Looking around their room, she saw that neither Misha nor Arkady was here. She turned to Dmitri. "Where—?" She suddenly stopped when she saw the look on her husband's face.
My God, she thought. Dmitri's face is lit up with a huge grin. It's as if nothing had happened. What's going on?
"Dmitri," she said, a note of alarm in her voice, "where are Arkady and Misha?"
Dmitri stepped around a chair to her side. He put an arm around her shoulders, pressing her to him reassuringly. "They're downstairs at Arkady's, playing chess, I guess."
"But—?" Sonia began.
"Calm down," her husband said. "Listen to me, Sonia. These men are OVIR officers. The came just a little while ago."
Sonia looked at him questioningly. She hadn't really been listening, so absorbed was she in the task she had to perform.
"Sonia," Dmitri said, shaking her lightly, "listen. Don't you see? The OVIR police. The division that deals with exit visas." Dmitri looked into her dark eyes. "Sonia, we've been given permission to emigrate."
Realization dawned, and the full impact of his words nearly swept her off her feet. "Dmitri?" she asked, a quaver in her voice. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," he said. "But we don't have much time. We'll be leaving right away, so we must start getting ready."
"Oh, my God," she said, covering her face with her hands. She was afraid that she was going to cry. "I can hardly believe it." Then she abruptly lowered her hands, and questions came tumbling out of her. "Why is Misha not here. And Arkady? Why are they downstairs? Do they know?"
"Yes, yes," Dmitri said. "They know. Arkady took him downstairs the minute we found out. He said he wanted to play a last game of chess with Misha, but my guess is that Arkady is down there having a nice long chat with him about—who knows what?"
"But what about Mariya?" Sonia blurted. "My God, Dmitri—"
One of the men from OVIR interrupted. He flourished a pen on one of the many documents he was handling, then snapped a folder shut. "You have all of your papers now, Levin," he said. "We will be going. Remember, your date and time of departure are on the forms. Don't miss it."
"No," Dmitri said, "we won't."
The men gathered up their briefcases and turned to the door.
"There may not be a second chance," one of them snapped. With that, they let themselves out, slamming the door behind them.
Dmitri grabbed Sonia and threw his arms around her, giving her a long, joyous kiss. She laughed and drew back after a moment.
"Dmitri," she said, "this is the greatest news in our lives. But I have to tell you something." Then she quickly told him what had happened to Mariya Yakovlevna.
Dmitri sat down, his head in his hands, not speaking, unmoving. When he finally looked up at Sonia, there were tears in his eyes, tears that subdued the joy that had been there only moments before.
"Arkady thought that she must be all right since he hadn't heard anything. He thought . . ." Dmitri suddenly choked.
Tears came to Soma's eyes as well, and she put a hand on Dmitri's head, patting it tenderly.
"Sonia," he rasped throatily, "I'll tell Arkady. Let's give him a little more time with Misha, then I'll go down and talk to him."
"No," Sonia said, "we'll both talk to him, but it must be right away. We must see him before the authorities get here to tell him."
"Yes. You're right, of course," Dmitri said. He got to his feet and took one of her hands in his. "Shall we go?"
Misha, holding the cylindrical gold object in his hand, turned it around and around, studying it with intense curiosity. It was about five inches long and roughly the circumference of a pencil, and its filigree had been worn smooth by generations of people touching it. It was exquisite and beautifully ornate, like an exotic piece of jewelry. Only, he didn't quite know what to make of it. Arkady had retrieved it from an old, locked wooden box under the bed, and was explaining to Misha what it was.
"It's a mezuzah," he said "Inside it is a tiny, rolled-up piece of parchment. Printed on one side is Deuteronomy 6:4 to 9 and 11:13 to 21, from the Bible. Deuteronomy is the fifth book of the Pentateuch, and it contains the second statement of the Mosaic law."
He paused, watching the boy handle the mezuzah.
"All this you will understand better someday," Arkady said.
"You said one side is printed with Deuteronomy," Misha said. "What about the other side?"
