The Hand of the Law Lazarus Trubman   © Copyright 2025 by Lazarus Trubman

Photo by Feodor Chistyakov on Unsplash

“I need a drink!” said Igor Dolsky, coming into the living-room. 

“One of those days, I guess?” I asked, twisting open a bottle of Courvoisier.   

In private, Russian is our spoken language. 

Dr. Igor Dolsky is a Muscovite, who immigrated to the United States in 1990, a few months before I did. We were introduced to one another at a college basketball game, and after I told Igor a brief story about my time in a Strict-Regime Colony in Northern Russia, he offered me his services as a cardiologist and wouldn’t take no for an answer.  

It was our Thursday. Drinks, a few timed chess games, and easy chat about this and that. I waited for Igor to refill his glass, held out my two fists, and Igor touched the right one; so, I got black. 

An hour later, in the middle of our fourth game, he had been called from the hospital.  

“It’s after nine o’clock, for God’s sake!” I said. “Are you allowed to have a life?”

“This is my life,” he said and left.

The day was coming to an end. I watched the nightly news for a short while and went to bed.

Somewhere around two o’clock in the morning, I awoke with sudden pain in the back of my neck and dialed Igor’s cell phone.

“Talk!” he said in a surprisingly alert voice. 

“Shortness of breath and pain in the back of my neck.”

“Can you take a very deep breath without coughing?”

I did and coughed.

“Call 911, and I’ll see you in half an hour.”

When he came in, I already had an IV stuck in my vein and a ventilator blowing air into my lungs. After a short conversation with the emergency doctor on duty, I was taken straight to the second floor and wheeled into an empty semi-private room.

“How long will I be here?” I asked, after we were left alone. 

“To complete the bloodwork and all the necessary tests? I’d say a week,” said Igor. 

“”Impossible,” I said.  

“I don’t really have time for childish chats. I’ll see you after the morning’s walkaround. Till then, don’t harass the nurses and don’t demand anything from the attending doctor.” 

The bloodwork and the tests took a week, and every time Igor visited me in the hospital, he just shook his head, obviously dissatisfied with the results. What was I to do? Igor brought my laptop, and I tried to write but couldn’t, while the lab people kept filling the test-tubes with my blood and walking away in silence. 

Finally, the day had come.

Igor informed me that the tests had been finalized and we will have a quick chat in the afternoon. 

“You got lucky,” he said in an upbeat tone of voice. 

I was alone, outside the open window spring was in full swing, and it was morning, the hour of courage, from time to time a white or yellow butterfly, its speedy zigzag. I was lucky, Igor told me. I got a bit of a shock when he said that. I didn’t expect anything else. It was a warm day, almost hot, south wind, the mountains seemed near enough to touch. In the distance, in a small garden, a magnolia blossomed. A few workmen were mixing mortar on a scaffold; the hospital had to be enlarged. I sat in an easy chair by the desk, holding my cardiogram which Igor had shown me, looking like Arabic writing, beautiful but enigmatic, it reminded me of a signpost in the desert between Damascus and Jerusalem, illegible but beautiful, so that I was delighted with the calligraphy of my heart. And it was only when the wind blew through the open window that I caught sight of the note on the desk, got up to put an ashtray on the slip of paper, which could’ve been blown away by the sudden wind; not to read the note. But I had already read it. My name, obviously just covered by the ashtray, was now out of sight as I looked again; what I couldn’t read was the technical expression that death had chosen, a word I didn’t know, and in the margin the words: expectation of life approx. one year.

I was still alone in the room.

Perhaps this note didn’t refer to me at all. When Igor walked in, I had already sat down in the armchair again, my arms stretched along the upholstered arm-rests to left and right, and Igor said, “Sorry about that.”

I, more embarrassed than dismayed, kept quiet.

“There’s always something,” said Igor. 

“That’s all right,” I said.

“I’ll make it short and sweet: you’re out of jail, but I’ll keep you here till Saturday.”  

“That’s fine,” I said, while outside I saw the healthy workmen.

“My dear friend, things might have worked out quite differently.”

I nodded.

“Two weeks ago all the numbers were very high,” he added, as though conscious of some mistrust.

I read the figures, but said nothing. 

“I didn’t tell you at the time, but that was the truth,” said Igor, as he picked up the buzzing telephone, annoyed by the interruption. It wasn’t a professional call, he ended it quickly, and then we talked about my future, about the string of seminars I was invited to conduct by the Arizona State University, which was delayed because of my illness. I made an effort to talk about it as about a reality, the effort of a conspirator who has to conceal his secret knowledge of what the future will bring. 

“Two-three weeks in a resort in California or Hawaii, and you’ll be a new man,” said Igor. 

“I should prefer California,” I said.

