As she spoke, Kotler dug into his pants pocket for his handkerchief and presented it to Leora. She doused it with water, and they both listened to Svetlana’s conversation.
—It’s for my husband, Svetlana said. He has lost consciousness.
Leora applied the compress to Tankilevich’s brow and he stirred a little. Reacting, it seemed to Kotler, either to the compress or his wife’s agitated voice.
—He is seventy, Svetlana said. He suffers from arrhythmia, yes.
She listened, with growing consternation, to the voice on the other end and considered her husband.
—He is breathing, yes. No, I haven’t taken his pulse or his blood pressure. When do you think I would have had time to do this? He is in distress. I am not a doctor. I called you.
His head cradled in Leora’s lap, Tankilevich weakly blinked his eyes open. Kotler saw him inspect the room, looking first, dimly, at Leora and then, darkly, at Kotler and at his wife.
—I don’t understand what you mean by busy, Svetlana said. You are the ambulance service. A person requires aid.
Tankilevich tried to lift his head to speak. His lips moved but his voice caught in his throat, producing no more than a croak.
—Maybe an hour, maybe two? What sort of answer is this? The devil take you!
She jabbed her thumb into the phone’s keypad to disconnect and then glared at Kotler and Leora.
—This is the sort of country we live in! Where the average person counts for nothing. Less than nothing. You could drop in the street and nobody would bat an eye.
She bustled over to the sofa and edged Leora from her place. She cupped Tankilevich’s head in her hands. He gazed at her with irritation. Again he tried to speak but his voice still failed him.
—Give him water, Leora said.
Petulant, resentful of another’s instruction, Svetlana grabbed the water glass from the table and held it to her husband’s lips. Tankilevich took a few feeble sips.
—No ambulance, he managed.
Svetlana studied him with overwrought concern. She felt his forehead with the back of her hand.
—Look at how pale you are. And cold.
Tankilevich stared at her silently, derisively, and then closed his eyes.
—I don’t like the look of you, Svetlana said.
With this she turned and hurried out of the room and then noisily upended things in another. She returned carrying a blood pressure cuff.
—That one on the phone asks if I took his blood pressure. And what if I had? Would they come any quicker?
Tankilevich submitted as she fastened the cuff around his arm and inflated it with the rubber bulb.
—If you are old, they have no use for you. For a younger person, they might still come. But for an older person? Everyone knows. They don’t come. Even if a person has a critical reading, they still don’t care. An elderly person is having an infarction, better he should have it at home. If they send an ambulance, and he is still alive, they will have to take him to the hospital. And what then? He will occupy a bed. On an old person, they will be reluctant to operate. Why expend scarce resources? He might die on the table, or if he survives, what are the chances he’ll last more than a week? Because this is a person with no money. If he had money, he would never have called the public ambulance. He would have called the private. And if he has no money it means he won’t be able to afford the medications to recuperate properly. So, of course, why go to all the trouble to begin with?
Svetlana craned her neck to scrutinize the cuff’s dial. She shook her head grimly.
—What does it say? Kotler asked.
—Eighty over fifty. Dangerous.
Svetlana removed the cuff from Tankilevich’s arm and looked at her husband with a strange, rising fanaticism. She brought her face close to his and said in a loud, importunate voice, Chaim, can you hear me?
Tankilevich responded by squeezing his eyes shut and saying, almost soundlessly, Let me be.
—Let you be? Svetlana said, affronted. Not in your condition!
Tankilevich’s response was silent disregard.
Svetlana continued to gaze at her husband as if to impress upon him her concern, but Tankilevich did not stir. He appeared to suffer both his wife and his debility. Svetlana persisted a moment longer before her expression changed, grew pensive.
—You can curse the system all you want, but what good is it? And what should we expect of the public services? The people who work these jobs are as bad off as everyone else. About the police, I already told you, Svetlana said, glancing at Leora. And this woman on the phone, what can her salary be? One hundred dollars a month? One hundred and twenty? How is she to live on it? The same for the paramedics. And if the hospitals don’t have enough medicines and equipment, why would the ambulances? Consider yourself lucky if you get a blanket. If there was ever money to pay for such things, it was stolen long ago by the bureaucrats.
