Continuation. Begins here
In order not to waste time, I decided to improve my English, and began to attend free classes in the next community where volunteers from unemployed Americans pensioners and just well-wishers taught English.
Our first tycher (teacher) was a person with a sad face and a low voice. He somehow muttered to himself, but I assorted only separate sounds which did not develop in words. On my request to speak louder, he with astonishment looked at me, and asked, what is the matter?
I explained that I had a problem with hearing, and I understood not everything that he spoke. The teacher nodded with agreement and continued to mutter. He kept muttering two weeks, and then disappeared. We were informed that he was ill, and we would have a new volunteer.
Next day beautiful white “Lincoln” made a turn around, squeaked brakes and stopped in the yard of the educational centre.The door opened, and the proprietors of a limousine in stages got out of the car.
It was an old woman at the age of Tortilla the Turtle, in a snow-white, a bit old-fashioned dress, with white, accurately twisted tows and in white Adidas sneakers.
Valiantly closing the door, she crafty and benevolently smiled at us, having bared a number of the whitest, smoothest plastic teeth, and as a sign of a greeting playfully shaken the former hips.
Snapping fingers and hopping, she headed towards us.She did not walk so confidently and not too exactly, continually going off-course, and there was a sensation as if the old woman just danced lambada in the Mexican disco and thus had a little more tested tequilas.
We liked the grandmother. She always was in good mood. Her eyes, already covered with a senile film, in a young way shone brightly, and the smile did not descend from brightly made up lips. She did not wish to grow old, and it only already caused respect. And vivacity was not so easy for her.
The method of teaching English was original. Lessons reminded us classes in anatomy. She showed parts of the body, (certainly, the most decent) and explained, how they sound in English.
This is elbow, she showed her elbow. We answered with chorus: this is an elbow.
This is knee, she raised a skirt, showing her gouty knee. We confirmed with chorus: this is a knee.
This is mouth; she opened her mouth wide and also pointed her finger at it.
This is mouth, agreed we, slightly opening our mouths not to brag of gold crowns, hollows, seals and absence of a part of teeth.
After each lesson the old woman happy with that she had filled up our lexicon, and, accordingly made us suitable for dialogue, broke into a dance, clicked fingers, representing Carmen, and cried out a mysterious word Banana!
Then got to her “Lincoln”, closed the door and darted off, as the rocket from a starting platform.Her training reminded me a joke of how the Russian teacher trained Americans in Russian.
What is it? A table? She asks, showing a table.
Yes, it is a table, pupils answer.
What is it? A chair? She points at a stool.
Yes, it is a chair, Americans readily repeat.
What is it? For a second the teacher reflected, without knowing what to choose a floor or a ceiling.
Yes, this is what, pupils, including a question finished habitually answered.
We could list for a month of our classes in pure English language all parts of our body. Probably, this stock sufficed to talk to the pathologist, but dialogue with Americans hardly suited.
Teachers were replaced one after another, but none of them was professional, therefore the harmonious system of training did not exist. Courses were organized for charity by volunteers, and, it meant free. Would any professional teacher work for nothing? Especially, in America.
Cheerful person Igor Aronovich Baydovsky the former director of a pig farm near Minsk happened to be my neighbour in apartments. To America parents were caused under the invitation by son Arcady who lived some years here with his family.
At the airport, checking documents representatives of the Jewish organisations asked Igor Aronovich: you are communist? .Yes, I am, he answered.You sympathise with ideas of communism? .
No, I do not.Then why you became a communist?Because I was offered a position of the director of the pig farm and a party membership could correct this post only.
But how you, the Jew, agreed to head such not kosher enterprise incompatible with Judaic laws?And I headed it not as the Jew but as a communist, he answered it.
Igor Aronovich arrived in America with light baggage, having grasped with himself only something from things, a photo, a mandoline and wife Sofia Grigoryevna who had experienced two strokes.
He very touchingly looked after his sick spouse, granting of all she desires.Sofia Grigoryevna did not walk almost, moving in rooms in a wheelchair, and that by means of her husband.
When it was necessary, he took her to a toilet, replaced her on a toilet bowl, and then returned back.
In the evening, in the same manner, Igor Aronovich shifted his spouse to a bed.All rest of the time Sofia Grigoryevna sat at the TV, watching through videocassettes with old Soviet films.
Tapes were brought by friends, acquaint and neighbours.When all stock had been settled, Igor Aronovich was advised to copy video films from New York, in the newspaper published there New Russian Word.
