Rise of an Oligarch: The Way It Is: Book One Read online

  Clearly, the influx of Russians changed Israel’s demographics. Some areas became a Little Russia, where Russian was more commonly spoken than Hebrew. Local grocery stores stocked Russian newspapers, dark, heavy rye breads and cheap vodka.

  At the young age of nineteen, I was still inexperienced. I had big expectations of what life would be like in my new country, and I certainly wasn’t prepared for the somewhat hostile welcome of the local Israelis. The impression was that we, the Russian immigrants, weren’t much more than a nuisance. In Soviet Ukraine I was a filthy Jew, here in Israel I was a filthy Russian. I was an outcast everywhere!

  Nobody was waiting for us or greeted us with open arms, except perhaps for the employers who soon realised that a cheap and experienced labour force was arriving. Generally, the immigrants didn’t speak Hebrew or English, so Russian doctors, engineers and scientists had to work in factories or take demeaning jobs like cleaning to make a basic living.

  According to the law, all Jews making Aliyah are immediately entitled to Israeli citizenship, provided that they demonstrate that they are Jewish or at least one of their parents or grandparents is.

  When the time came to enrol for a modest allowance payable by the state to new immigrants I went for an interview at the Ministry of Absorption. The officer who interviewed me had a twitch in his eye, causing his left eye to wink uncontrollably every minute or so. Coming to Israel from Ukraine, I wasn’t sure about the local habits. Do you need to pay anything to state officers, or bribe them, to get an allowance as was the custom in Ukraine?

  I sat in the office as the officer went through my papers. The man looked up at me and winked.

  “Sure. I get the hint, sir. I’m new here so you need to tell me how much.”

  The officer’s winking went into overdrive.

  “I’m sorry?” he replied. “How much what?”

  “How much I need to contribute.”

  “Contribute to what?”

  “You winked at me. It’s a sign that I need to pay you. No?”

  The officer smiled awkwardly and shook his head.

  “No, I didn’t wink. This is Israel, not Russia. We’re not criminals here. You don’t need to pay anything,” he said while winking at me again, leaving me confused.

  The officer had difficulties transcribing my name into Hebrew, so I decided that this was an opportunity to start a clean sheet and make my name more Israeli. When in Israel, do as the Israelis do.

  Misha became Moshe, which was close enough. The choice of surname was more difficult, but after a few minute thought, I decided to change my surname to Shaarim - the Hebrew translation for Vorotavich, meaning gates. The officer accepted my choice and signed the papers with a friendly wink.

  Moshe Shaarim was born that day. Perhaps, unlike Misha Vorotavich, Moshe Shaarim would be a law-abiding citizen.

  The positive side of being nineteen years old is that you can cope well with crises and the challenges that life throws at you. The drive of youth, the physical strength, the optimism and the sense of adventure, as well as naivety and stupidity, help overcome the daily hardships. Youth is both blessed and cursed at the same time.

  I was lucky since my English was quite good, and generally excellent compared to that of most of my fellow Russian immigrants. Soon I discovered that speaking English was far better than twisting my tongue trying to speak basic Hebrew with a heavy Russian accent. The advantage of speaking English was felt almost everywhere, from the reaction of ordinary people on the street to the reaction of girls when I chatted to them.

  The superiority of English was absolute. It was funny and insulting at the same time to see how ladies got really excited when I introduced myself as a tourist from the Netherlands and really contemptuous when I introduced myself as a new immigrant from the Soviet Union. The Dutch tourist was appealing while the Russian immigrant was appalling.

  After a few months in Israel, hanging out with an American friend, I learned how to speak English with a decent American accent. Misha underwent yet another transformation into Michael. Michael Gates. I was a human chameleon, changing my colours to blend with the surroundings. For Russians I was Misha, for Israelis I was Moshe and for Anglo-Saxons, I was Michael.

  I used to date girls for months, saying that I was an immigrant from New York.

  “I came to visit Israel from Greenwich Village, New York City and stayed because I just love it here. This place is so awesome. The weather, the food, the people and especially the beautiful women, like yourself.”

  In Israel most people speak some English, but far from a level to be able to discern the accent of another English speaker. They didn’t notice the deceit and liked and accepted me. However, once I turned back to being Russian all the fondness quickly disappeared. It was like in the Cinderella story. When the clock struck midnight I turned from Prince Charming Michael to dirty poor Misha dressed in rags.

  Well, it wasn’t the first time that girls liked me for the façade and not for who I really was. It wouldn’t be the last time either.

  ***

  When I arrived to Israel I was sent to a school run by the Israel Defence Force. The fenced compound was in Jaffa, a little south of Tel Aviv. It included a few long wooden buildings surrounding a large square filled with white gravel. In the middle of the square the Israeli flag flew from the top of a white flagpole. On one side of the compound there was a yard with eucalyptus trees and a few wooden tables to which benches were attached from both sides; a perfect place for a picnic.

  The school - or ulpan - provided us with food and basic accommodation while we combined Hebrew studies with working in military supply storage bases. We worked together with immigrants and other volunteers, the majority of whom were Americans in their fifties. I never really believed the Soviet propaganda machine’s depiction of America, so I wasn’t surprised that the Americans weren’t ruthless people, trying to squeeze every last cent from others. They were actually quite nice, but seemed too open and naive at times.

