Rhapsody (15 page)

"That will be your folks," Arkady said.
"Quick, put it in your pocket so no one else will know our secret."
He winked conspiratorially at Misha.

Misha grinned and wrapped the mezuzah in its
wrinkled old piece of tissue paper and shoved it in a trouser
pocket.

"Now, Mikhail Levin," Arkady pronounced, "you
are ready for a brilliant future."

Nearly a week had passed, and Mariya
Yakovlevna had been laid to rest. Sonia and Dmitri had just about
finished packing what few belongings they would take with them, not
much more than musical scores and some clothing. Misha had gone
downstairs with Arkady for his final good-bye.

"I still wonder about Arkady's reaction to
Mariya's death," Sonia said. "He took the news so quietly, so
...serenely."

"I suppose it makes sense, Sonia," Dmitri
said thoughtfully. He buckled one of the straps on the old-
fashioned leather suitcase that had belonged to his father,
securing it tightly. Like all their luggage, it was bulging at the
seams.

"He told me that he knew," Dmitri continued.
"He said that when you didn't call from the hospital, he somehow
knew that she was gone. He said that he felt it." He looked over at
his wife and shrugged. "I guess after all those years with Mariya
Yakovlevna, he has a sixth sense or something."

"I thought he would go all to pieces," Sonia
said. "I thought he would be inconsolable. He was mad with grief
when he came to tell us what had happened."

Sonia looked at the old brass menorah and
rolled it up in a woolen scarf, then placed it in the last piece of
open luggage. It had never been used, at least not in her memory,
but she didn't want to leave it behind. Aside from some
photographs, it was one of the few reminders of their families, of
their lives in Moscow, of that magnificent old attic apartment that
had once been their home.

"Make no mistake," Dmitri replied grimly,
"Arkady is grieving and probably still in shock. Part of the
'serenity' you see is so we'll think he's okay. So we won't worry
about him."

Dmitri buckled the last strap on his suitcase
and, grunting with effort, cinched it as tightly as possible. He
sat down on the closed suitcase and looked over at Sonia. "As
terrible as Mariya Yakovlevna's death was— and believe me, Arkady
will certainly never forget her or the horrible way she
died—Arkady's embracing life, trying to go on."

Sonia nodded her head emphatically. "Yes,"
she said. "I think he's finding consolation in Misha."

Despite the sadness of the situation, Dmitri
couldn't help but smile. "How like Arkady to turn to the future—
Misha—to find solace, to try to heal the wounds of the past."

She sat down on the suitcase she had finished
packing. "Dmitri, try to close it, will you?"

Her husband got to his feet and crossed the
small room. "Put all your weight on it," he said. He got down on
his knees, and after a struggle with the latches he got the old
suitcase closed.

He stood up and extended a hand to Sonia,
helping her to her feet, and into his arms. His dark eyes looked
into hers, and he planted a solemn kiss on her lips.

"We have to do like Arkady, Sonia," he said.
"Look to the future—our future, and Misha's future. We're finally
getting what we asked for over two years ago."

"Yes," Sonia said, hugging him to her. "And
I'm thrilled, Dmitri, but I'm a little scared, too."

Dmitri put a finger under her chin and raised
her face to look at her again. "There's nothing to be afraid of,
Sonia. You've got me and Misha, and we'll be in the Promised Land."
He kissed her again and hugged her tightly, then let her go.

"We'd better go downstairs and get Misha and
get on our way," Sonia said.

"Yes," Dmitri replied. "On our way. To a new
life."

At Sheremetyevo Airport, the Levins relaxed
in the lounge, waiting to board their plane. Their excitement was
tempered by their sad leave-taking from Arkady, who, despite his
best efforts to conceal his sorrow, was obviously grieved to see
them leave.

The first leg of their journey would take
them to Vienna. From there they would fly on to Tel Aviv. They were
somewhat surprised to see that there was an international mixture
of passengers awaiting the flight. They hadn't known what to expect
but thought they might be on a flight filled only with Russian Jews
like themselves who had been given exit visas.

