Maybe Esther

Copyright

4th Estate

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London SE1 9GF

www.4thEstate.co.uk

This eBook first published in Great Britain by 4th Estate in 2018

Copyright © 2014 by Suhrkamp Verlag Berlin

English language translation copyright © 2018 by Shelley Frisch

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Henry Holt and Company, Inc., New York, for permission to reprint from “Babi Yar” from The Collected Poems, 1952–1990 by Yevgeny Yevtushenko, edited by Albert C. Todd with Yevgeny Yevtushenko and James Ragan, © 1991 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc., New York.

Cover design by Heike Schüssler

Cover photograph © Eugene Shimalsky

Katja Petrowskaja asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins

Source ISBN: 9780008245283

Ebook Edition © August 2017 ISBN: 9780008245306

Version: 2018-01-02

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue: Thank Google

1: AN EXEMPLARY STORY

Family Tree

Negative Numbers

The List

The Recipe

Perpetual Motion

Neighbors

In the Museum

2: ROSA AND THE MUTE CHILDREN

Shimon the Hearer

A Flight

The Gate

Ariadne’s Thread

The Last Mother

Magen David

Divining Rod

The Train

Facebook 1940

3: MY BEAUTIFUL POLAND

Polsha

Ozjel’s Asylum

Ulica Ciepła

Two Cities

Family Heritage

eBay Now

The Rehearsal

Nike

The Wrong House

Kozyra

Life Records

Related Through Adam

Kalisz

Lost Letters

4: IN THE WORLD OF UNSTRUCTURED MATTER

House Search

Van der Lubbe

The Sword of Damocles

Delusions of Grandeur

In the Archive

Voices

Goethe’s Secret Service

A Meshuggeneh

The Trial

Three Cars

Random Chance

Maria’s Tears

The Apron

Instinct for Self-Preservation

Forget Herostratus

Gorgon Medusa

Karl Versus Judas

Wind Rose

5: BABI YAR

A Walk

Riva, Rita, Margarita

Anna and Lyolya

Lucky Arnold

Maybe Esther

6: DEDUSHKA

Grandfather’s Silence

Lunch Break in Mauthausen

The Garden

Friday Letters

Pearls

At Grandfather’s

Milky Way

Russian Cemetery

Hans

Trip to Mauthausen

Sisyphus

The Death March of the Unknown Relatives

The End of the Empire

Epilogue: Intersections

Acknowledgments

Illustration Credits

About the Translator

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
THANK GOOGLE

I would rather have set off from elsewhere than here, the wasteland around the train station that still attests to the devastation of this city, a city that was bombed and reduced to ruins in the course of victorious battles, as retribution, it seemed to me, seeing as how the war that had been the cause of immeasurable devastation, far and wide, had been steered from this very city, an endless blitzkrieg with iron wheels and iron wings. That is now so far in the past that this city has become one of the most peaceful cities in the world and pursues this peace almost aggressively, as if in remembrance of the war.

The train station was recently built in the middle of this city, and despite the much-touted peace the station was inhospitable, as though it embodied all the losses that no train could outrun, one of the most inhospitable places in our Europe, united every which way, yet still sharply bounded, a place that always feels drafty and where your gaze opens out onto a wasteland, unable to alight in an urban jungle, to rest on something before moving out of here, out of this void in the midst of the city, a void that no government can fill, no lavish buildings, no good intentions.

Again, it was drafty as I stood on the platform and my eyes once more swept across the huge letters

BOMBARDIER

Willkommen in Berlin

underneath the arc of the curved roof, noting the contours lackadaisically yet thrown as ever by the mercilessness of this welcome. It was drafty when an elderly gentleman came up to me and asked about this Bombardier.

