All Russians Love Birch Trees by Olga Grjasnowa Page B

With the nail of my index finger I traced his skin, at first with more pressure, then softly. He was motionless, cold. A ray of light divided the room in two halves. I lay down next to him on the bed as his body became increasingly stiff. There was no glowing sunrise. The sky was completely white. Elisha had always said that such light meant it was going to be a hot day. Somebody knocked. Morning came and the knocking became a hammering.
    According to Jewish faith the soul leaves the body at the time of death, but sticks around nearby until the body has been buried. Therefore the body must not be left alone. But Elisha wasn’t Jewish, and I wasn’t religious. Somebody yelled my name. At some point the nurse and two doctors, whom I didn’t know, werestanding in front of me. I hadn’t even heard them unlock the door. One of them had a broad back and a weathered face and reminded me of the Russian swimmer Alexander Popov. I’d been sitting next to my mother in front of the TV when Popov won gold at the Olympics in Barcelona. The doctor pushed me into a chair.
    I left the hospital, crossed the narrow street, and waited at the bus stop. Birds were chirping and the bus was on time. The bus driver said hello and I sat down in the last row and pressed my face against the scratched window. The landscape was still there. Long rows of parked cars, small houses, well-tended gardens. Here and there a tree.
    I got off at the first subway stop. Went down, threw the trash from my pockets into an overflowing bin that was swarming with flies. I threw up. I wiped my mouth. A few punks took a piss onto the tracks and laughed. The subway came and the punks lifted their backpacks and got on, one after the other. The air in the car was stuffy. The stops cycled in and out, and along with them the passengers, most of whom had their backs turned to me. I was in front of my door and then in the hallway of the apartment. I hung my keys on the hook next to the door and took off my shoes.In the bathroom I was hit by a wall of warm, moist air. The water was scalding hot. The drain cover was full of blond hair. His hair. There were unopened letters on the kitchen table that were addressed to Elisha. Under the pillow was his T-shirt. There was a smell of his sweat and of milk in the air, although Elisha had very rarely smelled sweaty and never smelled like milk. After a while, only the scent of sour milk would remain. I coiled up and everything around me began to spin. I could feel the sickness rising. I staggered into the bathroom and threw up next to the toilet. My circulatory system, my knees and palms, all signaled that my body was throwing in the towel. I trembled and lay back down in bed, and nothing seemed more urgent to me than sleeping.

2
    My mother took care of everything. She took care of Horst and Elke, the phone, the formalities and the rest. She lit a candle next to Elisha’s photo and covered the mirrors. I lay in bed, didn’t change my clothes, and stared at the ceiling. Sometimes Mother came in, sat down next to me, and emptied out the bucket next to the bed. Since I couldn’t eat, I only threw up bile.
    The Talmud demands that one remember the dead. If I’d had it on hand I would have thrown it into a fireplace. But it was in some box next to a Schindler’s List videotape. I wanted to remember everything. His face and his body. Under no circumstances did I want to forget how he held me in his arms, how his lips felton my skin, how he smiled and how we fell asleep next to each other. How we talked on the phone in the evening when we were apart. Forgetting became my biggest fear. I lay in bed, the curtains drawn, and on the nightstand there was the lit candle in front of his photo. If I closed my eyes I saw his face and if I kept them closed for too long I saw the face of a young corpse in a light blue gown. Her cavernous eyes, blood dripping from her abdomen. Before the images could merge, I blinked and took a sip of water. Then I