by Cindy Rizzo
An old station wagon pulled into the driveway. It was the cleaning service that she always scheduled between guests. The house wasn’t especially in need of their services, but she figured it would be nice to receive Reese and Jaret with a clean kitchen and laundered sheets. She greeted the two women who’d arrived, possibly a mother and daughter, and then headed to the ocean with her low seat beach chair and a bottle of Pellegrino.
Once settled at the water’s edge with the chair’s canopy down to protect her from the morning sun, she reached to the side for the book she’d slipped into the chair’s pocket. As she lifted the hardback, she remembered that it was Modern Day Moses, the biography of Leon Abramov. She’d brought it with her thinking she might get to it at some point.
She glanced first at the copyright: 1999. The book had been published by one of Farrar, Straus and Giroux’s nonfiction imprints and it had done quite well for them, with a release timed to coincide with the first anniversary of Abramov’s death and the announcement of Ruth’s appointment to the federal court by President Clinton. She’d skimmed the positive review in the Times, which mentioned Ruth once or twice, but focused on Abramov’s work to free Jews still living in the USSR. After that, she’d followed the progress of the book on the best-seller list where it stayed for a good six months, well after Ruth’s confirmation. She knew the kind of royalties that level of sales would generate and had hoped Ruth would see some of them, although she’d assumed that Ruth’s mother, Irina, would be the likely beneficiary.
She looked down at the first page of the foreword, not having yet read a word. Tracy had said that this book could help her. How? She already knew so much about Ruth’s life, having kept tabs on her these last thirty years, even during her time with Gretchen. She’d never been able to completely shake Ruth loose from her consciousness.
Did that mean she should jump at the chance to see if they were even capable of starting over? While Ruth had made it quite clear that she wanted to do so, they hadn’t really talked about it directly, and they’d both been avoiding a real discussion of the past, about what had happened that final summer. Elizabeth had said that such a discussion would be pointless. But maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe it was instead one of those painful obstacles that Tracy had talked about—something to confront in order to move forward.
Just like this book. She focused on the words in front of her and began to read.
Sometime later, she lifted the bottle of Pellegrino to her mouth and realized it was empty. She had been sipping it while reading. How much time had passed? She reached into the pocket of the linen jacket covering her bathing suit and looked at her watch. She’d been reading for three hours. Glancing up at the sky, she saw the sun high above her.
Reese and Jaret wouldn’t be arriving until later. Jaret had a court appearance that morning that she couldn’t postpone, so they’d asked Max to pick them up around three in the afternoon. Elizabeth decided not to disturb the now-clean kitchen and drove herself into East Hampton, taking the Audi that she kept at the summer house year-round. She slipped the Abramov book into her cloth shoulder bag and headed for the little French bistro she liked. One good thing about the Hamptons—there were many people walking around town much more famous and recognizable than she was, so she was rarely stopped on the street. Her straw beach hat and dark sunglasses also helped.
Because she thought it was too pretentious to order her lunch in French, she asked for the vichyssoise and salade Nicoise in English. It was quite likely that the wait staff in the Hamptons could use a break from pretension.
She ate slowly, all the while reading the book. She’d gotten past Abramov’s early years and education as well as his marriage to Irina. They’d both come of age during World War II, though he was a few years too young to be drafted into the military. His academic career took off after Stalin’s death, around the time Ruth was born. As Ruth had told her when they were in college, Abramov’s research and analysis on US and British politics and culture was highly valued by the Soviet government, and so the family was shielded from a lot of the harsher treatment that most Jews experienced. They lived in a relatively nice apartment in Leningrad and were given access to a dacha in the country where they grew fruits and vegetables that Irina would preserve for the winter months.
Elizabeth looked up from her book and stared down at the remainder of her salad. A memory of grocery shopping with Ruth their junior year in college came to her.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to all these vegetables just sitting out here for us to buy,” she’d said. “The colors, the freshness. It feels almost like too much.”
After treating herself to a pear tart with a silent promise that she’d walk it off on the beach, Elizabeth once again picked up the book, reading about the effect that the 1967 Six Day War—when Israel made quick work of three Arab countries and greatly expanded the area under its control—had had on the treatment of Jews in the Soviet Union. The USSR had supported the Arabs and punished its own Jewish citizens for Israel’s victory by further tightening the already impossible restrictions on obtaining exit visas and engaging in other activities. It was in the wake of his government’s reaction to that war, that Abramov began to think about leaving.
Although Abramov was uncertain how long he could continue to remain in his position at the Institute for Western Studies, it was not his own fate that caused him and Irina to contemplate leaving. It was their daughter, Ruth. Even as a child, Ruth’s academic prowess was noticeable. She earned top grades in all subjects and was already reading Irina’s law books at the age of twelve, the same year as the Six Day War. She was a quiet and serious child with only a few friends, most of them other Jewish girls. Once they were asked their ethnicity on the first day of school and were forced to respond “Hebrew,” the Russian students would have little to do with them. So Ruth learned to keep her head down and focus on her studies. She would not come out of her shell until much later, when she was safely ensconced in the United States.
