by Jonathan D. Cohen
		y father winced, but kept pressing. "Asya's English isn't that great yet,"he said. "But it's the husband, Andre, who needs the most practice. In Russia, he put together lasers and optical equipment for government laboratories. But here in America, the language barrier is keeping him from getting any job at all." "Big deal,"I said. "Can't they get welfare or something?" "No, not any more,"my father said. "They're living on Asaya's salary, plus some help we're giving them through the Jewish Community Center. Eventually, they should do fine. But for now they're still stuck in some crummy apartment." "I still don't see what this has to do with me,"I said. My father thought about this for a moment. "You need Andre Kaminsky,"he said. "Need him for what?" "To put together your Bar Mitzvah present." I thought about opening the door and jumping on to the freeway, doing a tuck and roll as I hit the asphalt and somersaulting across all four lanes to the shoulder.
	e pulled up at a single-story apartment complex set smack on the noisy freeway service road. Yellow and silver fast-food wrappers blew threw the gutter, past abandoned cars missing wheels, empty cans and bottles, cardboard boxes full of scrap metal. My father jumped out of the car, but I wouldn't budge. "Look, I can't do this alone,"he shouted over the traffic roar. "Then let's go home." "Just carry it in with me. We'll drop off the telescope, say goodbye, and get right out of there." "You promise I don't have to stay?" "Fifteen, twenty minutes is all." "Ten." "All right, ten minutes. So get off your toucas and help me lift." Once again, we carried at separate ends. "Which way?" I shouted. "Straight through the archway,"my father shouted back. We waddled across the sunny courtyard, where Hispanic and black families were cooking and blasting music on their little back terraces. I could make out separate strains of hip-hop and salsa. And smell charcoal-broiled burgers, chicken, chilli powder and barbecue sauce. An adult soccer game, all Hispanic, flowed back and forth on the main lawn. Around the perimeter, kids raced on roller blades and bikes. I inched forward while my father scrabbled backwards, the both of us straining to avoid getting run over. A little black kid pulled up next to us on his chopper-style bike.
		" omebody die?" he said. "Nope, just delivering a telescope,"my father said. "Who to?" "Some Russians,"my father said. "They have a boy named Valery." "Don't pull my leg!" the kid said, then suddenly hollered across the courtyard to a friend: "Hey James!" The Russians have a boy named Valery! Same as your sister!" "You're crazy!" James hollered back. "Dad, it's getting heavy,"I said. "Hang on,"my father said. "We're almost there." "Later!" said the kid as he pedaled away. My father let go with one hand, for a few precarious seconds, just long enough to knock on the apartment door. I watched down the length of the box as the door opened and a pale, black-haired man with a small mustache and dark rings under his eyes looked at us with a mix of misery and curiosity. "Who is?" he said, puffing on a cigarette. "Andre, am I ever glad to see you!" said my father. "Ah yes! Mr. Kramnick!" he said, trying to smile but not getting all the way there. "Come! Come! Asaya! Valery!" My father and I pushed inside. A pretty dark-haired woman stepped forward to greet us. She was also smoking. The cramped apartment just reeked from cigarettes. But she was much more pleasant and peaceful looking than her husband. Behind her stood this grinning, chubby--cheeked blonde-haired kid, holding out his hand and lifting it up and down in a strangely mechanical fashion. My father and I each exchanged awkward hellos with all three Russians.
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