Читать книгу Enemy of the Tzar: A Murderess in One Country, A Tycoon in Another - Lester S. Taube - Страница 8

Chapter 2

It was a pleasurable Sabbath eve, one the family had not had for so very long. Hershel made the difference. While waiting for Israel to come home from services at the synagogue, he had penciled caricatures of the children on small sheets of paper. Zelek could barely restrain his joy, running down the street to show his drawing to his father. Israel burst out laughing at the picture of the boy, dressed in a Cossack uniform, waving a saber over the head of their arrogant rooster, Nicholas Alexandrovich Romanov, cowering behind one of his hens.

Gitel was directly behind Zelek with her sketch, showing her seated on the roof of the house reaching for a star, and next was Reba, displaying a picture of herself looking angelically up at the ceiling of the kitchen while sneaking a cookie from a dish.

How aptly he has captured the spirit of the children, reflected Hanna. Zelek was the kind of boy whom nothing deterred, and the family had learned that he was as adept at dealing with trouble as he was getting into it. Slender Gitel had always been a bit of a mystery, seeming to dwell in a land far beyond their ken. And Reba could eat mouthful for mouthful with any of the family, but preferred to sneak tidbits even if they were available for the taking.

It had turned dark by the time the family sat down to eat, and once Israel recited the broche, the benediction, they fell to. Two of the fish given to Hanna by Stephen had been carp, and Motlie had prepared her fluffy gefilte fish, the meat finely chopped, mixed with small pieces of onions and eggs, then boiled with carrots. She had also ground a portion of fresh horseradish, which brought tears to the eyes when eaten with the appetizer.

Hershel sighed with contentment. “I have never eaten gefilte fish like this before,” he said to Motlie. “It melts in my mouth.”

“It looks like it melted in your eyes, too,” chuckled Israel.

Hershel took a taste of the horseradish by itself and pretended to gasp for air. The children laughed. He took another taste and acted as if he was strangling. The children roared with delight. Hanna’s heart overflowed at hearing the laughter at the table.

“Don’t you have horseradish in Germany?” asked Motlie, laughing as hard as the others.

“Not like this. This is magnificent. It clears out your entire palate, and makes the next bite as tasty as the one before.”

They had broken bread, so questions were in order. “Your parents, God bless them,” said Israel. “They are alive?”

“My mother, aleha ha-shalom, died ten years ago. My father, alav ha-sholom, went two years after her.”

“I’m very sorry. May they rest in peace. Any brothers, sisters?”

“A brother. He lives in Berlin.”

“And this sketching you do. You do it all over?”

“Yes. I was in Poland last year. Then Russia the year before. After Lithuania, I’d like to visit the Jews in North Africa.”

They slowed their conversation to eat chicken soup spiced with carrots, parsnip, and a dash of salt. Again Hershel complimented Motlie, and all at the table could see he was sincere.

“They say Jews can own land in Germany, like in America,” said Israel.

“Yes. Jews have been enfranchised for over a hundred years.”

“What does this enfranchised mean?” asked Hanna.

“It means to free. Either from slavery or legal bondage. Also to become a citizen and to vote.”

Israel had been pulling at his beard and reflecting hard. “How is it,” he asked, taking a spoonful of soup to rethink his question one more time, “that you have permission to travel around Russia?”

“I’m an artist. Artists are free from politics, rulers, regulations.” He chuckled. “Especially after bribing half a dozen officials for the pass.”

Israel shook his finger knowingly and nodded his head, a gleam of understanding in his eyes. “That’s what talks in every country.” He approved of this German. He was not like most of the German Jews he had met who informed you at once that God had endowed them with a special superiority, as if they were the elite and the Poles and Russians were the crude types. That is what comes of being free.

He mulled over what Hanna had told him this morning–that the German seemed secretive. Israel trusted Hanna’s judgment. He thought of how she had taken over the direction of the family from him. Not obtrusively, nor deliberately, but from backstage. She did not pretend that he was the boss, she actually regarded him as such. The decisions she made came naturally, knowing intuitively that they were ones Israel would have made. There were times when Israel was ready to say, Whoa! I’ll say when we should do this, or how we will do that. Then he would realize that he was about to exert a display of leadership that was not really being questioned. Most important, Hanna had not asked to be placed in the decision-making role. She had accepted it because it had been suddenly dropped in her lap.

He looked across to her hanging onto every word Hershel was saying. My God, he thought, what a jewel some man will have one day. Like her mother. But he had to admit that Hanna was stronger and smarter than Motlie. We did well there, Motlie and I, he said to himself, a warm, proud smile on his lips.

