Enemy of the Tzar

by Lester S. Taube

  Through the blood streaming into her eyes, she saw Belinski turn towards Captain Zedoff. “Take her to headquarters. You have carte blanche to use whatever methods of interrogation you wish to obtain the information I want.”

  CHAPTER 15

  It was a damp, filthy cell that Katrine languished in for two days. The only light came from a steel mesh window high on one wall of the concrete room. The acrid smell of vomit permeated throughout, and the few moldy wisps of straw on the floor were her only comfort. A wooden bucket, crusted and leaking from the upper portion, was her toilet. She had been locked in the cell with only the robe she was wearing upon her arrest to ward off the bone racking chill, and from the silence it was evident that she was the sole prisoner in the cellar of the police station.

  Each morning and evening a silent officer brought a bowl of sour cabbage soup and a slice of half stale bread. When she asked to have the bucket emptied, he had stalked away without a reply. Soon the odor from the bucket overcame even that of the deep-rooted vomit.

  Katrine was not too discomforted. From the moment she understood that Hershel was safe, the arrest and confinement had taken on a bit of a game, an exciting adventure that she would recite with relish in future times. The main concern during the first day was damage to her face. She suspected that her nose had been fractured by Belinski’s blow. She pressed her face against the dank walls, hoping the coolness would relieve the swelling and ease her pain.

  In the middle of the second night, she was brusquely awakened by her silent guard and taken down a dark hall to a room brightly lighted by oil lamps. A plank table was set in the middle of the floor, and seated on one of the two chairs was Captain Zedoff. At the sight of the officer, Katrine squared her shoulders. The two days of stink and cold and bad food, she guessed, was to crush her spirit. Even the brutal blow to her face was part of the game plan, for anything less than a show of indifference to her rank would defeat their purpose.

  Zedoff held across his lap a dreaded nagaika, the savage Cossack whip. It could lay open the flank of a horse or crack a man’s skull–if used ruthlessly. Katrine almost chuckled at the stage prop. Zedoff was not a Cossack. His breed strutted about with riding crops under their arms.

  Zedoff lifted the nagaika and pointed it towards the chair positioned a meter or so away. Katrine’s chin rose a bit higher, and her lip curled with disgust. She sat down and stared levelly into the smoldering brown eyes of the heavy-set man.

  Suddenly, her head exploded! An almost inhuman pain swept through her eyes and neck. Her mouth opened to scream, but blood already poured from crushed lips into her throat. Through the blinding agony, she heard gasps, then small animal grunts, and realized they were her own cries.

  “Get back on the chair, bitch,” she heard amid the dark, swirling waves of torment.

  The cold, harsh command drove steel down her spine, and her mind came back under control. Bastard, she said silently. I will play your bastardly game. But may Jesus help you the moment I am turned loose. I am Countess Katrine Fedorovna Borodin, a first cousin, once removed, from the Tzar himself. When His Majesty learns of this, both you and Baron Belinski will feel the lash yourselves.

  “Up, you bitch,” came that relentless voice. “I will not tell you again.”

  She climbed to her feet, a black dizziness sweeping over her as she fell onto the chair. Feeling was returning to the left side of her head, and the flow of sensation brought with it new waves of pain, and a dark picture of wounds so deep that her face would be scarred forever. Unconsciously, her hand rose to her cheek to seek the damage, and her stomach turned over at what she felt there. Mother of God! She would have to get to a mirror and survey the damage.

  Then, like ice cold water flung into her face, the realization that Zedoff was not playing a game hit her with fierce force. He did not give a tinker’s damn who she was, nor that her father could walk straight into the Tzar’s private apartments. To him, she was no more than a simple peasant, the ‘merde’ that worked the distant fields. Finally, hideously, terror struck at her heart, and it pounded with such fury that she thought it would burst. She tried to reason out the sudden panic. Was it dread for her own safety, or that she might reveal information about Hershel? Which of the two could she live with–ugliness that revolted all with whom she came in contact, or betraying the man she loved? For she was now aware that Zedoff’s first blow was merely his introduction to what he planned to do if he did not obtain the information he sought. He knew exactly what he was doing. He had placed his foot into the River Rubicon, and there was no return. He had selected the nagaika as the torture weapon to explain that fact loud and clear.

