A Jewish Girl

 

A Jewish Girl Part 1

The sweltering summer sun beat down mercilessly on Moscow, its unrelenting glare casting long shadows across the bustling cityscape. Our tourist bus pulled up to a high-rise building with a stark blue facade, a faceless, impersonal structure emblematic of the Brutalist style of late Soviet architecture.

Located near a busy highway in a residential district, the hotel's rather gloomy exterior masked a surprising gem – my room on the 15th floor offered breathtaking views of the city's stunning skyline. The accommodation, however, reflected the building's utilitarian roots. Two bedrooms, sparsely furnished with cheap, synthetic materials, were adorned with generic landscape paintings reminiscent of discount store décor.

Luck was on my side as my roommate proved to be a kindred spirit, attentive listener, and a gifted storyteller. Our conversations flowed effortlessly, fostering a deep bond of friendship within a short timeframe. He became my confidant, a pillar of support during the tumultuous time of my recent breakup with the woman I had foolishly believed to be my soulmate.  

On the second evening of our stay we found ourselves seated in the comfortable chairs by the window, the city lights twinkling like distant stars as we delved into the depths of my heartbreak. My friend listened patiently as I poured out my heart.

"She is so unambitious. I couldn't wrap my head around it. She just wanted to stay the way she is, and I wanted to grow, I want to become somebody one day, you know?" I exclaimed, barely containing my frustration.

"Maybe she's just not ready to take the same risks as you right now," my friend said, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression.

"I want to be a better version of myself – stronger, smarter, even sexier. And what am I? Nobody. Just a stupid eighteen-year-old who knows close to nothing about life. Ambition is my lifeblood; deprived of it, I wouldn't be anything but a senseless accumulation of matter and energy. Humans have so much potential for self-improvement. It's a shame when you settle for mediocrity when you're still young and can tap into an almost endless energy. I prefer death to a mediocre life!" I declared, my voice laced with anger and frustration.

"The choice of words matters. A call to become a better version of oneself might be perceived as a judgment. There's a possibility that you gave her the impression that she wasn't enough, that she must better herself to be worthy of your love. Your well-intentioned call for self-improvement could have easily come across as a thinly veiled critique or a subtle demand for change. This could have left her feeling insecure, inadequate, and ultimately, unloved," my friend explained calmly.

"I get that, man. I really do. We both must better ourselves to be worthy of each other. I wasn't singling her out in this respect and placing all the responsibility and work on her shoulders. I may be fitter than her, but I'm nowhere as fit as I want to be. I wanted both of us to be on the same page. To become better because we deserve the best," I replied, feeling a pang of guilt.

"In my view, the genuine commitment to self-improvement should stem from a desire to become the best version of oneself, not to fulfill the expectations of another person. When you approach personal growth as a means of achieving worthiness in the eyes of another, you risk creating an unhealthy dynamic of dependency and conditional love. In other words, you can't impose your philosophy of self-improvement on her. She must come to the same conclusions as you did independently," my friend wisely counseled.

His words resonated with me, hitting home with a sobering force. I realized that I had been so caught up in my own worldview that I had neglected to consider her feelings. It must have made her feel inadequate, like she wasn't good enough for me.

"Well, I've lost belief that she would ever come to the same conclusions, independently or not. That's why it had to end. I was wrong in trying to force my values on her, but there is no way I can live with someone who doesn't share my values. The relationship was doomed from day one. I would have seen it, had I not been blinded by my tendency to wishful thinking," I admitted, my voice heavy with regret.

"Well, it appears you had some real compatibility issues. The separation will help you to live your life in accordance with your values. That's what you wanted at the end of the day, isn't it?" he asked, reaching out to place a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"I can't argue with your line of reasoning, but it doesn't help me feel less lonely. The world just seems such a hostile place, and her presence in my life was an escape from this surrounding hostility, a shelter in a way. Now I feel exposed, unprotected," I sighed heavily, vulnerability creeping into my voice.

With a reassuring nod, my friend replied, "It's okay, man. We all make mistakes. The important thing is to learn from them and move on. You've just turned 18, and you have plenty of time to find someone who shares your ambition and supports you on your journey."

Our camaraderie was further strengthened by the addition of another group member, a kindred spirit who shared our passion for deep philosophical discussions and lighthearted teenage banter. The three of us quickly became inseparable, spending most of our time together, engaging in lively exchanges of our idiosyncratic ideas. 

Our close-knit group provided a welcome respite from the lingering pain of my past relationship. The other members of our group seemed distant and underwhelming in comparison to my newfound companions. Their conversations, often superficial and mundane, failed to ignite the same spark of intellectual and emotional connection.

