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.
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 Romano
v, 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 deci
ded 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.
Enemy of the Tzar Page 2