“ASU is a fine opportunity, don’t you think?” he said, crumpled up the little slip of paper, threw it into the wastepaper basket and added, “There’s nothing to worry about.”

I kept silent. 

“As soon as you’re out of here,” he said, “try to lose some weight.”

“Any advice?” I asked.

“Yes, use smaller plates.”

He had to go now, and I would’ve been glad if he went; I felt like a dummy put there to conceal my breakdown. At the door, he turned around and asked with absent-minded cordiality to remind him how old I was. 

“Forty-two,” I said. 

“Forty-two is no age. I didn’t start living till I was forty-two!”

A hearty handshake. 

“Don’t you believe me?” he asked. “Even in the sphere of love, fulfillment still lies ahead, it’s a question of experience!” he laughed and went…

Although I believed that the note referred to me, I didn’t believe that the prognosis would be fulfilled. Even Igor can make a mistake! Alone in my white room, I worked out that an invitation from ASU would be pointless. But what was I to do if I didn’t go to Phoenix? What was I to do at all? When the nurse’s assistant  Susanna brought a glass of fruit juice, I didn’t even notice her anymore; I was now no longer sitting on the bed, but in an armchair by the window, my white hands on the arms of the chair; as though on a throne. Unapproachable. As though on a throne. She smiled and left.

I checked my messages. None of them suddenly seemed important. I went back to bed and let my head fall back against the heaped-up pillows. I tried to think about my job, my life, my kids, but in vain. There was suddenly a question whether I was really attached to everything that was called life. 

I could still think.

Why didn’t Igor tell me the truth? I was still human.

The little white table with the so-called lunch in front of me, cream cheese, everything tasted of taking care. Suddenly a question: do I need to earn any money at all for this remaining year, and what dismayed me was not the balance-sheet but the dreary commonplaceness of my thinking. A man, dedicated to death, I felt, couldn’t think like that. Igor was mistaken! It made me mad though; I wanted to get away from here, and not to California but to Paris of all places; I’ll drink cognac, visit night clubs and get myself a mistress, a blonde Polish woman perhaps. Then I’ll build a house with a swimming pool, and exactly one year from today the house-warming would take place, with Dr. Igor Dolsky as a guest, and I, a cigar in my mouth, would nudge him in the ribs, my prognosis-doctor, laughing…

Why a Polish woman? Suzanna, the nurse’s assistant, was from Poland and that scared me; the fantasy of a sick man who has no choice any more, of a helpless man who won’t go much further. The tiredness took over, and I fell asleep. When I awoke, the tower-clock struck four.

A year is a long time!

If only I could scream!

Igor was right: forty-two is no age.

Later in the evening, I thought with my eyes open: why doesn’t one hang himself? The room grew darker every fifteen minutes. What was there to think? Death can’t be thought of. I switched on the light, went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror: my face and my bare neck needed sun, that’s all, sun on the California beach. Or in Belize! Suddenly I thought about it without irony: Belize as the land of my hope! I pictured myself on a horse, a year in Belize, a man who rode away. I lay with closed eyes, my arms stretched out over the edge of the bed – really I didn’t want to live, in order not to grow old – but when the servant brought me my salt-free, taste-free supper, I told myself that I won’t hang himself.

I slept through the night, with two usual trips to the bathroom.

7:15 a.m. 

I lay awake.

I was getting old.

I won’t hang myself, because it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been in this world.

The year was up. A celebration took place. No one knew what was being celebrated, not even Dr. Igor Dolsky, who had come late as usual. Everyone dressed casually, the poison-green lawn under standard lamps, Dr. Dolsky in a dinner jacket, he has fallen for the joke, the only one who could guess the reason for the celebration, the prognosis-doctor.

The year was up. I, the host, have bought a house with a swimming pool that was lit up; Dr. Igor Dolsky, a cardiologist in a dinner jacket, was standing alone, feeling hungry, friends and colleagues, all dressed casually; I, who was outside, aged exactly forty-three years and two months and eight days.

Really: why didn’t I hang myself? 

God, obviously, had something to do with that. 

Years had passed. 

It was 2014, February, I was sitting in a bar on the northeast side of Cary, North Carolina, and the only thing that irritated me was the mirror behind bottles. Every time I looked up, I saw myself looking like a portrait of one of my ancestors: Lazarus Trubman, deep in thought, in a gilt frame.  

“What would you like?” asked the barman.

“Maker’s Mark, neat,” I said. 

The barman uncorked a bottle of Maker’s Mark and said, filling my glass, “I haven’t seen you in a long time, professor.”

“Been busy, thank God.”

“Busy’s good,” said the barman, serving a martini to a man who occupied a chair next to mine. 

