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Lara Vapnyar emigrated from Russia to New York in 1994 and began publishing short stories in English in 2002. Her work has appeared in Open City and The New Yorker. She lives on Staten Island. [Edit review] [Delete review]

There Are Jews in My House is one of the most striking debuts of recent years. Tracing the lives and aspirations of Russians living in Moscow and Brooklyn, these poignant, sad and funny stories create a luminous new literary world.

In the title story, set during the Second World War, Galina, a gentile, offers refuge to a Jewish friend and her daughter, only to find herself increasingly resentful of their presence in her home. In “Mistress,” a nine-year-old boy, new to America, escorts his grandmother to her weekly doctors’ appointments to interpret her myriad complaints. At the same time, he becomes aware that his grandfather may be involved with another woman. And in “Love Lessons–Mondays, 9 A.M.” a young math teacher assigned to teach a sex education class becomes all too aware that her students are more experienced than she is. [Edit review] [Delete review]

“These finely etched stories glow with the life-giving force of language newly acquired.” —Time Out New York

“Shot through with coolly rendered details of exquisite beauty . . . Relish this small gem and hope for more” --San Francisco Chronicle

“Superbly written tales that continue the tradition of Russian realism. . . . One feels that a season is changing and the future has arrived.” --The Washington Times
“Vapnyar’s ambition, purity of prose and gift for concentrated emotion make this collection a standout–and the first move in what promises to be a long and interesting career” —The Hartford Courant
“A feat of linguistic achievement. Not only is [Vapnyar’s] prose stark and carved in its fresh foreignness but her stories have the quality of memoir, which lends a naturalness to her subjects. . . . You must read these stories or have them read... [More...] [Edit review] [Delete review]

"There Are Jews in My House"

Galina carried in an aluminum pot of boiled potatoes, holding it by the handles with a kitchen towel. She put it on a wooden holder in the middle of a round table covered with a beige oilcloth. She opened the lid and, turning her face away from the steam, ladled coarse, unpeeled potatoes onto each of the four plates. The plates were beautiful: delicate, white, with a golden rim and little forget-me-nots in the center.

For the past six weeks, they'd been eating in the living room, where the heavy dark brown curtains covered the only window. For the past two weeks, they'd been eating in silence. From time to time, somebody coughed or sneezed, the girls might whisper something to each other, or even giggle, after which they glanced guiltily at their mothers, but mostly they heard only themselves blowing on their food and the clatter of heavy silver forks. Galina didn't mind the silence. It was better than having to talk, to keep up... [More...] [Edit review] [Delete review]