  Zedoff smiled with satisfaction. From the moment he had seen her in the hotel room, he had experienced two overpowering emotions. His first was to beat her to a pulp, to tear down that haughty, superior facade to what it really was–a degraded, parasitic lump of spoiled cunt. The second, when she was a shuddering mass of nerves, to poke her until he was totally empty. He was willing to give his life for the gratification of his raging passion.

  He felt his penis swell with sudden lust. His smile became broader. Not yet, little cock, not yet. She is not warmed up enough. He had seen her go through the gamut of play-acting, from the pretense of surprise at the hotel at being caught red-handed with the subversive material, to the initial show of anger at the blow by Belinski, to the contemptuous acceptance of the repulsive cell. He had waited eagerly for her reaction to reality, and it had come at almost the precise moment he had expected. The hand groping at her face had started it.

  Zedoff silently complimented her on her iron will, for she had broken without a sound or change of expression, with merely the flicker of a question in her eyes. Yes, she would be a great poke, he was certain, nearly licking his lips in anticipation, for these pampered noblewomen, once they had been reduced to raw, shrieking bundles of nerves, seemed to flow around their tormentors, enveloping them completely, as if by becoming part of their brutes, they would inherit relief from pain.

  “His name is Levi,” said Zedoff, reiterating what he had said. “In Poland, he called himself Isaac Herthsog. Here in the Ukraine, he once operated as Gregory Kvitka. He even had the audacity to boast that he was related to the writer, Kvitka.”

  He broke off as the door opened and Baron Belinski walked in. A trace of annoyance crossed Belinski’s face at the sight of Katrine’s condition, but it flashed away just as quickly. “What has she said?” he asked in his soft, quiet manner.

  “We have just started the interrogation, Excellency,” said Zedoff, climbing promptly to his feet and standing at attention.

  “Have her taken back to her cell.”

  “At once, Excellency.” Swiftly, Zedoff strode to the door, called in the guard stationed outside, and gave him instructions. Katrine, visibly shaking by now, was led from the room.

  When the door closed behind her, Belinski took a thin cigar from a silver case and placed it in his mouth. At once, Zedoff fired a match and held it to the tip of the cigar. Belinski nodded his thanks, drew in a puff or two, then said, “Use of the nagaika makes the conclusion of this case irreversible.”

  “I realize it, Excellency,” said the police captain deliberately. “But I am fully convinced that she works with Levi. She is also his mistress.”

  “Are you as fully convinced of that?” asked Belinski, staring intently at Zedoff.

  “Absolutely. Her entire demeanor is that of a woman ready to sacrifice herself. A person of her station would not go that far for a cause. It has to be Levi.”

  Belinski took a step to drop an ash into a can resting on the table. “And if you are mistaken?”

  Zedoff shrugged. “You have promoted me beyond my wildest dreams. I can be demoted as quickly.”

  “The Borodins will not settle for demotion.”

  Zedoff snorted. “Then they can have my head–if I am wrong.”

  Belinski shook his head “You have miscalculated this case, Zedoff. Whether
or not she is guilty will not be the issue. You have laid the nagaika on a person close to His Imperial Highness. Right or wrong, only His Majesty can order such treatment. It will be your head, regardless of the outcome.”

  Zedoff was staggered, but kept tight rein on himself. “What do you suggest, Excellency?”

  “Since you are damned regardless of the outcome, you might as well go all the way. I want Levi at all cost. He escaped us during his Polish operation. I don’t want him to escape us now. But I want him alive.”

  The police captain nodded, and then took a deep breath. “If she were proved guilty, Excellency, her…removal could be accidental.”

