastasia will be at the kolkhoz. Would you like to come with me? You mustn’t miss the Kyiv Opera’s production.’”

Olga had invited me to her home other times, where I met Alexei: a tanned, muscular fellow, with a round, solid head, very short hair, and steely, light blue, shining eyes. He drank astonishing quantities of vodka, smoked thick, pungent French cigarettes, and looked non-stop at Olga. When Alexei came, Anastasia would flee the house and go sleep at friends’ homes.

About a year later, Anastasia’s chirpy voice could be heard over the phone in my Jerusalem apartment. In Hebrew. How was I? Thank God, her own health was excellent. She had converted to Judaism on a religious kibbutz. It was wonderful, very interesting, too bad it was over. She’d met great people. Now she was looking for work. Preferably with children. Did I know of anything? The Interior Ministry had not yet approved her status, and citizenship only followed after conversion to Judaism, so it was very hard with work. If not with children, then maybe somebody needed some cleaning. She hated that work, it was boring, but right now, was there a choice?

*

The telephone that woke me from my indulgent afternoon nap was from the Jerusalem police. What did I have...