Abramov and Irina knew that with the worsening situation for Soviet Jews, Ruth would have few options ahead of her. Like her mother, she could never become an attorney, and it was even doubtful if she could go on to university.
In 1970, when Ruth was fifteen and the time to make plans for her future education was getting closer, Abramov smuggled out a letter to his good friend George Miller.
“The situation for Ruth is getting more and more dire. I fear she has no future here. I worry that her mind and her spirit will atrophy if we stay. She is our only child. We cannot let that happen.”
Abramov hoped that by courting George Miller he’d be able to secure a place for himself and his family in the United States. While most other Soviet Jews looking to leave had set their sights on Israel, which made it very clear that they’d be welcomed, Abramov preferred America where he knew the language, had studied the culture, and felt that the opportunities for his daughter would be more plentiful.
The Abramov-Miller friendship had begun seven years prior when the two met in Leningrad at an American architectural exhibit in 1965. Abramov knew of Miller’s early work on behalf of Soviet Jews and slipped a note into his jacket pocket asking if they could begin a conversation. Miller used subsequent cultural exchange events, plus other opportunities, to stay in touch with his friend. He even had his son, Bennett, begin a correspondence with Ruth.
So George Miller was Bennett’s father. He’d been introduced in an earlier chapter of the book as a leader in the New York Jewish community and one of the first people to organize for the immigration of Soviet Jews.
Miller had come to the US from Germany, where his large, prosperous family, active in professional associations and in civic life, had lived for fifty years. But the world they knew suddenly came to a halt in 1933 when the Nazis rose to power. George was one of five children in the family and the only one to get out while it was p
ossible to do so. For the first few years he wrote to his parents and siblings begging them to leave, but they only agreed to do so when it was too late. His father was taken one night and he never returned. Two of his brothers were murdered in 1937 during the violent anti-Semitic rampage known as Kristallnacht. The rest of them were transported to camps where they either died or were killed. George had been unable to save any of them.
This experience served as the motivation for Miller’s tireless crusade to free the postwar population of Jews in the Soviet Union—those who had lived safely out of the reach of the Nazi occupiers but too far east to get to the Allied forces’ refugee camps. It was through these activities that George Miller became connected to Abramov, who was fluent in English, and, like George in 1933, certain that he was living in an untenable situation.
Elizabeth slipped the flap of the book’s dust jacket in between the pages to hold her place. She scrolled through her Blackberry to make sure there wasn’t anything that needed her attention and was relieved to see that Reese hadn’t called. That meant everything was running on schedule. It was three thirty. She debated whether to buy some groceries for dinner or to order from the reliable Italian place in Montauk. The easier option won out when she realized it would give her the next two hours to sit and read. She’d take her beach walk after dinner.
The next morning, with Elizabeth comfortably seated in the backseat of the Town Car, Max sailed through East Hampton and the towns that followed without hitting any traffic. At this rate, they’d be back in the city by early afternoon. Elizabeth picked up the Abramov book and opened it to the end. Only fifty pages left. She was in the midst of reading about the work Ruth’s father had done with George Miller: organizing synagogues across the country; meeting with person after person in the Nixon, Carter, Ford, and Reagan Administrations; and building a US movement to free Soviet Jewry.
Of course all of this occurred after Leon, Irina, and Ruth were smuggled out in 1972. Elizabeth had been riveted by the details of the daring escape over the border, first to Helsinki, Finland, and then on to Stockholm. A business associate of Miller’s, who’d accompanied President Nixon on a visit to Moscow that year, had arranged to travel up to Leningrad and, with the assistance of other Americans visiting on a cultural exchange, to smuggle the family out.
Elizabeth thought back to conversations they’d had in college about Ruth’s life in the Soviet Union. Ruth had never explained just how they were ferried out of Russia, and Elizabeth had tried not to pressure her for information, thinking it best to focus on their life together. She’d worried that any extended discussions about Ruth’s parents might pull Ruth back into their orbit and she’d be lost to Elizabeth. She’d been right to worry, since that was exactly what happened.
The marriage of Ruth to George Miller’s son, Bennett, was the fulfillment of Abramov and Irina’s dream of a better life for their daughter. Now the two families could be united for the cause, strengthening their efforts to free the Jews they’d left behind. But while Ruth appeared on occasion with her parents at various events, she spent most of the seven years she was married to Bennett involved elsewhere, first in law school and then immediately after caring for her two children—Lauren, born in 1981 and Mark in 1983. In 1985, she and Bennett divorced amicably, and by then Ruth was on the partner track at her law firm, gaining a solid reputation as a successful litigator. Sadly, Abramov would not live long enough to see his daughter nominated to the federal bench by the president, which would have likely been the pinnacle of the hopes he had for her future when he wrote to George Miller back in 1970.
