Enemy of the Tzar

by Lester S. Taube

The Sabbath came again with an even greater anxiety. The lawyer had bought her a few more day’s time, but the bank had notified her that it was calling in all credit by Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday afternoon. They did not have to wait that long, she thought bitterly to herself. She had already used up all of her savings to hold out these few days.

  After supper, Martha and Fergl came over to spend the evening. Paul took out his violin and played for their entertainment. Hanna listened to her favorites, but they did not dispel the gloom that ate away inside.

  “…the beginning of August,” she heard Fergl say.

  She forced herself to concentrate. “What did you say?” she asked him.

  “I said we should go to the Bodensee the beginning of August,” he replied.

  Martha sipped at her coffee, and then sighed. “Is it ten years ago that we first went there?”

  “Eleven,” said Jules.

  “We met Bernard then,” went on Martha. She shot a glance at Hanna and bit her lip. There she was, making another faux pas.

  “Any late news about him?” asked Fergl, deciding to cover for his wife.

  “I heard from him two or three years ago,” said Hanna. “He married a woman from his hometown during the war. They have a son.”

  Suddenly, she sat bolt upright. Bernard! What had he once said! The champagne! She got to her feet. “Excuse me for a moment.” Quickly she went to the vestibule and caught up the phone. In spite of all the problems in postwar Germany, the phone system was still excellent. In a few minutes, her call was put through. A man with a deep voice answered the phone. She spoke as clearly as she could.

  “May I speak with Herrn Doktor Reigler, please? Tell him that Frau Charnoff of Stuttgart is calling.”

  The voice digested the German, then replied carefully in the same language, “One small moment, please.”

  “Hanna!” said Bernard, almost jumping through the phone. “Is that really you?”

  “Yes, Bernard. Guten Shabbas, to you and your family. Are you well?”

  “Yes, yes. We are all well. And Guten Shabbas to you, too. How is everyone there?”

  “Everyone is fine. Your wife and son?”

  “You mean my wife and son and daughter. She came along just a few months ago.”

  “Mazel tov, my dear friend. I share your happiness.”

  He hesitated a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “There is something in your voice, Hanna? What is it?”

  “We were speaking of the Bodensee this evening, and your name came up. Then I remembered that you once said you knew Herrn Rothschild of France.”

  “Yes. We are still quite close friends. His family has invested millions of francs for Jewish causes in Palestine.”

  Hanna held the telephone more tightly. “My company is being attacked by a powerful cartel here. They have persuaded my bank to cut off my lines of credit. I need help desperately. I cannot find a bank here to help.”

  “I see. I will call him at once and get back to you the moment I have spoken to him.”

  Hanna could not contain herself any longer. The tears came. “Thank you, Bernard,” she finally got out.

  Bernard listened closely. “Hanna, are you crying?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed softly.

  “Cry later. Afterwards.”

  She had to smile. “All right, my dear friend.”

  He spoke carefully. “We all send you our love.”

  “And I send you mine.”

  There was no reason to keep the information to herself any longer, so she told her friends. Jules became almost livid.

  “Why did you keep this all to yourself?” he demanded. “You must have been going out of your mind.”

  “Why worry all of you,” she said weakly.

  “Worry!” continued Jules. He rose and poured schnapps and Likör for all, then resumed his seat. “How much of a line of credit do you have?”

  Hanna took a deep breath. “About two million–of American dollar value.”

  “Two million!” whispered Fergl with awe. “My God, I did not know it was that high.” He turned to Jules. “How much is that in marks?”

  “I’ll have to use a pencil and paper,” replied Jules, as deeply impressed, searching in a pocket.

  “Eight point four quintillion,” said Paul quietly, tightening his bow strings.

  Hanna looked over at him with admiration while Jules tried to keep from smiling. “And how many zeros?” he asked, keeping up their game.

  “Eighteen.”

  Fergl was laughing openly. “Forget the zeros, Paul. How many wheelbarrows to carry the money?”

