All Russians Love Birch Trees Read Online Free Page B

fiancé?”
    “No.”
    “A boyfriend?”
    I nodded. She spit out a bunch of empty shells, satisfied.
    “When I was your age I was already married.”
    I shrugged.
    “How often?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “How often?” She repeated. “How often does he hit you? Does he hit hard, with full force?”
    “He doesn’t.”
    “Everybody hits. My husband hit me. My mother-in-law. She, she hit the hardest. She was quite a hitter, that one. But my daughter-in-law was bad, too. I was in a hospital for two years.”
    “Two years?”
    “Yes. Two years.”
    “Was it a locked ward?”
    “Of course not, I’m perfectly clear in the head. What are you talking about? I was pregnant. With my seventh.”
    I said nothing.
    “As if six weren’t enough. I told him not to touch me anymore, but he kept on doing it anyway.”
    I nodded.
    “I didn’t want anymore. I went up on top of the closet and jumped. The abdominal organs fell out and here I was. And now I’m here again.”

4
    I knew the man who knelt by the cash register to pick up his change. Black coat, silver hair arranged neatly around his square head. I didn’t notice him right away. Only later did I recognize his teetering gait and the pointy tips of his crocodile leather shoes. At school he passed us smilingly, the way you might pass a group of people whose faces you don’t need to discern. Windmill gave consultations and embodied the arrogance of a successful interpreter who wore the starched collar of his shirts turned up, spoke multiple languages to perfection, and got assignments from all the big institutions. Rumor had it that his voice was so agreeable over headphones that at one point he’d received a suggestiveoffer from a delegate of Liechtenstein. In most of his lectures he reached a state of ultimate self-reference.
    Windmill stood at the register and paid for a sandwich. There was nothing but a cemetery, a funeral home, and a drugstore near the Northwest Hospital. I sat in the hospital cafeteria facing a watery soup that I couldn’t bring myself to eat. I kept imagining which bacteria were swimming among the overcooked potatoes and canned carrots. Elias had been in the orthopedic ward for two weeks and still had at least that long to go. We counted the days. The number seemed large or small depending on the mood.
    Windmill gave me a smile. I cautiously smiled back. He came over and asked whether he could sit with me. All the other tables in the cafeteria were unoccupied. I nodded.
    “You know what? I think we’ve met before.”
    Again, I nodded.
    “You were one of my students, weren’t you?” He smiled encouragingly. “Why did you drop out of my seminar?” He took a bite of his sandwich.
    I remained silent.
    “Russian?”
    “A bit.”
    I was about to elaborate, but Windmill waved dismissively and said, “I’d rather hear about your B-languages.”
    “Russian, French, and English.”
    “Any others?”
    “Not as working languages.”
    “But I’m sure you have C-options.”
    I nodded and didn’t know what to say. Windmill peered at me. I nodded again and stared into my cup.
    On my third day in Germany I went to school and was promptly demoted by two grades. Instead of practicing algebra I was supposed to color mandalas with crayons.
    I accompanied my parents to the immigration office and there learned that language meant power. If you didn’t speak any German you had no voice. And if you only spoke a little you went unheard. Applications were accepted and dismissed according to accent. We waited until my parents’ number came up on the monitor above the heavy iron door. The wait was usually very long. The immigration office rarely managed to process more than five migrants a day, and we had to stand in line hours before opening to have a chance at getting our turn before closing time. I also accompanied my mother to parent-teacher meetings—a thoroughly tormenting affair. I sat next to her in the hallway, sporting a bowl cut, substantial