Arkady smiled. "On that side is printed the word Shaddai. That is a Jewish word for God."
He took the mezuzah from Misha for a moment. Holding it up to the light, he pointed. "See? Look through the aperture. Shaddai."
" Shaddai," Misha repeated in an awed whisper.
"Yes," Arkady nodded. " Shaddai There, where you can always see it."
The old man sat back and took a deep breath. "Many of our people put them up at their doorways. One day you can, too, if you choose to do so."
He patted Misha on the head. "It's been in my family for generations, Misha," Arkady said. "And I want you to have it as a going-away present. For good luck in your new home. It will be a secret between us. Okay?"
"Okay," Misha said. "Thank you very much, Arkady." He looked over at the old man. "I will always think of you when I look at it."
"And I will think of you, Misha, every time I hear beautiful music," Arkady said.
There was a soft knock at the door, and they both looked over at it.
"That will be your folks," Arkady said. "Quick, put it in your pocket so no one else will know our secret." He winked conspiratorially at Misha.
Misha grinned and wrapped the mezuzah in its wrinkled old piece of tissue paper and shoved it in a trouser pocket.
"Now, Mikhail Levin," Arkady pronounced, "you are ready for a brilliant future."
Nearly a week had passed, and Mariya Yakovlevna had been laid to rest. Sonia and Dmitri had just about finished packing what few belongings they would take with them, not much more than musical scores and some clothing. Misha had gone downstairs with Arkady for his final good-bye.
"I still wonder about Arkady's reaction to Mariya's death," Sonia said. "He took the news so quietly, so ...serenely."
"I suppose it makes sense, Sonia," Dmitri said thoughtfully. He buckled one of the straps on the old- fashioned leather suitcase that had belonged to his father, securing it tightly. Like all their luggage, it was bulging at the seams.
"He told me that he knew," Dmitri continued. "He said that when you didn't call from the hospital, he somehow knew that she was gone. He said that he felt it." He looked over at his wife and shrugged. "I guess after all those years with Mariya Yakovlevna, he has a sixth sense or something."
"I thought he would go all to pieces," Sonia said. "I thought he would be inconsolable. He was mad with grief when he came to tell us what had happened."
Sonia looked at the old brass menorah and rolled it up in a woolen scarf, then placed it in the last piece of open luggage. It had never been used, at least not in her memory, but she didn't want to leave it behind. Aside from some photographs, it was one of the few reminders of their families, of their lives in Moscow, of that magnificent old attic apartment that had once been their home.
"Make no mistake," Dmitri replied grimly, "Arkady is grieving and probably still in shock. Part of the 'serenity' you see is so we'll think he's okay. So we won't worry about him."
Dmitri buckled the last strap on his suitcase and, grunting with effort, cinched it as tightly as possible. He sat down on the closed suitcase and looked over at Sonia. "As terrible as Mariya Yakovlevna's death was— and believe me, Arkady will certainly never forget her or the horrible way she died—Arkady's embracing life, trying to go on."
Sonia nodded her head emphatically. "Yes," she said. "I think he's finding consolation in Misha."
Despite the sadness of the situation, Dmitri couldn't help but smile. "How like Arkady to turn to the future— Misha—to find solace, to try to heal the wounds of the past."
She sat down on the suitcase she had fini
shed packing. "Dmitri, try to close it, will you?"
Her husband got to his feet and crossed the small room. "Put all your weight on it," he said. He got down on his knees, and after a struggle with the latches he got the old suitcase closed.
He stood up and extended a hand to Sonia, helping her to her feet, and into his arms. His dark eyes looked into hers, and he planted a solemn kiss on her lips.
"We have to do like Arkady, Sonia," he said. "Look to the future—our future, and Misha's future. We're finally getting what we asked for over two years ago."
"Yes," Sonia said, hugging him to her. "And I'm thrilled, Dmitri, but I'm a little scared, too."
Dmitri put a finger under her chin and raised her face to look at her again. "There's nothing to be afraid of, Sonia. You've got me and Misha, and we'll be in the Promised Land." He kissed her again and hugged her tightly, then let her go.
