Enemy of the Tzar Read online

  Julijonas smiled warmly as he proffered his hand. “Hello, Hershel. Welcome back.”

  “Hello, Jonas. You look well.”

  “I eat too much. All of it goes to the stomach.” He motioned Hershel to a chair and sat down. “A bit of vodka?”

  “It’s too early in the day.”

  “You look tired. Still poking the girls night and day?”

  “I gave up the daytime girls for Lent.”

  “For Lent!” Julijonas started roaring, his stomach quivering with his delight. “Why not for Passover?” he finally managed to get out.

  “I did. But only for Jewish girls.”

  Julijonas wiped his eyes, poured a large glass of vodka and gulped it down. “Hershel, you make the day almost worth living.” He wiped a few drops from his beard and licked them off his hand. “You’re late. Did you have any trouble?”

  Hershel shrugged his shoulders, gesturing with his palms up. “Trains run late. Horses go lame.”

  “There was an incident in Lodz four weeks ago. Seems the textile workers were trying to form a trade union. My cousin, Vincas, was visiting a friend, and says he saw a fellow exactly like you in a cafe talking with some of the organizers before the police began cracking skulls.”

  “Vincas talks too much. His eyes are also bad. He should wear glasses.”

  Julijonas grinned. “In the event that Vincas’ eyes were all right that afternoon, what were you doing in Poland? I thought you were warned to stay out of there.”

  “Sometimes my ears are as bad as Vincas’ eyes.”

  The portly man poured another drink, but sipped at it this time. “Stay out of Poland,” he said gently. “The police have a good description of you now. Anyhow, we need you with us. More than they do.”

  “That’s what the textile people said. I couldn’t let them down.”

  “Well, I know you will do what you want, not what makes sense, so I’ll drop the subject. What do you have in mind about moving the leaflets?”

  “It has been arranged. Is Justas here?”

  “Yes. He’s working on the docks.”

  “In three days, have him take the three pieces of luggage to the railroad station. He is to place them next to the first class waiting room door at exactly one o’clock in the afternoon. Not one minute sooner or later. Then he is to leave. I don’t want him to see who picks them up. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. I will make sure of it.”

  Hershel gently pulled at the tip of his nose while he worked out the procedure. He would have Katrine arrive at the station a few minutes later, place her luggage next to those carrying the leaflets, then have the porter carry all together to her compartment when she started aboard. If challenged, she could always say it was the porter’s fault. As she rarely traveled with less than six or seven cases, even for a weekend, the situation could occur. Justas was a good man, and would follow orders to the letter, but Hershel always liked to hedge his bets. “Don’t tell Justas anything until he gets here–say, half an hour before leaving for the drop. Then pick a cafe ten minutes away from the station, and tell him to be there at exactly ten after one. Stand across the street to see if he arrives. I don’t want him to wait around for the pickup. I mean it–no waiting about.”

  It did not deceive Julijonas, this wanting Justas promptly away. “Is your courier a woman?” he asked shrewdly.

  Hershel shook his head with exasperation. “Not only are you too fat and drink too much vodka, but you are also too nosy. Would you rather that I lie to you?”

  Julijonas did not take offense. Instead he chuckled. “Yes, lie to me. Is she a woman?”

  “No, she is a man.”

  “Is he beautiful?”

  “He is beautiful.”

  “Is he a good poke?”

  “All couriers are good pokes.”

  “Can I peek, just once?”

  Hershel sat up straighter. One look at his face told the portly man that the banter was over. “If you peek,” Hershel said slowly, “I will kill you before the day is out, regardless of how close a friend you are.”

  Julijonas sobered at once. “I’m sorry, Hershel. I went too far.”

  Hershel’s face remained tightly drawn. “All right, Jonas. Just make certain you carry out the schedule to the minute.” He stood up, managed a wan smile, then held out his hand. “I will be back in six weeks.”

