Читать книгу Enemy of the Tzar: A Murderess in One Country, A Tycoon in Another - Lester S. Taube - Страница 7

Chapter 1

LITHUANIA – 1904

Hanna Barlak did not have the least suspicion that meeting Hershel Block would one day change the course of her life forever. Nor could she have believed that those she loved would be tormented and tortured, and even die because of him. Not on this summer afternoon in 1904, as she swung along with her long legged stride through the dirt streets of her village.

She stopped at Feldman’s to buy the Sabbath supper. Two small herring would have to do. It was barely enough for a family of six, but that took all the money she had. Even though Mrs. Merkys, owner of the only dressmaking shop in the area, had seen an unusual ability when she was but ten years old, and after much training, now considered her to be the best worker she ever had and paid her more than her other two seamstresses. And being a Jew in Gremai, a minuscule village in Russian-annexed Lithuania, was bad enough, but having a crippled father, a mother that was suffering from an unknown ailment, and three young siblings, was certainly not finding favor with the Lord.

“You’ve got a young man at home,” said Mr. Feldman gaily, placing the fish in the basket she carried. His shop sold thread, lamp oil, pots, pans, tobacco, along with herring and chickens.

Hanna looked at him with surprise. Nobody came to Gremai. The sixty or so houses were probably not even listed on a map. “How do you know?”

“Your mother sent Gitel. She said you were to get a plump chicken.”

She shook her head in exasperation. There were less than fifteen kopeks in her pocket.

Mr. Feldman read her expression with understanding. “It’s all right, Hanna. You can pay later.” In the eighteen years since she was born, he knew she would rather do without a meal than owe money.

Silently, she took the packages and handed over the fifteen kopeks towards the bill. She could only nod her thanks and goodbye as she left. There were no words to be spoken.

Larisa caught up with her as she turned into the narrow lane leading to her home. Larisa was her closest friend, the daughter of a retired Russian official who resided in a large house at the edge of the village. She had a huge brother, Stephen, two or three years older, whom Hanna secretly admired.

“Stephen says to stop by the house. He caught some fish today. Much more than we can eat.”

Hanna chuckled. “I just bought two.”

“That won’t be enough for all of you. Why don’t you come now?”

“All right.” She did not feel shy about accepting things from Larisa. She was her friend, and friends shared good fortune. It always seemed, though, that she never had any good fortune to share. But she did mend Larisa’s clothes now and then, working on them when they were gabbing about this or that. It was not really work, just the taking in or letting out of a skirt or jacket. Stephen was gutting a bucketful of fish in the back yard when the two women came up. “Hello, Hanna,” he said, waving a bloody knife at her. “Look at these.”

She sat on a bench next to where he squatted. “Did you catch all of these today?” she asked, eyeing the dozen or so fat fish.

“Yes. They were biting furiously.” He pointed to a pail at one side. “They are for you.”

“Thank you, Stephen.” She glanced into the pail, relieved to see that they had scales, for only scaled fish were kosher. He had remembered her mentioning it one time. Stephen’s nose was red from being in the sun. “Was it windy out there?”

“No more than usual.” He looked up at her from under bushy brows. “I could take you and Larisa some afternoon.” His eyes lowered in shyness, for he knew as well as she what implications could arise from just that simple act.

“I’d like to go with you,” she said, suddenly bold. There were five or six fish in the pail, she saw now, and her spirits rose at being able to provide two good meals for the family. She noticed a tear in the sleeve of his shirt. “I would also like to mend that sleeve.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. My mother can sew that.”

“But I would like to do it.”

He stopped gutting the fish and looked into her clear hazel eyes. He realized at once how important it was for her to do something for him. Hanna was always like that, he reflected. “It’s pretty smelly,” he cautioned her.

“That’s all right. When can I have it?”

Stephen grinned at her. She was not about to put it off, like some people who offer to help, then conveniently forgetting it as soon as they safely can. He liked that about her. It struck him that he liked a lot of things about Hanna, and it seemed strange, since he had met her barely a dozen times. He liked the simple, but proper way she dressed, and the direct manner of speaking, and the glint of controlled humor, for you could see she always had a grin inside waiting to break out, and the…what was it?…pride, I guess. His grandfather said it was the stiff neck of the Jews.