There were only twenty more minutes to go
before boarding when OVIR policemen, accompanied by airport
emigration police, appeared in front of the seated Levins.

"Come with us," one of the policemen
said.

"Why?" Sonia piped up angrily. "We have our
visas. The plane will be boarding in minutes."

Dmitri put a hand on her arm. "What's this
about?" he asked mildly.

"We have to inspect your luggage," the
policeman answered. "Follow us. You'll still make your plane,
unless . . ."

They got to their feet, Dmitri in the middle,
a bag slung over one shoulder. Sonia had a lighter one, and Misha
carried a small shoulder bag also. They dutifully followed the
police to an enclosed secure area close by, where their carry-on
luggage was placed on tables and opened. The police riffled through
the contents of the bags, making a chaotic mess of their orderly
packing.

"Is this really necessary?" Sonia asked
angrily. "What in the world would we be taking out of the country
that would matter?"

Her words were wasted on the police, who
ignored her and continued to dig through their belongings as if
they were searching for state secrets.

Misha became anxious as they began to go
through his small shoulder bag. The policeman tossed his clothes,
shaking them, letting them fall where they may. Misha cringed when
he saw the familiar piece of old tissue paper surface from between
the folds of a sweater. He bit his lower hp to keep from crying out
when he saw the man feel the tissue, then proceed to unwrap it.

When the gold mezuzah rolled out of the
tissue, the policeman grabbed it and studied it for a moment.

"What's this?" he murmured to himself. Then
with a look of disgust, he said, "Garbage." And making a spitting
noise, he threw the tissue paper to the floor and slid the mezuzah
into the pocket of his trousers.

Misha bit his lip harder and harder, until a
drop of blood beaded on his hp. Tears of pain welled up in his
eyes, and a hatred such as he had never known consumed him. The
mezuzah had been a special secret between him and Arkady. It was
meant to bring luck to his future, and it was a special bond to
this most loving part of his past. Now that, too, was gone.

Misha stood alone, turning his face away and
choking back his tears.

No one will ever be able to treat me like
this again. No one! And if I ever return to this place, it will be
as a conqueror, in triumph!

"Misha!" Sonia called. "Hurry! Ben and Avi
are waiting downstairs. You're going to be late!"

"I'm coming, Mama," he called back.

With a burst of youthful energy, his American
sneakers pounding on the floors, Misha loped down the hallway from
his bedroom, then slid to a squeaking stop in front of his
mother.

"Do you see a baseball diamond in my living
room?" she asked with good humor, a smile on her face.

Misha returned her smile. "Sorry, Mama, I'm
just in a hurry." He dashed to the piano and began shuffling
through the pile of scores that were neatly stacked on it.

His long, jet black hair—too long, Sonia
thought—was still wet from the shower, and hung on his shoulders,
dripping water onto the shirt she had just pressed for him.

Oh, well, Sonia thought, what's the
difference? He looks like a Greek god no matter what he wears, and
his hair will be dry before the concert.

"Misha," she said, "hurry up. I told you Ben
and Avi are waiting."

"I can't find the right scores," he muttered,
scowling as he continued to shuffle through the piles.

Sonia raised her arm and shook it. "See
these, young man?" she said.

Misha turned his head and looked at her. She
was waving the scores he was looking for. She's always one step
ahead of me, Misha thought. He smiled brightly, his teeth gleaming
white against his darkly tanned skin.

"Thanks, Mama," he said. He took the
proffered scores from her hand, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek,
and rushed to the door. "See you there, Mama," he called. " 'Bye!"
The door slammed behind him.

In the building's hallway, Misha quickly
reached up and, with one finger, rubbed the cheap silvery metal
mezuzah that he'd bought and mounted on the door frame.

"Wish me luck, Arkady," he whispered, then he
was off.

Inside, Sonia walked to the sliding glass
doors, which led to the balcony. Opening them to the inferno of
July, she stepped out and crossed to the metal balustrade, careful
not to touch it, as it was fiery with the sun's heat. She looked
down, her dark eyes searching the sidewalk five stories below for
Misha. After a few moments her gaze was rewarded.