  “Hanna,” said Jules. “All that I have is yours. I can raise fifty or fifty-five thousand dollars here. Natalie’s stock in American companies is worth about twice that.”

  Hanna was close to tears again. “Thank you, thank you. But I cannot risk your money. The two million is only a line of credit, not my full working capital.”

  “You mean there’s more,” said Jules, awed.

  “Yes, of course. I must keep over a million in the production funnel. Some of that is in material still in rolls, some in piecework ready to be sewed, the rest partially made goods. Then there is equipment being purchased, and buildings being renovated. I will not go into detail, but the line of credit is only half of my needs. The most crucial, I agree, but not everything.”

  They digested that in silence. “Can’t you just sell out for a million or so and walk away?” asked Fergl.

  Hanna shook her head. “Many of my contracts have penalty clauses. If I did not meet them, I would walk away with only a debt for the rest of my life. I could sell a going business at a very good price, but once my line of credit is taken away, there is no business to sell.”

  The phone rang. Hanna ran over to it, her heart pounding. Bernard was on the other end. “I reached Edmund Rothschild and gave him some of the details. He wants to look over your books. He would like you to come to Cannes, France.”

  “I will leave tomorrow evening,” said Hanna, hope springing up in her chest.

  “What’s wrong with tomorrow morning?” asked Bernard.

  “It is Shabbas,” said Hanna.

  Bernard started laughing. “Hanna, my dear one, have you ever cracked Torah one millimeter?”

  “Only when someone I loved was in danger,” she said, unable to joke about Torah.

  His laugh became a chuckle, and then in a voice of fondness, of unrequited love, he said, “All right. I will call Edmund again and tell him you will be there Monday. By train?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck, my dear one.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I am always in your debt.”

  “Not that, Hanna. You’ve brought me something I can never repay.” He did not wait for a reply, but hung up.

  Waiting at the railroad station at Cannes was Edmund Rothschild. He was tall, gray haired, goateed, close to eighty years old. He wore a marvelously tailored white suit and tan silk shirt. He bowed formally and presented Hanna with a bouquet of flowers. “From Docteur Reigler,” he said in German with a smile. “Had I known my German industrialist was such a beautiful lady, I would have lied and said it was from me.”

  Hanna smiled back. “I accept them from you both, with thanks.”

  While one of his aides took Hanna’s luggage, Rothschild smoothly ushered her to his limousine at the curb. A chauffeur held open the door, and they were swiftly on their way. Hanna looked with interest at the city. It was sparkling white, alive, the people dressed with such charm that it made her German world seem dowdy.

  Rothschild’s office was in one of his banks, and once they were seated and coffee had been served, he dove directly into her books. He seemed to absorb each page with a glance. In an hour he was finished.

  “You have come a long way, Madame Charnoff, since that shop in Stuttgart that Docteur Reigler spoke about.”

  She smiled in recollection. “It has been a way filled with many fine memories.”


  “Yes. Time plays such a trick on us. If we remembered only the disasters, we would be happy to be rid of life.” He leaned back into his chair. “We know of BAK’s tactics. We have walked around each other warily, like two gladiators waiting for the arm to drop. I do not care for Krupp. He is too pompous. And Eichendorff mimics him.” He fingered his neat goatee. “If you were to obtain credit elsewhere, what plans do you have to overcome that absurd inflation?”

  “By barter, Monsieur Rothschild.”

  He chuckled. “Barter what, Madame?”

  She sat on the edge of her chair and leaned closer to him. “It is ridiculous to buy a bolt of material for ten million marks the meter on a Monday, and a second bolt for twenty million the following day. I would like to make a market in France and England and Holland for my finished clothing and take back anything we can use in Germany. Milling machines, household accessories, leather. No money will change hands. I would then send more goods and exchange them for more machinery and material to make other clothing.”

  “That sounds complicated, Madame Charnoff.”