"We'd better go downstairs and get Misha and get on our way," Sonia said.
"Yes," Dmitri replied. "On our way. To a new life."
At Sheremetyevo Airport, the Levins relaxed in the lounge, waiting to board their plane. Their excitement was tempered by their sad leave-taking from Arkady, who, despite his best efforts to conceal his sorrow, was obviously grieved to see them leave.
The first leg of their journey would take them to Vienna. From there they would fly on to Tel Aviv. They were somewhat surprised to see that there was an international mixture of passengers awaiting the flight. They hadn't known what to expect but thought they might be on a flight filled only with Russian Jews like themselves who had been given exit visas.
There were only twenty more minutes to go before boarding when OVIR policemen, accompanied by airport emigration police, appeared in front of the seated Levins.
"Come with us," one of the policemen said.
"Why?" Sonia piped up angrily. "We have our visas. The plane will be boarding in minutes."
Dmitri put a hand on her arm. "What's this about?" he asked mildly.
"We have to inspect your luggage," the policeman answered. "Follow us. You'll still make your plane, unless . . ."
They got to their feet, Dmitri in the middle, a bag slung over one shoulder. Sonia had a lighter one, and Misha carried a small shoulder bag also. They dutifully followed the police to an enclosed secure area close by, where their carry-on luggage was placed on tables and opened. The police riffled through the contents of the bags, making a chaotic mess of their orderly packing.
"Is this really necessary?" Sonia asked angrily. "What in the world would we be taking out of the country that would matter?"
Her words were wasted on the police, who ignored her and continued to dig through their belongings as if they were searching for state secrets.
Misha became anxious as they began to go through his small shoulder bag. The policeman tossed his clothes, shaking them, letting them fall where they may. Misha cringed when he saw the familiar piece of old tissue paper surface from between the folds of a sweater. He bit his lower hp to keep from crying out when he saw the man feel the tissue, then proceed to unwrap it.
When the gold mezuzah rolled out of the tissue, the policeman grabbed it and studied it for a moment.
"What's this?" he murmured to himself. Then with a look of disgust, he said, "Garbage." And making a spitting noise, he threw the tissue paper to the floor and slid the mezuzah into the pocket of his trousers.
Misha bit his lip harder and harder, until a drop of blood beaded on his hp. Tears of pain welled up in his eyes, and a hatred such as he had never known consumed him. The mezuzah had been a special secret between him and Arkady. It was meant to bring luck to his future, and it was a special bond to this most loving part of his past. Now that, too, was gone.
Misha stood alone, turning his face away and choking back his tears.
No one will ever be able to treat me like this again. No one! And if I ever return to this place, it will be as a conqueror, in triumph!
Chapter Ten
Tel Aviv, 1979
"Misha!" Sonia called. "Hurry! Ben and Avi are waiting downstairs. You're going to be late!"
"I'm coming, Mama," he called back.
With a burst of youthful energy, his American sneakers pounding on the floors, Misha loped down the hallway from his bedroom, then slid to a squeaking stop in front of his mother.
"Do you see a baseball diamond in my living room?" she asked with good humor, a smile on her face.
Misha returned her smile. "Sorry, Mama, I'm just in a hurry." He dashed to the piano and began shuffling through the pile of scores that were neatly stacked on it.
His long, jet black hair—too long, Sonia thought—was still wet from the shower, and hung on his shoulders, dripping water onto the shirt she had just pressed for him.
Oh, well, Sonia thought, what's the difference? He looks like a Greek god no matter what he wears, and his hair will be dry before the concert.
"Misha," she said, "hurry up. I told you Ben and Avi are waiting."
"I can't find the right scores," he muttered, scowling as he continued to shuffle through the piles.
Sonia raised her arm and shook it. "See these, young man?" she said.
Misha turned his head and looked at her. She was waving the scores he was looking for. She's always one step ahead of me, Misha thought. He smiled brightly, his teeth gleaming white against his darkly tanned skin.
