Free The Knife Sharpener's Bell by Rhea Tregebov Page A

the special home-land that the Soviet government had set up for the Jews seven years ago. Basya gave him an article to read about the Jewish communal farms, about how they were turning rag men and tinkers into farmers, how they were making a
gan eyden
, a paradise, on earth! That’s when everybody clapped and clapped. Then we gave Poppa the surprise: I stood up in the middle of the room and sang “The Internationale” in Russian.
Such a beautiful voice
, the ladies said.
    And now we’re home and the excitement’s over. My mother’s already in her bed, reading the
Vestnik
like she always does, her gold spectacles on her nose. Poppa’s tucked me in (I wanted him the most) and turned out all the lights. But I’m not asleep. I’m listening for Poppa’s voice.
    â€œI talked myself hoarse,” Poppa says.
    â€œShould I make you some tea with honey in it? I have raspberry preserves.”
    â€œNever mind,” he says. “You’re in bed already; don’t get up. Anya, I didn’t tell you. There was a problem when I was leaving, at the border.”
    â€œWhat kind of a problem?” I hear the rustle of the newspaper as she sets it down.
    â€œIt’s nothing really. Nothing. But, you know you wanted me to have photographs taken of the family in Odessa? Lev has his own camera and he took such nice ones, Manya and Lev, Basya and Reva – the whole family around the samovar.Well, when I went through Customs, the Soviet authorities confiscated the film.”
    â€œWhat for? What do they want with pictures of my family?”
    He sighs. “It doesn’t make any sense. But I had to oblige them . . .”
    â€œYou let them take my photographs?”
    â€œAnya, they must have a reason. They promised the film would be sent on to us as soon as it has been cleared.”
    â€œCleared? Cleared of what?”
    â€œI don’t know, Anya. But don’t worry. It’s nothing.”
    It’s nothing, Poppa says, and I hear the
there-there
in his voice, and then my mother’s voice again, angry, and then less angry, and finally calm, because Poppa’s spread his
there-there
over the room till everything’s smooth, everything’s good. Their voices go on into the night, and I keep listening, even in my dreams. I dream I’m on the shifting deck of a boat and I can still hear their voices talking about the new life we’re going to have, and I think I can even hear Joseph’s voice reading poetry,
o brave new world
, though his voice is sad, and then Poppa and my mother’s again, talking about the good days and hours and Poppa always with me now, what I want, Poppa and me, so that nobody will ever take him away again.
    What did I want? To be with my father. What did my father want? The future he thought he’d procured for his family when he first left Simferopol. When he left Joseph, his first-born. And now Joseph fought to keep us from leaving. He and my father talked spirals around each other. The talk, the arguments, stopped the day Joseph put his hand on my father’s arm and asked him to leave us with him, me andBen. Joseph and Daisy would take care of us. If not Ben, then just me. I had been hiding on the back stairs, listening, and my breath stopped inside my chest. My father told Joseph he had to be crazy to think that he would ever leave one of his children behind. And then Joseph just looked at him, and my father covered his face. I wanted Poppa to apologize, to tell Joseph how much it had pained him to leave when he was hardly more than a baby, how terrible it had been for Joseph when his mother was sick and he had to go into the streets looking for food. Would my father have said something if my mother hadn’t walked in just then? But she did, and Joseph walked out. I thought I’d never see him again.
    But he came to the station to say goodbye. Everyone came, all the comrades, friends. I tipped my head