Your thoughts go straight to bombs, he said, to artillery, to that terrible, unfathomable war, and why Berlin of all places should be welcoming us in that way, this lovely, peaceful, bombed-out city, which is aware of all that, it just can’t be that Berlin bombards—so to speak—new arrivals like him with this word in huge letters, and what is meant by welcome anyway, who exactly is supposed to be bombarded, and with what. He was desperately seeking an explanation, he told me, because he was about to set off. I replied, somewhat astounded that my inner voice was addressing me in the form of an old man with dark eyes and an American accent, breathless and ever more agitated, almost wildly plying me with questions that I myself had played through a hundred times already, play it again, I thought, sinking deeper and deeper into these questions, into this distant realm of questions on the platform, and I replied that I, too, think of war right away, it’s not a matter of age, I always think about the war as it is, especially here in this through station, which is not the final destination for anyone, never fear, you can keep on going, I thought, and that he was not the first who had wondered about that, to himself and to me. I am here too often, I thought for a second, maybe I’m a стрелочник, a shunter, the shunter is always the one to blame, but only in Russian, I thought, as the old man said, My name is Samuel, Sam.

And then I told him that Bombardier is a French musical now having a successful run in Berlin, many people come to the city to see it, can you imagine, all because of Bombardier, the Paris Commune or some such piece of history, nowadays two nights in a hotel plus musical all-inclusive, and that there already had been problems since, at this station, Bombardier is advertised only with this one word, without comment, it had even been in the newspaper, I said, I recall, that it claimed the word gave rise to false associations, there was even a court case that grew out of the city’s dispute with the musical, linguists were called in, imagine that, to assess the potential of this word to incite violence, and the court delivered the verdict in favor of the freedom of advertising. I believed what I was saying more and more although I had no idea what this Bombardier on the arc of the central station meant and where it came from, but as I was speaking so enthusiastically and offhandedly and saying things I would certainly not define as a lie, my imagination took wing, and I drifted further and further without the slightest fear of going over the cliff, coiling and recoiling into the curves of this verdict that had never been pronounced, because those who don’t lie can’t fly.

Where are you traveling to? the old man asked me, and I told him everything without a second of hesitation, with the kind of verve I might use to excoriate some other musical, I talked about the Polish city my relatives had moved from a hundred years earlier, to Warsaw and then farther east, perhaps solely in order to bequeath to me the Russian language, which I was now so generously passing along to no one, dead end and halt, so I have to travel there, I said, to one of the oldest cities in Poland, where they, the forebears about whom nothing is known, had lived for two, three, or even four centuries, perhaps since the fifteenth century, when the Jews in this little Polish town had been granted privileges and become neighbors, the Others. And you? Sam asked, and I said I am Jewish, more by accident than design.

We’re waiting for that train as well, Sam said after a brief pause, we, too, are taking the Warszawa Express. Taking this train, which looks like a thoroughbred horse as it looms up out of the fog, an express train that moves according to schedule but against time, into the zone of Bombardier, for us only, I thought, and the old man moved on to say that his wife was looking for the same thing, namely the world of her grandmother, who had come to the United States from a small White Russian village outside of Biała Podlaska, and yet it was neither his homeland nor his wife’s, a hundred years have gone by and many generations, and none of them knew the language anymore either, but still, Biała Podlaska sounded to him like a forgotten lullaby, godknowswhy, a key to the heart, he said, and the village is called Janów Podlaski, and hardly anyone had lived there besides Jews and now only the others, and they were both going there to take a look at it, and, he really did keep saying and again and again, as though he was stumbling over an impediment, naturally nothing remained there, he said naturally and nothing in order to emphasize the senselessness of his journey, I, too, often say naturally or even innately as though this disappearance or this nothingness was natural or even self-evident. The landscape, however, the names of the places and a stud farm for Arabian horses that has been in existence since the early nineteenth century, established after the Napoleonic Wars and the top choice of the experts, everything was still there, they told me as though they had googled everything. A horse could cost a good million dollars there, Mick Jagger had already taken a look at horses from this stud farm at an auction, his drummer bought three, and now they would be going there, five kilometers from the Belarussian border, thank Google. There was even a horse cemetery there, no, the Jewish cemetery was not preserved, that was on the Internet as well.

