Moonlight in Odessa by Janet Skeslien Charles Page B

invincible. Maybe because his barrel chest made him appear commanding and strong. Maybe because his appearance – suits expensive, hands soft, thick hair perfectly coiffed – indicated that he was not one of us. Because unlike Odessans, who watched the bazaar prices climb and their salaries freeze, he didn’t have to worry whether he got paid on the thirtieth of this month or of the next, whether there was a sugar shortage, whether he could pay for medicine. Anything he wanted came on our ships. And like them, he could set sail.
    What did he know about hardship?
    ‘Coffee?’ I yelled from my desk, then reentered and swept up the batteries and pieces of plastic.
    He looked at me. His tie was crooked, his breathing ragged. The expression on his face. He looked like he wanted to yell. Or kill someone. Or bawl.
    ‘Better make it a double,’ he finally said. The words came out hoarsely, like a sigh.
    I knew what that meant and poured a splash of cognac into both cups.
    We sat in the boardroom like we used to. He took a sip and said, ‘The only good thing about living in Odessa is that you can drink at work and it’s totally understandable. In fact, it would be surprising if you didn’t drink.’
    I laughed. ‘Surely it’s not the only thing.’
    He looked at me. ‘No.’
    His gaze was hot like it used to be. He closed his eyes and shook his head as if he were reminding himself of something. ‘That writer you recommended. Babel.’
    ‘What did you think?’ I asked, grateful to be back on safer ground.
    ‘Ferocious. My God. “Just forget for a minute that you have spectacles on your nose and autumn in your heart. Stop being tough at your desk and stuttering when you’re out in the world. Imagine for one second that you raise hell in public places and stammer on paper . . . If rings had been fastened to the earth and sky, you’d have seized those rings and pulled the sky down to earth. And your papa . . . What’s a papa like him think about? He thinks about gulping down a glass of vodka, slugging someone in their ugly mug, and his horses – nothing else. You want to live, but he makes you die twenty times a day. What would you do?”’
    I just looked at him. This is how we Odessans entertain ourselves – a clever joke, a snippet of poetry, a passage of prose. It’s easy and natural for us. Reciting texts in front of an impatient class is a learning technique. I still remember poems I memorized when I was eight. But I never expected my boss to quote Babel.
    ‘“You want to live, but he makes you die twenty times a day.” That’s Dad.’ Harmon sounded bitter. And looked disheartened. Like a real Odessan.
     
    After a year of working for Harmon and saving nearly every kopeck, I finally earned enough to buy a flat in the center for Boba and me, after selling ours in the sleeping district. It wasn’t difficult to find one with so many Jews emigrating to Germany and Israel. Most were happy to leave their lives and their homes in Odessa behind. Our new flat had a bedroom, parquet flooring, high ceilings, and large windows. A person feels better when she lives amidst beauty.
    I loved being closer to Park Shevchenko and the sea, and it was liberating to be able to walk to work rather than taking public transport. Some of our buses came from the West, where they’d been retired because of gas leaks and mechanical problems. Often passengers vomited or passed out because fumes seeped inside. Asphyxiated by the misery. The decrepit buses lumbered down streets that hadn’t been maintained. Travel time was long. But the commute wasn’t the only reason I was glad to leave our building. I was glad because I would no longer hope Olga would visit. Here I knew she wasn’t coming.
    Boba and I had packed my mother’s fashion magazines, thin towels, a brush with her hair nestled in the bristles. Basically, everything Mama had ever touched. We had so few photos of her. I put them in my purse so that they wouldn’t be