—You say there is a private service, Kotler said. If they will come, call them.
—And with what money? Svetlana inquired.
—If he needs help, call, Kotler said. I’ll pay.
At this, Tankilevich stirred. He opened his eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, to lift his head. Failing, he looked acidly at Svetlana.
—I could call the Hesed, she said wanly. They have a service.
Tankilevich continued to glare Svetlana into submission.
She looked down at her husband miserably and wrung her hands.
—No. You cannot be left like this. I won’t have it. It would be like I killed you myself.
But having spoken, Svetlana made no move. For some seconds, the only sound was Tankilevich’s breathing. Then Leora plucked the phone from the table.
—What is the number? she asked.
—To what? Svetlana said.
—The private ambulance.
—I don’t know it. I’ve never called.
—Find it, Leora said.
From the sofa came Tankilevich’s strangled No. Leora ignored him and went with the phone into the kitchen. She returned holding the phone and some banknotes. She offered them back to Svetlana.
—This is the money Baruch gave you in advance for the week. You keep it. It’s not charity. It’s rightfully yours. If we choose to leave early, we’re the ones breaking the agreement.
Svetlana vacillated, glancing at Tankilevich.
—Is it enough for the ambulance?
Svetlana nodded but still didn’t reach for the money, as if she were in the grip of some paralysis. Leora pressed the bills into her hand.
—Find the number and I will call.
Svetlana looked down at Tankilevich, whose eyes burned in his pale face. She kneeled before him and took his hand.
—Have mercy on me, she said.
Tankilevich mutely shook his head.
Svetlana rose to her feet, gripped her hair by the roots, and startled Kotler with a piercing cry.
—There is nowhere to turn! Who can tolerate such a life?
Tankilevich closed his eyes and lay on the sofa impassively, deaf to the drama.
Svetlana directed herself at Kotler and Leora.
—Life here for us now is impossible!
Kotler looked at her and, incidentally, at the room, which was part of a house, on a patch of land, with a car parked in front, but he didn’t contradict her.
—This country suffocates its people. Slowly, slowly, until it finally chokes you to death. That’s where we are now. It’s been suffocating us for years but somehow we managed to sneak a mouthful of air, but no longer. Now the time has come for us to choke, like everyone else who cannot leave this place.
—For Israel?
—For America. For Canada. For Australia. For Germany. Anywhere a mouse can find a hole. And, yes, for Israel. For Jews like my husband and half Jews like our daughters, and goy appendages like me. I understand very well how it is. We didn’t treat the Jews fondly here. The Russians and the Ukrainians. We were terrible anti-Semite
s. With repressions and pogroms, our fathers and grandfathers drove the Jews from this country. Because we didn’t want them here, the Jews had to make their own land. They shed their blood for it. A hundred years later and the Jews are nearly gone. So this is a great triumph! But how do we celebrate? By bending over backward to invent a Jewish grandfather so that we can follow the Jews to Israel! Ha! There is history’s joke. But tell me who is laughing.
—Everybody and nobody, Kotler said. A Jewish joke.
—Nobody is laughing here. They are leaving or expiring.
—A sad end to the Crimean Jewish dream. And yet, if Stalin had only signed his name, it would have been a Jewish homeland.
—Yes, I heard of this dream. Stalin destroyed a lot of those people. But the Russians aren’t the Germans and they don’t pay reparations. So why speak of it? There is plenty of other history that also doesn’t pay.
Tankilevich’s chest rose and fell with a slow regularity. He lay on the sofa without stirring, reposed, as if calmly, pharaonically welcoming the void. Kotler recognized this condition, this state of being. A man proudly relinquishing his mortal coil. Where your death became your badge and a stab at your oppressors. This was how he had felt during the transcendent, soul-heightened stretches of his hunger strike. As though his hands were firmly gripped around the hilt of death, pointing its shining blade at iniquity. But what iniquity was Tankilevich combating? He would not accept Kotler’s help on principle. For this he was willing to deprive himself of his life and bereave his wife and children. It seemed an act of pridefulness and spite.