  Julijonas scrambled to his feet, grasped Hershel’s hand, and nodded. “In six weeks. Go well, my friend.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Hanna’s first glimpse of Jakob Golub hit her funny bone. She was upstairs preparing the spare bedroom when she heard a wagon pull up in front of the house. Leaning out of the window, she saw stepping down a very tall, very thin man, dressed in a fine quality, long, black coat over a buttoned white shirt and black pants, with a black hat made of velvet on his head. The driver passed over a leather suitcase, and as he began driving off, Jakob raised his hand languidly in farewell with a motion more like a benediction than a goodbye.

  He turned towards the house, then he suddenly looked up, as if he sensed a person was there. Hanna’s breath caught in wonder. His eyes were the sharpest light brown she had ever seen, with flecks of gold here and there, and an intensity that was startling. They locked on to her, and seemed to bore straight into her brain. She was unable to look away. His face was pale, as if he had recently been ill, and he wore a small, reddish brown beard that accentuated the paleness. His peiyes, his check curls, hung down below his chin instead of being brushed behind the ears like most of the Jews she knew, and his hair fell almost to his neck. It was odd to see a man taller than Stephen, but weighing no more than she herself.

  Then, without a sign of recognition or greeting, he lifted his case and walked inside.

  She remained at the window for a few long seconds, wondering about the strange sensation she was feeling inside. His peiyes and clothing were not really that unusual, for many of the orthodox students at the yeshiva in Slabodka had ‘Jew curls’, as the goyim named them, and several of the older, pious men of the congregation wore the long black overcoat and black hat with a fold in the top. Also, just about everyone had a beard. Not only because it was the custom, but because the Lord ordered it to be so.

  No, it was more than that. Something seemed to radiate from him, and it was difficult to determine if he realized it or not. Like the way he looked at her. He seemed to know at once the texture of her skin, her bone structure, the slight flare of her nose, and…she felt a flush coming on…the shape and warmth of her breasts. It seemed so incomprehensible, so absurd, that he could strip her down to essentials in the stab of a look.

  Shaking her head in puzzlement, she descended to the kitchen. He was already seated at the table with a welcoming glass of tea, and a slice of Motlie’s challah in front of him. He nodded at her when Motlie introduced the two, and Hanna felt a touch of annoyance when his eyes turned away to look at Zelek coming through the door. The boy was carrying a small earthen bowl filled with dirt in which were several worms he had dug up for Hanna’s next fishing trip. Zelek came to an abrupt stop and eyed the stranger with his wide, fixed stare.

  “This is my son, Zelek,” said Motlie.

  Jakob looked closely at Zelek, then a slow smile crossed his lips. It changed his face completely, thought Hanna. Suddenly, he was a boy himself, each feature warm and friendly. She felt again that same sensation in her chest. Zelek evidently felt it, too, for, without his usual shyness, he came up to the table and held out his bowl of worms for inspection.

  “Are you going to fish with them?” asked Jakob in Yiddish. His voice was clear, vibrant. His long, angular face with high cheek bones softened.

  Zelek shook his head. “For Hanna. I don’t know how.”

  Jakob leaned forward and peered into the bowl. A long forefinger stirred the earth until he saw the worms underneath. “They are fine worms, and will catch good fish.”

  “I’m going to be a soldier when I grow up,” said
Zelek determinedly.

  Jakob did not laugh. Instead, he continued exploring the bowl as he thought over the boy’s remark. “Why do you want to become a soldier?”

  “So I can kill the Cossacks.”

  Motlie let out a snort of amusement. “Where did you get that notion?” she asked.

  Zelek ignored her, his eyes remaining fixed on Jakob’s face. He moved forward and leaned against the man’s leg. Hanna had never before seen him make contact with anyone, except for herself when he was sleepy or his mother when he sensed she was not feeling well. Come to think of it, she had never seen him show fright, or even pain, when he had gotten one of his innumerable bruises or bumps. He rested his arm on Jakob’s leg and looked into the bowl with him.

  “There’s a big fellow,” said Jakob, pushing one to the side of the cluster of worms. Zelek nodded his head happily. “Why do you want to kill Cossacks?” he went on casually.

  “They kill Jews.”

  Jakob handed back the bowl and stroked the boy’s hair. “Then become a soldier, Zelek, and kill all the Cossacks who harm Jews.” The boy looked up at him with affection.

