Bingo! I’m in.
Before I have a chance to feel guilty that she would use my name as a password—a black hole of guilt that I do not have the time to fall into—I open her profile to see if she is friends with anyone named Zoya. She is, indeed. I go to the page, but there’s only the barest minimum of information on there, no pictures or anything like that. I could try talking to her on the chat sidebar, but what would I say? Have you seen my sister? If only I could read their previous messages… on Facebook, the messages automatically save themselves on the server. Not on MySpace, though.
Without thinking too much about it, as I doubt it will get us anywhere, I open a chat with Zoya and write Hi. I leave it open while I move to Facebook. As far as I know, my sister never joined this platform. But I never really use any of these websites. I always preferred good old-fashioned phone calls or email. So what do I know?
Apparently, nothing. Facebook’s login page loads, and lo and behold, Anna’s email address is typed into the login bar. I try the same password I used for MySpace, and now I’ve logged into her Facebook, too. Facebook congratulates me for reactivating my account. Because she had only deactivated her account and not deleted it, all her info is still available.
I move straight to the messages and find a conversation with “Facebook User” at the top. This is easy to do as there is only one other person she was messaging on here anyway, someone named Ashley who was trying to reconnect from high school, who Anna had ignored. Whoever it was she was talking to on here, she deleted her account. Her name is gone, but the conversation is still there. Getting excited now, I scroll all the way up to the top.
The best way to understand something, I have always thought, is to start at the beginning.
MASHA
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
<<ANNA>> Hi! Do you speak English?
<<FACEBOOK USER>> Yes, but badly. Do you speak Russian?
<<ANNA>> Yes, but badly.
<<FACEBOOK USER>> Haha. We can try to use Google, yes? Did you understand my message?
<<ANNA>> Yes. I did. I talked to my dad about it.
<<FACEBOOK USER>> And what did he say?
<<ANNA>> He said I don’t have any cousins named Zoya.
<<FACEBOOK USER>> Naturally he would say that. I’m not your cousin. I am your sister.
<<ANNA>> Sister, like my dad is your father or my dad is your uncle?
Here I stop for a moment. It’s definitely Zoya, but her messages are all in Russian, whereas Anna’s are in English. In Russian, “sistra” can mean either sister or cousin, depending on who is using it. So I can understand Anna’s confusion, though I am pretty sure I already know the answer. My stomach clenches in anticipation, or possibly hunger, or a combination of both. But I am too invested now to stop and track down food, so I continue reading.
<<ZOYA>> Sister like your dad is my father.
<<ANNA>> But that’s crazy. Did you tell him that?
<<ZOYA>> Many times. He’s been ignoring me already for months. I’ve been emailing him all the time, and he doesn’t answer. I want a DNK, that’s all.
<<ANNA>> Hold on, let me see what that is.
<<ANNA>> Oh. A DNA test?
<<ZOYA>> Yes. Just a DNA test. I will pay for it myself, I don’t want money.
<<ANNA>> But what makes you think he’s your father? We left Chernovtsy a long time ago, and he’s been married to my mom forever.
<<ZOYA>> This was before you left. My mother was his accountant. You can ask him about it. Her name was Olga. She died last year and I found some old letters and photos with Pavel Rosenberg written on them.
<<ANNA>> Sorry to be so blunt, but aren’t there hundreds of Pavel Rosenbergs in the world?
Here I stop again and stifle a laugh. It’s so typical Anna to come out with that question straight away. It makes me miss her, and hope that she’s okay. I also start to wonder what on earth is going on with my dad. It isn’t like him to have secrets. Maybe there is more to him than this middle-aged Russian dad who enjoys Everybody Loves Raymond and mini golf. Maybe Zoya really is his daughter, from an ex-girlfriend perhaps, and he has known about it all along. Maybe he has another secret family out there. It would definitely explain some of the strange things going on at the moment, especially why he wouldn’t explain who Zoya was to me.
<<ZOYA>> I know he is. Since I was little, my mom told me I had two sisters in America. And then I found his name in the letters, and discovered his profile on Odnoklassniki.
<<ANNA>> Yeah, okay, but this Pavel Rosenberg? You’re sure?
<<ZOYA>> You can ask him about Olga Oleskin, see what he says. I have photos of them together at work.
<<ANNA>> That doesn’t really prove anything, but okay. Let’s say it is him…
<<ZOYA>> It is.
<<ANNA>> Okay, let’s say, for a moment, that it is… If he is ignoring you, it’s probably because he doesn’t believe you. He probably thinks you want money. We’ve had people contact us before from Ukraine asking for money, even old friends of his.
<<ZOYA>> I don’t want money! I want a DNA test, that’s it
<<ANNA>> But why? Isn’t it a little late for child support?
<<ZOYA>> It’s not for that. I need proof he is my father so I can show I am half Jewish and move to Israel.
<<ANNA>> Oh.
<<ZOYA>> I understand that his family is very dear to him. This is why I never reached out to you before. But I must leave Ukraine. This is the only way I know. Please help me.
<<ANNA>> I’m not so sure I can help you.
<<ZOYA>> Just talk to him please.
<<ANNA>> But… Is it even enough to be only half Jewish?
Having lived in Israel for the last five years, I know that it is, so I skip ahead a bit past the explanations. This woman really thinks she is our sister? And Papa refused to answer her? It doesn’t sound like him at all. And how did this sister come to be? My dad is the farthest away from the cheating type that I had ever met. Was it from an ex-girlfriend? It would certainly help to know her age. I can’t help but get frustrated with Anna for not asking how old she is. And also frustrated with Zoya’s side of the conversation. I have trouble understanding her, and wonder how much of what she is saying Anna really understood. I wonder, too, what kind of education Zoya has received. But then, of course, I feel bad wondering this. Maybe she is too poor for an education. It’s not her fault she hasn’t had the privileges I grew up with.
I take an ibuprofen with some water from my purse and continue reading.