Chapter 16

Dear Mascha,

You may be surprised that I’m writing to you, rather than simply talking to you as I have done throughout the fifty-eight years that have gone by since you died. But you have no reason to fear that this will bring about a change in our relationship. It’s nothing but the whim of an old woman. You always gave my life a sense of security and — as you well know — your keen power of judgment saved me from a fair few misjudgments. Back in 1963, after the unexpected death of my husband, it was you who showed me how to find my way from despair to mourning. I found my way back to life. Death can often be a new beginning, after all. Despite that, I was the only one who ever spoke at Naum’s grave, while he listened silently. He has never answered me.

I’m suffering from insomnia and mood swings, perhaps as a consequence of the conversations that I have to hold with Dmitrij, the interviewer. Nonetheless, they have become a kind of elixir for me. I’m hoping that the mechanical act of writing will help me to get back to the kind of imbalance one would expect of a ninety-two year old.

The fate of this letter is uncertain. One of the fantasy figures of my sleepless nights is a German post office clerk who conscientiously searches our local branch for the sack labeled “The Other Side.” Then, after consulting with his superior, he postmarks and stamps the letter as undeliverable, thereby returning it to me, the sender. In reality, though, the German post system hasn’t been nearly as conscientious as one imagines it to be in a very long while. Despite the fact that the Germans number their buildings according to a clear and strictly logical system, they sometimes neglect — perhaps as an act of caprice, or even malice — to number the apartments inside. As a result, delivering the mail demands considerable powers of observation from the postman in order to connect the individual mailboxes and apartment doors (on which there aren’t always name plates) to the surnames on the envelopes and packages.