  Hanna was putting away the cleaning materials she had used upstairs. “I thought the orthodox did not believe in killing.” she said.

  His eyes rested on her with that same probing look. “I am a Hasid,” he finally said.

  “You are orthodox, are you not?”

  “Yes. But we see the laws a little differently.”

  Hanna was not sure whether he was speaking down to her. It was not in his voice, for he was polite, nor was it in his manner, for he had given her all his attention. It was not definable. Maybe it was his air of total confidence.

  “My father says that the law is the law,” she went on.

  “He is absolutely correct,” said Jakob. “There is only Torah. But while the orthodox walk the line, we Hasidim stay within the line.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Jakob drew Zelek upon his knee, and the boy leaned his head against the man’s chest. “Torah says thou shalt not kill. It also demands an eye for an eye. Your people accept each of those pronouncements exactly as it is written, even though it may conflict when measured against another judgment. We place all of them in a circle, knowing that there is a time for killing and a time for martyrdom, a time for vengeance or for mercy, and even a time for a new eye to be given to some who have lost the first.” He placed an arm around Zelek. “I feel that this boy will one day be a soldier and that he will kill his Cossacks, and that the Lord will find favor with him.” He drained the remainder of his tea, lowered the boy to the floor, and stood up. “Do you have a hook?” he asked Zelek.

  “I have one,” said Hanna. She took a hook from the storage area and held it out to him.

  “Get it, Zelek,” he said. Once the hook was passed over, Jakob took his hand. “Come. Let us look over the river. I will show you how to fish.” With a nod at those in the room, he began leading the boy out of the house.

  Hanna and Motlie stared at him stepping through the doorway, then at each other.

  “What a queer one he is,” said Hanna.

  Motlie shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of him. But did you see how Zelek took to him? I didn’t believe my eyes.”

  I took to him, too, said Hanna to herself. She searched hard for an explanation, then it came to her. It was a kinship. She was strangely linked to him. As if her life had been programmed to occur with him in mind. It was not love, for she could never love another more than Stephen. It was also not passion, since the thought of making love with him as she did with Stephen was completely out of the question. There was something beyond all this.

  She shook herself hard to stop the train of thought. Whatever it was, she really did not want any part of it. He was here to rest, to put a few needed kilos on his frame, then he was to go back to the world he belonged to, while she would remain in hers. And she was having enough problems with her world without having to worry about someone else’s.

  Her main concern was that Stephen had left for a few days, and she missed him terribly. He and his family were off to the funeral of his mother’s brother halfway to St. Petersburg, and the world seemed empty without him. The nights were the worst. In the darkness of the room, lying flat on her back, with the stillness that releases the mind to dwell fully on her lover, the pang of being without him became almost unbearable. She could feel his weight upon her, his lips pressed tightly to hers, and him deep inside, thrusting at her heart. She could scarcely breathe. She tried to recapture the ecstasy of him flooding within her, and her like response, but all she could feel was intense happiness at loving him and being loved in return. Thank heavens he should be home soon, perhaps even today.

  Israel came walking into the house, his face bright with hope. He had exchanged his crutch for a cane only that week, and after a couple of days of discomfort, he had adapted himself to putting a little more pressure on his hip and walking somewhat straighter.

  “He’s here,” said Motlie. “The Hasid.” Israel lowered himself gingerly onto a chair. “Some tea?”

  “Is there hot water?”

  “Is there never hot water?” asked Motlie, placing a small amount of tea in a glass.

  “All right. If there’s hot water.” He arched his back slightly. “Look, I can move my back a little.”

  Motlie’s eyes grew soft as she nodded fondly at him. “Maybe, God willing, someday you’ll throw away even that cane.”

