“It’s not something you really tell your parents,” I explain. “Especially when they’re working two jobs just to feed you.”
“I did not move from Soviet Union so kids could eat lunch in bathroom,” he says, a little bit irate now.
“Yes, I know. You also didn’t move from Soviet Union so that we could wear ripped jeans or work in grocery stores,” I say, giving him a knowing look.
“Okay, okay, now I am joke,” he says.
“No, Papa. Not everything we do is a reflection on you. Only what you do is a reflection on you.”
“What you saying?”
I can’t believe I have to explain to him what is so clearly obvious. The man may understand math, but he does not have a clue about how people work. It’s too late for our relationship to be like it once was, but maybe it’s not too late for him and Anna.
“If she wants to be an artist, can’t you let her try? Even if she fails at least she’ll know she tried. She won’t resent you for the rest of her life.” Papa has such a blank look on his face I wonder again if I am accidentally speaking Hebrew. But I know I’m not. This is a different sort of mistranslation, one that has nothing to do with language. After all this time he still doesn’t know how to be supportive of anyone pursuing a path that might differ from his. Clearly, he learned nothing from all of our altercations and my subsequent absence.
“If you do, I’ll tell you where I think she went,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
His eyes go wide. Now I have his attention. “You found her?”
“I found her computer.” I pause, waiting to see what he says. “She left it here, didn’t you notice?”
He thinks about this and shakes his head. “I never go in her room.”
“No wonder you’ve had zero luck finding her. Have you even tried?” I ask. The toaster oven timer goes off and we both stare it, before I move forward and remove my dad’s gross-looking frozen burrito and hand it to him. His arms drop to his sides.
“So, get to it!” he says, not taking it from me, as if he forgot what he was doing in the kitchen in the first place.
I put the burrito down on a plate, and without turning around to face him, I say, “You’re not going to like this.”
“I don’t like any of this, so?”
“Well, I found an old conversation between her and this woman called Zoya. The one you asked me if I knew about?” I rotate to face him, and see his eyes widen in horror. “Anyway it looks like Anna might have gone to Ukraine. To, uh, Chernovtsy.”
He leans his hands against the counter, letting his shoulders sag a little, like he’s a balloon deflating. This is clearly not the answer he expected. What did he expect exactly? That Anna was hiding in Riverwest, still? That she’d taken a train to Chicago and we could just drive to pick her up? He probably assumed she was with her boyfriend somewhere because it was easier. And maybe she is—but I am no longer so sure.
“You’re telling me Anna is in Chernovtsy?” he asks.
“Well, this was a month ago. And I’m not sure, it just kind of seemed like it… I was reading between the lines a little.” I take out a cup from the cupboard next to him, and fill it with water. “Maybe you can look into it? Don’t you have access to some of her accounts?”
“I do not need. I know she cannot afford.”
“Can you please look anyway?” I decide not to tell him my theory on that. “Or you could talk to this Zoya woman. Do you know her? I would have messaged her from Anna’s profile but she deleted her account so I can’t write back. MySpace too. Didn’t she write you too?”
“She did, but there’s no way…” He starts shaking his head emphatically no. “I’m not writing her.”
“What? Why? Don’t you want to find Anna?” I say. “She probably went to Chernovtsy to meet her. She could be there with her right now!”
“Even if I wanted to. Which I do not. I blocked her.”
My pity turns back to anger. “Papa…” I start. I think of the German word verschlimmbessern: to make something worse when trying to improve it. Though I’m not even sure where to apply it: Anastasia, or my dad? “No offense, but it seems like I’m the only one here actually trying to find Anna. This woman claimed to be your daughter, and Anna may have believed her. So maybe figure out how to un-block her?”
My dad looks up at me for second, then turns back toward the counter without acknowledging that I know about his little secret now. For a man who has always advised 100% transparency, he sure doesn’t practice what he preaches.
I shake my head. “No wonder Mama flew off to New Jersey,” I say. “Is she…? I mean, does she… have proof?”
“She’s lying, Masha.”
“Papa, Anna must have a reason that she believes this girl over you.”
“What can I say? She angry with me.”
“You don’t know Zoya’s mom or anything? Wasn’t she your accountant?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I told you, I read their messages.”
No explanation from my dad arrives, but I know without him telling me: he had an affair with this woman. If he hadn’t, there would be no reason for Anna or my mother to listen to a stranger in Ukraine. He doesn’t want to know if Zoya is his. It’ll be easier to deny it that way. Or maybe he does know and isn’t telling me.
“You never dated her mother?” I try again.
Papa sighs, but he doesn’t say no. He looks tired, not defiant.
“But you slept with her?” I ask. He still doesn’t answer, but he can’t look me in the eye. I guess I don’t blame him. This is the most uncomfortable conversation I’ve ever had, and it might be his too. Or, one of three, anyway. “Papa?”
When he still refuses to answer, everything I understand about the situation in Milwaukee changes in an instant. In all the time that I was reading their online correspondence, I didn’t once consider that Zoya might actually be his daughter. But she could. He basically admitted it with his silence. This girl, whether or not she approached it well, could be our family. By Jewish law, we have to help those in need. When it’s family, there’s no question about it. It’s a fundamental principle of Judaism, and it’s the obvious moral thing to do. Even the worst Jews on earth would be able to see that. I’m telling my dad all this, but he shakes his head at me.
“Bunch of crap. This nothing to do with being Jew.”
“Shtuyot b’mitz,” I say.
“What?”
“That’s Hebrew for ‘nonsense in juice,’” I explain. “It means exactly what it sounds like.”
I look at my dad, the too-bright lights above us making his face even more pale and tired-looking, to the point where for the first time in my life I realize he’s an old man. In my mind, during all these years away, he was always so strong and intimidating; bigger than life. Now, I’m not so sure what he is. At best, he’s a cheater. At worst, an absentee father to a poor orphaned girl. I know that despite his mistakes he is still all the other things—the doting husband, the reliable protector—but right now I’m so livid I can no longer stand being in the same room.
I turn to leave, then change my mind. I may be mad, but I still need to follow through on my search. “Actually, can I borrow your car?” I glance at the clock. I have about thirty minutes until Shabbat, so if I leave now, I can get to Milwaukee right on time.