Enemy of the Tzar

by Lester S. Taube

  “Are you still picking up the material at the drop near Smalininkai?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “For information. Once the procedure works smoothly, my job is done.”

  Thomas had been pouring vodka into glasses and handed one over.

  “Thanks,” said Hershel, saluting. “Have you been running into patrols on the way?”

  “Frequently. There are several military garrisons stationed near the frontier.”

  “How do you get there?”

  “By wagon. We decided that going by boat would be riskier.”

  “Your wagon?”

  Thomas cocked his head at the question. “No. One of the people involved provides the wagon.”

  Hershel chose his words carefully, for no matter how he phrased the question, the meaning would be clear. What he must avoid was the urgency. “Would the wagon be available in the event someone had to leave in a hurry?”

  The slim man leaned back into his chair, his brow creasing at the unexpected request. He had been surprised and a little disturbed by the visit of Hershel. At first, he thought with apprehension that the supplies were being cut off. The news that it was another matter worried him even more. He knew that Hershel was residing in the village. It was so small that any newcomer would be noted at once. What he did not understand was why the German would choose such an obvious place, since it was so much easier to lose oneself in a large city like Kaunas or Vilnius. There must be a reason beyond his ken. Perhaps, the evident exposure demonstrated innocence. Whatever it was, the meaning of the question was quite clear. It indicated that trouble was brewing.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He sat up straighter in his chair. “Look, Hershel. What my friends and I are doing is dangerous enough without becoming involved in one of your other…projects. If you think there might be a problem coming up, why don’t you get out at once?”

  “There may not be trouble.”

  “Just mentioning the possibility implies that something has gone wrong. I hope you understand me.”

  “I do.”

  “We do not want any part of it. We are buying pamphlets, and paying quite dearly for them, I must say. We do not want any part of a situation that does not concern us. Actually, I think it might be better for us to stop all transactions for the time being.”

  Hershel shrugged. This was not going at all well. Instead of dealing with conspirators, he had run upon moralizers. “If you stop the deliveries, it might be difficult, perhaps impossible, to start them again,” he pointed out. He would know soon enough how desperate they were to get the material.

  Thomas shook his head sadly. “It took us some time to make contact with a person like you, but we would rather start looking again than take unnecessary chances.”

  That was it. Hershel said his goodbye at once and left the house. Another miscalculation, he mused, as he made his way back to the Barlaks. That left his horse or a boat as the way out in case things exploded. He had no illusions about the possible danger, for he had been thoroughly trained to expect the worst in any situation, regardless of how well everything was going, and caution is always better overcooked than raw.

  A thought made him slow down. Katrine did not know her bags were being watched by Julijonas’ agents along the route. If the Russians suspected her, or if she was cooperating with them, their security police would be tempted to wait until she dropped off the cases at Kiev before making a roundup, for if they knew the identities of the people involved on that side, they would have apprehended them long before now. His walk slowed even more as he studied this idea from all sides, and he had to force himself to tamp down his elation at what seemed a plausible hedge against immediate action. The more he considered it, the more he became convinced that he was on the right track. But standing over his shoulder was his insurance policy –caution.

  Back at the house, he quietly packed a few items, saddled his horse, then led it down the street until they were away from the village. He swung into the saddle and rode two or three versts towards Slabodka to a small woods, set back off the road. Once out of sight, he tied his horse to a tree with a slip knot, and then sat amid a clump of bushes where he could observe traffic coming towards Gremai.

  CHAPTER 14

  It was always exciting to come to Kiev, the mother of Russian cities. Katrine enjoyed the diversity of its quarter of a million inhabitants, and the comfortable weather due to it being situated on the high west bank of the mighty Dnieper River. Everywhere were churches, scores upon scores of them, dominated by those of the Cossacks. As a major railroad and port center, it contained restaurants and theaters equal to those in France and Italy, and attracted intellectuals from all over Europe to its famous opera and ballet programs.