  The contrast in attitudes between the middle-aged Americans and the Russians was amazing. The Americans arrived in Israel full of patriotism and Zionism. They aspired to contribute and went about their work diligently, however elementary it was - whether it was folding shirts or sweeping the floor. They just got on with things with typical American enthusiasm. Everything was awesome to them.

  The Russians, in contrast, used to leave the military base at night with contraband stuffed in their pockets. They stole anything: underpants, soaps, t-shirts, socks and whatever they could put their hands on in the military storage. The Americans came from a capitalist country of excessive wealth, while the Russians came from a poor communist country where shortages of basic items were normal. The survival instinct of the Russians was to steal since they lacked means to buy much for themselves and their families.

  The ulpan was fun. I met many Jewish youngsters from around the world, although as always I was the youngest of the bunch.

  There I met my first Israeli girlfriend - one of our soldier-teachers. For my eye, accustomed to Slavic girls in Ukraine, Rachel was more exotic than good looking. Her tanned skin, coal black curls, impressive fit body and Middle Eastern facial features immediately caught my attention. Although the military uniform wasn’t the best outfit to compliment the girl’s body, I couldn’t have possibly ignored a handsome pair of gravity-defying firm breasts, clearly protruding from underneath an ugly olive green military shirt. She was Israeli-born, but her ancestors were from a once prosperous Jewish community in Yemen.

  Although I enjoyed the ulpan and tried to have as much fun as possible, the endless rules and regulations were hard to abide by, and Rachel certainly helped ease the stress.

  The youngest American at the ulpan was a guy named Roger. We formed a close friendship pretty early on as he was always the first person to agree to skip classes and have some fun. He was a laid-back Californian stoner who was in Israel primarily to please his parents and ensure his trust fund wasn�
��t pulled. He never had any intentions of being studious in any way. He was a good wingman because of his good looks and dirty-blond hair, and before long we were hanging out and planning for our next great escape.

  We spent a lot of time together because Rachel helped with Hebrew lessons on the side and wasn’t always free when I had some spare time. Unfortunately, Roger and I were as bad as each other, and the last straw for the administrators at the ulpan was when we snuck out one night and went to a free Latin party at Tel Aviv old seaport. As was usual, our intentions were good; we planned on getting back to base before the morning roll call. But before we knew it, we were dancing and drinking all night with some gorgeous students from Tel Aviv University. Potential shag on the sea shore with a pretty girl whose name I think was Ruth, was more appealing than the walk back to the ulpan.

  When we finally staggered in at ten a.m. we were frogmarched straight to the chief. Like naughty schoolboys, we were told to wait outside his office until he was ready to see us. The fact that we were still drunk probably didn’t help our case when we tried to talk him into letting us stay.

  “We wanted to better understand the culture of the Israelis so we can integrate into society better. If we don’t socialise and mingle with them how will we get to know them and learn their language? The party was an excellent assimilation opportunity,” I explained to the chief, who wasn’t that much older than us.

  “This isn’t the first time your name had been mentioned to me, Shaarim. I don’t believe you value your place here and think it would be best for everyone if you left.”

  “Hey, come on, dude, it’s not that big a deal,” Roger interrupted. “How about you cut Michael some slack. He’s fresh off the boat and still acclimatising.”

  The chief waved away Roger’s protests.

  “We have had too many complaints already, and the Major has ordered a crackdown on this behaviour.”

  “Fair enough, he’ll behave from now on, I’ll guarantee it,” Roger said, trying to placate the chief.

  “Sure, letting the cat guard the cream.”

  It was pointless though; the decision had already been made, and Roger was on the shit-list too. After a five minute lecture on how we were surrounded by enemies who wanted us wiped off the map, and the ulpan was there to teach us discipline and instil pride in the Israeli nation blah blah blah...we were both expelled.

  And that was the end of that as well as of my relationship with Rachel, who didn’t want to see me anymore once she spotted some lip gloss on my face when I bumped into her as Roger and I left the chief’s office. It seemed that wherever I went trouble followed closely behind.

  ***

  Now I was faced with a dilemma. My mother lived nearly a hundred kilometres north of Tel Aviv and I had no money to get there. Yuri, my friend, had left Israel shortly before I arrived to join his uncle’s real estate business in the Czech Republic, so I couldn’t borrow money from him even if I wanted to. Without too many choices, Roger and I stayed in Tel Aviv and slept on the beach, using Roger’s large array of T-shirts as blankets.

  After a few weeks of living rough we rented a room in a youth hostel, with promises of paying our rent out of our next imaginary pay packet. The hostel was in a rundown area near to the beach and was filled with hookers at night and drunkards during the day. I felt at home as it reminded me of Kiev. I had to make a living somehow, so I took a job in a carpet factory, working twelve hour night shifts.

  In the mornings about twenty Russian girls started their shift. I often stayed after finishing my shift to chat with them. In the evenings before going to work I went out with some of the girls. So, the job provided both money and pleasure. Combining business and pleasure was a principle that I’ve kept ever since. You live once and you should make the best out of it.