He brought himself back to the present. He had let the remark from Hershel go by, that he had bribed his pass from some official. Israel had bribed far too many people to accept that story. One could water down the inspection of a boat, or speed up a permit, but a carte blanche of moving around a country like Russia, well, that took big money, or knowing a very important official, or having a very false pass. For a moment he felt fear. He had known fear intimately since his disability. Not a fear of death, for that is something that happens to neighbors or to people in Timbuktu. But one that reeked of poverty, like a lance thrust into his heart. Such as, what is going to happen to the family after Motlie goes? She was laughing again at something Hershel had said. Color was back in her cheeks. Thank the German for that. But what could happen to them all if the pass is not legal, he thought, focusing again on the subject, a chill lying heavily on his chest. The police might throw me into jail just for harboring the man, and neither my crippled leg nor my innocence in this matter would make a bit of difference to them.

Hanna brought to the table the two chickens, with peeled potatoes baked in their juice until they were brown and crisp, and a large platter of carrots. To one side were slices of golden challah, and next to Israel were slabs of pumpernickel, dark from unsifted rye.

For the children, all that chicken was a feast, one that was placed upon the table only on festive occasions. Hanna served Israel the chicken feet, which he loved to gnaw on, chewing away at the rough skin with the slender slivers of flesh inside. The girls clamored for the white breasts, while Hershel and Zelek preferred the thighs. Motlie liked the necks best of all, and would work on them for most of the meal.

There was only a sip of wine for each, for their budget could not stand more, even though the Sabbath was the most holy day. During the Sabbath, no man, servant, or beast was to work, all must bathe thoroughly, dress in their best clothes, use their finest linens, dishes.

Stephen came by while the family was having tea and cookies. Hanna went to the door. “Your shirt is ready. But come in and have a cup of tea with us.”

Stephen looked past her at the family seated round the table, and the stranger among them. He was slightly embarrassed. “Not now. I don’t want to interrupt you. I will come back tomorrow.”

“Who is there?” asked Israel in Yiddish.

“It is Stephen, Larisa’s brother.”

Israel was inclined to turn his attention back to those at the table. The young man was a gentile, and a Russian to boot, so there was no room at the Sabbath gathering. But Israel had met Larisa and liked her. He had also heard from Motlie that Stephen had given Hanna the fish. One look, though, at Motlie and Hanna’s faces was enough to change his mind.

“Ask him in for tea,” he told Hanna in Russian.

Hanna grinned at Stephen. ‘You must come now. Papa will not take no for an answer.”

Stephen nodded, stepped into the kitchen, and gave a short bow. “Good evening.”

Israel stood up and gave a short, stiff bow. “This is a friend of ours, Hershel Bloch, from Germany.” Then he stopped short. “By the way, what do you speak?” he asked Hershel in Yiddish.

Hershel got to his feet and also nodded his head in greeting. “I speak Russian and Polish,” he replied fluently in Russian, “and I can manage some Lithuanian.”

After some debate and much laughter, it was decided that the language of the evening would be Lithuanian, since it was the only language besides Yiddish that Motlie and the younger children remotely understood.

In seconds, a place across from Hershel was made at the table for Stephen, and a cup of tea and plate of cookies were set in front of him. And in minutes, the joking and the warmth of the family, undimmed even by a stranger, had Stephen fully at ease. As he munched on a cookie, only slightly sweetened due to the high cost of sugar, he could not believe that he had found the courage to come to the house tonight. He had eaten his hearty family supper quietly, his thoughts lost in the face and swinging walk of Hanna, the direct way her hazel eyes looked into his own, the vibrant flow that passed between them as he had handed over his shirt for mending. It was electric, that was the best way to describe it. Only the year before, electricity had been installed in Kaunas, and he had the occasion, as did most of the more adventurous young men, of touching his finger to a socket and getting a shock that tingled down to his boots. It was the same feeling with Hanna, with pleasure replacing the shock. He had walked by the house half a dozen times before knocking on the door. Only her comment that he should pick up his shirt that evening had given him the pluck to stop by.

He suspected that he was beginning to like her a great deal, and that was a shocking surprise. Jews were at the lowest rung of their world. His father had explained that fully and completely. Even the Polish, who had invaded Russian territory time and again with fierce armies, slaughtering his people under the banner of Roman Catholic crosses, were Slavic like themselves. Of course, they had to be crushed at intervals to keep from building up another invasion army. Just under the Poles were the Lithuanians, a stupid people who had rejected Christ for almost fourteen hundred years, and who had finally and wrongfully accepted the Pope. Then last, of course, were the Jews.