I’m a Jew from Tehran, the old man said in English as we were still standing on the platform, Samuel is my new name. I came to New York from Tehran, Sam said. He knew Aramaic, had learned a good many things, and took his violin wherever he went. In the United States, he’d actually set out to study nuclear physics, but wound up applying to the conservatory, failed the entrance exam, and became a banker, but was no longer in that line of work either. Even after fifty years, his wife said when we were already sitting in the train and the metallic rainbow of “Willkommen in Berlin” was no longer weighing down on our heads, his wife said that whether he’s playing Brahms, Vivaldi, or Bach, it all sounds Iranian. And he said it was fate that they had met me, I looked like the Iranian women of his childhood, he had wanted to say Iranian mothers, perhaps he even wanted to say like my mother but held back, and he added it was also a twist of fate that I was better versed in genealogy than they were, and that I was traveling to Poland with the same destination and the same train—assuming the urge to search for what has vanished can be defined as a destination at all, I replied. And no, it is not fate, I said, because Google watches over us like God, and when we search for something, it fleshes out our story, just like when you buy a printer on the Internet and you continue to be offered printers for a long time to come, and when you buy a backpack for school, you continue to get advertising for it for years, and let’s not even mention online dating, and if you google yourself, at some point even your namesakes vanish, and what remains is only you, as though you have sprained your foot and limp, and suddenly the entire city limps, out of solidarity, perhaps, millions of limpers, they form a group, almost the majority. How is democracy supposed to work if you get only what you’ve already searched for and if you are what you search, and you never feel alone or you always do, since you never get the chance to meet the others, who are not like you, and that’s how it is with the search, you come across like-minded people, God googles our paths, so that we stay put in our grooves, I always meet people who are looking for the same thing I am, I said, and that is why we, too, have met here, and the old man said, This is the very meaning of fate. He was obviously further along in exegesis than I.

All of a sudden I thought of the musical that had actually created a sensation here, when you saw the words Les Misérables, without comment, on the advertising spaces of the city, unlike the movie of the same name, which called the miserable ones Prisoners of Fate. The musical spoke to everyone with its Les Misérables, as though one needed constant consolation—Poor, miserable you!—or simply needed to have it pointed out that it is not merely one of us who is suffering, but indeed we all come together in suffering, because faced with these huge letters, faced with this wasteland in the middle of the city, all of us are miserable, not only the others, but I as well. And so the letters of Bombardier on the arc of the station roof fill us with their reverberation, the way organ music fills the church, and none can escape it.

And then I really did google it: Bombardier was one of the largest railway and airplane construction companies in the world, and this Bombardier, which sets our paths, had recently launched an ad campaign, “Bombardier YourCity.” Quickly and safely. And now we were traveling from Berlin to Poland on the Warszawa Express, with the blessing of Bombardier, among curtains and napkins bearing the insignia WARS, an abbreviation as outmoded and bygone as Star Wars and other wars of the future.

CHAPTER 1
AN EXEMPLARY STORY

FAMILY TREE

A spruce is standing lonely.

—HEINRICH HEINE

As a child I thought a family tree was something like a Christmas tree, a tree with decorations from old boxes—some baubles break, fragile as they are, some angels are ugly and sturdy and remain intact through every move. In any case, a Christmas tree was the only family tree we had, bought new every year then thrown away, a day before my birthday.

I had thought that telling the story of the few people who happened to be my relatives was all that was needed to conjure up the entire twentieth century. Some of my family members were born to pursue their callings in life in the unswerving, implicit belief that they would fix the world. Others seemed to have come out of nowhere; they did not put down roots, they ran back and forth, barely touching the ground, and hung in the air like a question, like a skydiver caught in a tree. My family had just about everything, I had arrogantly thought, a farmer, many teachers, a provocateur, a physicist, and a poet—and plenty of legends.

