The Yid Read online

  Just in case, he instructs two young men he calls druzhinniki—volunteers—to open every filin they can find.

  Khromov is careful to target only people who are, in his judgment, unlikely to survive deportation.

  The old and the infirm do badly in prison transit. Hanging may be gentler than death from dysentery in a prison train. A little torture may loosen tongues and even out the calculus of pain. Lieutenant Khromov is selective. To get on his list, you have to have relatives abroad, or to have retired from well-paying work.

  Over the preceding weeks, Mikhail Petrovich comes into possession of a number of gold chains, assorted jewelry, one Star of David, a jar full of American dollars, a stack of rubles, and seven gold crosses. (He is surprised to discover that Jews own gold crosses.)

  He gathers his entire family once, in celebration, buying real vodka for all. Now he considers buying a motorcycle.

  Is it wrong for Khromov’s volunteers to dispatch the old man Kuznets and—separately—those two old women, speeding up a few deaths and taking some valuables that would be lost in the pandemonium when it begins?

  Alas, Khromov’s volunteers haven’t returned from what appeared to be a simple task—liquidating an old doctor who lives alone.

  They haven’t been seen for twenty-four hours, missing their next assignment. They are common thugs who, in exchange for protection, turn over half of everything they loot. Khromov then shares some of the proceeds with Vasyok, his wife’s son from a previous marriage. (They are, after all, his friends.) Have the druzhinniki double-crossed him?

  The situation requires Khromov’s personal attention.

  * * *

  The dacha’s door opens suddenly, letting in a burst of frigid air and nearly blowing out the kerosene lantern.

  Shoulder to shoulder, two men squeeze through the door. The older man holds a pistol; the younger, an old berdanka, a rifle of the kind first used by Hiram Berdan’s sharpshooters during the American Civil War, then adopted around the world.

  “This is it. Article 58. The wall,” thinks Kogan, recognizing the man with the pistol as Khromov. “Local militia arrests especially dangerous state criminals.”

  Levinson looks up at the armed men.

  “Dr. Kogan, who are these men? Robbers?” he asks, bringing a glass of tea to his lips.

  “How can this lunatic be so completely unperturbed?” Kogan wonders. It looks as though a waiter and a busboy have just appeared to clear the table. This can mean one thing only: der komandir is assuming his battle position. This is his command: remain composed. Nothing is lost until it’s lost.

  “At least technically, these men aren’t robbers,” replies Kogan, similarly taking a sip. “One of them is none other than Mikhail Petrovich Khromov, lieutenant of the militia, a man I have always considered to be something of a friend. The other seems to be his wife’s son, Vasyok.”

  “Zatkni rylo,” shouts Vasyok, pointing his rifle at Kogan. Shut the snout.

  He is very young, his voice still high-pitched.

  Disregarding the command, Kogan continues: “I can see how you might have mistaken them for criminals. Militia officers usually knock on your door, introduce themselves, and present you with an official order. Also, it’s extremely unusual for militia officers to deputize members of their own families, arm them with nonstandard weapons, and bring them along.”

  This feels good, whatever it is. Kogan slowly accepts the idea that Levinson has a plan.

  “So you are puzzled, too?” asks Levinson.

  “Quite.” Kogan recognizes the smirk on Levinson’s face.

  “Scha blya shlyopnu,” shouts Vasyok, placing the muzzle of his rifle directly against Kogan’s ear. Loosely translated, this means, “I’ll kill you,” but the verb shlyopnut’, literally, to slap, merits notice: it is, in fact, an affectionate term for an impromptu execution.

  Kogan smiles politely.

  “Pomolchi,” says Khromov to Vasyok. “Vidish, lyudi intelligentnyye, chay p’yut?” You be quiet. Can’t you see, these are refined people, drinking tea.

  “What do you have here? A Jewish holiday?” he asks, moving inside the house, his pistol drawn.

  “A feast,” says Levinson.

  He recognizes that victory has become possible. Khromov and Vasyok don’t seem to have the wisdom to come in and shoot everyone. This is how Levinson would have conducted an operation of this sort. Instead, these fools have engaged in a conversation, and dialogue brings victory to the person who controls it. At least that’s how it works onstage, how it should be in real life. The process has slowed down. Now the task is to keep them engaged.