  I worked with a thirty-something guy named Hizgil, who was a Mountain Jew from Chechnya. Physically, he was the strongest person that I’d ever met. The sewing machines were loaded with huge drums of cotton each weighing well over seventy kilos. Hizgil would lift a drum over his head and hold it with one arm while standing on one leg. He should’ve gone to work in the circus.

  He told me stories about his tough childhood in Chechnya, and compared to some of his tales, my own childhood in Kiev was relatively comfortable. He was a true tough guy, and he came from tough people.

  He also told me that he was still a virgin and horny as hell. During coffee or smoking breaks I used to recount my adventures with the girls and this usually got him really excited. Often he used to run to the toilet after we talked to take care of his urges. I decided to help the guy and convinced one of the Russian girls in the factory to take him out. She relieved him of his virginity and probably applauded his exploding passion that he had been accumulating for years. I was happy to see that he didn’t make her explode.

  I would never forget his final words after regaling me with a story of violence and treachery, “Don’t ever betray a Chechen. He’ll cut off your testicles and feed them to his goats. Chechens are like elephants, they never forget.”

  ***

  When I turned twenty I received a letter from the Israel Defence Force. It was time for me to be drafted to the service.

  Since military service wasn’t part of my plans I needed a counter plan. Many men went to see the military psychiatrist, making up stories to avoid conscription due to mental illness. One popular story was about a guy who goes to see the army psychiatrist, reverses his trousers’ pockets inside out, pulls out his dick and tells the psychiatrist, “I’m an elephant.”

  But that wasn’t my style. I had another option. It was time to once again go to university to postpone conscription. Because Ukrainian universities weren’t recognised as reliable academic institutions by Israel, perhaps because you could buy an academic degree, I needed to enrol in a pre-university preparatory programme.

  I got a place in Tel Aviv University’s dormitories while I studied for the entrance exams. Once again, I didn’t need to invest much time or effort in the studies since what I had learned in Kiev’s Institute of Higher Education was more than enough to place me as one of the best students. I had plenty of time for other activities, which included finding a job to support myself.

  My fluent English and blonde hair helped me land a job as a pool boy in one of the luxurious hotels on Tel Aviv beach. I was able to hit on American tourists for whom I was exotic. For Americans to date a Russian communist was like for an angel to date a demon. Sweet forbidden love. For American women, Misha from Russia was more attractive than Michael from New York. Or maybe shagging anyone foreign or unusual was just a part of their vacation itinerary. However, money was still insufficient working at the pool and being a gigolo was a step too far, even for me.

  I had to find an additional source of income, preferably not an extra job. The cold truth of the universe that you can’t live decently off normal work had already ingrained itself on me.

  Not too far away from the university is one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods in Israel; Ramat Aviv. The spoiled rich teenagers used to come to the preparatory programme, searching for students to help them with their high school exams. While disguising myself as them and taking their actual exam was too risky, I offered the same arrangement I had back in Kiev.

  I sat at a café across the street from the dorms, and the kids excused themselves from the exam and sneaked questions to me. Later on they would blame an upset stomach, excuse themselves again, and collect the answers. Diarrhoea epidemic all over again. The rich kids paid generously for my discrete services. While I intended to live a crime-free life in Israel, legitimate money was too tight and illegitimate money was too easy, and tempting. What else could I do?

  ***

  Armed with decent grades both in the preparatory programme and the exams, it was time to properly go to university. The two most prestigious university study subjects in Israel were the same as back in Ukraine: medicine and law. Jewish mothers always pushed their children to study
these subjects. Being a doctor wasn’t appealing so I chose law. Knowing the legal system would always be helpful, in particular to those who want to find loopholes and bend the rules. If you don’t know it how can you bend it?

  I was admitted to the most sought after university in Israel, the Law School of Tel Aviv, with all the top young Israeli students. Since I was one of a small number of students who hadn’t completed military service, once again I was the youngest in the group.

  For the first semester I took the studies seriously. In the second semester a big student strike broke out over tuition fees and there was no school for two months. We paraded on the streets shouting in front of the policemen, “If we don’t study we’ll become policemen.” Had we disrespectfully shouted that in front of policemen in Kiev they would’ve thrown us into jail and broken some of our bones on the way in. I never went back to sit in classes after the strike ended.

  After taking the first set of exams I realised that they weren’t too difficult and I easily attained a passing grade. I managed to fulfil my academic obligations without attending the lectures as I always had a few helpful friends who signed my name at classes. For assignments, we would meet at the cafeteria just before class, borrow a couple of papers and rewrite ours in a few minutes. Copying from a few different papers concealed any traces of plagiarism and was sufficient to get a passing grade. Law school allowed me to pursue an academic degree without attending university in person. I spent far more time sitting in the cafeteria, playing cards with my friends than visiting lectures.

  I managed to save enough money from my ‘tutoring service’ to buy a ticket to visit Ukraine. While I enjoyed my time in Israel, I missed home. I was eager to see Sasha and my old friends. I was twenty one, and the trip to Ukraine would change my life.

  Misha Vorotavich was about to be reborn.