  “Not really. I would become a trading company.”

  “Ah, that is a word my family understands.” He nodded in appreciation. Everyone in Europe knew of the Rothschild’s rise to fortune by peddling and money lending in Frankfurt, Germany. “Madame, I like what I read in your books and what I hear. Giving you a line of credit is not a financial risk, since you are solvent. That is, so long as you have time. I also know that Krupp’s domination of certain banks removes the element of time of companies he wishes to acquire at bankrupt prices. But since none of our banks deal with Krupp, to us he is just another merchant.” He made a temple of his fingers. “We will provide you with an immediate line of credit at your present interest rate, but we wish for thirty percent of your stock.”

  Hanna let out her pent up breath. Thirty percent was more than a fair price. It was a lot better than she had given Fergl for his companies, which were now only a small part of her operation. “Thank you, Monsieur Rothschild,” she said gratefully. She leaned even closer. “Would it be acceptable for my own attorney to draw up the agreement? I want the papers to show I was forced into this situation by my bank’s action.”

  Rothschild laughed joyously. “For the court action, Madame?”

  “Precisely.”

  He filled two glasses of wine, his hand trembling slightly from his amusement. Then he saluted her. When they drank, he rose and escorted her to the door. “My chauffeur will drive you to your hotel.”

  “I have changed my mind, thank you. I would like to start back at once.”

  “Very well.” As he pulled open the door, he looked at her, his face still radiating pleasure. “Madame Charnoff, when I heard of your predicament, I was about to request sixty percent of your stock. Do you know why I decided on half?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  He smiled again, a fond smile. “Because you refused to travel on Shabbas.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Bon voyage, Madame. I will be watching you with great interest.”

  As Hanna settled herself in her seat on the train bound for Germany, she drew in a deep breath of hope. There was still time to fend off BAK and to continue her search for those so dear to her heart. After all, she was only thirty-nine years old.

  CHAPTER 43

  By the time Hanna returned to Stuttgart, a telegraphed letter of credit from one of the Rothschild banks in Frankfurt was waiting. She drove at once to her attorney’s office, where he shouted with glee at her good fortune. He drew up the necessary papers to pay off her present bank, and then Hanna went back to her own office. There she sent off one of her lowest positioned clerks to deliver the papers and letter of credit to Grunwald. She could think of no greater insult.

  A week later, she sent Fergl and two of her most aggressive executives off to Holland to implement her barter scheme. The results were immediate and successful beyond her wildest hopes. Holland had been spared the financial ruin of the Great War and had the desire and merchandise to trade. Orders poured in and commodities arrived for a Germany starved for consumer goods. She set up a trading company headed by another of her sharp, young executives, and he bartered with equal zeal and success.

  Three months went by so swiftly that she almost lost track of time. Then an unusual incident occurred. The owner of a moderate-sized company with whom she occasionally dealt requested an appointment. He sat on a chair with his hat turning nervously in his hands and told her that his credit had been cut off. Like Fergl. Like herself. The Stuttgart Zentral Bank was again the culprit. She asked him to deliver his books to her treasurer for an audit, and the response was positive. Since her bartering operation was progressing so splendidly, the need for her full line of credit had lessened, so she offered to assist the besieged man for fifty percent of his company. He almost wept with joy, for not only was he able to remain in business, but was also able to profit from participation in Hanna’s barter scheme. She requested one further service; that he visit her attorney to have papers drawn up in preparation for a suit against Grunwald’s bank. This he gladly did.

  Like a dike with a hole, the word got about, and soon she was deluged with requests for similar help. Her treasurer was instructed to audit with extreme care those companies which interested her, and every few months another acquisition came under her control. Her attorney took great pains to swear all the company owners to secrecy, and prepare their papers for court action in any case where her old bank was involved. By the end of the year, Hanna had over four thousand people working for her.

  The letter from Liebknecht arrived on Paul’s birthday.