He looked across at the handsome Hershel, now and then speaking Russian with a purity that he heard only among the sophisticated, albeit with a guttural accent instead of the rolling chest and nasal tones, and a pang of jealousy pricked inside. Hershel belonged here, while he was out of place. But Hanna would fit in anywhere, since she would enchant anyone who had the opportunity of knowing her.

After more talk, he sensed it was time to go. As he stood up, Hanna brought over his shirt. He could hardly find the spot mended, due to her expert workmanship. Embarrassed that she had washed and ironed it also, he said goodbye, with the warmth of the evening still inside. She accompanied him to the door.

“Thank you, Hanna,” he said softly.

“I enjoyed doing it for you,” she said, with the directness that caught at his emotions.

He had heard the adage ‘faint heart ne’er won fair lady’ many times at school and university, so he clamped down hard on his shyness. “The river is beautiful in the afternoons. When you have time, would you like to see where I catch most of the fish?”

He began laughing the moment the words were out of his mouth, his square, suntanned face crinkling and his bright blue eyes twinkling.

“What are you laughing about?” quizzed Hanna, smiling.

“I am speaking like a fourteen-year-old schoolboy.”

Hanna had to agree, but a most appealing fourteen-year-old. It was difficult to equate his great physical strength, and the capability she saw inside with the gentle young man, who stood so firmly rooted in front of her. He certainly acted shy, but it was contradictory, for he was always so competent in other matters.

“I would like to see it,” she replied. “Can I fish there myself someday?”

“Would you really like to?” asked Stephen in surprise.

“Oh, yes. Especially for it being food.”

“Tomorrow?” His eagerness was so apparent that Hanna smiled again.

“I suppose so. But I will not be able to go until the afternoon.”

“That will be all right. Shall I come by to get you?”

She hesitated a moment. It suddenly seemed that things were moving too fast. She must use a little caution. “Where is your boat?” she asked.

“At the western side of the village is a round rock formation that looks like an igloo.”

Hanna did not know what an igloo looked like, but she knew the rock formation. “Yes,” she said. “I have seen it.”

“I keep it there.”

She chewed for a few seconds on her lip. “I will meet you there. Would five o’clock be all right?” Her eyes were sparkling with excitement.

“That will be fine.” He put out his hand, and she placed hers in it. He held it gently, as if he might squeeze it too hard. “Good night. And thanks again for the shirt and tea.”

As he swung about and started down the narrow, darkened street, Hanna stood yet for another few seconds. She knew she had unleashed an emotion that should have remained tightly under control, but the warmth of Stephen’s hand, still on her fingers, was worth the risk.

Later that evening, lying next to her sisters on the straw mattress, Hanna thought awhile of the strange man in the room upstairs. There seemed to be something hidden about him, as if deep currents ran swiftly under the friendly exterior. His questions yesterday about the police and the seniunas had not escaped her. He was evaluating them, like an antagonist sizes up his adversary. Then, like a flash, her mind turned towards Stephen. How strong and capable he looked seated at their table, his face ruddy from the sun and wind, his broad shoulders and powerful arms tight against his shirt. Yet, he was as gentle as the lambs on Mr. Nestlokas’ farm north of the village. Not puppy dog gentle, the kind that frisks all over you, but the quiet, dependable type that left no doubt of a force underneath that clearly should not be trifled with.

Oh, if only he were Jewish! I could give my heart to a man like him. She thought of the men she knew, those of the covenant, and one by one she turned them in her mind. What did she actually want from a young man? She could feel the juices running strong inside her, desires that only a man could satisfy. But she wanted more–the wish to respect a man, and to be respected in turn. That was it. Her man would have to place her by his side as an equal, as someone he would turn to whenever a decision must be made. Not like Mama and Papa. They loved each other so deeply that only a blind person could miss it, but, in spite of this love, Papa was the strong one, and Mama was only the springboard to the making of his decisions. Hanna thought of just walking beside Stephen. She would want to walk tall and brisk and free, matching his stride, not having him shorten his step for her. He would have to understand that. Well, if he cheated a little by seeming to walk normally but cutting a centimeter here and a centimeter there, that would be all right. So long as he did not condescend. She smiled to herself in the dark. I would not want him any other way, she confided to herself.

Then she turned on her side and willed herself to sleep.