  Best of all, it boasted of shops, which held the finest goods from every corner of the world.

  A carriage took her and her luggage to the Stratinov Hotel, a huge, elegant, eight-storied building erected only three years earlier. It was completely electrified, and its two elevators held cushioned seats for the guests to relax upon while being lifted to their rooms.

  Katrine received a suite overlooking the wide Shevchenko Boulevard, and within minutes, a maid knocked at the door to inquire whether she wanted any clothing cleaned or shoes polished. Katrine gave instructions to draw a bath, and soon she was lying contentedly in a large, golden colored tub with faucets shaped in the form of stallions, leaning forward to nibble at something or other, filled with water scented by perfumed crystals and oils.

  By mid morning, she was shopping with a vengeance. Everything she bought was with Hershel in mind, and her heart pounded with expectation whenever she came upon an article of clothing that she felt would meet with his extra approval. I think this love will suffocate me, she admitted to herself time and again, and for a woman as determined as she was about everything, it was indeed a novel sensation, one, she admitted, that she would have rebelled against at the first sign in past years.

  She took a light lunch in a small cafe, and was soon again shopping, sending box after box of purchases to her hotel. Her money was getting low when she decided to get back herself to prepare for the evening meal. She would have to stop at one of the banks the first thing tomorrow, she decided. There should not be any problem there. At the worst, she could wire her father in St. Petersburg to take care of the matter.

  It was good getting back to the coolness of her room. She signaled for the maid and instructed her to prepare her bath, then disrobed and donned a thin gown hanging in the closet. She sat on the boudoir chair and began to pin up her hair to keep it from getting wet.

  As she finished, she glanced to one side of the mirror, and her heart leaped into her throat. One of the three special pieces of luggage, placed side by side in the closet and locked to keep out the curious, seemed to be in a different position. Her heart still pounding, she walked quickly to the open door and eyed the cases closely. She tried the locks, and sighed with relief to find them still secure. The clean up maids must have moved them about when they tidied up, she concluded. She shook her head grimly. Hershel will hit the ceiling when he learns I came by the express route. I only hope he understands why I wanted the extra time.

  There was a knock on the sitting room door. Katrine called to the maid to answer it. Who could that be, she asked herself? Someone from the desk, probably, with more packages. She shed her thin robe and slipped into one less revealing, then walked to the table where she left her purse. She never liked to have people tipped by the hotel clerks–one never knew if they received a proper amount.

  The maid came timidly into the room. “Countess,” she stammered, out of her depth in matters beyond menial activities. “Baron Belinski and a police officer to see you.”

  “Belinski?” she said aloud. Who was that? The name seemed to strike a note, but she could not remember where she had heard it. “Very well,” she ordered the maid. “Please tell them I will be out in a minute.” She slipped a shawl ove
r her shoulders and walked into the sitting room.

  Two men were standing by the window overlooking the street, and the moment she laid eyes on Belinski, her breath caught in her throat. Now she knew him. He was tall, slender, gray haired, his face lined from years of hard riding in the Tzar’s cavalry, his eyes harsh with disappointment at the frailties of men. She had seen him occasionally at gala functions, quietly speaking with boyers of equal rank, rarely drinking, never dancing. Only once had he partaken of the multifarious coursed dinners that began late in the evening, and he had sat at the right hand of Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich, the Tzar’s brother.

  He was the Tzar’s watchdog, it was whispered about. There was no title to the position, no office hours, no special uniform, except as a cavalry general, which he had won fair and square. But all the police authorities, the military intelligence chiefs, and, more awesome, the heads of the secret Imperial Security Forces, made certain they stood on his left hand side, which explained loud and clear that the snap of his fingers was distinctly more powerful than their mightiest roar.

  With Belinski was a young, heavy-set man in the uniform of a police captain.

  Belinski gave a short, courteous, but distinctly cold bow as she entered, pointedly ignoring the hand she began proffering. Quickly, she let it fall to her side.