  Meine liebe Gnädige Frau Charnoff:

  We have questioned at great length the Jew in Kovno, (your Kaunas), who mentioned the police officer named Zedoff. He recalls quite clearly that he and a dozen or so Jews were cast into cells for a number of days, then brought before Zedoff, who asked them questions about a Jew named Hershel or Levi (he is not quite certain, but thinks both names were mentioned), and then interrogated them even more extensively about a Jewish girl named Hanna Barlak, and a Hasid, from Gremai who killed a Russian general.

  After much searching, we have finally identified the man, Zedoff. He was formerly a major of some importance in the Okhrana. Directly after the revolution, he dropped out of sight for a year or so. In 1920, he emerged as an officer in the Cheka, the security police of the Communists, since renamed OGPU. Apparently secret police survive where all others are eliminated. He is presently stationed in Smolensk. He lives alone, but has a great appetite for women, and visits three or four each week. Discreet inquiry has revealed that the women were in some form of trouble where protection by a member of the OGPU would be most useful.

  Due to the type of person we are investigating, I have withdrawn all my operatives until I have had an opportunity to explore the possibilities of further actions with you. I am certain you realize the danger of asking questions about a man in his position. There are three directions I can suggest. The first is to offer him a woman, who has the ability to garner information without being suspected. I have recourse to such a person. The second alternative is to continue using standard procedures to seek more information concerning his past operations. I doubt that we will have great success there, since Okhrana actions were closely guarded secrets, and I do not believe that a former officer of his caliber would leave a visible trail behind. The third suggestion is of a quite violent nature and should be undertaken only after much reflection. It is to kidnap Zedoff and to question him under harsh circumstances.

  As an investigating agency, we avoid confrontations at all costs, so the third option is one that I suggest only because of my deep admiration for you and my personal feeling about this case.

  I await, Meine liebe Gnädige Frau Charnoff, your comments to this communication.

  With respect,

  Heinrich Liebknecht

  Before Hanna could respond to the letter, she had to go to her room and
lie down. Her mind was filled with pictures of the past. Reba, torn from the reach of all who loved her, Gitel’s pale body, lying cold and lonely in an unmarked grave, Zelek’s pinched face at the meeting in Königsberg, and, God above only knows, Stephen wiped from the face of this earth. There had to be a trail to follow; a reason for all the hours she labored; a proper usage for the fortune she had amassed. Could she expend any less energy to seek those who meant more to her than gaining control of another manufacturing company? No, there had to be a time to place everything on the roll of the dice, and to walk a road from which there was no return.

  In the silent hours of the middle of the night, she turned on a lamp and sat at the desk next to her bed.

  Lieber Herr Liebknecht:

  Thank you very much for your letter. I suggest that you initiate Plan One immediately. If the woman fails to obtain information, I would like you to prepare Plan Three. There is one further request. In the event Plan Three should take place, I wish to be present at Zedoff’s interrogation. Please do not question my request, since my mind is completely made up.

  With great respect,

  Hanna Charnoff

  A report from Liebknecht came a mere two months later. Hanna took it to her room, excitement pounding at her brain. He had previously written that a woman had been procured for the operation, but was having no luck. Not in the seduction, for Zedoff was relatively easy to entrap, but in revealing details of his past life. He was as closed mouthed as the Sphinx, even in his sleep. That meant that they were fast approaching the need to employ Plan Three, and Hanna’s mind whirled at the possible consequences. To discuss it, to act bravely in its planning stage, all that was just talk. But soon she might have to face a danger she would rather avoid.

  She read the letter carefully. The female operator had decided to give up the effort, for Zedoff had become more abusive than expected and had begun to ask questions, which had little to do with their relationship. Her experience pointed to suspicion rising in his mind. She suggested that she ease herself out before he detected her motive. Liebknecht had swiftly sent his approval, and had positioned the woman in a village outside the Smolensk district to be available for providing information in the planning of the next step.