May 27, 1941
Talsi, Latvia
“Why bring this up now?” David Hirschfeld asked, his voice full of irritation.
Rachel gave Michael a knowing look: this was exactly the reaction she expected and had predicted.
“It’s not as if Michael can go to an office and ask for visas to Palestine,” Rachel replied.
“Palestine!” Her father spat the word out as though it were a rotten piece of fruit. “You have to be out of your mind to think of going there.”
“It’s about the only place left that we can go to,” Michael said. “England and the United States won’t allow Jews in. And we should count ourselves lucky to be able to get into Palestine—it’s only because a barrister friend in London has the right connections that we can get in there at all.”
“Don’t include me in that we,” her father said. As for your mother, well that’s her choice. But I think it’s suicidal. You’ll all end up being arrested, and not even Avilov will be able to help you.”
Rachel looked toward her mother, seated at the opposite end of the dining table from her father. But Elizabeth said nothing, her face an inscrutable mask. Her mother’s silence, Rachel knew, meant only that she abhorred any sort of marital quarrel in public. She had already told Rachel in private that if Michael could obtain visas to Palestine for Father and herself, he should do so.
Rachel wanted to scream. Here they were, just one month from her wedding, their target date for departure for Palestine set for July 4th, and her parents were still playing games with each other.
“Mother’s going with us,” Rachel said. “With or without you.”
“Your Mother knows how to speak for herself,” her father replied. “If you want to end up in a prison camp, that’s your choice. Don’t force it on her.” He looked at Michael. “Am I right or wrong, counselor?”
Rachel hated it when her father taunted Michael that way. It was disrespectful.
“Michael’s risking his life for me, Father,” she interjected. “And he’s willing to risk it for you. Show him a little gratitude. Or at least some respect.”
“But that’s my point, precisely. I don’t want him to risk anyone’s life, including his own, for the opportunity to go to a place in the middle of nowhere, among people who hate us now and will continue to hate us forever.”
“We have a God-given right to the land,” Michael said.
“So you say,” her father responded. “But not everyone finds the Old Testament so compelling.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Michael said.
“Tell that to the millions of Arabs who live there.”
“I will. If I can get away from that lunatic in the Kremlin.”
Rachel held up her wine glass. “On that, at least, we can all agree.”
Not even Father, she thought, will defend Stalin. While Hitler had made his hatred of Jews the centerpiece of his political agenda, Stalin’s war against the Jews was quieter and only slightly less lethal. His paranoia had focused on Jews, even though Judaism was a far less potent threat to atheistic Communism than the Russian Orthodox church. Zionism, in particular, was abhorred by the Kremlin; Michael’s membership in a Zionist organization was by itself enough to expose him to arrest. Even with a proper visa, they would have to buy their way out of Soviet-occupied Latvia, for rooted in Stalin’s antagonism toward the Jews were two seemingly antagonistic policies: on the one hand Jews were viewed as a particular threat to the Communist Party; on the other, Stalin forbid them to leave the Soviet Union for Palestine. Whether this travel ban had a rational basis in Stalin’s desire to avoid antagonizing the Arab world, no one could say. All that mattered was that Zionist organizations were viewed as enemies of the Soviet State and you risked certain arrest if you sought an exit visa to Palestine. Which means, dear Father, Rachel thought, you’re trapped like all the other Jews in Stalin’s mad-hatter country as there’s no other country that will have you.
“So what do you hear from Stephen?” Michael asked, adeptly changing the subject.
“He’s been touring with the team,” Elizabeth said.
Rachel smiled at Michael, thanking him with her eyes. She kept him up to date on her brother’s activities so he knew the answer.
“What kind of tour?” Michael asked.
“Putting on exhibition matches for the Red Army,” her mother said. “They’ve been traveling for weeks now, all over the country.”
“Beats being in the Red Army,” Michael said.
“God forbid,” her mother said.
“That proves there’s nothing to worry about,” her father said. “If the Germans were going to invade, they wouldn’t be sending the team anywhere.”
Through the candles, Rachel saw her mother nod slightly in her direction. Fine with me, Rachel told herself. She wasn’t about to try and break through that steel door of denial blocking her father’s mind. She had already tried and failed last year when she and Stephen had broken the maquettes. A week before that amazing day, she had finished a six foot high clay model of the statue, which they had shipped to Avilov. The morning after she and Stephen had smashed every single one of the clay miniatures she had made in preparation for the model, she had delayed going to the studio for a few hours, knowing Father would arrive before her and see the destruction. Even he, she assumed, would finally get the message—that the statue was the end of her sojourn in Stalinist hell; once it was done, her role as his understudy was finished.
When she finally got up enough nerve to go to the studio, she had found him in the study, reading a novel. He put it down and greeted her effusively, causing her to wonder if he had been outside the study that morning.
