BELTSY, 1939; LVOV, 1993 1. When the Soviet troops came they took his father and brothers the first night. Next morning he went to military headquarters to ascertain their fates and didn't come back. After a week, the house was confiscated-- mother, sisters, wife, two kids-- out in the street. Even so, they felt fortunate who still were free. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be-- those the Soviets spared, the Nazis and Romanians finished off. He and one sister, by some miracle, were saved. She was unharmed, mostly (but her story is another story). Ten years in Siberia destroyed him (though strange as it may seem, he survived). It must be that the camps hardened him. He seldom remembered his wife or the two children. By chance a photo was found at a Ukranian neighbor's, on the back of which was noted: "The Jews Rivka, Moshka, Srulik: exiled, January, 1942." He gave the photo to his sister. 2. In 1960 he remarried, joking, "Having become accustomed to maximum security, I stick with what I know." A daughter quickly grew. A former zek, a slogger, he had become accustomed to conning his keepers. Swearing and laughing, even in the gulag he could get his own. He kept his head. A sweatshop. Khrushchev's laws threatened draconian measures. The partner who cooked up the scam with him was less than unfortunate-- marked--salve smeared on the back or on the front of his head (I don't recall exactly what the camp slang is for it). And he--disappeared. Nearly fifteen years the investigation remained open. Possibly the family paid bribes to prevent a successful investigation. They subpoenaed the wife, the sister-- interrogated his daughter before her teacher-- all in vain. His face was on wanted posters throughout the whole country. He joked then that he was as famous as a Central Committee member, only smarter and more successful. Now I know he spent those years in a certain Leningrad apartment, hidden by a woman. Who? He never would say. He lived, never for one moment going out onto the streets, never hearing any news from home. He survived, and survived in the way to which he had become accustomed. 3. He said, "Let them open the border the least bit, even a tiny crack-- I will be the first one gone-- just watch me. . ." Who didn't go when the time came! But he couldn't make up his mind. Daughter and granddaughter said farewell to him fifteen years ago; they live not far from Tel Aviv. He makes his home in nationalistic Lvov, aged, nearly blind. What vision is left is sufficient, however, to observe how hundreds of youngsters in well-ordered ranks pass beneath his windows chanting words whose sense he can't quite catch. Later, as darkness gathers, torches are lit. In torchlight, the meaning becomes clearer. He watched, thought a bit, and stayed put. 4. Around that same time, he was in Moldavia where his father's house still stood, occupied at the time by some official from the Moldavian District Committee. He was taken with the peculiar notion to reclaim for himself this princely domain. God knows why--for decrepit old men a one-room flat is sufficient. He disagreed. Three years of dreary senseless litigation. No doubt the flurry of papers, the court edicts, gave purpose to the rag end of a long life. If anything anchors him to the planet now, it is the expectation of a verdict in this pedestrian proceeding. He dreams more and more often: an open gate, the lawn, an apple orchard blooming, gravel-sprinkled paths, high roofs, the threshold, father at the open door, a pair of infants playing at his feet, Moses and Israel. Riva not seen, but felt, somewhere nearby. She will sneak up from behind, cover his eyes with her palms and say, "Guess who?" © 1996 Boris Khersonsky. All rights reserved. Translation by Ruth Kreuzer and Dale Hobson.