  “We were just talking about procuring blood, and you walked in,” offers Levinson. “How fortunate!”

  Sometimes you have to say something—anything—and stay with it. Keep the enemy stay in conversation and remind the ensemble that “all for one and one for all” is a game with life-and-death consequences. Force them to up the stakes.

  “Chto, vpravdu?” asks Vasyok, now pointing his gun at Kogan. So it’s true?

  “Zaraneye vam, tovarischi, spasibo,” says Levinson, causing Vasyok to shift his rifle. Thank you in advance, comrades.

  “Za chto-zh eto yesche?” asks Khromov. Whatever for?

  “Za krov’ vashu svezhen’kuyu, velikorusskuyu. Budet chem zapivat’,” answers Levinson. For your fresh great-Russian blood. I know of no better way to end a meal.

  “What’s this about blood? I don’t believe any of this,” says Lieutenant Khromov. “Dr. Kogan and I have known each other for seven years, and I don’t believe that he has ever had a sip of vodka, let alone blood.”

  “In that case, what brings you here?” asks Levinson. “Has a child gone missing?”

  “Not a child, but we are investigating the disappearance of two individuals whose whereabouts should be known to you,” says Khromov.

  “Were they nice people?” asks Ol’ga Fyodorovna.

  Her initial fear is gone, too, replaced by infectious defiance. The proximity of gunpowder has chased away the half-nun, giving the half-harlot the dominance she craves. She smiles at the gunmen.

  “No,” says Khromov. “I wouldn’t say that they were nice.”

  “So would it be a problem if they were gone?” asks Levinson.

  “Actually, their disappearance would present certain problems,” says Khromov, the muzzle of his revolver drawing a slow, ponderous circle around the table. “In our country, people don’t disappear.”

  “They don’t?” asks Ol’ga Fyodorovna.

  “Sasha, my initial suspicion is now confirmed: this is not an official visit,” says Levinson to Kogan. “If it were, by now the good lieutenant would have asked us to show our documents. I believe that we are indeed under attack by robbers.”

  “Tak-taki pozovite militsiyu,” suggests Vasyok with a crude imitation of Jewish speech patterns. So call the militia.

  “Moisey Semyonovich, we should choose our words carefully,” says Levinson. “An idiot is defined as someone who is likely to discharge his weapon accidentally. Fortunately, they don’t survive long.”

  “Let’s get the filiny,” says Vasyok.

  “Filiny … This is the second time in as many days that someone has demanded my owls,” says Kogan. “I have no owls. You must be talking about tefillin.”

  “Yes,” says Khromov. “Must be. Where are they?”

  “I don’t believe in God,” says Levinson.

  “I am a Marxist,” says Moisey Semyonovich.

  “I am a Christian,” says Ol’ga Fyodorovna.

  “I am technically a Marxist, very much a scientist, but not completely an atheist,” says Kogan, addressing the barrel of Vasyok’s berdanka. “So my faith and my philosophy—philosophies, really—are often in conflict. It’s a long answer, I realize.”

  “Enough. Just hand over the filin,” blurts Vasyok, nervously swinging his berdanka.

  An observer might conclude that Moisey Semyonovich has drifted off into a privat
e dream world, a Bundist paradise, a place without exploitation, where Yiddish is the official tongue of the Jewish working class, and where religion—and therefore Hebrew—is banned; a Stalinfrei world where deportations—of Chechens, Crimean Tatars, Lithuanians, or Jews—are unthinkable.

  His lips move lightly, like silent trap drums tapping out the symphony that once again blasts in his head. His formidable musculature moves with it, his biceps flex, his fingers extend outward awkwardly, and his groin—the center of athletic prowess—contracts like an inner spring.

  Moisey Semyonovich has no plan. Instead, he knows what to expect. When all seems lost, the enemy becomes complacent, and you have a chance. A single chance. Don’t miss it.

  * * *

  “You are a military man, Dr. Kogan,” says Khromov with a benevolent smile.