  Israel made a face. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But you know…” he turned to Hanna, “…the Lord works in funny ways. It was my Great Uncle Schlemy, a bull of a man. He used to cut down trees in Minsk Gebemia. He didn’t go to shul, he went with a shiksa for…God knows how long…maybe four, five years, and he was as much of a Jew as the seniunas. Well, one day he’s cutting this tree, and when it starts falling, he stands back and trips on something. He lands right on his axe and cuts the muscles and the tendons and everything else in his left leg. Another man, the doctor would have cut off the leg, but Uncle Schlemy is such a bull that he sews him up and sends him home. He says that Uncle Schlemy will never use that leg again. Then, all of a sudden, after a year of doing nothing, he gets rid of the shiksa, finds a nice Jewish girl, and starts going to the shul every other day.” Israel sipped at the glass of tea Motlie placed in front of him. “Everybody said he was trying to bribe the Lord. You know, I’ll do this if you’ll do that. But the Lord looks at things different from you and I. Whatever the reason, the Lord doesn’t count it a bribe. He’s just so happy that you come to Him–like a father when a child asks for help–that the reason isn’t important. Well, you won’t believe it, but six months to the day that Uncle Schlemy turns to the Lord, he gets feeling in that leg. Not much. A tingling maybe, but it starts. And six months later, he’s back cutting trees again. Until the day he died, may God rest his soul, he blessed the name of the Lord.” He bit down on a sugar cube, took a sip of tea, and leaned back into his chair. “I want to walk again, like everybody else, and I hope the Lord will help me. But what is important, for me, and…” he pointed at Hanna and Motlie, “…to both of you, is that you should love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul, and whatever He decides, so be it.”

  Hanna’s heart almost stopped beating. He knows about Stephen and me, went pounding in her mind. She eyed him closely, but Israel was finishing up his tea and gave no indication the story was for her.

  He got up from the chair, hobbled to the sink, and rinsed his glass. “What’s he like?” he asked Motlie.

  “So thin you can see the bones.” She took the glass and dried it. “A queer one, though. Zelek took to him like you never saw before.”

  “Where are they? I’ll be going to shul pretty soon.”

  “They went down to the river,” said Hanna, wiping off the table. She slipped out of her apron. “I will go after Zelek and tell him to come home.

  CHAPTER 8

  About
half an hour before sunset, Israel, Jakob, and Zelek went to the synagogue. Inside the small building, in the center of the room, was the bimah, a raised platform from which the services took place. About three-quarters of the men and boys in the village were in attendance, each of them wearing his best clothing, and, under his shirt, his fringed tallith katan, to remind him to keep God’s commandments.

  On the bimah was Rabbi Warnitski and his cantor, an assistant who chanted the prayers. In large synagogues, the cantor was a full time employee, and his greatest attraction was his voice, but in Gremai he was Moishe Feldman, the owner of the small shop. Feldman had been an unpaid volunteer for fifteen years, and during the past two or three, his voice had begun to give out. At the times he was to strike a high note, the boys would start grinning, expecting the worst, which did come, but their fathers kept their respect, for Feldman gave what he could.

  When Jakob entered, the rabbi spoke a few quiet words in Feldman’s ear, then motioned his cousin’s son to him. Jakob stepped up to the bimah, and, standing by Rabbi Warnitski’s side, began assisting him. He chanted with such clarity, in such perfect tone and speed, that the members nodded in satisfaction.

  It was a short service, about forty-five minutes, then the three started homeward, Israel making the best speed he could, and Zelek holding onto Jakob’s hand. Israel had been impressed by his new boarder. Generally, he was tuned off by the young men who dedicated themselves too eagerly to every dot and dash of ceremonial fervor. He himself was religious, and he gave the Lord His due at every turn, but he accepted the fact that God was slightly less concerned about how often you bowed your head then He was for man’s true feelings. So Israel had made his peace with ritual, and did not feel guilty about cutting a corner here or there. Jakob had made him feel that ritual did have meaning beyond its purely exhibitionist character. Here was a youth headed straight for a seat among the pious Talmid Chachems, yet equally the kind of lad he would have liked to sail with. He spoke straight out, with respect, even though he had an air which placed him far above the norm. And look at the way Zelek took to him. Furthermore, he did not make an effort to help Israel walk, like so many did, but unobtrusively kept down his long-legged gait so the older man could limp along without undue stress.