The Blood Years: Part II

A member of his minyan, Mr. Katz, told Opa about a woman who let rooms and provided meals; a charming place, he said, and though the woman was Christian, a large portion of her guests were Jewish.

Astra went to the sink and got a clean dishrag, wetted it. Coming back, she pressed it against the wound. It hurt, but I didn’t flinch. She held it there for a while, stanching the blood.

“Useless dog,” Opa chastised, and we both had a good laugh at that.

That great city, a place my own Czernowitz aspired to emulate, on its knees, a knife at its throat.

Bereft, Madame Lucia closes our dance studio for two weeks out of respect for her homeland.

Like Astra, his hair, which he usually keeps scrupulously pomaded, is rumpled.

The party was opulent: fine food, a beautiful cake, small gifts for each of us to take away after, and a real clown performance.

Madame Lucia calls out more moves to add on to the combination, and now we’re turning and jumping as well, and the rhythmic beat of her stick on the floor, the increasing intensity of the piano, the energy emanating from Astra and Ruth, like twin suns, inspires all of us to jump higher, spin faster, hit our marks cleaner.

We soon find out that if a Russian soldier asks you for directions and you don’t know the new Russian names, you might get arrested as a dissenter or a spy.

Opa’s lists his employment simply as “Clerk,” and again we’re all relieved that he closed his shop before the Soviets arrived. Business owners who kept their doors open, and people who own their home rather than rent, are issued a “Passport 39.” We don’t know what that means, but it seems better that Opa’s booklet lists him as a member of the proletariat.

She’s been conscripted into making military wear.

The band’s revelry reaches a fever pitch.

And as far as I’ve gone from believing Opa’s dictum that “everything is cyclical,” I guess I can’t help but hope it’s true, that somehow, things will improve — the war, my cough, all of it.

Though that night the Soviets rounded up merchants and bourgeoises from all around the city, and though they doubtless would again if they were given the chance, they don’t get that chance.

Like the soldiers, the mob knocks down doors, busts out windows, grabs what they like with impunity.