I took a sip of my bourbon and looked at the newcomer. He was about my age, with a head full of white hair, a birthmark in the middle of his chin and a typical, milky-buttery (Russian?) face.  

“Who’s winning?’ he asked, nodding at the screen.

His ‘w’ sounded like a ‘v’ – now I knew he was a Russian.

“I wasn’t watching,” I said. 

He smiled, emptied his glass and asked for another martini. 

“How about you, professor?’ asked the barman.

“Maybe later,” I said, keeping the man next to me in my side vision, and suddenly my memory brought back an event from the past, a meeting, which took place many years ago in the Codru Forest, a thick mass of trees not far from a small town Balanesti, Moldova. A story of a murder I didn’t commit. 

It was 1978, a Sunday in the end of February or in the beginning of March, I was in the Army reserve and we were stationed in the vicinity of Balanesti, a cloudless day. I had a weekend leave, but I didn’t take a bus to Chisinau to see my girlfriend. I wanted to be away from people and went up into the Codru Forest, even though reservists were strictly forbidden to go there during war games. I spent the night in an abandoned hay barn; clear, starry night. I wanted to avoid open country roads, because there were probably military patrols there to whom I, a simple gunner, would have had to report my destination, which was just what I didn’t want to do. What I wanted was a real leave from any compulsion to report. Since it was really cold outside the barn, I slept longer than usual and was up and about way after the sunrise. I walked very quickly, deep into the forest, where the snow was still crisp and hard. 

I rested right before the path became quite steep, not a soul in sight. I breakfasted, took off my army sheepskin coat and hung it from the belt; every now and then I stopped and peered around to see if anyone was coming, a patrol with an officer perhaps, but I saw no one and I heard nothing either. Later, when the path reached the highest point in this part of the forest, I felt tired. It was getting warmer, and after I put up a shelter made out of loose stones and branches, behind which I was out of the wind, I actually took off my sweaty shirt and rolled my soldier’s blouse into a pillow. Then I slept, I was really tired, I don’t know how long…

The man, who had suddenly spoken to me, a civilian, obviously Russian, didn’t want to disturb me, as he said when he saw my amusement; but naturally I immediately sat up. He had evidently been here for some time; he had put down his rucksack not far away. I rose to my feet so that we were now standing side by side. He was about my age, had a head full of thick, wheat-colored hair and a birthmark in the middle of his chin, and he wanted to know, a pair of field-glasses to his face, how far the Codru Forest reaches east and west. “You’re a soldier, you might know,” he said with a certain smile, and as I told him what he wanted to know I soon noticed how well he knew the district. He was carrying a map, although maps were not allowed to be carried by civilians during war games. A lot of soldiers here, yes. He was trying hard, I could see, to take my military uniform seriously. He offered me his field-glasses as he happened to have another pair, and in return I offered him my military water-bottle filled with grape juice. I saw through his field-glasses that he used my tracks. He stayed for about an hour, and we chatted above all about the life of an army reservist and also about the flora, of which he spoke in a tone of great appreciation. Not knowing why actually, I had an inhibition against looking him in the face, as though prepared for some tactless remark that embarrassed me in advance. He kept asking questions, casually somewhat, not really insisting on immediate answers. And this is what got stuck in my memory better than anything else: the more fluently the conversation now went, the more urgently I waited for the moment when he would pick up his rucksack. I left it to the wind to answer his question as to whether we were trained in extreme environments. Now he picked up his rucksack, not without offering me an apple. I felt somewhat ashamed. An apple this deep in the forest was something. Finally, he disappeared between the trees with a cordial wave and a wish of a good time in the army.

For some reason I felt angry. I didn’t see him again until he reached the small treeless spot some two hundred yards below me, so that all I could see using the gifted field-glasses was his green hat. He slipped, but managed to steady himself; then he walked more carefully. I stood still until he disappeared behind the trees, a little man in the forest…   

Back inside the tent, I fell asleep again, now for good.  

When I woke up, I was dismayed by the thought: I could have stabbed him in the back with my military knife. I knew I didn’t do it. I merely woke with the waking thought: a stab in the back as he bent down for his rucksack would have killed him instantly. 

Then I ate his apple.

Of course, I am glad I didn’t do it. It would have been murder. I have never talked to anyone about it, not even to my close friends, although I didn’t do it. I saw no one far and wide. Not even an animal. Light wind and no listening ear. Next evening in the garrison during the roll-call I would have stepped into the back row, head to the right, hand on the seam, at attention, good and straight, afterwards I would’ve played chess with my neighbor. No one would ever have noticed from looking at me, I don’t think.

Since then, I have talked to a lot of murderers, at the university, during concerts and soccer games; you can’t tell by looking at them! 