Both his grandfather and his father had a low opinion of Jews, Stephen knew, and he was quite prepared to feel the same, except that Larisa, whom he thought the world of, said that Hanna and her family were first class. He decided to wait a while and get to know her before making a decision about them. There was a mystery about her, not of gloom or misfortune, but of warmth, like the shadow of a forest floor when you rested on a pile of leaves.

“I can give it to you as soon as I finish with these fish. Another ten or fifteen minutes.”

“All right. Can I help you?”

Stephen had to chuckle. Most women could not stand the smell of fish, let alone want to handle them. “No, thanks. I can manage.”

She sat quietly watching him work. She knew he would not speak unless first addressed. He had a deep reserve, something rare for the usually vocal Russians. Larisa had gone into the house to drop off a package, and it was the first time the two young people had been alone.

“You are going to the university, are you not?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What are you studying there?”

“Engineering.”

“What kind of engineering?” Hanna’s curiosity made the words seem to jump from her lips.

“Mechanical.”

“My grandfather used to build things, too. Well, not exactly. He did cement work. My father did the same thing when he was a boy.”

Stephen wanted to say it was too bad about her father being crippled from that boat accident, for he felt it might make her sad, and he would rather bite off his tongue than cause her unhappiness. Everyone knew that if it were not for Hanna working all hours, the family would have starved long before now. His own father, come to think of it, was not much better off physically, what with diabetes and his rheumatism, but at least they were well off financially with his pension and mother’s dowry invested in several buildings in Vilnius, and the family farm a verst out of town managed by a Polish foreman.

He finished gutting the last fish, washed his hands at the pump, then went inside the house, soon returning wearing a new shirt. He handed over his blue woolen one with the ripped sleeve.

“I’ll pick it up when it’s ready,” he told her.

“All right. It will be finished tomorrow.”

“That’s your Sabbath, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But…” she grinned, “…giving over a shirt is not against our religion.”

As she picked up the pail containing the fish, he stepped closer. “I’ll carry it home for you.”

She held her ground. “Thank you, Stephen, but I can manage.”

He nodded, and stood back as she started away with her various packages. There was a sudden tingling inside him as he watched her erect figure walk gracefully down the street, and he abruptly felt a sense of loneliness, as if he had lost something of value.

It was nearly dusk when Hanna arrived home. Her mother, Motlie, was waiting in the kitchen, her face flushed with excitement.

“We have a boarder,” she said at once to Hanna.

“I heard,” replied Hanna. Boarders were common in the shtetls of larger towns and cities, but one in the village of Gremai was a rarity. “Who is he?”

“A young man.” Motlie’s eyes danced. “A handsome young man, from Germany.”

“How much is he paying?” That was the key to Hanna. Money meant food, six cords of firewood, a coat for her sister, Reba.

“Three rubles a week,” burst out Motlie, barely able to contain her joy.

Hanna was impressed. The money would pay for his food four times over. “That is good,” she conceded, placing her packages on the table. “Look, Mama, fish. Stephen, the brother of Larisa, gave them to me.”

While Hanna changed to a smock and her worn felt boots, Motlie began scaling the fish. “I put him upstairs in bubbe’s room,” she said. The mother of her husband, Israel, had slept there until her death two years ago. Since then, the room had been closed off to conserve linens in the summer and heat in the winter.

“What is he doing in Gremai?” asked Hanna, coming back into the kitchen.

“He says he’s an artist, and that the Jews here came from Germany, hundreds of years ago. He wants to sketch us to show the similarity.”

Hanna began dressing the chicken, plucking the feathers and placing them in a cloth bag. “We will need more than this chicken for tomorrow,” she remarked. “I will pick up another one tomorrow on my way home.” Then she looked up. “What difference does it make?” she asked.

“What do you mean, what difference does it make?”

“What difference does it make if we came from Germany, or from Poland, or from anywhere?”

“I suppose it makes a difference to him.”

It is a waste, thought Hanna, to learn about this or that unless it fits into the scheme of things. If it was history, that would be all right because history is a never ending chain that turns in circles, and having it suddenly brought to a stop to make a record for those in the future to learn that nothing truly changes, well, that is important. Like myself. What am I really here for? To pluck this chicken? It is for my family, and I do not mind doing it for them, but beyond this chicken is me, and the me can think of a hundred things I would rather be doing. Like dancing. How I would love to be in someone’s arms whom I care for and whirl around and around. And having a dress that swirled with me. A dress? She caught herself beginning to laugh at the thought. A coat for Reba would be a better subject to dream about.