Despite my introverted nature and feigned disinterest in social interactions, my attention was inexorably drawn to a petite, spectacled girl with unassuming features. Her name was Ester. I have often seen her conversing with my newfound friends. At barely eighteen, her almost childish features gave her an air of a fourteen year old.

The prospect of her joining our small, male clique initially met with a degree of apprehension within me. I harbored a lingering doubt about her intellectual curiosity and openness to engaging in the abstract discussions that had become the hallmark of our group.

One evening, we ventured out for an exploration of the city center, our small group supplemented by the presence of my friend's acquaintance and her friend. My initial expectations were tempered with skepticism, as I focused on immersing myself in the urban spectacle and capturing fleeting moments with my trusty digital single-lens reflex camera.

That night, the city unveiled its captivating essence, its vibrant tapestry of lights transforming the urban landscape into an otherworldly wonderland. The pedestrian areas, adorned with intricate decorations, were bathed in an abundance of illumination, creating an illusion of perpetual daylight, even as the darkness enveloped the sky above.

My senses were overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence of the scene, my mind greedily absorbing the visual stimuli. The casual chatter of the group seemed to fade into the background, its mundane nature incongruous with the grandeur that surrounded us.

As we strolled across the Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge, spanning the Moskva River, my gaze fell upon the chalk outline etched upon the pavement, a place where assassination of Boris Nemtsov, a prominent Russian opposition leader, took place. Drawn to this somber memorial, I came closer to the site and didn't notice that Ester apporached me.

"Do you know why the chalk line is here?" she inquired, her voice soft and inquisitive.

"Of course," I replied. "This is where Boris Nemtsov was shot and killed last year."

Our conversation flowed effortlessly, delving into the complexities of Russian politics and the tragic events that had unfolded in recent years. We discussed Nemtsov's legacy as a vocal critic of the government, his contentious rhetoric, and the challenges faced by opposition figures in a highly polarized society.

I shared my own views on the situation, acknowledging my admiration for Nemtsov's commitment to liberal democracy while expressing reservations about his confrontational approach.

"I suspect someone in the government, perhaps with the assistance of Ramzan Kadyrov, was responsible for his assassination," she offered, her eyes reflecting a keen understanding of the political landscape.

I agreed, adding that although Putin's grip on power remained firm, the negative publicity surrounding Nemtsov's death was likely not in the Kremlin's best interests.

My initial impression of an unassuming girl was quickly fading as I was met with a depth of thought and insight that belied her youthful appearance.

Our conversation shifted to the annexation of Crimea, a contentious issue that had deeply divided the region.

"Do you think Putin had the right to annex Crimea, given the circumstances?" she asked, her tone laced with genuine curiosity.

I acknowledged Crimeans' right to self-determination but emphasized the importance of international law and the need for a more transparent process to avoid escalating tensions.

She then recounted the horrific tragedy of the Odessa massacre, where pro-Russian protesters were brutally attacked and burned alive.

"I was sickened by this event," I admitted. "I can understand why Crimeans feel threatened and seek protection from Russia."

Our conversation touched on a range of issues, from the devastating impact of economic sanctions to the enduring human desire for peace.

"I just want the politics to end," she sighed, her voice filled with weariness. "The endless cycle of hate and revenge is poisoning everything."

I couldn't help but agree. The ideological fervor that fueled the conflict had created a dehumanized environment, turning individuals into mere pawns in a larger game.

As our conversation drew to a close, I found myself deeply impressed by this young woman's insight and maturity. I was captivated by her intelligence, her wit, and her gentle spirit. She was unlike any girl I had ever met before.

I learned that Ester was a student of Slavic linguistics and hailed from a coastal city in southern Ukraine. Her Jewish heritage, though not overtly practiced, had instilled in her a deep appreciation for tolerance and pluralism.

Our paths diverged as our respective groups prepared to return home, but the memory of our conversation lingered long after we parted ways. I carried with me the image of a young woman with a quiet but thoughtful personality, willing to defy conventional wisdom, a kindred spirit whose qualities resonated with me in ways I didn't anticipate. She was a refreshing change from the superficial interactions I had grown accustomed to, a beacon of intelligence and compassion in a world often marred by cynicism, indifference, and ignorance.

Had our encounter been only a short-lived moment of connection amidst the vastness of life?

Unbeknownst to me, this transient encounter would ignite the embers of an extraordinary connection, a source of light and warmth amidst the encroaching darkness of winter and the burgeoning hostility, intolerance, and aggression that characterized post-revolutionary Ukraine.