Excerpt from Savage Feast by Boris Fishman, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

At the dinner table, the talk turned to what other profession Yakov could try. Arkady, who was just fine with the telephone exchange not working out, was a barber—he could find the young man a "chair."

"I've tried it," Yakov said. "It isn't for me. Thank you all the same."

Silence took over the table. The talking resumed, but it was half-hearted. That night, Anna phoned Yakov, her voice tremulous. "Please apologize," she begged. "If you don't, they won't let me see you."

Yakov was stubborn, but not about things like that; he went and apologized. Everything returned to the way it was—these people didn't hold grudges; grudges were impractical. And barbering wasn't mentioned again. But at the next dinner—he wants to work in telephones, let him work in telephones—he was told to take gifts to the hiring personnel at the exchange; it would dislodge the impasse. To smile at the people who buried his file! No, he couldn't do it, he said. It was Anna's mother, Sofia, who spoke now. "Who do you think you are?" she hissed. "Enough! There will be nothing between you."

On the walk home, Yakov's mind squalled. He wouldn't have agreed for his daughter to stoop to someone like him, either. But who were they? Yes, they were ambitious. About lamb's-wool coats, rare liquor, and gold spoons. The best fun in the world was a bottle of cognac, a concert on television, and a rich meal they fell upon as if it were meant to save them from something. By now, Yakov loved Anna, and knew that she loved him, too, but he didn't think he could count on her—she didn't know how to disobey them.

He considered calling her but wondered if she would try to speak as if nothing had happened. This was something in Anna he didn't love: She was capable of falsehood. An irony—she was the most sincere person he'd ever met. It was her parents, slowly coming alive inside her. He called anyway—and hung up when her mother answered the phone. Then called back and announced himself—and was told that Anna was gone.

For winter recess, her parents had sent her to Moscow and forbidden her to call Yakov. She pleaded with them—Yakov's father was ill once again—but was told to leave it; they'd check on him. Anna spent the week in terrible agitation, short with her aunt and uncle, unable to sleep, indifferent to the magic of Moscow. But she didn't touch the phone.

How did Yakov find out that Anna would return to Minsk on the overnight Arrow? When she stepped onto the platform, there he was, in a warm fur hat, but with shoes so thin they could have been slippers, and a coat no thicker. He held a chaste bouquet wrapped in newspaper. It was the dead heart of winter, but flowers grew year-round in the Caucasus; at the market, the Georgians wedged each carnation into a tall glass with a candle to keep it from freezing.

By way of greeting, he said, "My papa is no longer with us." Boris's kidneys, diseased from his other ailments and with no dialysis to help, had succumbed to a flu. Faina fed Boris sugared slices of lemon—this was the only fruit she could find, and for some reason she thought the citrus would help. As usual, Boris was too embarrassed to go to the doctor, and by the time he finally did, it was too late. It had never occurred to Yakov to ask Anna's parents for help from any of the doctors in their barter network. They would have helped—health was health—but he was supposed to be out of her life and didn't even think of it. Anna had never gotten to meet his father. Yakov, ashamed of the meagerness of his home, had never proposed a visit; it wasn't proper for girls to visit boys at their homes anyway. Anna began to weep.

"I would like you to meet my mother," Yakov said quietly.

He didn't discuss feelings often; she felt she should encourage him. "I've wanted to meet her since we met," she said.

From the book Savage Feast by Boris Fishman. Copyright © 2019 by Boris Fishman. Reprinted courtesy of Harper, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.