She awoke to hear her mother say, “He’s coming downstairs now.”

“What is his name?”

“Hershel Bloch.”

“What does he speak? Hurry!” She could hear him descend the last steps.

“We spoke Yiddish,” whispered her mother.

Hanna looked up as Hershel came into view. He was tall and handsome. He had a pleasant, rather long face, thick brown hair worn to the collar of his three-quarter length leather jacket, and sported a full, carelessly tended mustache. His eyes were brown, alert, and a small smile seemed fixed to his lips.

“The room is very comfortable, Mrs. Barlak,” he said at once. He looked with interest at Hanna. “And you must be Hanna, are you not?”

Hanna suddenly felt that he could easily become a very close friend. A person you could care for without the sex that her cousin, Zelda, kept harping on. He was in his late twenties, but something in his eyes made him look older as if he had once been unusually sad, or if he knew something was coming that he did not want to face. But his easy smile and his warm, friendly way of speaking seemed part of his nature.

“Yes, I am Hanna.”

He looked back at Motlie at work. “Can I help you scale the fish?” he asked.

“You will spoil that lovely jacket,” she replied, a bit of the coquette in her voice.

“Voilá,” he said, taking off his jacket and draping it casually over a chair. He was wearing a fine cotton shirt underneath, and, rolling up his sleeves, he took the knife from Motlie and started expertly to scale the fish. “I became pretty handy at this en route to Lithuania,” he explained.

“Where are you from?” asked Hanna.

“Berlin.”

“Did you come here by train?” Her interest was thoroughly aroused.

“No. I took a boat from Lübeck on the Baltic Sea, to Memel, then a couple of detours by train to Kaunas, then a coach through Slabodka to here.”

Hanna pulled the last whisk of feathers from the chicken and rose, carrying it to the table. There she took up a sharp knife and deftly slit open the bird, drawing out its entrails. Carefully, she cut away the gizzard, the liver, and the heart, discarded the rest into a slop pail, then chopped off the bird’s head, also into the pail. She severed the neck and legs, and placed everything into a pot of cold water. She would leave it to soak for half an hour, then place the dismembered chicken on a board and sprinkle it with heavy salt to draw out the blood.

“Why to Gremai?” she asked, wiping her hands on the apron.

Hershel had finished his work also. He scraped the waste into the slop pail and washed his hands in a basin of water. “Last year I spent almost two months in the shtetls of Poland. This time I wanted a freer type of Jew to sketch.”

“Freer!” Hanna began laughing. “You must be joking.”

Hershel started chuckling also. “You’re right; I did not express it properly. I mean…well, you live among the gentiles, you deal with them more than the Jews in the shtetls, you come and go more easily.”

“Speaking of coming and going, did you register with the gendarmes?”

“Not yet. I’ll do that tomorrow.”

“They will want to know why you came here.”

“I’ll tell them.” He turned away to slip on his jacket and casually asked, “What are the police here? Russian?”

“Yes. Both the District Chief and his gendarmes. Two of them come by Gremai now and then.”

“How about the Bürgermeister?” This was also casually asked.

“We call him a seniunas. He is Lithuanian.”

Israel and the three children came in from the yard. Gitel was eleven, small and slim as a bird. Reba was ten, hearty and robust. Zelek was five, a fierce, unruly boy who rarely stood still for a long moment. They had already met the stranger, and Israel had to drag them out of the house so Motlie and Hanna could get supper ready. Motlie had the fire going, borscht from the night before being reheated, the fish cut into slices and frying in a pan. Spots of color had come back into her usually wan cheeks, and Hanna thought again how lovely her mother was when she did not look so ill.

It was a cheerful supper. The extra fish, the new man at the table, actually paying for his food, and the light talk made Israel and Motlie’s spirits high.

Afterwards, Israel and Hershel went outside and sat on a bench smoking cigarettes while Hanna and Reba did the dishes, and Gitel straightened up the room. Zelek stood shyly by the door listening to the two men speak. When all was done, Hanna and Motlie placed shawls around their shoulders to guard against the night chill and joined the men to catch a breath of fresh air. There was some little talk, then they all went to bed.

Hershel said he would sit a while before turning in, and when all inside had quieted down, he lit a cigarette and began walking down the road. He knew the location of the house he was heading for, even in the dark, for he had checked it carefully during daylight hours. The hard packed dirt streets were empty, as they usually were at this hour, and the moon was low, concealing him from curious eyes. A few blocks away, he tapped gently on the door to a trim, well tended house. When it opened, the lamp inside had been turned low, so little light escaped to show his form.

