Getting Friendly with My Neighbor

I was just on my way out the door (locking the last of my 5 locks) when my neighbor poked his head out. I don’t have much to do with my neighbors. From my two encounters with this man in the last eight months, I have learned that he is a 95 year old Hesed client (what a coincidence!) named Mikhail. He is blind in one eye and very hard of hearing. He has a son, Alexander, who lives with him part-time and speaks English. The “4” of “41” had fallen off my door a few months ago, and he had found it outside on the ground. “Let me give you your 4,” he said today. I agreed and he ushered me into his apartment (which is identical to mine expect three times the size). Mikhail shuffled with remarkable speed into the back room and brought me my 4.

I thanked him and turned to go. He said, “Dochenka moya (little daughter of mine), can you sit with me for a couple of minutes, I have a question for you.” I of course agreed and followed him into the living room. We sat. He launched into a story about how he has a very close friend who lives in America who has a 60 year old son who he has known since he was born who is looking for a good Jewish girl to marry. Did I know anyone? I told him I would have to think about it. Then he told me it had been his 95^th birthday a few days ago. He had received lots of cards. If I had a moment, could he read them to me? I of course agreed and he jumped up and again shuffled with remarkable speed to collect his birthday cards, which he then read aloud to me. He told me about who had sent him the cards (Veteran’s society, regional government party, a friend in the US, a friend elsewhere in Ukraine…). He said he felt bad for not inviting me to his birthday party.

The cards and names of course triggered lots of memories and stories for Mikhail. “If you have another minute, would you like to see some pictures of my friends and family?” Mikhail asked me, “Or maybe another time if you have to run somewhere.” I asked to be shown the pictures now. He led me, again at remarkable shuffling speed, to another room. I told him not to rush, that I had time. He said, “I can’t move slowly! My son is always telling me to slow down, but I can’t! You should see me when I clean the apartment!” In this room there were pictures of Mikhail, his family, and his army pals spread out over a large desk and up on the wall. He pointed out brothers and sisters (who lived until 98, or were killed by the Germans, or had moved to Israel but were now blind), wedding pictures (a group of 15 people, and he is the only one still living), his wife who died two years ago, his son, a niece, a comrade whose teeth he had fixed at the front (Mikhail was a dentist. When he told me this I glanced at his teeth, which are PERFECT: a rarity for any elderly person, and even rarer in Ukraine.)

Mikhail kept telling me to come over if I ever got bored, or maybe just to chat in the evening, or maybe he would come ring my bell (he will push twice so I know it’s him). He was so sorry we hadn’t gotten acquainted earlier, but, “better late than never!” he said.