Elizabeth wondered why Ruth hadn’t thrown herself into her father’s cause and had instead opted for children and a demanding career. Could it have been some kind of rebellion? Was she resentful of the choice she’d made to leave Elizabeth and marry Bennett, laying the blame at her parents’ feet, even though they’d never known what she’d done?
Tracy had been right. The full story laid out in the book filled in the picture quite a bit, especially when it came to understanding Ruth’s actions. Leon and Irina had sacrificed everything for her. Sure, Abramov worried about his position and his wife’s job in the law library, but the book made it clear that Ruth was their primary concern and motivation. While living in Russia, Abramov never went public with his views about the plight of Soviet Jews. He kept to himself, did his research, and lived a relatively comfortable life, all the while planning his family’s escape so he could fight more openly from a new country. Ruth owed her future to him and so she did what was expected of her, at least for a while. How had she dealt with the anger that lay underneath it all? Likely the same way she handled her guilt and shame for what she did to Elizabeth. She’d kept it all inside and sublimated it into work and children, denying her parents another soldier for the cause and herself the comfort and happiness of romantic love.
Elizabeth blinked out the tears that pooled in her eyes, reaching for a tissue in her bag. She was crying for Ruth instead of for herself. Was it finally time to put an end to all their suffering?
She reached for her Blackberry, but when she tried Ruth, she got voicemail. She was probably in the courtroom hearing a case.
“Ruth, it’s Elizabeth. I’d like to cook you dinner sometime soon. Call me and let me know when you’ll be available.”
There it was, a date about as personal as she could make it. No walking outdoors, no waiters interrupting them, no phone calls to Beijing or early morning meetings. Just them alone. It was time.
Chapter 12
August – September 2008
“Elizabeth, it’s Ruth. Sorry we’re not reaching one another. Thank you for the invitation to dinner. It sounds wonderful. But we’re going to have to find a date next month. Lauren and I are about to leave for LA to spend two weeks out there with Mark. We do it every year. I hate to put you off for so long. What does mid-September look like for you? The thirteenth or fourteenth? Call me later, I’ll be up.”
There was a few seconds of silence before Ruth ended with, “It was nice to hear from you. Really nice. Talk to you soon.”
How exasperating. She’d finally come to a decision and now she’d have to sit on it for a few weeks. Elizabeth was used to taking action immediately once she made up her mind. Sign an author, launch a marketing campaign, buy out a small press, move forward on a deal with Amazon. But as with everything else, when it came to Ruth, she was unable to rely on her usual ways of doing things. This delay made her feel somehow thwarted. For months she’d been muddled about what to do, and now that she resolved that they needed to try for something, Ruth was unavailable. So much for having all the control this time.
“Why are you in such a tailspin about this? It’s two fucking weeks,” said Margaret. “You want to see her sooner, fly out here. This way you can meet the son too.”
“No, thank you. I think it’s best right now that we don’t confuse the situation by adding more interaction with family members. I need to talk to her one-on-one.”
“Only talk?” Margaret’s tone was provocative.
Elizabeth breathed out in annoyance. “Yes, Margaret. Only talk. There are things I’ve been avoiding about the past that I’m ready to discuss with her.”
“Well, whatever it takes at this point. Oh, by the way, Pam Randall needs to be seen out on the town acting all clean and sober. Are you up for another outing with her?”
“What? Here you’re pushing me to start things up again with Ruth at the same time that you’re setting me up on a date with an actress?”
“Oh, Elizabeth, I can’t imagine it’s so hard for you to do more than one thing at a time. I won’t need you for another month or so. I just wanted to ask you while I had you on the phone. I thought you liked Pam.”
“I have nothing against her. We had a pleasant enough evening, but when it comes to Ruth, I’m not sure I’m capable of, um, multitaskin
g.”
“Hmm, I sometimes forget that not everyone operates the way I do,” she said, her tone thoughtful, “or for that matter, the way your girl, Reese, does. Well, think about it for now. See how your little dinner and foray into the past goes, and we’ll talk again.”
Elizabeth knew she was being a bit heavy-handed with the dinner menu, but if they were going to confront things, Ruth might as well know that from the first course. She was making Ruth’s cold borscht to start and her own coq au vin for the entree. She’d finish up with Tracy’s pecan pie, since by the time they were ready for dessert, she would have already made her intentions clear enough.
She kept busy all day with the shopping and cooking, taking extra time to ensure that the borscht and the pie were perfect. The coq au vin she could make in her sleep. At the last minute, much too close to Ruth’s arrival time, she rushed through a shower and decided on a coral linen blouse and simple beige slacks. She was running a brush through her hair one last time when the doorman called from downstairs.
Her heart raced with a combination of relief and excitement as she greeted Ruth in the doorway. Had it been anyone else, she would have leaned over for a quick peck on the cheek. But that seemed inadequate and at the same time forward. Instead, she clasped Ruth’s hands in hers and just admired the woman in front of her, allowing herself to accept the fact that she’d missed her over the last six weeks.