The list of offered films occupied a whole turn.Aronich made the list consisting mainly from comedies, vaudevilles, melodramas, say, tapes with the happy end that his Sofochka was not upset if the film came to an end with someone’s death, and sent the order for the other end of the country.
In three-four days the box with videocassettes, not less than ten pieces came.
Igor Aronovich films did not watch, preferring to be engaged in more pleasant business. Next day after acquaintance he knocked in a partition separating our apartments that served as an invitation to come as a guest. When I entered, the old man artfully winked at me, clicked fingers on an Adam’s apple and silently asked: what about it? .
I was not against and nodded in agreement. He showed me into a tiny bedroom. In the corner, on a wide dresser, there were some one-litre jars filled with any dark liquid and closed by plastic covers. In covers holes were made, plastic tubules stuck out of them, reminding flowers without heads.
Here is my mini-factory, with pride Igor Aronich presented the battery of glass container. But before to pass to tasting, he in brief acquainted me with domestic wine manufacture.
Well, let’s test then? The wine maker told, having finished his lecture. Exclusively remarkable wine, type “Saperavi” or “Tsinandali” In my opinion it should turn out.
He poured in a plastic glass of a little slush from banks and stretched to me. Having taken a sip, I had not returned contents exclusively remarkable “Saperavi” back into ware, but forced myself to push this liquid back into my organism.
How is it, strong? The wine maker made a self-satisfied smile.
Opposite, I fairly gave assessment of the product. Any compote turned sour. From what you make it?
From blackberry. Here we have whole thickets.
Igor Aronovich filled glasses, smelt, hardly without having got a container bottom the thoroughbred nose, took the first sip, kissed hanging lips, and at one stroke poured out a swill into his belly. He frowned and said:
It was not brewed a little. But in general it is good. As soon as it ripens, you will try taste of the real domestic wine.
To try taste of the real domestic wine was not possible. The case interfered with moonshining business. To the elderly fellow tribesmen coming to States and needing habitation, employees of the charitable organisations (as a rule, it is the Jewish organisations), give apartments and an allowance. Old men pay for apartments of all one third of their cost.
From time to time, social workers check living conditions of tenants. About the date and time of the arrival they inform in advance. It in general is a surprising business! Can you imagine that our head of the warehouseman is informed on the date and hour of arrival of the auditor? But Americans are strange people. Aliens.
Before each visit Igor Aronovich hid his mini-factory from inspectors under a bed.But that day he forgotten about check, and thought suddenly, when a control group was on a threshold.
To make already anything it was impossible.Visitors inspected a drawing room, glanced into a bathroom and walked into a bedroom, but Igor Aronovich rose in the doorway, stretched his hands as the Christ on a cross, and with a sweet voice informed: Well, as you see, everything is all right.
Inspectors slightly were moved by the old man, came into a room and with amazement asked, pointing at the mini-winery: And what is it?
This is what I prepare a national medicine for my spouse, for myself. Raises appetite, reduces pressure, improves self-cooking, that is the state of health, the wine maker began to chirp, without allowing the commission to come nearer to illegal stills.
What medicines?!Inquisitors were indignant.Don’t you know that to prepare medicines in house conditions is forbidden!Immediately destroy all!If once again we learn that you use the apartments given to you not for the designated purpose, we will accept austerity measures: at first the penalty, and then exclusion.
Then you will have to rent and pay for habitation.
It was necessary to see, with what look Igor Aronovich merged wine-medical production in a toilet bowl. With such grimace, probably, looked at how bible Job distressful loses his property.
After the underground winery was covered with the commission, Igor Aronovich became gloomy.No, he was not alcoholic, but liked to drink, and thus knew when to stop.
While drinking he liked joking, telling Jewish jokes, then would get a mandoline and sing Russian and Belarus songs, happened, not absolutely decent.Then from the room Sofia Grigoryevna’s voice was heard: Igor, stop! .
The musician for a while became silent, then, artfully having winked, again began to jingle, giving out any chastooshka.And here is such regional song.It was necessary to buy only alcohol in shop.
But Igor Aronovich did not go to shops, being afraid even to leave for some time his spouse alone: anything mazy happen, while he is out.To ask acquaintances he hesitated not to pass for the boozer.
Old man Aronych asked me to join this business.Conditional knock at a partition, and I appear on the threshold.
