with transients from foreign lands. True, Jews in Odessa lived in a separate quarter, but many of them were freethinkers, political radicals, and among them was my grandfather, Misha.
As if it were an established folktale, Bubby told me how she met Misha as he tore through the streets of Odessa distributing anticzar pamphlets. One day, blinded by a snowstorm, he ran into Manya and knocked her to the cobblestones; his pamphlets went flying. His first thought was to retrieve the papers. With the wind at his back he jumped up and tried to catch them as they swirled like black flakes from the sky. But the unexpected contact with the young girl’s body impelled him to run after her. She had already picked herself up and was plowing ahead along the storm-swept street. Misha caught up with her and asked whether he had seen her at a student meeting, or perhaps in the cellar of the clandestine printer who ran a hand-set press.
One glance at the tall young man with piercingly intelligent eyes and hair that fell in waves over his brow left Manya breathless. If she could, she would have hurled herself at him so they could tumble down again, arms and legs entwined. He must have experienced the same jolt because he seized her arm and demanded to know her name. Then he whispered lovingly, “Manya, du bist fah mir.”
She was fifteen and he seventeen, a “brenfire.” My grandmother never uttered
bren
alone or
fire
alone, though they both meant the same thing, a burning flame. Although the woman for whom my grandmother worked as a kitchen helper in no way boasted of royalty, my grandmother had nicknamed her “die czarina” because of her imperious manner and her arrogant condescension toward her servants. One of the first things my grandmother confided to Misha was that “ven der czarina gayt pishern, dofen mir shtanden”: when the czarina goes to pee, we have to stand. Misha adored her irony. She, on the other hand, adored everything about him: his fiery looks, his ready discourse, his knowledge of the world, all of which she lapped up as she did the delicious taste of his skin. Their lovemaking verged on the miraculous.
“We both believed in frya libbe,” she told me at an early age. I translated the phrase
free love
to mean that she loved him as much as possible, that is, freely. I heard the joy in my grandmother’s voice as she whispered these words in the dark. Free love with Misha made her desperate years as a cook’s helper in the czarina’s kitchen almost bearable. As for her beloved, he was impatient, restless, always on the move. He would pace the floor holding a book in one hand while he gesticulated with his other, explaining lengthy passages of Bakunin the political theorist or the hammering words of the poet Pushkin.
During the summer, they strolled the seaport wharves, but rarely for long. Cossacks rounded up “strays” regularly, particularly Jewish students, all of whom were suspected of being bomb-throwing anarchists. Although Misha skittered around the city unafraid, he was always wary, always on the alert for possible danger.
A year after he knocked Manya down in the street they were secretly married. She continued to live with her family, and he with his. Periods of calm would invariably be followed by surprise roundups of students, who were beaten and jailed. Manya pleaded to leave for America. Misha worked at any menial job he could find to save money for their voyage— he had an uncle in New York whose address he held on to as a talisman. Yet whenever Manya brought up the subject of their migration, he would answer, “Not yet. It’s not yet time.” Another year went by.
Then an incident in St. Petersburg determined their fate: students rushed the czar as he rode in his carriage. The repercussions were felt from the frozen steppes to the Black Sea. Manya didn’t hear from Misha for ten days, although he had no part in the attack and had not been informed in advance about the plot. It came as a
As if it were an established folktale, Bubby told me how she met Misha as he tore through the streets of Odessa distributing anticzar pamphlets. One day, blinded by a snowstorm, he ran into Manya and knocked her to the cobblestones; his pamphlets went flying. His first thought was to retrieve the papers. With the wind at his back he jumped up and tried to catch them as they swirled like black flakes from the sky. But the unexpected contact with the young girl’s body impelled him to run after her. She had already picked herself up and was plowing ahead along the storm-swept street. Misha caught up with her and asked whether he had seen her at a student meeting, or perhaps in the cellar of the clandestine printer who ran a hand-set press.
One glance at the tall young man with piercingly intelligent eyes and hair that fell in waves over his brow left Manya breathless. If she could, she would have hurled herself at him so they could tumble down again, arms and legs entwined. He must have experienced the same jolt because he seized her arm and demanded to know her name. Then he whispered lovingly, “Manya, du bist fah mir.”
She was fifteen and he seventeen, a “brenfire.” My grandmother never uttered
bren
alone or
fire
alone, though they both meant the same thing, a burning flame. Although the woman for whom my grandmother worked as a kitchen helper in no way boasted of royalty, my grandmother had nicknamed her “die czarina” because of her imperious manner and her arrogant condescension toward her servants. One of the first things my grandmother confided to Misha was that “ven der czarina gayt pishern, dofen mir shtanden”: when the czarina goes to pee, we have to stand. Misha adored her irony. She, on the other hand, adored everything about him: his fiery looks, his ready discourse, his knowledge of the world, all of which she lapped up as she did the delicious taste of his skin. Their lovemaking verged on the miraculous.
“We both believed in frya libbe,” she told me at an early age. I translated the phrase
free love
to mean that she loved him as much as possible, that is, freely. I heard the joy in my grandmother’s voice as she whispered these words in the dark. Free love with Misha made her desperate years as a cook’s helper in the czarina’s kitchen almost bearable. As for her beloved, he was impatient, restless, always on the move. He would pace the floor holding a book in one hand while he gesticulated with his other, explaining lengthy passages of Bakunin the political theorist or the hammering words of the poet Pushkin.
During the summer, they strolled the seaport wharves, but rarely for long. Cossacks rounded up “strays” regularly, particularly Jewish students, all of whom were suspected of being bomb-throwing anarchists. Although Misha skittered around the city unafraid, he was always wary, always on the alert for possible danger.
A year after he knocked Manya down in the street they were secretly married. She continued to live with her family, and he with his. Periods of calm would invariably be followed by surprise roundups of students, who were beaten and jailed. Manya pleaded to leave for America. Misha worked at any menial job he could find to save money for their voyage— he had an uncle in New York whose address he held on to as a talisman. Yet whenever Manya brought up the subject of their migration, he would answer, “Not yet. It’s not yet time.” Another year went by.
Then an incident in St. Petersburg determined their fate: students rushed the czar as he rode in his carriage. The repercussions were felt from the frozen steppes to the Black Sea. Manya didn’t hear from Misha for ten days, although he had no part in the attack and had not been informed in advance about the plot. It came as a
Similar Books