—We should go, Kotler said.
He watched Tankilevich for a reaction, but the man offered none. Leora, who had resisted coming here from the first and had been agitating to leave, reacted hardly more. At this point, there was little in leaving to gladden the heart.
The only animated response came from Svetlana.
—That’s it, then? she asked. This is how you’ll leave us?
With that she cast her eyes at the dreary scene behind her. The room, even in the morning light, had a watery murk.
—I think we’ve done enough, Kotler said. We’ll go before we inflict more harm.
—Never mind harm. The way we are, there’s no more harm you can inflict on us.
—Your husband needs an ambulance. Because of me he won’t accept one. We will go. And not just for your sake. We need to go. What Leora said is true. That money is rightfully yours. Use it to get him help.
Without saying another word, Kotler and Leora moved to leave the room.
—Go then, Svetlana cried. And turn your backs on God!
At this, despite his better judgment, Kotler failed to bite his tongue. A flicker of temper leaped in his chest.
—Excuse me, Kotler said, but let’s leave God out of this for a moment. There is something I don’t understand. You say you are to be suffocated and devoured. But how did you live, how did you feed yourselves all these years?
—How? We managed is how. We were younger, healthier. For as long as we could, we managed. We didn’t ask anyone for a kopek. Even when we were eligible, Chaim didn’t want to apply. He said, I cannot go to them for money. But we had no other choice. It was that or we become like the other pensioners in this country—insects scrabbling in the dirt. So I made him go to the Hesed. Not he, I. And how did the Hesed treat him? With compassion? With a shred of human decency? How? They humiliated a person. Here was a man who came to them in need, his heart full of love for the Jewish people, and they treated him like a dog.
Tankilevich lay, as before, with his eyes shut, but now he had shed the otherworldly affect. He was listening.
—Don’t think to walk away with any rosy illusions, Svetlana spat. I understand, a respectable woman does not spill all her troubles. But I am not ashamed. Shame is a luxury, and we cannot afford it. My husband went to the Hesed as a Jew looking for help, and the director greeted him with a cold heart. She agreed to give, but imposed conditions. Conditions that my husband met for many years but that are now crippling for him. You see the state he’s in. Who in good conscience would impose harsh conditions on a person like this? And now that he can no longer meet her conditions, she will revoke the subsidy. In other words, she’s told us to dig our graves.
—What conditions? Kotler asked.
At this Svetlana hesitated and glanced at Tankilevich. He had opened his eyes and now looked at her scornfully, as at a simple-minded, bumbling child.
—He had to go once a week to Simferopol, Svetlana said tersely.
Kotler paused for a moment and smiled.
—The weekly trip to the synagogue, he said. To make the minyan.
In his pronunciation of the Hebrew word was a subtle mimicry of the way Svetlana had flourished it the previous day. She detected it.
—He would have gone willingly! Svetlana protested. When he was well, he went with pleasure. She’d only needed to ask. But to force someone to perform a religious duty is an insult. An insult twice over. To the person and to God.
—I see, Kotler said. So this must be why God sent us to you.
—I don’t presume to know God’s reasoning. But just when our life here was made impossible, He sent the only person who could save us.
—I still don’t understand how you believe I can save you.
—By letting us finally leave this place.
—For Israel.
—For Israel.
—Flights depart regularly from Kiev for Tel Aviv. I hope to catch one myself today. If your husband is well enough to travel, you could be on a plane tomorrow.
—Your girlfriend said the same thing. But both of you know it isn’t so. We cannot go as we are. Not with my husband’s past. He must first be absolved before the Jewish people.
—I see. And I’m to absolve him?
—Who else? Not me. If it were me, I would have done it long ago.
