The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

showed her the portrait on the headstone, taught her to say, Grandpa, Grandpa—she still says it like that. And God forbid...God forbid...
Hic
! Excuse me. No, I’m just...something in my throat.
    Don’t go digging in there! What do you want from it? Leave it alone.
    You think it’s fear talking? Well, yes, it is fear! Fine, if that’s what it is. How do you live without fear? Everything will come apart—look at it coming apart now! A whole state came apart as soon as people stopped being afraid. I’m fifty-six, and I spent my whole life being afraid: I was afraid of my father, of my bosses, afraid to make a mistake at work. And now I’m done; I’m not afraid of anything—myself, I’m not afraid for myself. If only you could see how...horrific. The braids she had...in the picture...my mother, Lea Goldman...two braids, out over the front of her shoulders...black. Nikushka has such beautiful hair, too, so thick. Grandma Dunya braided it for her, for school. No one will see that picture. Maybe when she herself is fifty. When she has her own children, grandchildren. If she is curious to know...I saved the picture. Of the whole file, I saved the picture...I didn’t show it to anybody. And I won’t...God forbid...knock on wood...I’ll knock on every tree along this shore, with my head if I have to....
    And pressing buttons—no, thank you! I’ve got a child; she needs me. My own mother didn’t need me. She didn’t think twice about abandoning a tiny baby, not even two months old, to be raised by strangers—fine! But my daughter needs me, my only flesh and blood. Everything I have—it’s all for her! The grandparents’ apartment, the dacha—my father-in-law basically built it with his own hands. She wanted the Conservatory—go ahead, child, do the Conservatory! We’ll manage; while I’m alive, she won’t want for anything! Let her study. God willing, she might make it...as some soloist, she’s talented. And she’s got ambition too, thank God, I gave her that, too—the confidence I never had; I was wolf cub. Whatever I could—I’ve given her! And as long as I’m alive, that’s how it will be. My conscience is clear; I’m not guilty before anyone.
    Oh, oh, here it goes, here it goes! Come on, sweetie, don’t you fight it, I’m not that kind of a...hang on now...easy...
    Fucking bitch! Ripped off the hook. A nice hook, too, made in Japan. You stupid fish, now you’ll just go swimming around with a hook in your lip, till you die.
    Darn it...such a shame. It was something big, too; could’ve been a catfish—they’re wily! Or a perch.
Agh
, I’m sorry.
    Is there anything left? In that bottle?
    Alright, forget it—have another one! To our parents...and to my...to Ivan Tryfonovych Boozerov who gathered us all here today. Let him rest in peace...on the other side. If it’s out there, of course—the other side.
    The file? What file, Daryna Anto...damn it...Anatoliivna? There is no file under that name...Lea Goldman. Never was.
    Or, yes, you could say that: it did not constitute historical value. You’re a sharp cookie, miss. A quick learner.
    Yad Vashem is where you find Lea Goldman, Daryna Anatoliivna. Yad Vashem, in Israel. She perished in the Przemysl ghetto, in 1942. Their whole family’s there, the list: David Goldman, Borukh Goldman, Iosyp, Etka...Ida Goldman-Berkovitz, and Lea Goldman, too. And it’s better that way—for everyone.
    Take a pickle. Go ahead, have one, don’t be shy....
    I’m not done telling you about Ivan Tryfonovych, though. I promised you, didn’t I—about your case...about those who died...the woman who died on November 6, 1947—just as you wanted. No, Daryna Anatoliivna, I can’t help you there—I couldn’t find you a document like you wanted. But I’ll tell you something else...about Ivan Tryfonovych again; I think you’ll find it interesting. Hang on just a second; let me get a new hook tied on here. Do me a favor, Ambrozievich, pass me that little jar. Yeah, that one over there, so I don’t have to get up again...thank you.
    Plop! I love that sound
—
“Fishy, fishy in the brook, Papa catch him on a hook.” Isn’t this a great spot I showed you? So quiet—do you hear it? Every rustle...you’d never guess you were in the center of a city. It’s because of the monastery, or else they’d have carved all this up into developments long ago. A little further that way, by the South Bridge, they’ve already got a few little palaces going, did