Klotsvog

Margarita Khemlin, Lisa Hayden

• Publisher: Columbia University Press
• ISBN:
  9780231544146
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: European Literary Collections
• Index: Literature

Klotsvog is a novel about being Jewish in the Soviet Union and the historical trauma of World War II—and it's a novel about the petty dramas and demons of one wonderfully vain woman. Maya Abramovna Klotsvog has had quite a life, and she wants you to know all about it. Selfish, garrulous, and thoroughly entertaining, she tells us where she came from, who she didn't get along with, and what became of all her husbands and lovers.

In Klotsvog, Margarita Khemlin creates a first-person narrator who is both deeply self-absorbed and deeply compelling. From Maya's perspective, Khemlin unfurls a retelling of the Soviet Jewish experience that integrates the historical and the personal into her protagonist's vividly drawn inner and outer lives. Maya's life story flows as a long monologue, told in unfussy language dense with Khemlin's magnificently manipulated Soviet clichés and matter-of-fact descriptions of Soviet life. Born in a center of Jewish life in Ukraine, she spent the war in evacuation in Kazakhstan. She has few friends but several husbands, and her relationships with her relatives are strained at best. The war looms over Klotsvog, and the trauma runs deep, as do the ambiguities and ambivalences of Jewish identity. Lisa Hayden's masterful translation brings this compelling character study full of dark, sly humor and new perspectives on Jewish heritage and survival to an English-speaking audience.

My first name is Maya. Patronymic Abramovna, maiden name Klotsvog.

My surname’s very unusual, but I don’t know its literal meaning. If anybody knows, please tell me. It’s not important to me, though, because what’s important is how somebody made life’s journey, not what their surname is.

I was born in 1930 and—like my whole generation—saw too much, things that weren’t pretty.

Field of work: mathematics teacher. Retired, of course. But I don’t consider myself a former teacher. Like a lot of other professions, a teacher’s profession doesn’t exist in the past tense. Acknowledging that sustains me tremendously.

Place of birth: the city of Ostyor in the Kozeletsky region of the Chernigov region. Very few people know the place now, but it was an important center of the Jewish nationality at the time I came into the world. Almost all the authorities on the regional level were Jews who toiled hand in hand with other nations and peoples. First and foremost: the Ukrainian people. And nobody was keeping tabs.

But that’s not my point.

People lack the persistence to live. Especially certain people. I have always had persistence and understanding.

My memories of early childhood on are filled with the beauty of my native places: the Ostyorka and Desna Rivers, the Ostyor-Kiev trip on the boat Nadezhda Krupskaya, beautiful forests, nice architecture around town. The old synagogue building on the least crooked street—Pervomaiskaya—stood out. There was a movie theater at the other, opposite, end of the same street, toward Soloninovshchina. A Jewish-language theater operated in the synagogue right up until the mid-1930s. The theater was still there later, too. Enthusiastic amateurs acted there on their own initiative; my mother, Faina Leibovna, was among them.

On Soloninovshchina, they turned the estate of an important landowner unfamiliar to me into a stadium, but we rarely went there because it was far away. The museum of local history has been famous throughout the entire region since 1906.

We lived comfortably. We loved gathering and boiling clams. We got in a bad way if we ate up a lot of clam innards. Tempering the digestive process was useful, though.

The skills I acquired in childhood helped me overcome adversities later on in life, too.

I remember my grandmother, who was a virtuoso at twisting a stocking below the knee so it lay properly on the leg and didn’t droop. There were no elastic bands or other accessories. My stockings always looked excellent. I taught my girlfriends, but only a few of them could do it, though that was later on. Anyway, we didn’t have those problems as children because in the winter everybody went around in comfortable wide, baggy pants made out of any kind of fabric; people tied newspapers over their legs for warmth.

Mama, my grandmother, and I spent the period of the Great Patriotic War in evacuation, in the vicinity of Atbasar Station in the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic. My grandmother died of pneumonia.

Mama and I worked in a train carriage repair factory. I made strides in the metalwork field and the foreman treated me with particular respect. He was an ulcer patient, so we agreed that I would give him my portion of alcohol, he would give me his milk. That’s how I received the supplemental nourishment necessary for a thirteen-year-old girl of my age.

We gradually learned that our husband and father had perished during the forcing of the Dnieper. I don’t remember my mother’s reaction.

My father was a caring and kind person in every way. After the Polish campaign, he brought home a piece of fabric for a suit for himself: gray fabric with small fuzzy spots. Mama decided to burn a thread to verify the quality. The thread burned instead of smoldering and the wrong smell spread. Mama came to the conclusion that the fabric wasn’t wool, as my father’d thought. But she didn’t say anything to him. So as not to upset him.

He brought back pieces of fabric for dresses for Mama and me, too: dark brown with a silky stripe and with a thin, broken stripe; my mother didn’t verify their content. At least I didn’t see her do it. They were sewn into plain, severe English styles. I should note that since the material was expensive and the responsibility was great, it wasn’t Mama who sewed them but a good tailor, Ilya Mordkovich Kheifets, who Mama had to hire through connections because he had so much work and she requested they be sewn quickly, hiding from Papa that she’d paid way too much.