We had

a revolutionary who joined the Bolsheviks and changed his name in the underground to one we have been using legally for close to a hundred years

several workers in a shoe factory in Odessa, about whom nothing is known

a physicist who ran an experimental turbine factory in Kharkiv and vanished during the purges; his brother-in-law was told to turn against him in court because party loyalty was gauged by a person’s willingness to sacrifice his own family members

a war hero named Gertrud, the husband of my aunt Lida, who was born when work was declared an end in itself, at first everyone worked a lot, then too much, and later still more, because exemplary achievements replaced norms and work became the meaning of life in the nation of proletarians and supermen, and so it came about that my future uncle was named Geroy Truda at birth, hero of labor, work hero, abbreviated to Gertrud

then there were Arnold, Ozjel, Zygmunt, Misha, Maria, Maybe Esther, maybe a second Esther and Madam Siskind, a deaf-mute student of Ozjel who sewed clothing for the entire city

many teachers who founded orphanages throughout Europe and taught deaf-mute children

Anna and Lyolya, who died in Babi Yar, and all the others there

a phantom named Judas Stern, my great-uncle

a peacock my grandparents bought for the deaf-mute children so they could enjoy its beauty

a Rosa and a Margarita, my floral grandmas

Margarita received a letter of recommendation for party membership in 1923, directly from Molotov, the future Soviet minister of foreign affairs, that’s how we tell the story, as if it showed that we were always at the center of the action

my grandmother Rosa, who had the loveliest name of all speech therapists and waited for her husband longer than Penelope had

my grandfather Vasily, who went off to war and did not return to my grandmother Rosa for forty-one years. She never forgave him for his long odyssey, but—in our family there is always someone who says but—but, this someone said, they kissed, at the kiosk next to the subway station, when they were both over seventy, the Hotel Tourist was under construction just then, but Grandfather, my mother said, Grandfather wasn’t able to leave the apartment anymore back then, and the Hotel Tourist wasn’t built until later

my other grandfather, the revolutionary who had not only changed his name but also given his mother a new name in every Soviet questionnaire, depending on the way the political wind was blowing, his employment, and his taste in literature, until he came up with Anna Arkadyevna, that was Anna Karenina’s name, who thus became my great-grandmother

We were happy, and everything within me resisted Leo Tolstoy’s pronouncement that happy families are alike in their happiness and only the unhappy ones are unique, a pronouncement that lured us into a trap and brought out our penchant for unhappiness, as though only unhappiness was worth words, but happiness hollow.

NEGATIVE NUMBERS

My big brother taught me the negative numbers, he told me about black holes, as an introduction to a way of life. He conjured up a parallel universe where he was forever beyond reach, and I was left with the negative numbers. The only cousin I knew about was someone I rarely saw, even more rarely than her mother Lida, my mother’s big sister. My strict uncle, my father’s big brother, during his rare visits, gave me physics problems to solve on the topic of perpetual motion, as though constant motion could gloss over his absence in our lives. My two babushkas lived with us, but weren’t all there: I was still a child when they reached the full incapacity of their advanced age. Other babushkas baked piroshki and cake, knitted warm sweaters and colorful caps, some even socks—socks, the aerobatics of knitting, vysshiy pilotazh, as people used to say. They brought the children to school and to music class, they picked them up, and in the summer they waited in their gardens for their grandchildren, in their dachas, little country huts. My babushkas lived with us on the seventh floor, and could not put down roots in the concrete. Both of them had floral names, and I secretly thought that the mallows that grew in front of our fourteen-floor building were connivers in Babushka Rosa and Babushka Margarita’s plot to retreat into the plant kingdom.

They didn’t have all their marbles, you might say, though in Russian you don’t use the expression “all their marbles.” Russians would ask, Don’t you have them all at home? I was afraid of this question, although my babushkas were almost always at home, probably for my protection, even so, this not having them all at home, or even just the word “all,” alarmed me, as though the others were privy to something about us that I wasn’t, and knew who or what was actually missing.