I glanced at my wristwatch: time to go down. I picked up my belt, put on the sheepskin coat. The snow felt now much softer; the wind stopped. By the time I got out of the Codru Forest I had actually forgotten the man already. I had real worries which were more sensible to think about, and above all about my profession that had been left home, my profession wasn’t soldiering.

Although I slowly became convinced that the man in the Codru Forest was no harmless tourist, I said nothing about it. I was put on guard duty, had hellish sunburn, fever. The guard duty was usually four hours long, so I had nothing to do but look and see whether a green hat suddenly comes into my view. Naturally my belletristic hope was not fulfilled. I walked: fifty steps this way, fifty steps that…

Why was I suddenly remembering all this? 

Because at that time, 1978, there really weren’t any fucking tourists! 

In the following years, a lot of things happened. Real things. I never thought of it again, there was certainly no time, God knows, for imaginary murders, when, as I soon knew, there were enough of the other sort every day. So, I thought no more about it and never told anyone about that Sunday in the Codru Forest; it was too ridiculous. And, after all, I didn’t do it. The hand of the law will not descend upon my shoulder… 

So, forget it?

Not till much later, while reading a newspaper, did I suddenly think of it again. I read there, among other things, that Moldavian government had planned to build a Colony of Strict Regime in the Codru Forest, a one-hour hike from the town of Balanesti. The plans were ready, and it was safe to assume that such plans were not prepared without a thorough study of the terrain. Who reconnoitered the terrain around Balanesti? Perhaps it was the man who, on Sunday in 1978, also made an excursion into the Codru Forest, and whom I didn’t stab in the back…  

I don’t know. I shall never find out who he was. 

What for?

We just chatted the way people do in the middle of a huge forest, two men who are the only ones for many kilometers around. Without formalities, naturally, a handshake without introductions. Both of them have reached this point; both have the same wide panorama. Handshake or no handshake, I don’t even remember that for sure now; perhaps I kept my hands in my pockets. Later I ate his apple and used his field-glasses to see him in the trees. I know for sure what I didn’t do. Perhaps he was a good fellow. Only sometimes I’m so uncertain. Suddenly. I know it’s ridiculous. Not to be able to forget an act one never performed is ridiculous. And I never tell anyone about it. And sometimes I completely forget him again. 

Only his voice remains in my ear.  

Only a lot of deaths…

“You remember me, don’t you, Lazarus?” The newcomer interrupted my reminiscences. “My fucking birthmark, isn’t it?”

“I’ll have another one now,” I pushed my glass toward the barman and asked after a sip of my new drink, “How does it feel to be responsible for the death of thousands of innocent people?”

“It was never built,” he said. “You can google it out.”

“Why?” 

“Russians changed their mind. I suggested, based on the results of my reconnaissance, that Codru Forest near Balanesti was not the right place for a Strict-Regime Colony: too many angry locals around the area, too many ways to escape.”

I kept quiet.

“The next assignment had been given to someone else, of course.”

“So, how did you manage to get away?”

“I was forced to take a vacation, went back to Moldova and disappeared into the forest,” he gave the barman a sign to refill his glass. “While reconnoitering the terrain around Balanesti, I discovered that hundreds of men and women lived in the Codru Forest, waiting for the Russians to get out of their country. It wasn’t the most comfortable life, but if you’re not lazy, a forest can always provide fresh meat, greens and fruits…”

“And how long have you been hiding?” I interrupted.

“Almost a year!” he said. “Then I was able to escape to Hungary through Romania, and then to Austria, where I lived for almost a year before I had been shipped to Italy, where I spent six more months in a refugee camp near Rome.”   

His story seemed unreal, possible, but unreal. Did I believe him? Of course not: in my strong and unwavering opinion, no one in his right mind should ever believe a Russian. 

“How long have you been in the States?” I asked. 

“Almost thirty years,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“CIA’s Eastern-European Division. Not much different from what I was doing there: translations, meetings arrangements, interrogations. Last two years as a liaison officer. Retired of course.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Victor Andreevich Dolin,” he slowly finished his drink and pushed the glass aside. “I never turn my back to a stranger, especially an army reservist in a uniform, which didn’t fit him at all. Did you carry a gun then?”

“A knife actually.”

“I’m glad you hadn’t used it.”

“I’m glad, too: it would’ve been murder.”

“Things happen in a forest like Codru.”

“I've regretted it since then though.”

“Not anymore, I hope?”

“God will judge you if you lied to me,” I said. “You can escape from the KGB, but you can’t from God,” I paid and stood up.

“Till next time then,” he said, extending his hand.

I hesitated.

“We never shook hands thirty-six years ago… maybe it’s time now.”

I hesitated.

“I did have a gun then,” he said. “And Codru is a thick forest.”

I shook his hand. Back in my car, I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror: my face was pale despite the cold, windy evening.