Fiction

 

Mood:

Unheilig - Der berg

 

I woke to the rhythmic clatter of wheels and smelled it before I saw it. The salty sea breeze mingled with the heavy scent of burnt coal and hot oil from the old locomotive pulling the train through the hot summer night. Odesa. Even half-asleep, I recognized it unmistakably. It smelled of spices, fish, wine, and a mystery waiting around every corner of the street. The city welcomed me like an old acquaintance, reminding me of something important, yet long forgotten.

Odesa reminded me of Marseille. Not in its streets—though one could find similarities there too—but in its spirit. By the sea that breathed in every alleyway. By the way the locals spoke. By the mixture of peoples, voices, aromas, and glances. A city where no one felt like a stranger.

I was born in Marseille, and perhaps that is why Odesa immediately laid claim to my heart. Here, as in Marseille, the streets lead to the sea, and every morning brings sun, breeze, and hope. Here, as there, the sun doesn’t just shine; it speaks to you.

And there was something else in this city—an old, almost worn, yet stubborn shadow of France. De Ribas, Richelieu, de Volan, Langeron... Names that sound like chapters of a single novel. Odesa began with the French—not just by blood, but by design. The French imprint was felt in the very air: in the architecture, in the intonations, even in the way people knew how to live here—without haste and with taste.

Sometimes I caught myself thinking that if Marseille were to vanish, I could remain here. And not feel like an exile.

I sat up slowly, kneading my stiff muscles, and stared out the window. Shadows of trees and sparse houses floated behind the glass, followed by suburban lights. The train was slowing down, and its metallic creak, like the groan of a tired mechanism, filled my head.

Checking the pockets of my old tunic, I retrieved the letter, folded in four. The familiar handwriting on the yellowed paper was my own, yet I did not remember ever writing these lines. The words sounded like an echo of my own soul, lost somewhere in the labyrinths of memory. I knew only one thing: the letter had arrived to force me to return to the place I had once fled.

The train jerked sharply and came to a halt. The Odesa station met me with a soft hum, as if enveloping me in its unhurried life. Porters with carts had already gathered on the platform, exchanging banter in hushed tones and leisurely sorting through the arrivals' luggage. Someone nearby was grilling meat, and the air was full of the smell of spices and smoke.

I stepped onto the platform, adjusted my rucksack, and headed for the exit, following the other passengers. Odesa was greeting me, taking me back into its embrace.

A shoeshine boy sat in the station square, his eyes gleaming in the lantern light.

"Monsieur, your boots," he smiled at me mischievously, like an old pal. I sat on the bench, stretching out my legs. The boy worked quickly and deftly, like a true master.

When he finished, he silently placed a small scrap of paper into my hand. Before I could ask a single word, he had already dissolved into the night darkness of Kulikovo Field.

Unfolding the note, I read: "Look for Rabbi Zusia. He knows. Just don't delay." The name Rabbi Zusia stirred memories, but they were like the faint light of a distant lantern in a thick fog. Jerusalem? The desert? Vague echoes of distant events, more like dreams.

Shoving the note into my pocket, I went to look for the hotel where I used to stay. I remembered the closest one to the station was on Malaya Arnautskaya Street. It wasn't a long walk, and soon I was looking at the old building of the Hotel "Maybach." It looked tired; the facade was peeling, the steps worn down by the feet of thousands of guests. Once it had shone proudly; now it was merely a dim reflection of the past.

In the lobby, the porter was dozing with his head in his hands, but upon seeing me, he wordlessly produced a key.

"Room twenty-two, second door on the right," he said, as if I stayed here every week.

Climbing the stairs, I listened to their creak, reminiscent of the voices of all the places I had stayed before. I am here again, but I am no longer running. This time, I am walking toward a goal.

The room met me with simple furnishings: an iron bed, a washstand, a table with a lamp, and a window overlooking a quiet street. I threw my rucksack on the floor, placed the letter, the note, and the map I had brought with me on the table. Approaching the window, I looked down at the deserted night street, feeling something long asleep coming alive inside me, something hidden even from myself.

The night passed almost without sleep. I studied the map and pondered my next moves. Morning brought coolness and a desire to move on. After washing and tidying my clothes, I went downstairs. The porter slept on, not moving a muscle even as I walked past.

The decision came by itself: the tracks of Rabbi Zusia must be sought at Privoz.

This market had always been the heart of Odesa, its soul and its mystery. Not because it was the largest or the richest—but because it breathed in unison with the city. I remember it from the time I first arrived in Odesa, working as a sailor on a merchant ship. I was very young, dressed simply, with a battered bag on my shoulder and a head full of questions. I wanted to understand the essence of this city. People told me: "Go to Privoz—it will answer you."

And I went.