Tankilevich wouldn’t accept Kotler’s money—what of Kotler’s absolution, to which he had an even fainter claim? Kotler looked to see if he was rousing himself in protest. He was not; instead, he had composed himself in a yet more stately guise, the image not merely of a man deserving of absolution, but of a man to whom it had been too long and cruelly denied. And thus—tragically, tragically—he might meet his Maker! It was clear that Kotler was expected to grant this absolution even though Tankilevich offered no repentance. But why should he? Since Tankilevich was in need, since he was in the subordinate position, he must be the injured party. And since Kotler was in the dominant position, since the power now rested in his hands, it was mean and petty of him to demand repentance, an admission of guilt. After all, guilt and innocence were not fixed marks. There were extenuating circumstances. Wasn’t this the governing logic of the times? That cause and effect could not be easily disambiguated? That all was up for revision and nobody durst speak of an absolute truth? By this logic, in granting absolution, Kotler would be remediating a wrong. A wrong he had perpetuated by virtue of holding power. Saying I forgive you, he would actually be saying Please forgive me. Or, at least, Please forgive me for not forgiving you sooner.
There lay Tankilevich, presumably with one foot in the next world. Svetlana had asked Kotler to absolve her husband before the Jewish people. What would it cost him to say he would do it? A small lie. Just enough to calm her down and enable her to call the private ambulance. For Kotler wanted no hand in Tankilevich’s death. Especially since, once, he had truly wished him dead. And yet, being himself, he still could not form the words.
—So, will you do it? Svetlana asked.
—Call the ambulance, Svetlana. First he needs to live, then worry about absolution.
From Tankilevich came another objection but it lacked force, and this time Svetlana did not heed him. She went into the kitchen and returned paging through a phone book. She looked from Kotler to Leora and then dialed the number. Unlike the call to the public ambulance, this one was brief.
—Shall we wait with you until they come?
Kotler asked.
—What for? Svetlana said. So you can feel magnanimous? You gave the money for the ambulance. Very well. The paramedics will come. They will help us. Today. But what about tomorrow? If this is all you intend to do, then go, and the devil take you.
Now Svetlana went and sat again at her husband’s side in a demonstration of fidelity. She placed a hand on his forehead, which caused Tankilevich to turn his face toward the back of the sofa.
The image of the two of them struck Kotler as pitiable and ludicrous. Upon these people he was to exercise his lofty principles? Still, Svetlana peered at him and awaited a reply.
—Svetlana, you may not believe it, but I harbor no ill will toward your husband. So it is not even a matter of forgiveness. I hold him blameless. I accept that he couldn’t have acted differently any more than I could have acted differently. This is the primary insight I have gleaned from life: The moral component is no different from the physical component—a man’s soul, a man’s conscience, is like his height or the shape of his nose. We are all born with inherent propensities and limits. You can no more be reviled for your character than for your height. No more reviled than revered.
—You say, came Svetlana’s answer. When you have been revered and my husband reviled.
—It’s true. But that doesn’t change the fact that it is so. You spoke before of fate, that you believe in a Divine Providence. You asked my opinion, and I said that I believed we walk hand in hand with fate. We choose to follow it or pull against it, depending on our characters. But it is character that decides, and the trouble is, we don’t decide our characters. We are born as we are. Last night I told Leora about my father, who, in his youth, was a gifted sportsman, a very fast runner. I was his only child. In many respects I resemble him, yet I didn’t inherit his athletic prowess. When I was a boy, he trained me, attempting to coax from me something that wasn’t there. I tried with all my strength, but I simply lacked the ability. This was my first encounter with this unpleasant reality. The first but hardly the last. For instance, I was a good pianist. But if I didn’t achieve greatness it was because, again, I lacked a certain quality that more gifted students possessed. I also had these small hands. I understood that both these things inhibited me equally and were equally beyond my control. It is the same with morality, as I was forced to discover. Just as there are people in this world who are imparted with physical or intellectual gifts, there are those who are imparted with moral gifts. People who are inherently moral. People who have a clear sense of justice and cannot, under any circumstances, subvert it.
The Betrayers Page 13