“I heard from Avilov. We should be dancing and singing.” He clapped his hands. “Can you believe it? Not only did he accept the model—and he praised it to the heavens, by the way—but we can sit out the war, assuming Hitler ever gets up the nerve to attack Stalin, in Tashkent. And there’s no question about Michael coming. He’s part of the family now.”
Was he mad? There was only one possible explanation: he must have come directly into the study. Which meant that she would have to show him. It was the only way he would understand. “I have something I want you to see.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She led the way from the study to her studio; here goes, Rachel thought, bracing herself as they entered the room where she and Stephen had thrown the maquettes against the wall.
She gasped audibly. It was empty, as spotless as an operating room.
“Aren’t you the one!” David said. “You were so confident we’d get approval you went ahead and got started getting rid of those old statuettes. I didn’t have anything to do this morning so I finished cleaning up.”
Tell him. Tell him it’s a lie! she had thought. Tell Him!
“The rest will be easy,” David said. “I know you can do it by the summer. Now let’s have some tea. We can talk all about what we’ll take with us to Tashkent.”
“I’m not going with you to Tashkent, Father.” She took a deep breath to quiet her pounding heart. The words she had been afraid to speak had no visible impact. He might as well have been deaf.
“We won’t be able to take as much as we’d like,” David continued. “But I should be able to twist Avilov’s arm once he sees your masterpiece.”
“Father, please listen to me. Michael and I are going to Palestine once the statue’s finished.”
“You finish the statue. That’s all you have to worry about. I’ll make all the arrangements.” He walked back into the main studio.
To her undying humiliation, she had gone back to work on the statue.
So here we all are. A year later, the statue finished ahead of schedule, and nothing’s changed. As far as her father was concerned, they should all be happy to remain in Stalin’s grasp, churning out busts of the dictator and propaganda for the rest of their lives in exchange for being moved to Tashkent once the war began. Or rather, she would be the one who kept the Communist wolves at bay by expending her artistic energy on busts and statues of Stalin while her father escaped into the safe harbor of his studio. I’m his Cordelia.
Rachel became so exorcized by her thoughts that she had to excuse herself from dinner. She went outside, seeking refuge in the warm spring night. Michael joined her on the porch.
He came up behind her and encircled her in his arms.
“Aren’t you lucky to have me? If I had left with you last summer we’d be in New York now.”
“Where you’d be just one more paint brush waiting to be discovered and I’d be just one more disillusioned lawyer.”
She kissed him. She wanted to open herself to him. Words meant nothing. “Come with me. I have something to show you.” She took his hand and pulled him inside behind her. They went up three flights; reaching the door to the attic, they made their way up a narrow staircase. “You’ll see what I do when I’m not sleeping.”
He waited at the top while she went on to the light switch. A ring of flood lamps burst on, illuminating an easel and a large finished painting of her family waiting for a train on an empty platform. From their expressions it was clear they had missed it, and that there wouldn’t be another. Rachel motioned him forward and he walked to her side. Stunned, he looked from the canvas to her face and back several times.
“I had this vision, you could call it. I’ve been working on it at night.”
“Have you shown it to them?”
“No. And I won’t. I don’t want to hurt anyone with my art.”
She could tell that he was fascinated and appalled by her portraiture. Her parents and brother, their features perfectly depicted, were nevertheless rendered hideous by the absurdity of their wearing winter clothing on a bright summer day. It was as though all of their fear had been congealed into their cool, placid expressions.
He took her hand. She went willingly into his arms. Until that moment she had assumed she would be a virgin when they were married. But now she sought release from the torturous progress of the days, and she heard the music of desire beating in her head and she took him to the divan where she often rested when she could paint no more. She undid her dress and pulled it down, slipped off her bra and pants and waited as he struggled to catch up. At last he lay beside her, naked, and at the touch of his skin against hers she became wet and she guided him into her. His thrust was blocked. As was his second and third. “Don’t stop!” she cried. And he thrust again and again as she worked to help him past the barrier. She cried out from the sharp, savage pain when he tore through. He stopped and waited as she pressed her face into the cushion, tears in her eyes. She felt his lips brush softly over her brow. Damn the pain! She had to get past it. “We can wait,” he suggested. She shook her head. At her urging, he began moving slowly inside her. With each long thrust, she felt the pain lessen. She was bleeding but it didn’t matter. Beyond the pain was the release she sought. It was coming closer and closer now. She was thirsty and she drank and drank. He stopped again, leaving her at the brink. “I should pull out. Otherwise—” She smiled. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll be married soon enough.” He moved ever so slowly and she gasped, digging her nails into his back. She was pulled beneath the surface and she couldn’t breathe; her body wet with pleasure, she felt him extend farther until he filled her more and more and he convulsed as he panted. At last, she told herself, at last I’m free.