When Dmitri wrote to tell his sisters that he was emigrating to America, Vera’s husband Alex replied, asking if he would care to represent their carpet company in New York. They had just begun to export Ottoman rugs to America but felt they were being exploited by the agent they used, and Alex would be delighted if Dmitri were to take over the role. He knew enough about the business from the two years he had spent working for them in Constantinople.
Dmitri was not remotely interested in being a carpet import merchant but he would need money to establish his family so it seemed a useful temporary solution. He could not expect to make a living from journalism commissions on this new continent. His spoken English was more or less fluent now but when he tried to write in English, the words would not flow. He could write business letters but could not think imaginatively in any language but Russian.
He and Rosa found an apartment in Brooklyn, and enrolled the children, now aged eight and nine, in school, while Dmitri set up an office for the carpet import business. His editor at Slowo had given him a letter of introduction to a New York publisher called Alfred A. Knopf, who was said to favour Russian and European literature, but he felt nervous about making an approach and kept putting it off.
‘Dmitri, I did not fall in love with a carpet salesman. I fell in love with a brilliant writer. You must be true to yourself,’ Rosa coaxed. ‘Besides, I’m sure you will find that this Mr Knopf has already heard of you and will be happy to meet.’
Dmitri wasn’t convinced. ‘What will he say when I tell him I don’t write in English?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know how publishing works but if I were in his place, I would introduce you to a good translator.’
Dmitri agonised over his letter to Alfred Knopf, then watched the mailbox for days until an envelope arrived with a Knopf logo on it.
‘Look!’ he showed Rosa, unable to contain his excitement. ‘They have a Russian wolfhound in their logo. It’s like a sign. It’s meant to be.’
‘Open the letter, you dunderhead,’ she laughed. ‘I want to hear what it says.’
‘Mr Knopf would be delighted to meet you at 3pm on the fourth of October in his office in the Hecksher Building at the corner of 57th St and Fifth Avenue,” Dmitri read out loud, before grabbing Rosa for a hug and twirling her around.
The Hecksher Building was a modern skyscraper, almost like a cathedral with its pointed steeple on top, and the vast lobby decorated in Art Deco style. Dmitri gave his name to a receptionist and sat down feeling ridiculously nervous: what if he was told he would never be published in America, that his books were not good enough for their sophisticated readers, that he had been fooling himself to think he had any talent?
He hardly had to wait five minutes before he was taken up in an elevator and shown into Mr Knopf’s office. A short dark-haired man with a thick moustache and an extremely elegant suit came bounding across the room and enveloped him in a bear hug.
‘I’m Alfred,’ he grinned. ‘I’m honoured to meet you, sir. The Boot that Kicked is one of the bravest pieces of work I’ve ever read. Come, sit down. Can I offer you a drink? I have Russian vodka.’
Two hours later they were still talking about literature, history, politics and the quirks of human nature, and although Dmitri was viewing the world through a vodka haze, he knew he had found a kindred spirit. They both liked Tolstoy and Gorky, Kuprin and Bunin; they both feared political extremes, whether to the right or the left; they both loved dogs.
‘Whatever you decide to write next, I want to publish,’ Alfred said before Dmitri left. ‘Let me know when you are ready to deliver and I will find you the best translator in New York. And if you want an advance, you need only ask.’
When Dmitri walked back into the evening sunlight, he felt a sensation he had not felt for a long time. Even though he was in a foreign country, it was like coming home.
Dmitri marvelled at Rosa’s ability to become part of a social group in no time at all. He’d arrive back from the office to find the kitchen of their Brooklyn apartment full of women chatting while their children played in the communal yard outside.
‘Where did you meet them all?’ he asked, after they had dispersed to their own apartments.
‘Oh, in the grocery store, outside the school gates, you know …’ She waved her hand airily.
There were invitations to pot luck suppers, Thanksgiving dinners, Fourth of July celebrations, and summer cook-outs, with the children always included. They weren’t people Dmitri would normally have picked as friends but they had enough in common to pass a pleasant evening. He often watched Rosa as she mingled at a social event and wondered at her ability to thrive in this new society yet still retain her sense of self. As she aged, she had never toned down her quirky style; if anything her clothes had become more colourful in this new country and she still had boyish short hair. Dmitri bought her a Singer sewing machine for her fortieth birthday and she was able to run up new frocks with lightning speed, often making garments for friends as well.
He knew she missed her family and that it had been a big wrench for her to cross the ocean to this new continent, but she never once complained. Nicholas and Marta were learning English faster than expected, and already spoke with American accents. They liked Superman and Flash Gordon comics and each had their favourite baseball teams. All would have been well, Dmitri thought, except that he couldn’t seem to get started on a new novel. The strong feelings that had inspired his earlier works just weren’t there. Perhaps it was because he was content. Did he have to be miserable to write?
In 1936, they moved to Albany, 130 miles north of New York City, where Dmitri was able to afford a three-bedroom house with its own spacious garden, and within months Rosa had made a brand new circle of friends. Her mother and sister arrived later that year, their immigration sponsored by Dmitri, and they moved into a house a few blocks down the same street. Nicholas and Marta were delighted and often ran to visit their grandmother, for reasons Dmitri could never understand. He found her cold and unfriendly but the children seemed to adore her.
Sometimes Dmitri sat back and watched his children and wondered who they were. When they were little it had been easy to see what motivated them because the emotions were on the surface: ‘I want that toy and Nicholas is playing with it’; ‘I’m exhausted and really need to sleep but I’m fighting it in the hope of getting another story’. But now, as they entered their teens, they had become independent people who had learned to tell fibs, to have secrets, and to rebel against his authority.
‘Count yourself lucky: my father would have horse-whipped you for that,’ he told Nicholas, who was sobbing after receiving a clip round the ear for using coarse language.
‘Your father sounds like an asshole!’ Nicholas shouted through his tears, and Dmitri couldn’t help but admire his courage as he dealt out a punishment with the flat of his hand on bare legs.
Rosa never hit them but Dmitri knew he had to protect them from their own impulsiveness so they didn’t get into trouble when they were older. He would never beat them with a whip, as his father had beaten him, but every child needed chastisement to keep them in line, for their own sakes.