  “Countess,” he said softly. “I am Baron Belinski. This is Kapitan Zedoff of the Imperial Okhrana.” The name Okhrana was enough to strike dread in the heart of the most innocent soul. It was a secret police organization that exercised supreme authority over all the Tzar’s subjects, even to imposing the death penalty without trial. Katrine tried to conceal the sudden fear she felt, but it was impossible. Baron Belinski motioned towards the bedroom. “We seek your indulgence to inspect your luggage.”

  A blade of ice ran down Katrine’s spine. During the shock, she forced herself to think only of Hershel. That is what he had said to do. Think of me, he had repeated, think of me. Then, first and foremost, clear your mind of any knowledge of the situation. Convince yourself, in those crucial few seconds, that you know nothing. Stutter, turn pale, faint–do whatever you must, but clear your mind. Never admit, even to yourself, that you are implicated. It must come over so forcefully and convincingly that no one would believe you are involved.

  She shrugged her shoulders with a nonchalance that required all of her will. “If you wish. You can inspect anything I have. But I can’t for the life of me guess what you are looking for.”

  “The bags, countess,” said Belinski, ignoring her comment.

  As they entered the bedroom, she thanked her lucky stars that the door to the closet was open. Of her eight pieces of luggage, to find some of them in a locked closet would arouse suspicion from the start. But all her thoughts were jolted at once.

  The baron gestured towards the three cases. “The keys to those, Countess.”

  She was lost, she realized without any change of expression, and since she was lost, she could play the game to her heart’s desire. She found the keys in her purse and walked casually to the closet. She bent over and peered at them quizzically, then drew one towards herself. She stood upright. “These are not mine,” she said flatly, with a trace of wonder in her voice, turning to face Belinski.

  “How did they get into your closet?” he asked, still courteously.

  “I don’t have the faintest idea. But, you can see, that although they resemble my luggage, they are of much inferior quality and are off-color.”

  “Did you not realize they were not your bags until just now?”

  “It never crossed my mind until you asked to see them.”

  “Countess,” said Belinski, patiently. “May we have your permission to open them?

  “By all means.”

  Belinski motioned to the police captain, who lifted one of the cases onto a luggage bench and struck the lock sharply with the edge of his hand. He was a wide, heavily muscled man, with the hard, broad face of a Georgian; yet he moved with animal grace, like a tightly coiled spring ready to leap at an instant’s notice into brutal action. Katrine marveled, even though she could scarcely breathe, at how the lock snapped open under his blow. He unbuckled the straps, lifted the top of the case, and stepped back.

  Inside were crammed packets of handbills. Belinski leaned forward, tore off the wrapper from a packet, and drew out a printed form.

  “Citizens, beware,” he began reading aloud. “Tyranny is on the march. The Monster Tzar Nicholas has given orders to enslave us again. Forty years ago, our fathers and grandfathers gave their lives to break the chains of serfdom. What freedom do we have left? Can we move to another village to find work for a better living? Only if we give up our life’s savings. Who gets the blood money? The Tzar and his leeches. But who are swept up by the police to serve as cannon fodder in foreign lands? The nobles? No. The cowardly landholders? Still no. We are.

  “Holy Russia belongs to her people, not to bloodsucking nobles. Socialism is God’s gift to His children.

  “We do not wish to harm the misguided Tzar or his nobles. They should become our brothers, to share what we, more than they, have earned. But they will not. We know it; they know it.

  “We must band together to demand our rightful share, to free ourselves from the chains they have imposed. If they speak as brothers, we will respond as brothers. If they draw their sabers, we must draw ours, blessed by the Holy Mother Mary, to defend ourselves.

  “When the bloodsuckers of Holy Russia see our strength, they will run like the cowards they are. Then, through the sharing of Socialism, we will eat the crops we plant, use the goods we make, and bring to this country the hope that Lord Jesus Christ gave his life for.”