The Privoz of that time was a dusty, unpaved square, full of life and stench. They sold poultry, cabbage, herring, apples, meat, and grain right from wagons and carts. Where buildings and covered galleries now stand, there were canvas awnings and shacks on stakes. Everything shaky, everything temporary—and therein lay its strength. It could change every day, yet remain itself.

Privoz was the last link in the chain of city bazaars stretching from the port to Alexandrovsky Prospect. They said de Volan planned them as the city’s circulatory system—from the harbor, along the Military Ravine, past the Greek and Old Bazaars—right here, to the liveliest point of Odesa. From here, goods dispersed throughout the south, and rumors—throughout the country.

Old men recounted that trading was already happening here in the 1790s. Meat and fish rows stretched along Panteleimonovskaya. Each had its own smells, its own sounds.

I remember wandering between the rows on a summer day. There—butter, sour cream, chicken; a bit to the side—greens, eggs. Then stalls with flour and salt, fruit carts, baskets of figs—and all this under the merciless sun, in the smell of fish, smoke, pickles, and spices. The ceaseless noise of buyers' and sellers' voices ceased only in the evening.

But beneath all this bustle lived other layers of the city. Especially dangerous were the so-called "flophouses"—cellar night shelters where all sorts of petty criminals could spend the night for mere kopecks. They slept on straw, huddled together. The police staged raids, newspapers wrote about how cunning thieves siphoned barrels of Moldavian wine through tubes right from under the merchants' noses, pickpockets displayed miracles of dexterity, and petty swindlers offered useless services and goods. But Privoz accepted such inhabitants too. Like any center of commerce, it was a magnet for crime.

Sanitary conditions? They were remembered when a plague began. Then they remembered the rats too. I heard a doctor say that rats felt no worse here than nobles at a resort—because everything was for them: cellars, manure, piles of garbage, and underground passages. And then one day, the plague came. And Privoz—all of it, with its trays, shacks, awnings—was burned down. Board by board. Stall by stall. Not to punish—to save. And, like a phoenix, the market rose from the ashes of the fire. The city invested in construction, which completely changed the face of Privoz.

Buildings appeared on the site of the dirty earthen ground, the Fruit Passage, wrought iron gates, stone floors. But something was gone. As if, along with the smoke, that old laughter, the old scandals, the old bargaining had risen into the sky—that voice of Privoz which knew the value not only of an egg and a chicken but of a man. Now everything looked neater, but not as sincere.

The streets had already filled with people, everyone hurrying about their business. Privoz was noisy, bright. The clean morning air was saturated with the aromas of vegetables, fruits, spices, and gifts of the sea. Merchants shouted their prices; buyers bargained, argued, and laughed. A boy with a cart stood between the rows, shouting: "Tea, coffee, baklava, vertuta!" I walked up to the lad and bought a mug of tea and a piece of apple pie. Sitting on a folding canvas chair thoughtfully placed for me, I had breakfast. It was pleasant to sit like that, relax, and gather my thoughts. I spoke a little with the owner of the improvised cafe, listened to the latest news and gossip. Thanking my new buddy, I set off in search of the mysterious Rabbi Zusia.

I walked through Privoz—and felt it living. The complex system of relationships resembled a fine web. Weightless, but very strong. I didn't look at the goods; surrendering to intuition, I looked for the trace of a man. And Privoz was ready to reveal its secrets to me.

I walked slowly along the fruit row, peering into the faces of the vendors. Especially the Jews, because the name "Rabbi Zusia" sounded like something forgotten, but definitely connected with this people. I sought a look, a gesture, a hint—anything that would point me the way.

Finally, one of them—an elderly man in a kippah, with thick eyebrows and kind eyes—looked at me a little more intently. Not with surprise, not with hostility, but as if he had known me for a long time. As if I were part of some story that had already begun without me.

I stepped closer and said quietly:

"Rabbi Zusia?"

"Behind the meat rows, dead end, green door. Knock three times and only before sunset," he said and immediately turned away, speaking loudly: "Peaches, buy peaches, new variety."

I felt my heart beat faster, and my breathing faltered for a moment from its usual rhythm. Everything was happening just as I feared. The past was pulling me toward itself, giving no peace, demanding action.

Stepping aside, I stopped to catch my breath. My palms were trembling slightly, and I clenched them into fists, calming myself. Odesa continued its ordinary life, completely suspecting nothing, unaware that with my return, not only my future had changed, but the fates of many people.

I moved away from the market, walking slowly down the street, feeling Odesa softly but inevitably immersing me in its life, weaving me into events I could not avoid.

Now I had a name, a place, and a time. It remained to understand why providence had returned me here—and whether I was ready to hear the answers to the questions I was afraid to ask myself.