The Two

by Mikhail Morgulis Published in Issue #13 Translated from Russian by Norman Kass and Edward Razinsky

ChildhoodDeathMourningWWII

To my mother, who has passed away, but is still alive; for as long as people live in our hearts, they do not die.

Here they are sitting with their anemic skinny fingers separating the mouliné threads. There were threads after the war with this exotic foreign name and they knitted sweaters, berets and scarves with it.

The two sisters; they are dead long ago; but here they sit in front of me. One of them is my mother. I see a sore on my mother’s middle finger. Every day she washes our postwar clothing with this acid brown homemade soap that leaves sores on her hands. Everyone washes with this soap, but not everyone gets sores.

Here they sit. With thread coiled around her hands Mom’s sister is talking about something. My Mom is Jewish, and so all her sisters are Jewish, too.

And yes, the time I am telling you about is somewhere around 1947 and the place is USSR, a country of miserable slaves: lack of food, people casually imprisoned for nothing, and everyone hating one another.

So my aunt with the threads coiled around her hands is saying:

Zugt er… So he says to me: ‘Let us make a date…’ And I tell him, ‘First, doesn’t my big nose bother you? And secondly, my husband was killed on the first day of the war, but I think he’s still alive, and I’d feel uncomfortable…’

And Mama just sighs. She has dark brown eyes, awash with warmth and naiveté. Dear Mama…

My aunt continues:

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I have one room and two daughters. They understand...

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