Вдова (Widow)

The day after the memorial service the landlord knocked on the door, averted his gaze and said that we needed to renew the contract and that Shlomit said that the house was worth at least another 1,500 a month, and that they had been really fair with us and had not raised the rent because of the year of mourning, but she had checked and they were losing money.

I sat on the bed that had been mine and his. The walls of the room were bare and in the center stood the last crates that I found no point in taking to the little house we were about to move into. The crates were full of his belongings. Shirts, shoes and books. Ofer was a compulsive collector of dusty, “cob-webby” objects. He had a collection of fossils, miniature Avengers, snake skins and scorpion stingers. He had shelves full of Holocaust books, a kind of perversion he called Holocaust Chic. The kids wanted to keep everything. I agreed to take the dolls and the fossils. The rest was thrown out or donated. I had to cut back. Cut back and let go of memories and junk. First, the large metal safe which stood in the center of the bedroom. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it since he died. His brother came to empty it after the shiva. Took out the gun and insurance forms and paperwork I didn’t want to know about when he was alive. I often asked him to take it out of the bedroom. But he insisted that there were things in the safe that needed to be kept close.

After his brother took the gun and magazines, I felt the void from the safe suffocate and suck the oxygen out of the room, so I started sleeping on the couch in the living room. The movers were scheduled for the day after the next but I could not wait. I asked for help from “Grocery” Srulik who brought a cart from the minimarket and together we loaded it into my car. I served the children dinner and set off.

Right from the start of the ride, a strange rattle started from the safe. While driving I reached out to close the safe opening but it was closed. I continued to touch the various parts, but they were secure. I began to feel some strange and creepy presence in the car. I turned the radio on full blast, but to no avail. I reached a field not far from the road and pulled out the tombstone. A police car approached and stopped next to me. A policeman got out of it. “Ma’am, you are throwing solid waste in an unauthorized place!” I wanted to answer him that I too was misplaced, and that my husband was dead, and that he had the audacity to fall to the floor in front of my face right in the middle of an argument over where we should go for Friday night dinner. And that since he died there is no more argument because his parents do not invite me over anymore. Instead I kept quiet and put on the most seductive smile I could muster. Maybe the new wrinkles born in the last year made my enchanting smile look faded because the cop didn’t relent and pulled out a ticket. I should have known it was a lost cause as soon as he called me “ma’am.” I cursed the metal safe loudly and the policeman under my breath. I took the ticket from him and the gravestone returned to the back seat. I took the coastal road in the direction of Herzliya in search of a recycling station for solid waste. The rattle continued in the cacophony with the screams I released in the car. I cursed the safe, the cop and the one who lied when he said we were going to travel the world together when the kids grew up.

Towards midnight I arrived at the storage unit on Ben Zion Michaeli Street. It was standing in the heavy-vehicle parking lot in front of the gas station and access to it was blocked by trucks. The whole place was desolate and dark and the only streetlight was at the entrance to the parking lot. I was afraid to get out of the car but I was more afraid of the problems the kids would cause in the morning when they would refuse to get in the car with the safe. I had to get rid of it tonight! I parked as close as possible, left the headlights on and started dragging the monster out of the car. The dragging was slow and difficult, but I was surprised at how powerful my rage could be, bringing powers out of me like those of superhero dolls packed in the box labeled “children’s room.”

“Девушка, что ты делаешь?” (Young lady, what are you doing?) says a voice bearing a heavy Russian accent. A dark figure approached, I panicked and dropped the safe.

“Don’t be scared, I want to help.” A man, about 40 years old, tall and broad, stood in front of me. On his head was a bandana and his entire body was covered with tattoos and piercings. His looks and accent made me anxious. I thought about how I could run back to the car and drive away quickly. I was far from the vehicle, and saw no stick I could use. I was a small woman in front of a mountain of a man that fits the description of someone you do not want to meet in a dark alley. I decided to choose the only action I could think of, smiled my most pitiful smile and said:

“I’m a widow. I just came to throw this away. It was my husband’s,” and I pointed to the safe.

The figure approached the safe, bent down and examined it. I stood at a distance.

“Why not sell?” He opened and peered inside.

“I do not have time to look for a buyer, maybe you want it?” I asked with the little confidence left in me.

The tattooed man put a hand in his pocket, I was afraid he was taking out a knife and planned an escape but he took out a thick bundle of bills rolled up in a rubber band.

“I’ll take it for 300 NIS,  хорошо? ” (okay)

I got up and my eyes met his light blue eyes, like those of a Siberian Husky, the dog Ofer had wanted to bring home and I had not allowed. For some reason this reassured me. The man put three bills in my hand, lifted the safe lightly over his shoulder, smiled and said:

“Спасибо,  девушка,” (thank you, young lady) and walked away with the safe towards his truck. Just before he disappeared from my sight he turned around and asked:

“Девушка (young lady), what is a widow?”

The tension I had felt dissipated and suddenly became an uncontrollable laugh.

“A widow is one who discards gravestones in the middle of the night,” I replied.

He shrugged, turned and walked away.

That night I slept in my and his bedroom.

The next day I took a day off to finish packing up the house while the kids were at school. While I was packing the kitchen utensils, the phone rang. Unidentified number. Unlike me, I answered. On the other end, a familiar male voice with a heavy Russian accent.

“Девушка, ты слышишь? (Lady, do you hear?) It's Stas, from last night. In the parking lot.”

I was scared; how did yesterday's guy get my phone number?

“Yes, Stas, sure,” I mumbled, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“Девушка (lady),” he felt the anxiety in my voice. “Не бойся (don’t be afraid.) Did you check the safe before you discarded it?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I took everything out.”

“Нет, девушка (no, lady). You didn't take everything out,” I could hear a smile in his voice.

In the evening he showed up. Hidden between two metal panels was a secret compartment in which my husband hid money. There were shekels, dollars and euros. There were also travelers’ checks with the information that helped Stas locate me. He promised repeatedly that he hadn’t taken any money, hadn’t even counted it. I reassured him that it really did not matter to me, and even invited him in for coffee. Stas refused, and shoved a thick pile of bills rolled up in a rubber band, into one of my hands, and travelers’ checks into the other.

“Спасибо (thank you)”, I told him.

“It’s a gift from your dead husband, девушка вдова (widow lady),” he smiled.

I smiled too.

I looked at the travelers’ checks in my hand. Only my name appeared on them.