  The grim face of Belinski gleamed with amusement. “That ploy has been used so often that I believe every explanation has become cliché. I think you would be wiser trying to obtain her cooperation. It might be your only alternative to a firing squad.” He sat in the chair Katrine had occupied and let smoke trickle from his nostrils while he reflected. After a few minutes, he ground out the cigar. “That woman in Poland. Where is she now?”

  “She was last in a prison at Zyrardow, Excellency.”

  “Get her, at once.”

  “As you say, Excellency.”

  “We must work swiftly. The Countess’s disappearance will alert both Levi and her family.” He stood up. “Have her brought here two days from now, just before dawn. Give her no water or food or medical attention until after I speak to her.”

  Zedoff stood at stiff attention as his chief walked out.

  Katrine was trembling as she was led back to her cell, and the tremors grew so great that the guard had to support her the last few steps. Lying on the damp, cement floor, she gave vent to her fears and started weeping, not silently, but in violent sobs that fed upon themselves. All of her bravery was play-acting. Her disfigurement would last every day for the rest of her life. What pounded in her mind was the certainty that Zedoff had just begun beating her, and that his target was her face, to break it into pulp. Baron Belinski’s arrival and cold dismissal of her without saying a word to Zedoff was proof indeed that he had authorized the torture. There was no hope now. Belinski believed himself to be more powerful with His Majesty than the Borodins, so even the final door of hope was banged shut.

  Could she hold out in her denial of knowing Hershel? She had to, since the die was already cast. What they had done, and would do, to her was child’s play compared to the torture Hershel would receive. Either way, she would lose him. If she kept silent, he would devote his life to her.

  His guilt would prevent him from doing less. But each time he leaned down to kiss her shattered lips, she would know he was kissing a dream that would one day explode into reality. Nobody would devote his life to ugliness, no matter how beautiful she might have been, or the price paid for that deformity.

  She must have slipped into a restless sleep, for a dull pain brought her awake to see the dim light of morning coming through her small window. She felt again her wounds. They were crusted and sensitive to the touch.

  Suddenly, she was hungry, and she waited eagerly for the guard to bring her breakfast. Most of all, she wanted water, so she could wash away the blood on her hands and face. Hour passed into hour, and he did not come. She considered banging on the door to get his attention, and then the resolve that had formed deep inside her took hold. They were not going to bring food, she concluded, and the thought sent the blood coursing through her body. “Well enough, you bastards,” she said loudly and deliberately. “You have had your sport, but you have gone too far. From now on, the only thing you will get from me is my hatred.”

  By nightfall, they brought no supper, or what she had humorously called the ‘gourmet meal’, but she ignored it. In fact, hunger pains had begun to subside. But not the pain in her face and head. Those areas continued to throb and were maddeningly sensitive to the touch.

  Somehow she got through the next day, but found herself hallucinating.

  At dawn on the third day, the door was pulled open, and the guard ordered her to come along. She was so giddy with fatigue and hunger that walking was difficult. She stumbled often, and her brain whirled.

  She was taken back to the interrogation room, where a third chair had been placed in front of the table. Belinski and Zedoff were seated on the other side. Belinski motioned for her to take a seat, then poured a glass of tea from a samovar and handed it over. Katrine did not hesitate. She swallowed the hot, sugary liquid in a few gulps. Wordlessly, Belinski refilled her glass, and after a swallow or two and a low sigh, she began sipping at the sense-awakening drink.

  “Countess,” he said, watching her closely. “Capitan Zedoff has been less than gentle with you. What will happen next is entirely up to you. Do you understand?”

  Katrine nodded, drinking the last of the tea. No matter what occurred now, at least her thirst had been quenched, and her brain was alert again.

  “What do you know about your friend, Levi?” he went on softly.

  Katrine’s eyes gleamed. It was her turn now. “Which Levi are you speaking about?”

  Belinski had somewhat prepared himself for such a reply, and his eyes reflected both admiration at the courage of a woman of his class and anger at her foolishness.

