Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Naum Vaiman

Naumovich to his daughter. She once gave me her phone number, just in case, should anything happen to him, and I called her and said that Pyotr Naumovich got into his head a certain idea of a public protest, and that he should be talked out of it, but that I, unfortunately, wasn’t successful. She listened me out in silence and, in an absolutely detached way, announced: “Thank you for calling me”. After several days, Kissinger had succeeded in obtaining a cease fire, and I decided that everything had somehow “shaken out” all by itself. But Pyotr Naumovich’s telephone wasn’t answering. And so, almost another month passed, and then unexpectedly, Lena called me and said: “Grandpa died. A week ago. Of course, we’ve buried him. He left you something of an inheritance, come by today, if you can, while I’m still here...” I went. The apartment was almost empty: neither the antique book cases nor the cupboard with the homemade liquor nor the couch remained. Vera Petrovna had gained so much weight that I barely recognized her. Her husband was also there, a hefty fellow with the mug of a yard dog; he was looking at me warily and with hostility. A Tanakh lay on the table, a beautiful, prerevolutionary edition. Inserted into the book was a note, handwritten in large letters: “This is for Naum,” and my telephone number. And an inscription: “Swear to me that you will learn the language and read this.” Having thanked her, I expressed my regret that I hadn’t learned of his death in time to be able to come and pay

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