The Betrayers by David Bezmozgis Page B

then Tankilevich’s question had already drawn people’s attention. The young mother pulled her daughter closer and eyed both Tankilevich and the Russian warily. The cashier shifted a hip, tilted her head. And the laborer looked up with the coolness of a lizard.
    —Is there a problem?
the Russian mimicked. Not for the likes of you. Never.
    —What are you implying, Citizen?
    —Implying? I’m not implying anything. I’m stating what is clear as day. You people always know how to get ahead.
    —You people. What people do you mean? Tankilevich demanded. If you’re going to sow slander, at least have the courage to speak plainly.
    —To say what I’m saying requires no courage, the Russian said. Only eyes in your head. Anyone with eyes in his head sees how you Jews always get special treatment. Isn’t that so?
    The Russian turned for confirmation to the people around him. But they remained silent. Tankilevich thought he even detected a hint of disapproval on the cashier’s face. Still, he expected no support. How many times had he encountered such anti-Semites, and how many times had anyone said even a single word in his defense? He felt his heart pounding as if to fly apart. He gripped tightly the bills in his hand and held them up.
    —What special treatment? Tankilevich said. Do you mean these?
    The Russian was unintimidated.
    —Who but Jews have such things? I too would like such privileges. But it’s only the Jews that get them.
    —You would like such privileges? Tankilevich boomed. Thenyou should have lined up in ’41, when the Germans were taking the Jews to the forest!
    —Oh ho! the Russian said. So it’s back to the Germans, is it? To listen to you people, you’d think it was only the Jews who suffered. Everyone suffered. Who shed more blood than the Russian people? But nobody gives us special favors, do they?
    At this, he turned again to the others for reinforcement. First to the young mother, whose expression remained wary and reticent. And then to the laborer.
    —Isn’t that so, pal? the Russian asked.
    The laborer took his time and then answered in Tatar-accented Russian, the consonants rolling like stones in his mouth.
    —Yes, everyone suffered, he said. But not only from the Germans.
    —Oh, I see, the Russian announced grandly. I’m surrounded by persecuted minorities. That’s the way it is now in this country. The Russian nation built up this land—what didn’t we do?—but now we’re everyone’s bastard. We’re supposed to go around with our heads bowed and beg forgiveness from this one and the other.
    The Russian had worked himself up now and gazed about defiantly, no longer expecting solidarity. He glared at Tankilevich.
    —The hell I’ll beg forgiveness from the likes of you! While you get special money and I have a hole in my pocket. The Germans could have lined up a few more of you in ’41!
    There it was, Tankilevich thought. The fuse had been lit and now the charge had detonated. His heart surged. He waved his Hesed banknotes in the Russian’s face.
    —I should beat you, you filth! Tankilevich shouted.
    —Well, well, I’d like to see you try.
    But the young mother and her little girl were between them. And the laborer put a restraining hand on the Russian. And the cashier spoke up.
    —Be civilized or I will call the police!
    And that, more or less, was the end of the spectacle.
    His heart still thudding, his groceries sagging in their net bag, Tankilevich left the market and followed the dolorous path to the trolleybus station.

NINE
    N ormally, Tankilevich called Svetlana from the highway to arrange for her to collect him at the depot. This time he did not call. And when she called, he did not answer. Still, when he descended from the trolleybus and did not immediately see her, he was incensed. With his net bag slapping against his thigh, its weight like razors in his forearm, he staggered from the depot to the road where the cars and taxis were parked. It was evening,