"Thanks, Mama," he said. He took the proffered scores from her hand, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and rushed to the door. "See you there, Mama," he called. " 'Bye!" The door slammed behind him.
In the building's hallway, Misha quickly reached up and, with one finger, rubbed the cheap silvery metal mezuzah that he'd bought and mounted on the door frame.
"Wish me luck, Arkady," he whispered, then he was off.
Inside, Sonia walked to the sliding glass doors, which led to the balcony. Opening them to the inferno of July, she stepped out and crossed to the metal balustrade, careful not to touch it, as it was fiery with the sun's heat. She looked down, her dark eyes searching the sidewalk five stories below for Misha. After a few moments her gaze was rewarded.
There he is, she thought, her heart swelling with pride. Jumping into Ben's car. Eleven years old, and already so grown up. It seems impossible.
Even five stories up, she thought she could hear rock and roll blasting from the car's radio. She watched the car pull away from the curb, heading toward Hayarkon Park. When it was finally out of sight, she raised her gaze to the Mediterranean beyond. There was a haze today from the heat, and even the sea looked boiling hot.
She stepped back inside to the cool of the apartment and went to her bedroom, where she began undressing, carefully hanging her clothes in the closet. She looked at the clock on the bedside table. Four o'clock. She would relax a few minutes, then take a shower before Dmitri got home from the university. They didn't have to be at the amphitheater in Hayarkon Park until eight o'clock.
Tying a lightweight cotton bathrobe around her waist, she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of iced tea, then returned to the bedroom with it. Passing the dresser, she caught sight of herself in the mirror over it and stopped, scrutinizing the image she saw reflected there.
So much white hair, she thought. And so much more visible because of the way it contrasts with my black hair. She drew closer to the mirror, flicking strands of it with one hand. Oh, well, I'm fifty years old, and I've earned it. I have a right to it if anybody does. And I'll never do a thing to change it
She looked at herself closely once more. Well, not unless ...not unless Dmitri wants me to.
She turned away from the mirror and spread out on the bed, sipping the cold tea. She was terribly excited and not just because of tonight's concert. Misha would be performing with the Philharmonic Orchestra, playing two Chopin concertos, two mazurkas, and a waltz. The concert, she was certain, would go well, because Misha was well rehearsed. This was music that was second nature to him, after all.
Are our fortunes going to change for the better? she wondered. She took a long sip of her tea. We've been so extraordinarily fortunate, she told herself. So fortunate after the troubles we had in Russia. For us Israel has indeed been the Promised Land. Is it fair to expect even more good fortune?
When they'd arrived in Tel Aviv in the spring of 1974, five years ago, they hadn't really been certain what to expert in this rough, young country. They had only their luggage with their few belongings with them, and a name and letter that Arkady had given them. The name was Haim Weill, and the letter was one of introduction to him.
They had dutifully contacted Haim Weill upon arrival—for Arkady's sake, actually—given him the letter, and presto! the magic had begun to happen. After only a few days the family had been settled into a two-bedroom apartment in Tel Aviv—the very apartment in which she now reminisced. It was in one of the International Style buildings that had been erected in the 1930s in the center of the city. Misha had always called it their "ship," because of its streamlined resemblance to an ocean liner. Only a few weeks later both she and Dmitri had prestigious jobs teaching music at the University of Tel Aviv. Then, as if their cups weren't already running over, a baby grand piano had arrived and was installed in the apartment's living room. Misha had begun intensive studies with the best instructors available.
Sonia had often thought that it was as if a genie had appeared from a magic bottle. In the beginning she and Dmitri assumed that they had Haim Weill to thank for such generous help. After all, he was a highly respected and very wealthy dealer in Tel Aviv's thriving diamond industry. But as kind and helpful as he had been, they'd soon discovered—from Haim Weill himself—that their true benefactors were a very wealthy family in New York City.
A family of Russian Jewish extraction, the Bunims had made a fortune in investment banking, a fortune they spent liberally to patronize the arts, in particular music. Haim Weill acted as one of their scouts in Israel, always on the lookout for talent.
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