Volodya, you will go today to library? Igor Aronovich asked me loudly so that Sofia Grigoryevna hears.
I will go. I was just going there, I shout.
Take me any book.
What book: easier, or something more serious?
Aronych for a couple of seconds reflects, and then informs:
Take more serious.
More thickly, or usual?
Usual.
I went to the nearest library, took any weighty book, then visited a shop, bought the ordered product and came back to an initial position.Igor Aronovich met me on the threshold, accepted a bottle and hid it in the kitchen.
Then we passed into a hall, and in presence of Sofia Grigoryevna I handed over to her spouse a book.Old man Aronych joyfully clinked language and sentenced: For a long time I dreamt to find such book.
I will go right now and start to read.Soon from kitchen mandoline sounds … distributed
With finance I experienced difficulty and sometimes Igor Aronovich lent several dollars. Grievously swung his head and sentenced: How I can help you with work? already almost half a year had passed and notices from immigration office in California all did not arrive.
Listen, what if to try such variant, Igor Aronovich told somehow. In Seattle there is a Jewish family centre, and there they help the arrived Jews to get a job.
I am not Jew.
Well, how to tell. More truly how to look. If to look in a profile, you have a nose humpbacked, it looks Jewish. The main thing as a profile work more. If they ask, who from relatives are Jews, answer that all. By the way, the head of the centre Jeanne Lozansky herself is semi-Russian-semi-Jew.
All night long I turned left and right, thinking out for myself the Jewish family tree. Remembered familiar Jews, the blessing in the edition Turkmenskaya iskra they made the majority, for that reason the newspaper was also named Yewreyskaya iskra, remembered characteristic words, accent.
In the Jewish family centre I was accepted by the head of the alms-houses herself dark, puffy, impressive Jeanne Lozansky.
We, Jews, should hang together, I said- when this Yiddish mum took an interest told, what for I am here.
Well, I know-it-all. And you have what relation to Jews?
The most direct, I answered, trying to sit down sideways that as Igor Aronovich taught, to work as a profile. All in our family are Jews.
Oh, what happiness it is. And who of you is concretely Jew?
I speak all. My father was Jew, mum was Jew, and grandmother was Jew, grandfather too. And in my passport it is written that I am Jew
And the certificate of birth from a synagogue you have?
What certificate of birth?
See, you even do not know it.The passport for the Jew means nothing.There it can be written down as Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov, or Sidor Sidorovich Sidorov, but the main document of any Jew is an inquiry from the rabbi where its real Jewish surname and name, names of his parents, and also circumcision date is specified.
Were you circumcised?
I do not remember, I was small. May be, they did. But I remember that the childhood I even spoke Yiddish.
Can you speak Hebrew?
And in it too, only then all I forgot.
Well, though any words you remember?
Certainly! Le hayim! Zay gezund ! Sheyner punem, (that the lovely attractive face means so the Jewish parents tenderly address to small children). A song even I remember: tum bala, tum bala tum balalaika. And here still: kish miri in tukhes …
I had not had time to finish speaking. Jeanne began to laugh loudly impetuously, large tears swept on chubby cheeks. Having laughed and having recovered her breath and having come to her senses, she asked:
Who taught you to it?
It is an ancient Jewish lullaby. I do not remember, who to me sang it whether my grandmother, whether my mum, I completely said lies. I already bore.
Jeanne again began to laugh. When the next attack ended, she told:
About, zokhen wey! You will sing this lullaby to nobody, and I can help you tear your tukhes so that will not seem a little.
All words which I brought to Jeanne’s attention, I heard on the Jewish sit-round gathering to which I was taken regularly by Igor Aronovich. I did not understand sense of some words. As it appeared, all was in vain.
Well, you also made me laugh Jeanne told, wiping with her kerchief edges of her eyes. And so what you from me want? To find for you work?
I nodded.
You know, I liked you, especially when with persistence showed your nose. But everything that I can offer you is the place of a baby sitter. Nurse.
And who should be nursed?
At our rabbi nine children. The younger is two years old, the senior ten.
I imagined what I will turn in some days after fuss with this crowd, and politely refused.
Zay gezund ! Jeanne at parting told.
Le hayim! I answered.
Well, what? Igor Aronovich asked when I returned from Seattle. I described our conversation with Jeanne.
Do not despond, something we will think up, he took out five dollars from his pocket, and stretched to me. I estimated nobleness of the old man, but did not take money.