  “Countess,” he said tightly. “I want to repeat that you are not involved in a school prank. I must remind you that we are dealing with treason. Listen closely to that word, for your very life sits on the edge of a blade. Capitan Zedoff has explained to you just who your friend, Levi, is. To you, he is an ardent socialist, striving to remedy the injustices of man. All he seeks is a small portion of the pie for the peasant and working man. But in reality, his socialistic prattle is merely a cover. Levi is a secret agent of your country’s most deadly enemy. The writing and distribution of the leaflets which you were carrying for him was solely for the purpose of creating dissent within Russia. He did not call for the downfall of His Majesty’s government, for that would be too blatant. Even a fool would recognize his intent. He was aiming for changes which might seem reasonable on the surface, but which could not be accomplished overnight. That is the key to his strategy, for each publication would increase the people’s resentment until, unknowingly, they could be led to consider revolt as their only solution. Soon, Countess, perhaps in ten, fifteen years, the Germans plan to attack in Europe. Kaiser Wilhelm makes no pretense of his ambitions or intent. Your friend, Levi, has a most crucial mission–to sow such foment within Russia that a coordinated defense against invasion might be impossible.” He poured another glass of tea, which Katrine sipped at desperately to calm her whirling thoughts. What Belinski was saying had the ring of truth.

  “Levi,” continued Belinski, “has a certain modus operandi which he has employed in every mission. Since he is too cowardly to take his own chances, he seeks out a gullible woman to do his dirty work.” He knew the comment would stiffen Katrine’s resolve, but he was deliberately employing the old Russian adage that a stiff spine breaks more easily than a supple one. “In all cases, he maneuvers the easily duped woman into falling in love with him. Since he has great charm, that is not difficult, be she a dairy maid or…” he paused to give his words more emphasis, “…a titled lady.”

  He motioned towards Zedoff, who rose at once and went to the door. In a few moments, he brought in a tall, thin woman in her early twenties. From the pallor on her face, and the roughness of her hands, it was evident that she had come straight from a prison where she had been doing hard, manual labor. She had once been a pretty woman, but now her nose was misshapen, swollen, her eyes washed out, and the time spent in confinement had made her almost ugly. She was dressed in a worn, work dress, hastily patched for the meeting.

  “You speak Polish, do you not, Countess?” asked Belinski.

  Katrine nodded, staring closely at the prisoner. “Yes.”

  Belinski looked up at the woman. “Your name?” he asked in his soft manner, but with deadly purpose.

  “Sofia Milosz,” she mumbled, her eye
s fixed to the floor.

  “Speak up,” said Belinski, harshly.

  “Sofia Milosz,” she replied, more loudly.

  “Sofia Milosz, tell us your story, but do not go into great detail. I want to hear the testimony that you gave our police when they questioned you.”

  She spoke haltingly, with a countrywoman’s inflections and idioms. “I was a factory worker in my home town of Kielce. Two years ago, I met this fellow, Isaac Herthsog. He took me to nice restaurants, and a theatre.”

  “Did he make love to you?” asked Belinski.

  The answer was barely audible. “Yes.”

  “I said to speak up,” said Belinski, more brusquely.

  “Yes, Excellency,” she said in a stumbling voice. “He made love to me.”

  “Continue.”

  “After a while, he told me he was a socialist, trying to help the common people, like me. Then he asked me to take some papers from Kielce to Warsaw.”

  “Where did you pick up the papers?”

  “At the railroad station. I left my case in a corner, took a short stroll, and when I came back, there were one or two more cases like mine.”

  “Where did you leave them?”

  “At the station in Warsaw. I would leave all the cases in a corner, and when I came back, the other ones were gone.”

  It was nigh impossible not to notice a reaction on Katrine’s face. She had leaned forward and was listening intently.

  “Describe this so called Herthsog.”

  “One meter seventy-seven or eight. About seventy-five kilos. Brown hair, that was always a little…sort of ruffled. Brown eyes.” Her eyes softened for an instant. “Real even teeth.”

  Belinski sat up straighter. “What private marks did he have?”

  It was obvious that she knew the question was coming. “He had a small scar on his left shoulder, almost like a cross.”

  Katrine tried not to draw in her breath sharply, but it was hopeless.