A tall, slender man, bearded, dressed in town clothing, stood there. “Yes?” he asked softly in Russian.

“I am Hershel.”

“Quick. Come inside.” Hershel stepped through the doorway into a comfortable parlor. The man turned up the wick of the lamp and scrutinized the visitor. “You fit the description I was given. A vodka?”

“Yes, thanks.”

The man poured two glasses and handed one over. “I am Thomas,” he said.

“I know that.”

Thomas motioned Hershel to a cushioned chair, took one facing it, and they drank. “What news do you have for me?” he asked, wiping his neatly trimmed mustache.

“We can bring in pamphlets every four weeks. The drop point will be a house east of Smalininkai.”

“How many copies each time?” There was wonder and excitement in his voice.

“One thousand.” Hershel was watching Thomas closely. You could never be too sure of a person, even with the best of credentials, and the eyes of a man are often an open book. Thomas seemed safe. It was reflected in the neatness of his middle class Lithuanian home, the determination in his manner.

“I can dispose of more. Two thousand at the least.”

“I’m sure you can,” said Hershel easily. “But it means additional exposure. Just pass on what you receive.”

“Do you have any information as to what they will say?”

“The first issue or two will contain only general news stories. The contents themselves are of secondary importance. What is important is the fact that the pamphlets are written in Lithuanian and have been brought into Lithuania.” He sipped at his drink, his ears and eyes alert to any unusual movements or noises. “In the editorials we will emphasize the right of news items to be published in Lithuanian. In no way will we attack the Russians. They will growl, but they will not take oppressive actions, outside of banging the skulls and fining those caught with pamphlets. Later on, we will deal with the twenty-five year long conscription that they impose on the young men caught up by army recruiters. We will demand that the maximum service be only three years. Once that occurs, you can expect the police to step up the number of informers to seek out the printing plant and the means of distribution. Our next step will be a demand for self-rule. Not freedom–that would bring down a slaughter greater than that of sixty-three–but the right of self determination.”

Thomas had been staring at Hershel with total concentration, his eyes narrowed in thought at the steps being laid out. “You have shown a great interest in us Lithuanians,” he said softly. “Especially for a German. How do our problems concern you?”

“I am a socialist. The problems of all mankind concern me.”

Thomas gave a short, tight laugh. “I worry when a man speaks of helping mankind. I feel more at ease when he wants to help himself.”

Hershel could not restrain a smile. “I am helping myself. I am making history.”

Thomas shrugged ever so slightly. It was horseshit, he knew. There had to be a more rational motive to involve what was apparently an educated, intelligent man. From his dress, he was very well-off. Then a thought struck. He had been told that his contact was a Jew. He certainly did not look like one, for he was clean-shaven, except for the mustache, and he did not wear that fringed affair. Or at least it did not show. Anyhow, Jews were also oppressed by the Tzar. Socialism was the leveler of man, of society in general. Therefore, a Jew could move up a notch or two in a Socialist world. That made more sense.

He poured for each of them another glass of vodka. “How much will this cost?”

“One hundred rubles an edition.”

Hershel could see from the man’s expression that the price had shocked him. “That’s high,” said Thomas tightly. “I will have trouble raising the money.”

“Do what you can. Writing, translating and printing the pamphlets are not the principal costs. Getting them over the frontier–that is expensive. Anyone caught with a large number of the publications would be sent to Siberia before the week is out.” He stared straight at Thomas, “For the rest of his life,” he said slowly.

Thomas nodded in understanding. “Can you tell me where the pamphlets will be printed?”

“In Prussia. More than that, I cannot say.”

“How about books?” His tone was wistful. “It has been so very long since I’ve read a good book in my language.”

“Later. Once we have the delivery and distribution systems working smoothly. We want the widest distribution in Vilnius and Kaunas. You should send at least ninety percent of everything you get to those cities.”

“We will.” The vodka, and the thought of helping his native land, was making him giddy. “When do you want the money?”

“Within four days.”

“I will have it.”

“Very well.” Hershel stood up and held out his hand. “Good luck. And be careful.”

Thomas turned down the wick of the lamp again and let Hershel slip out of the house. Hershel stood motionless for half a minute to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark, and then walked attentively back to the Barlaks.