  Belinski looked up at Katrine. “Very good, this subversive material. Written by an expert. The Lord Jesus Christ stands for socialism. Socialism demands the overthrow, by force, mind you, of the Tzar. That God had endowed His Holy Majesty with the right to rule is also disputed by our Lord. We even have the Holy Mother abetting the revolt. Very, very good.” He took a step nearer to her and looked her straight in the face. His eyes were slate gray, piercing, reptilian in their unblinking stare. “He’s a Jew, isn’t he?”

  Katrine could not help swallowing, then cursing to herself for giving way. Her legs were abruptly weak, a chill as cold as death flooding her limbs. She managed to say, “What are you speaking about?”

  Belinski motioned to the captain, who drew out a notebook. “His true name is Levi, a German. He has been in the German Imperial Secret Service for over four years.” The color suddenly fled from Katrine’s face. “He goes under the names of Isaac Herthsog, George Polanski, and Gregory Ratkovsky. Eleven months ago he fermented a work stoppage in Warsaw that became violent. Eight workers were killed and forty-six wounded. Eleven police were killed and wounded. Martial law was decreed in two communes of the city. He did the same the previous year in Cracow, with even more casualties -”

  “That’s enough for the time being, Kapitan,” Belinski interrupted. He had not stopped staring at Katrine, watching her grow more tense at each revelation. “Countess, we have a complete dossier on this man and his organization. We know quite well the degree of your complicity in this matter.” Katrine started to speak, to deny knowledge of the affair, but Belinski held up his hand for her to remain silent. “I suggest that you listen very closely to what I have to say and not interrupt. Do you understand?” There was no escape from those relentless, steel gray eyes, so Katrine just nodded. “Over the years, some of our misguided young men have ranted declarations of reform. A cane across their bottoms or a whip on their backs generally brought them to their senses. But what you are conspiring at is not reform. It is treason. Have you heard that term?” Katrine stared at him, unable to speak. “I have asked you, Countess. Have you heard the term?” She nodded. “You are not playing with dissent. Levi is a foreign agent, disguising himself as a social reformer, but his mission is to weaken the military strength of our Imperial Forces to prepare the w
ay for an assault upon us. In that attack, many of your class and fellow countrymen will be slain. They will not be slaughtered because the German Kaiser wishes to impose a socialistic system on Russia. Far from it. He despises the socialists as much as ourselves. He will wage war to take from us our land, our wealth, our freedom. And freedom you have, Countess–else you would have been shot the moment I walked in. So do not deceive yourself that your rank or sex will in any way mitigate what you have been engaged in. There is only one place for those who commit treason–against a wall.”

  Katrine was trembling visibly now, but Belinski did not suggest that she sit down. She could read clearly the disdain in his face, and she was convinced that beneath his icy exterior lurked an explosive rage that would permit him to execute her on the spot without a moment’s qualm. “Now, Countess,” he went on. “I will ask you one question. Whether you survive or not depends on your answer. Be sure that you understand exactly what I mean before you respond.” He hesitated for a few seconds to give emphasis to his question. “Where is Levi?”

  A relief so total and so overwhelming swept over her that she nearly shouted with joy. Her lungs, swollen with the dark blood of fear, emptied with a surge of hope and then filled to capacity with sweet, life- giving air. They did not know where Hershel was! With all their cunning, they had an empty net. And Hershel, beloved Hershel, was alive and free, and would remain so as long as there was breath in her body to resist their assault upon her.

  “Baron,” she replied with equal unconcern. “I do not know a Levi. And I have told you that I know nothing about these cases. It is evident that someone has placed them in the closet without my knowledge. Further–”

  His fist abruptly shot out and struck her squarely on the nose with brute strength. A blinding flash of shock and pain gushed through her as she reeled back against a sofa. Another savage blow to her temple drove her sprawling down to the floor.