This excerpt of a larger poema consists of found language taken from summaries of the sixteen-year correspondence of my late grandmother, Ludmila, conducted with friends and relatives after she emigrated from Ukraine to Israel in 2002. In view of her deteriorating memory, she made—to avoid repetition in subsequent correspondence—a careful summary of every letter she sent. But these were not just recaps. Often, she would reflect on the particular mood she’d been in when writing a given letter. These notes constitute a mix of epistolary and diary writing, reflecting the aspiration to halt loss, to hold on to life and personhood and her own story, apportioned among her numerous correspondents. They deal with the hardships of emigration, with language deficiency and aging in a foreign country, and the anticipation of death in isolation. The poema is like a textual fugue, developing and circling back in parallel with my grandmother’s gradual decline.
winter the winter rains everything’s green
it’s colder inside than outside
I worked made some money bought a microwave
I suffer from a bad memory
I kill time with books
a life of 62 years fit into 50 kilos
Sanik and I brought in the new year
he got me appointments with a cardiologist and a urologist
I’m reading the book what to do during an air raid
he believes in god
people here wish you to live to 120
get a gas mask
I’m listening to songs in Ukrainian
it’s pretty on the shore of lake Kinneret
the city’s built in tiers
I can’t get used to the shrieking sirens and the roaring planes
my doctor is Leonid Valershteyn
a propane canister’s 70 shekels for 5 months
the cherries here are blooming now!
I went to an Italian restaurant
cardiologist on the 9th, urologist and concert on the 14th
got my gas mask
I miss everyone
gardens are in bloom: cherries, oranges, mandarins
I talked through three phone cards in three days
Sasha brings me lemons from the kibbutz
the stores have everything ready-made, just heat it up
pelmeni, vareniki, cabbage rolls
I got a little mailbox
I sleep under my mom’s cotton comforter
the ficuses and roses are like trees
people talk very loud here
I can’t get used to the booming of airplanes or
the shrieking of police cars and ambulances
hospital doctors are free
medicines are half price
I live by hoping and waiting for letters
a double rainbow over lake Kinneret—gorgeous!
Sasha’s teacher Lyuba gave me a TV
we went to the Gorelik concert to hear songs in Yiddish
I like getting money from the ATM and
talking on the phone in the bus
lunch is borscht, kasha, and tea with pie
I eat fresh vegetables, but I’d like ones I’ve pickled myself
a local woman wouldn’t let me sit next to her in the bus
I gave her what for
I voted Communist
I won’t be able to leave this place: I’m not leaving Sanik
Hebrew is read from right to left
I’ve already been here 4 months
I carry my gas mask with me
there’s a lot here that’s interesting and strange to me
the war started
Sasha called and explained how to open the gas mask
it feels like I’m here temporarily
filled bottles with water, in case of war
nothing’s mine in this apartment except the photographs
I’m friends with my neighbors in the building, I speak a little Hebrew
pork is a forbidden food for Sasha
went to a Chinese restaurant for Polina’s birthday
I dream of dying in my apartment back home in Ukraine
people here are buried without coffins
how do I get documentation that I was in occupied territory?
lots of people put out furniture and clothes for Passover
sometimes I pick up a few things
everywhere you go, nobody likes immigrants
June 10th I went on a sightseeing trip to Acre
Sasha helps me fight depression
the terrorist acts continue
my colleagues are embarrassed to write me in Israel
I dream of bringing my library here
Polina and I were on the shore of lake Kinneret
I’m alone and it’s hot
next summer I’ll go to Odessa by ship
from there I’ll go home by train
I have osteoporosis
I really miss everyone
Alla, you’re my closest friend
I eat cornflakes with milk
I live for my children and grandchildren
the ground is rock; land is valued; artificial irrigation
my Hebrew’s weak
I’m going back to Ukraine
I found a place where meat’s 2 shekels
I think often about the people I worked with, lived with, was good friends with
I got 422 of my books shipped to me from Ukraine
there’s nobody to talk to
but the medicine’s good
call me at 055232950
the feeling of yearning isn’t weaker than the feeling of love
Polina gave me an artificial tree for New Year’s
I was at the thermal springs
I eat citrus every day
I’m always very eager to get letters
I often think about who I’m going to live out my life with
no letters from anyone
why do people snore?
I dream of Ukraine
I’ll go to a travel agency
I’m a tumbleweed with no homeland
I have pity for everyone
I dream of going home once every two years
I have to live here
my cardiologist’s in the US for training
it’s hard for someone to come here who’s not Jewish
meet me in Odessa
I believe in omens, but here they don’t
it’s easier here financially
Natasha and Sasha live in Tel Aviv
I’m glad that at Sasha’s insistence I brought Vasya the parakeet here
I’m afraid of depression
I reinforced the handles on my travel bags
I’m worried about the fate of Ukraine
I don’t have friends here, just neighbors
I believe in good
Sanik got them to bring down the rent
respond to kindness with kindness
I look at pictures and remember trips, dance lessons
I pray god my death is quick
I dream of taking a trip home before I die
I called but didn’t get through
Sanik took his army oath
I’m pickling cabbage and peppers
it’s all in god’s hands
my feet arm teeth ear hurt
my whole life I’ve made a habit of thrift
I don’t know when Sasha began writing poems
pills with breakfast lunch and dinner
the situation with Iran is tense
the price of sugar is going up
I’ll vote for whoever Sasha says
I’m scared of moving back home: anti-Semites
I live on memories of happiness
I only dreamed about mom once
I want to smell lilies of the valley and see snow
I write and cry
don’t tell anyone what I write you
everyone’s gradually forgetting me
Natasha and Sasha call every day
in the bomb shelter I got to know the locals
I’m afraid of being alone
I’d fly away, but my children and grandchildren are here
you have to try to be happy in the place you live
war threatens every day
will we be able to meet again?
I don’t know how to send text messages
I’m getting treated, I’m seeing doctors, I’m getting fat
what’s the dollar exchange rate?
the price of stamps has gone up
I’ll go to Donetsk to visit my sister
I’ll buy a phone and a fridge
I’m lucky with finding good people
thank you for the kind words
everything’s still the same
I was born in Yenakiyevo
I take a lot of pills
the bomb shelters are always being reinforced
I’ve been here over seven years
I miss snow
I’m drawn to graves
I tremble over every letter
I go to sleep and get up and thank god for my life
I reread old newspapers
I remember streets, buildings, the school
it’s a pleasure to read letters
I think I didn’t live my life in vain
I’d like to get a letter
let there be good
kisses, Lyudmila.
Copyright © 2023 by Alex Averbuch. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright © 2023 by Anne O. Fisher. All rights reserved.