When we were leaving for evacuation, Mama laid those dresses out on the bed so she and I could be clothed in them over our summer dresses. We forgot to do it, though, because we were hurrying. Of course, someone who stayed in Ostyor wore them out. I dreamed that my dress would make its way to my close childhood girlfriend Bellochka Ovrutskaya and that she’d give the dress back when we returned.

Their family, which had a lot of children, stayed in Ostyor: they refused to evacuate. They were given one cart, but Bellochka’s grandfather asked for two so they could take everything they needed. It wasn’t given to them, though some people got extras that they could have done without if they weren’t hauling away enough junk for the next hundred years.

Bella’s grandfather took the position that “I don’t plan to lend my conscience to those lacking in that area. That’s not why I’ve lived my life honestly. Let them be as ashamed as their conscience allows.” He was principled in matters of justice. They were shot with the other Jews in the ravine on the Desna; a friend of Mama’s told us that in a letter in 1944, when we were planning to return after receiving permission. My dress had definitively disappeared into the unknown, and I cried out my childish soul over it.

I don’t know the fate of my father’s piece of fabric.

We lived in Ostyor for a while after the war even though it turned out our house had been razed to the ground. We rented a small place with some nice people we hardly knew. Families hired my mother as a nanny. I successfully graduated from night school, eighth grade.

Then we figured we needed to move to Kiev to look for jobs. My mother’s younger cousin Lazar, a highly qualified pattern maker, lived in Kiev’s Podol district with his wife, Khasya, and adult son, Motya. Lazar helped us rent a small place from an old lady not far from his house, and he always helped us with advice.

My mother could only find nanny work, though the pay was higher and she could even take meals with one family. Beyond that, Mama often brought me something delicious, too. This was sometimes a matter of chocolate.

In Kiev, I worked at a savings bank and looked at so much money belonging to other people that I had fainting spells and bad dreams. The big responsibility wore on me; I just couldn’t get used to it. Figures with zeroes spun in my head. It seemed like the zeroes were always throwing themselves at my neck and suffocating me.

In an environment like that, the work almost finished me off. Mama, who saw it all, suggested I quit the bank and consider another line of work.

Uncle Lazar spoke out against that idea. I can’t rule out that he was afraid of having to contribute material assistance. He was under the strong influence of a wife who was greedy and unpleasant in all respects. Especially with respect to my mother.

Their mutual dislike dated back to before the war.

My mother wasn’t a true dressmaker, she was simply able to sew a little. Her stitching always came out a bit crooked, which wasn’t especially important, though it spoiled the overall picture on the insides of garments. Mama hurried and had a bad eye for measurements. But Uncle Lazar lavished her with praise to his Kievan Khasya, who asked my mother to sew her a dress out of dark blue crepe satin. Khasya never had a figure but she had a large stomach. And she requested that my mother make a small belt with a button to go on that stomach. My mother explained that she needed to hide her stomach, that she should even make a style without darts instead, not something with a belt. Khasya was offended.

Mama sewed the dress as Khasya dictated, but there wasn’t enough fabric for the belt. Khasya turned our whole place upside down searching for the material Mama had allegedly set aside so there wasn’t enough for the belt.

Of course the dress didn’t turn out too well, but a little belt wouldn’t have prettied it up.

Khasya spun and spun in front of the mirror, all red and sweaty, and told my mother off in Jewish for her lack of skill. My mother was silent for some time, then said something to her. Khasya turned pale, tore off the dress, and scurried around, like she was going to run out of the house in only an undershirt with straps and a bit of lace trim at the hem, but she came back from the hallway and bashed the mirror with her fist. The mirror cracked. Khasya was in tears; my mother was crying. Each one stood in her own corner and nobody made a move to reconcile.

They cried, they blew their noses, Mama into her apron and Khasya into the new dress, which she balled up in her hands and used as a handkerchief. I don’t know how things were left when they parted.

Mama later wore that dress for a long time, she just changed the style to fit the line of her own figure. And Khasya didn’t set foot in our house after that. Lazar either. It turns out Mama told Khasya then that Khasya could hang herself out of spite, using that little belt that didn’t exist. And then Khasya bashed the mirror. The mirror stayed in Ostyor when we left for evacuation. Our neighbor Khvoshchenko brought it back to us as a sign of gratitude when we returned. We were prone to irrational beliefs but we hung up the mirror because we lacked means, so it didn’t cross our mind to heed bad omens.

I should say that whoever took possession of the sewing machine because of the German occupation never returned it to us. The explanation is obvious: a sewing machine isn’t a mirror and it can provide substantial supplemental earnings for somebody’s day-to-day life.

And so. We started from zero again after the war and somehow or other we grew close to Lazar and Khasya once again. Though due to sad necessity. In any case, we weren’t thinking about any kind of help at all from their side—there was no reason for their worries.

I enrolled in evening classes at the pedagogical technical college. At the same time, I forced myself to continue working at the savings bank.

Back in school, my arithmetic and geometry studies were graded “vidminno”—meaning “excellent”—presenting me with no real choice. I didn’t relate deeply to humanities subjects, they went in one ear and out the other. But I loved children. Looking at them and, well, just in general.

And this is where my fi...

Table of contents

• Cover 
• Series Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents 
• Foreword
• Translator’s Note
• Klotsvog
• Series List