  Kogan nods.

  “You understand that we live in a stern time, when entire nations become unnecessary and therefore must wither.”

  “You are a strong Marxist, then,” interjects Levinson. Now the idiot is talking about himself. He is fully engaged. There is hope.

  Khromov nods. “Definitely a Marxist.”

  “Then how can we help you?” asks Kogan.

  “I want you not to be so egotistical,” says Khromov. “All of us do. You have committed crimes, so take responsibility.”

  “And what if they have not committed any crimes, as individuals, that is?” asks Ol’ga Fyodorovna.

  “If they have not, then they must realize that sometimes in its history, a great people, the Russian people, must disengage itself from the lesser peoples, which have been sapping its strength. If we are a tree, you are a weed, and we must prune you.”

  “I promise not to sap your strength, lieutenant,” says Kogan. “Would this cause you to put away your guns, take your wonderful stepson by the hand, and go home to your lovely wife?”

  “No,” says Khromov. “Afraid not.”

  “Ah. It has begun then?” asks Levinson.

  “Poka net,” says Khromov. Not yet.

  * * *

  Khromov looks like a man at peace, almost relaxed, pontificating about his Great People.

  They stand six meters apart, enough distance to gather speed, but is it enough to bring down the prey?

  A single hit. That’s all you get, at best. What can you use?

  The bread knife is serrated, but it’s at the other end of the table, by Levinson, who glances at it as he spews nonsense.

  Fists work quite well, but they require repeated blows, which take time. The hands can strangle, but that, too, takes time.

  Moisey Semyonovich needs to inflict instant death, a swap of figures on the chessboard: exchanging him for me. Six meters is a fraction of a second, enough to gather speed, enough to let the body act.

  His thoughts: “The carotid artery … It’s big, it’s well-protected. The external jugular, which drains blood from the face, is on the surface … It can be found. Perhaps the carotid will be injured, too. We’ll see—or not.”

  It is tempting to leave out the final word of that sequence of thoughts, for Moisey Semyonovich would be deeply ashamed of it. The word is Shema, the opening of a prayer that the fortunate ones are able to utter before their death: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”

  Readers who overanalyze the presence of this solitary word to conclude that Moisey Semyonovich makes his peace with God should be ashamed of their erroneous, smug conjecture.

  The truth is much simpler: by setting aside his conscious faculties, Moisey Semyonovich allows his inner animal to make strategic decisions and thus is unable to censor its base urge to acknowledge the Supreme Being.

  * * *

  A shadow is all Mikhail Petrovich Khromov sees before his shoulders, back, and skull spread out against the wall; his arms splay outward, fountain-like; and pressure on his neck starts to constrict air.

  Before the pistol discharges and falls out of his hand, before darkness descends, Khromov sees a human ear under his chin. Pressed against the wall, he cannot move. There is an instant when he feels the teeth beneath his chin, and something like a sponge—wet, warm, and sticky—on his neck, but the lack of oxygen overwhelms, and all turns black.

  This is the end of their interaction. Neither of the duelists is fully aware of the horrendous melee that follows their exeunt.

  * * *

  To review the full picture of these events, let us return to the beginning of Moisey Semyonovich’s leap.

  Vasyok is quick, but lacking preparation, he has to raise the gun and aim, which he cannot.

  His rifle’s bullet would have to fell both men, his stepfather and the Yid who closed his jaws upon Khromov’s neck. Vasyok moves to the center of the room and takes aim, thereby opening his jugular, carotid artery, and windpipe as targets for Levinson’s bread knife.

  A shot rings out, and in the smoke three men slump to the ground in this order:

  Rabinovich tumbles first, his brains upon the window and wall, his Godless soul speeding toward the red gates of heaven.

  Khromov is technically alive. His heart still pumps, but blood is no longer draining in ways that sustain life. His hand shoots up to cover his wound in the futile hope that hands have the capacity to stop bleeding and make us breathe again. His simple, corrupt soul is packing up to make a swift evacuation.