In order not to look absolutely beggar I will tell that sometimes I had little money in my pocket.To fees from articles for Russian world, fees for publications in the oldest Russian-speaking newspaper in America New Russian Word from time to time increased.
Once I sent to the edition an article about volcano eruption in our State of Washington.
The article was accepted, published, and they asked me to send something else, but they laid down a condition that I any more should not write with a ball pen, and send a printing text.
For this purpose, I needed either the typewriter, or the computer.I had none of them, as well as mean to buy office equipment.Moreover, the machine was required with Russian font.
Igor Aronovich to whom I complained about the problem, told that such typewriter had Anna Zaharovna, from the neighbouring building , but she was a harmful aunt, hard-fisted, and for what she would disagree to give it so though it and is not necessary to it.
And what for you need typewriter? Anna Zaharovna blinked her eyes when I came to her with greetings.
I fairly admitted that the typewriter is necessary for printing work.Here she became thoughtful.Examined me, and I heard, how in her head mercenary thoughts span: if the typewriter is necessary to me for work, means, to me without it not to manage, and it follows from this that he represents for me value, and it, in turn, defines cost.
Hundred sixty dollars! The saleswoman blurted out.
What you say, Anna Zaharovna! The computer costs more cheaply.
And why you do not buy the computer? She maliciously asked.
I do not have money, otherwise I would.
Well, well, only for you hundred fifty!
No, it is very expensive. I can give at most thirty dollars.
That you, darling! For such thing thirty dollars it is ridiculous even.
But it is not necessary to you.
Whence you know, is necessary or not? Perhaps I on it print memoirs. All right, last word hundred forty.
No, it does not suit me either.
Well, what cannot be cured must be endured, she grievously dissolved with hands. And it is a pity, the typewriter is good. All right, if you decide come.
There was only one variant garages-sales. There it was possible to buy everything, everything, even absolutely new things and at improbably ridiculous prices.
Practically each owner of own house has a garage.In certain days, as a rule on Saturdays, owners expel therefrom the horses, and an interior and adjoining territory use as the commodity area.
That there only you will not meet clothes, footwear, ware, furniture, a TV and radio engineering, garden tools.And the prices such, what even is a shame to bargain.
In one of days, having asked for the neighbour in apartments Bobmana the car I left there to visit garage sales. Half-day travelled about after district, but the typewriter I did not find. Coming back home, saw on a back road adjoining to a line the index with attached to it carton with the inscription “garage-sale”.
I turned back and in a couple of kilometres the road led to a small ranch.It stood alone, as though detached.Round small manor there were no other houses.
The well-groomed lawn accurately cut green hedge, trees of different breeds maples, pines, an alder and a little fruit apple-tree, pear, cherry and plum amazed.But two birches at an input in the small one-storeyed small house covered with a tile had most of all touched.
Hello, come, from open garage towards, limping and affably smiling, there was low growth an elderly man. His suntanned person was covered by large wrinkles, and he, despite respectable age, reminded a strong oaklet.
What do you search? Come, look, you are today my first visitor. Here in general seldom who looks. Who knows, today may be we both have luck.
I explained that I search for the typewriter with Russian font.
excuse me, you are not Russian? The old man politely asked.
Russian, confirmed I. and how did you learn?
by a familiar dialect.
And you are too Russian? He talked in good English, but the light accent was all the same felt. Here only not clearly what.
No, I am Polish. Call me Sir Yanek.
I named my surname, and sir Yanek with interest looked at me:
About, it is the surname very popular in Poland! Your family is therefrom? Do you have relatives there? He passed to the Polish speech. It was necessary to admit fairly that I almost know nothing about stories of my ancestors.
We had got to talking.Conversation went in a mix Polish, Russian, and English of languages, but we understood each other.Sir Yanek told that during the Second World War young men participated in the Polish Resistance.
In firing he was wounded in a foot, he was seized by fascists, and was sent to a concentration camp, then ran, adjoined guerrillas.
Group Germans, and again crushed a concentration camp.At the end of war he appeared in camp for the displaced persons, were in an English zone of occupation.
In the camp disturbing hearings went that Poles could be handed to the Russian zone, and then thy were sure to be sent to the Siberian camp.I heard awful about the Siberian camp much.
I did not want to Siberia, muttered sir Yanek, driving away memoirs.
You Yanek had luck and he was left in the English zone, and then was sent to London to restore the city destroyed by Germans.In three years he left to Australia there, as they spoke, it was possible to earn well in coal mines.