Sometimes I thought I knew. Two of my grandparents were born in the nineteenth century, and it seemed to me that in the turmoil of the era one generation had been lost or skipped over, they truly were not “at home”; my friends’ great-grandparents were younger than my grandparents, and it was left to me to foot the bill for two generations and face the music. I was the very youngest in a line of the youngest. I was the youngest there had ever been.

The feeling of loss worked its way, without warning, into my otherwise cheerful world, hovering over me, spreading its wings, depriving me of air and light, on account of a deficiency that may not have existed. Sometimes it struck like a bolt of lightning, a sudden swoon, throwing me off balance and leaving me gasping for breath, flailing about to regain my equilibrium, hit by a bullet that was never fired off, no one had said hands up!

These existential gymnastics in the struggle for balance struck me as a part of the family heritage, an innate reflex. In English class we practiced hands up, to the sides, forward, down. I always figured that the word gymnastics came from the word hymn, as in hymnastics, in Russian both words start with a g, gimnastika and gimn, and I eagerly extended my hands upward in an attempt to touch the imperceptible sheath of the heavens.

There were many who had even fewer relatives than I. Some children had no brothers or sisters, no babushka or parents, and there were children who had sacrificed themselves for the homeland in the war, these children were brave heroes, they became our idols, they were always with us. We were not allowed to forget their names even at night, they had died many years before our birth, but back then we had no “back then,” only a “now,” in which war losses were said to constitute an inexhaustible supply of our own happiness, because the only reason we were alive, we were told, was that they had died for us, and we needed to be eternally grateful to them, for our peaceful normality and for absolutely everything. I grew up not in the cannibalistic but the vegetarian years, as Akhmatova dubbed them (and we all echoed her), and we attributed all losses to the war that was long since over, the war that bore no article or adjective, we simply said war; there aren’t any articles in Russian anyway, and we did not specify which war, because we thought that there was only one, erroneously, since during our happy childhood our state was waging another war, down in the faraway south, for our safety, we were told, and for the freedom of others, a war that we were not allowed to acknowledge in spite of the daily losses, and I, too, did not acknowledge it until I was ten years old and saw the zinc casket in front of our apartment building, which contained the remains of a nineteen-year-old neighbor, a boy I could not recall even then, but I recall his mother to this day.

I had no reason to suffer. Yet I did suffer, from early on, although I was happy and loved, and surrounded by friends, embarrassed to be suffering, but suffering still with a loneliness that ranged from razor-sharp to bleakly bitter and I thought it stemmed only from a feeling of missing out on something. The luxurious dream of a big family at a long table followed me with the persistence of a ritual.

And yet our living room was full of my father’s friends and my mother’s adult students, dozens of students who always stood by her until in time, there were several generations of them at our table, and we took the same photographs as other families: against the backdrop of the dark floral curtains lots of merry, slightly overexposed faces, all turned toward the camera, at a long, beautifully decorated table. I don’t know exactly when I first picked up on the hints of discord during my family’s loud, exuberant festivities.

You could count the list of those who could be considered part of my family on the fingers of two hands. I had no need to practice the piano scale of aunt, uncle, cousin, first cousin once removed and her husband, cousin, and great-uncle—up and down, up and down, and I was terrified of that piano, that aggressive totality of the keyboard.

In an earlier time, before we had our big dinner parties, a large family was a curse, because relatives could be members of the White Army, saboteurs, noblemen, kulaks, overeducated “enemies of the people” living abroad, their children, and other dubious characters, and everyone was under suspicion, so families suffered a convenient loss of memory, often in order to save themselves, even though it rarely helped, and on special occasions, any relatives who might fit these categories were generally forgotten, often hidden from the children, and families dwindled; whole branches of the family were erased from memory, extended families were pared down until there was nothing left of them but the joke about the two men with the same last name who are asked if they’re related. Certainly not, they reply: we don’t even have the same last name!