by Brett Rutherford
In high school years
my slave duty each night
was washing dishes.
An AM radio my only
companion, I sang
along with Beethoven.
When the plug was pulled
because Westerns prevailed
in the TV room, I sang
anyway, inventing whole
symphonies as I went.
An open window
above the steaming sink
sent my voice out,
where a thin man
full camouflaged
and ready to battle
the Communister
Atheist hordes, leaned
to listen. That year,
I fueled his worst
fantasies. First off,
I taught myself
Cyrllic and bellowed
out Russian folk-songs.
Volga Boatmen for you,
and for John Birch, too!
Kalinka, Kalinka,
and Stenka for good measure.
This drove him mad,
so that he sent his sons
to lurk beneath
my bedroom window,
listening to hear
my secret broadcasts
to Leningrad.
Comrade Krushchev,
coordinates here
for the Nike missile site,
just as you asked.
On Friday nights,
the radio was back
in my control.
The Pittsburgh station
marked shabbos
with cantor songs.
"And now,
cantor Richard Tucker
sings ..." and I,
as best I could,
in my best tenor
sang with him.
Out the window
went my mangled
mock-Hebrew,
and just below
the open window
the man in camouflage
said to his son,
"God damn, I told you.
Russians are in there,
and Jews, too!
What are we going to do?"
