everyone with his warm eyes, but his silence was heartbreaking. He took after a mute uncle, a sensitive man with an inborn appreciation of beauty. This uncle never made those shrieking sounds you sometimes hear from mutes. He spoke sign language with his fingers, laconic in his way. Our little boy never made such sounds either, he just sat there, silent as a giraffe. But during the time I’ve been away, some important Soviet professors have been working with him, and so far they’ve taught him to say a single word—‘Papa’! Now, when I get home, I’ll be able to hear it with my own ears. I can hardly wait. You can’t imagine what a joy that will be. Up to now, my mute little Misha has been struggling to say ‘Papa’ with his eyes, lips, hands—you should have seen the agonies he went through—but now he will say it out loud, with his mouth.”
Tears ran down Khazhev’s cheeks as he spoke, in true sentimental Russian fashion. He spoke not only as a loving father but also as a proud son of his motherland, blessed with professors who were making great strides in medicine, performing real miracles.
Khazhev’s father was a peasant who had always been a revolutionary. Though he scarcely knew how to read or write, he knew full well the meaning of
laborer
and
peasant,
and of the tsar’s whip. Thanks to several prison terms, he was now, at age sixty, half paralyzed and a broken shell of a man. The government had granted him a pension, and he sat around all day, crying tears of joy at having lived to witness such a miraculous time. “You should have seen how happy the old man was when I went off to university, studying the whole day,” said the Russian. “After taking a drink, he would often grab a heavy physics or chemistry textbook and order: ‘Read, Vasya! Let’s see how a peasant’s son reads and gets smart.’ I’d have to read whole sections to please him. And, peasant that he is, with a bit of religion still in him, he’d listen to the strange words and sob: ‘
Slava tye gospodi!
Praised be the Lord!’” As for his mother, she was illiterate and had labored all her life. Her hands were always red and swollen, her heavy legs bloated, and her eyes puffed up from grieving while the father sat in jail and the children were sick, and there was scarcely a piece of stale bread in the house.
This was his background, and now his country had done him a great favor, opening all doors for him—Khazhev, a peasant’s son. Under the tsar, what could he have been but the filthiest piece of dirt? The Soviet Union had transformed him into a choice student, had sent him abroad, with the confidence that he would learn enough to be able to assist in developing the motherland, so that it could set an example for the world and become a model of a new way of life for future generations. Of course he was grateful. How could he not be? And not for selfish reasons alone. Across the length and breadth of his land, a new life was beginning. To be sure, it was still a hard life for many millions of people, but there were already signs of a better future. As he set about listing all the Soviet benefactions, he made sure—and was very clever about doing so—that the virtues he cited would underscore American shortcomings, which he wouldn’t criticize directly.
“And not only the sons of peasants should be grateful,” he said. “Jews, too, should be dancing in the streets, yes, dancing in the streets! What were they before the Revolution? Nothing! And now they are everything! The same goes for every citizen of the land.” He said this not like a Gentile proving his love of Jews but simply, without apologetics, proud of the fact that his Soviet Union had corrected a grave injustice. He was well informed on details of Soviet-Jewish life. He knew about the Jewish schools, Jewish collective farms, Jewish writers, and he spoke glowingly of the Yiddish theater. These developments were offered not as curiosities, as a Gentile
Tears ran down Khazhev’s cheeks as he spoke, in true sentimental Russian fashion. He spoke not only as a loving father but also as a proud son of his motherland, blessed with professors who were making great strides in medicine, performing real miracles.
Khazhev’s father was a peasant who had always been a revolutionary. Though he scarcely knew how to read or write, he knew full well the meaning of
laborer
and
peasant,
and of the tsar’s whip. Thanks to several prison terms, he was now, at age sixty, half paralyzed and a broken shell of a man. The government had granted him a pension, and he sat around all day, crying tears of joy at having lived to witness such a miraculous time. “You should have seen how happy the old man was when I went off to university, studying the whole day,” said the Russian. “After taking a drink, he would often grab a heavy physics or chemistry textbook and order: ‘Read, Vasya! Let’s see how a peasant’s son reads and gets smart.’ I’d have to read whole sections to please him. And, peasant that he is, with a bit of religion still in him, he’d listen to the strange words and sob: ‘
Slava tye gospodi!
Praised be the Lord!’” As for his mother, she was illiterate and had labored all her life. Her hands were always red and swollen, her heavy legs bloated, and her eyes puffed up from grieving while the father sat in jail and the children were sick, and there was scarcely a piece of stale bread in the house.
This was his background, and now his country had done him a great favor, opening all doors for him—Khazhev, a peasant’s son. Under the tsar, what could he have been but the filthiest piece of dirt? The Soviet Union had transformed him into a choice student, had sent him abroad, with the confidence that he would learn enough to be able to assist in developing the motherland, so that it could set an example for the world and become a model of a new way of life for future generations. Of course he was grateful. How could he not be? And not for selfish reasons alone. Across the length and breadth of his land, a new life was beginning. To be sure, it was still a hard life for many millions of people, but there were already signs of a better future. As he set about listing all the Soviet benefactions, he made sure—and was very clever about doing so—that the virtues he cited would underscore American shortcomings, which he wouldn’t criticize directly.
“And not only the sons of peasants should be grateful,” he said. “Jews, too, should be dancing in the streets, yes, dancing in the streets! What were they before the Revolution? Nothing! And now they are everything! The same goes for every citizen of the land.” He said this not like a Gentile proving his love of Jews but simply, without apologetics, proud of the fact that his Soviet Union had corrected a grave injustice. He was well informed on details of Soviet-Jewish life. He knew about the Jewish schools, Jewish collective farms, Jewish writers, and he spoke glowingly of the Yiddish theater. These developments were offered not as curiosities, as a Gentile
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