  Vasyok comes down last, his rifle resting in Levinson’s firm hand, the ivory handle of the thin serrated knife protruding from the deep nest it has made within his neck, causing his windpipe to whistle softly as his blood gushes to the floor.

  “You were as fast as you could be,” says Kogan.

  “Not fast enough,” says Levinson as they rush toward Moisey Semyonovich.

  Ol’ga Fyodorovna sits silently in her chair.

  “A lovely, lovely man,” she says.

  “You were close, I surmise,” says Kogan.

  “I couldn’t keep him from dying.”

  “One never can.”

  “Remember The Seagull, the very end? ‘What I wanted to say was, that Constantine has shot himself.…’ Always they die offstage—suicides, executions, beatings at interrogations, wars, the permafrost. Behind the curtain. Not this time, no more! I looked his death directly in the eye!”

  * * *

  “This is a sad and somber moment, but there is nothing to be done to help the victims,” says Kogan. “I want you to come here and witness something extraordinary.

  “Note the bite mark,” he continues, pointing at an uneven red oval beside the Adam’s apple on Lieutenant Khromov’s puffy neck. “As surgeons, we are used to seeing human bites on hands and arms, but almost never necks, and never have I seen one like this!

  “Until this moment, I did not believe that humans had the ability to bring down prey with our bite. Our teeth are made for chewing. Now, look, our friend has done what wolves and lions do: he hit the neck with murderous force, and he chomped down and held, releasing only as his brain ceased to command him to continue.

  “He didn’t know it could be done, but he took a chance. Now, note this area, around the bite. It’s swelling up. I can find out conclusively later, but for now I believe that the bite has macerated the jugular vein and damaged the carotid artery as well. This bleeding has compromised blood flow to the brain and closed off the windpipe at the same time. It’s a masterstroke and a painful way to die. Not that it has happened exactly this way ever before. I have to be right. You see, the swelling and his fitful breathing are happening too fast for any other explanation.

  “If I am right, we are about to see something that hasn’t been in any medical book that I have seen, something that makes me wish I had a camera.”

  “Oh, how foul!” says Ol’ga Fyodorovna.

  The swelling beneath the tooth marks grows rapidly before the eyes of the plotters, within minutes rising to the size of a cantaloupe. The swelling grows darker as the skin stretches.

  “Can’t you alleviate this man’s suffering instead of
delivering an anatomy lecture?”

  “Ol’ga Fyodorovna, please believe me, I have no way to help. I could attempt a tracheotomy, but even if I succeed, the patient will likely die of a stroke. And considering the events that led to his injury, I am not certain that his survival is in our best interests. If I were to raise him from the dead, Levinson would insist on killing him again.”

  Small drops of blood begin to trickle out of the four holes made by incisors, slowly turning into gentle streams. As the skin stretches, the streams grow stronger and the blood broadens its path, spilling out at intervals like waves.

  Ol’ga Fyodorovna declines to watch. “This is barbaric,” she says, her hands shielding her from this grotesque sight. “An exploding aneurysm is your idea of a spectacle. How could you make yourself so detached from human life?”

  “If I can’t analyze, I can’t help. If I can’t help, I can still analyze.”

  “I see, again, the primacy of reason.”

  “Proudly so. And what is the nature of your objection to it?”

  “Make it objections, plural: aesthetic, ethical, moral, religious. In alphabetical order.”

  “So it’s a clear conscience you want, Ol’ga Fyodorovna?”

  “No, I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror.”

  “You hunger for beauty, then?”

  “You guessed incorrectly. Dignity.”

  * * *

  In the morning of February 28, when Lewis returns to the dacha, he notes that the place is starting to look like a workers’ dormitory in Magnitogorsk.

  There are two cots for Kogan and Levinson, a cot for him, and another cot, behind a stretched-out sheet, for Ol’ga Fyodorovna.

  During the previous night, Moisey Semyonovich slept on the table, but this morning the table stands bare. Taking off his boots, Lewis notes that the floorboards feel wet from scrubbing. The smell of ammonia makes it difficult to remain inside.

  Levinson and Kogan are awake.

  “What happened?” Lewis asks.

  “The militia paid us a visit,” says Levinson, sitting up.