There he is, she thought, her heart swelling
with pride. Jumping into Ben's car. Eleven years old, and already
so grown up. It seems impossible.

Even five stories up, she thought she could
hear rock and roll blasting from the car's radio. She watched the
car pull away from the curb, heading toward Hayarkon Park. When it
was finally out of sight, she raised her gaze to the Mediterranean
beyond. There was a haze today from the heat, and even the sea
looked boiling hot.

She stepped back inside to the cool of the
apartment and went to her bedroom, where she began undressing,
carefully hanging her clothes in the closet. She looked at the
clock on the bedside table. Four o'clock. She would relax a few
minutes, then take a shower before Dmitri got home from the
university. They didn't have to be at the amphitheater in Hayarkon
Park until eight o'clock.

Tying a lightweight cotton bathrobe around
her waist, she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of
iced tea, then returned to the bedroom with it. Passing the
dresser, she caught sight of herself in the mirror over it and
stopped, scrutinizing the image she saw reflected there.

So much white hair, she thought. And so much
more visible because of the way it contrasts with my black hair.
She drew closer to the mirror, flicking strands of it with one
hand. Oh, well, I'm fifty years old, and I've earned it. I have a
right to it if anybody does. And I'll never do a thing to change
it

She looked at herself closely once more.
Well, not unless ...not unless Dmitri wants me to.

She turned away from the mirror and spread
out on the bed, sipping the cold tea. She was terribly excited and
not just because of tonight's concert. Misha would be performing
with the Philharmonic Orchestra, playing two Chopin concertos, two
mazurkas, and a waltz. The concert, she was certain, would go well,
because Misha was well rehearsed. This was music that was second
nature to him, after all.

No, her nervous excitement stemmed more from
the letter she and Dmitri had received last week. Then the
telephone call that had followed it a couple of days later.

Are our fortunes going to change for the
better? she wondered. She took a long sip of her tea. We've been so
extraordinarily fortunate, she told herself. So fortunate after the
troubles we had in Russia. For us Israel has indeed been the
Promised Land. Is it fair to expect even more good fortune?

When they'd arrived in Tel Aviv in the spring
of 1974, five years ago, they hadn't really been certain what to
expert in this rough, young country. They had only their luggage
with their few belongings with them, and a name and letter that
Arkady had given them. The name was Haim Weill, and the letter was
one of introduction to him.

They had dutifully contacted Haim Weill upon
arrival—for Arkady's sake, actually—given him the letter, and
presto! the magic had begun to happen. After only a few days the
family had been settled into a two-bedroom apartment in Tel
Aviv—the very apartment in which she now reminisced. It was in one
of the International Style buildings that had been erected in the
1930s in the center of the city. Misha had always called it their
"ship," because of its streamlined resemblance to an ocean liner.
Only a few weeks later both she and Dmitri had prestigious jobs
teaching music at the University of Tel Aviv. Then, as if their
cups weren't already running over, a baby grand piano had arrived
and was installed in the apartment's living room. Misha had begun
intensive studies with the best instructors available.

Sonia had often thought that it was as if a
genie had appeared from a magic bottle. In the beginning she and
Dmitri assumed that they had Haim Weill to thank for such generous
help. After all, he was a highly respected and very wealthy dealer
in Tel Aviv's thriving diamond industry. But as kind and helpful as
he had been, they'd soon discovered—from Haim Weill himself—that
their true benefactors were a very wealthy family in New York
City.

A family of Russian Jewish extraction, the
Bunims had made a fortune in investment banking, a fortune they
spent liberally to patronize the arts, in particular music. Haim
Weill acted as one of their scouts in Israel, always on the lookout
for talent.

Haim Weill had notified the Bunims at once of
the Levin family's arrival in Tel Aviv, and thus Sonia, Dmitri, and
Misha had seen their fortunes change overnight. They had been
spared the struggles of most recently arrived Russian immigrants in
communities like Nazerat Illit and Arad, and those working on the
many kibbutzim and moshavim.