Almost forty years he mined coal for another country and earned his pension, sufficient to spend without feeling needing.
But to live among a kangaroo he did not want a climate improper further, in the summer air hot and damp, cold winds in the winter blow.And sir Yanek got over to America, having chosen as a residence the State of Washington with its fine soft climate, accurate revolution of the season, and particularly Seattle which is at the width of Sochi.
He could not keep a family, lived all life in loneliness. Even the site for the house was chosen far away from human eyes. But to live, absolutely with nobody without communicating was boring, here therefore he arranges from time to time garage sales. It is not so much that something to sell, how much to communicate.
And in Poland you anyway did not visit? I asked.
I visited it once, already after the fall of the Soviet Union, sir Yanek sadly smiled. Before I was afraid Poland then was Soviet. I found relatives, they persuaded to remain, but I already got used to the house. Besides and my pension is good. Why we stand, Sir Vladimir, choose what is necessary for you.
I walked in the garage, but I did not find the typewriter.Sir Yanek silently accompanied me.Nothing involved my attention, except, perhaps, graceful, masterfully made model of an ancient sailing vessel.
I love such hand-made articles.They remind of children’s dreams, sea open spaces, distant wanderings, fights with pirates.In the childhood I visited a ship-modelling circle at the station Young technician in Ashkhabad, and I myself made a pair of ships, but, certainly, not such beautiful.
Having been lost in contemplation of a sailing vessel, I suddenly intuitively felt that I was persistently attracted by the far corner of the garage.And here I saw it … It stood on a coffee table away from the subjects exposed to sale.
I slowly rushed off for call.It was a portable typewriter “Smith-Corona” one of the best models of such class.And, the most important thing, with Russian font!
Sir Yanek, how many costs this machine? I will buy it! I joyfully exclaimed, examining the found out treasure.
Unfortunately, Sir Vladimir, the typewriter is not for sale.
Why? I childishly was surprised. You use it?
Not absolutely so. Sometimes I write letters to relatives and friends to Poland. In English they do not understand, and Russian letters can read. And what for you need the typewriter?
I explained that I am a journalist, and the typewriter is simply necessary for me.
But now all have computers, the Internet …
I will also have a computer, and the Internet but while I cannot afford them for me, I was at a loss. In order not to look beggar, asked: how much he wants for a ship?
Sir Yanek stood nearby and was silent. Then, having dared, asked:
And how much you can give for the typewriter?
I do not know, I cheered up. How much will you tell? Certainly, within limits.
Well, twenty five dollars, he exhaled, but there and then changed his mind and offered, twenty dollars. Arranges?
I remembered the sum which said by Nehama Zaharovna, and blurted out: Certainly, arranges. And how you will manage without the typewriter?
To tell the truth, I do not often write. I will manage. To you, I think, it is more necessary. And a ship you can take as keepsake.
I thanked sir Yanek, we shook each other hands and I got into the car.
Will find time and desire come for a visit. I will be always glad you to see, he told at parting.
The whole year, already being in the rank of the staff reporter of the newspaper New Russian Word across the State of Washington, I sent articles printed on the typewriter of sir Yanek to edition, and with gratitude remembered this kind old man.
I visited him twice.For the first time we well sat, talked, had a little bit drunk.Sir Yanek looked tired, but kept vigorously.He told about his childhood, about school friends, about the girl who he met, how they wanted to get married after war.
In his eyes there were tears.Sometimes we exchanged calls.Then telecommunication interrupted the old man did not answer calls.I went to his place.
At the entrance to his farm land I saw a publicity board which informed that the ranch is exposed for sale.The house was closed, and there is nobody was to ask, where the owner is.
It seemed to me strange: sir Yanek told nothing about the plans to sell the house.Perhaps, he all the same had decided to return to Poland?
Having dialled the phone number of the realtor specified on the board, and having waited the answer, I asked how to find the owner of the house.And what was your relationship with to him? , the person the other end of the lien in turn took an interest.
None, just acquaintance.This person died one week ago.If you have any property claims to the dead, inform the office of our company, the realtor told and hanged up.
I had no claims to sir Yanek. There was grief and grief.
Soon on sale of the electronic equipment which company “Boeing” regularly sent in huge as a hangar shop, equipping the empire with new technics, I had got a computer. But as keepsake there were left a typewriter and a small ship model of sir Yanek which accompanied me all years spent in America.
To be continued…
Vladimir ZAREMBO