The Journeys of Socrates

by Dan Millman

  Sergei’s eyes stung and spilled over as he read his grandfather’s words again. Tears born of fatigue from the long journey—or perhaps it was the longing to see his grandfather once more. He imagined how Heschel must have smiled as he placed the five shining coins into the pouch—a small fortune for a young man who had never before had a coin in his pocket.

  Sergei had little sense of the cost of anything, including passage to America, but these coins might be worth a hundred rubles or more. Still, he would have to earn more before his departure. Sergei Ivanov would not arrive in America a pauper. No, he would have money for a new beginning. And he would have his grandfather’s clock.

  He slipped Heschel’s note and the coins into his coat. Gently setting the clock down beside him, Sergei reburied the box and covered it, and out of long-bred habit, he erased all signs of his presence. Then he admired the clock once again, with its fine glass cover over the face and the carefully carved and polished wood. He turned it around to view the short pendulum and weights. That’s when he noticed something etched into the wood on the back. Blowing off a fine coating of dust, he could make out letters and numbers—a street address, quite likely his grandfather’s old shop…or even his apartment!

  Sergei felt a sudden impulse to visit his childhood home. But then he thought, My appearance may frighten whoever lives there. I’ll need a bath…a haircut…and new clothing for my voyage…

  The sun was already dropping to the west; his search had taken the better part of the day. Placing the clock back into its sack, he decided to stay one last night in the woods.

  .14.

  THE DAY was already warm on that September morning when Sergei exchanged one of his coins for rubles and purchased shoes, dark pants, a shirt, and a coat. He carried this bundle of new clothing to the barber, then the bathhouse. Afterward, he paused to glance at his clean-shaven, well-groomed self in the mirror, surprised by his youthful appearance.

  Later that morning he would inquire about the cost of passage to America. Then he would secure a room. But first he had to find his grandfather’s apartment.

  Carrying his knapsack and few belongings, including his grandfather’s clock, Sergei looked again at the piece of paper on which he’d written the address. When he looked up, he saw a vision that made him forget where he was going: She stood less than ten meters away, across the street, apparently bargaining with a street vendor. Her gestures were so animated, her expressions so full and graceful, that she seemed to appear in color while the rest of the world faded into gray.

  Sergei couldn’t quite make out her words—only the sound of her voice, which wafted across the cobbled street like the aromas of fresh bread and flowers. She seemed to be getting the best of this vendor, who alternately frowned and smiled. Then, she threw her head back and laughed, and Sergei thought that no music could ever be as sweet as that sound.

  He could just make out hair of auburn, the rich color of autumn leaves, beneath her headscarf, framing the glowing face of this slim young woman about his age, with a full mouth and large eyes.

  But it wasn’t only her appearance that had drawn Sergei to her. He had, after all, seen other pretty women during his journeys. This was different, a visceral feeling, a tug at his heart, and something else…a sense of recognition, as if he had seen her, known her before, in this life or another—or in a dream…

  Yes, that was it—a powerful feeling came to him that he had seen this woman, this place, in a dream! A sense of destiny gripped Sergei; he had to meet her.

  As it was, he couldn’t seem to pull his gaze from her. When she completed her business and moved off through the street market, he followed. Entranced by her retreating form, Sergei was nearly struck by a carriage. “Young fool!” yelled the irate carriage driver as Sergei dodged out of the way without taking his eyes from her.

  He saw her stop to touch the shoulder of a ragged old man and drop a coin into his hand. After a few more words, she moved on, crossing the street—

  Looking both ways, she turned to catch Sergei staring at her—he realized that his mouth was hanging open.

  Had he detected a bemused smile on her face before she looked away? Yes! And she glanced back again! Maybe he could find the courage after all to—

  The shrill cry of a child behind him snapped Sergei’s head around to see a mother trying to comfort a little boy who had fallen and bumped his head. The mother held his head and murmured to the boy, who was already calming down…

  Sergei quickly turned back to the young woman. She was gone.

  He raced forward, searching right and left, scanning the tangled lines of vendors calling out their best prices. So, Sergei, who could easily track a hare or deer through the brush, had just lost this most beautiful quarry of all.

  He felt wretched, consoled only by the hope that she might return the next day.

  After lingering there for half an hour longer on the chance she might reappear, Sergei reluctantly gave up as he recalled the purpose that had brought him into the city of St. Petersburg.

  Thirty minutes later he ascended the stairs of a vaguely familiar address, knocked, and just had time to straighten his coat and brush back his neatly trimmed hair before the door opened and he saw the dead come back to life.

  He stood frozen, his mouth agape. More than ten years had passed, but her face had hardly changed. She gazed back at him with a puzzled look, a vague sense of recognition…It was the face of Sara Abramovich.

  “It’s me,” he said—“Sergei Ivanov—Heschel’s grand—”

  “Sergei?” she said. “I can’t believe it’s you!” Sara clasped his hands and drew him inside. He followed her obediently, in a kind of trance. In his mind she was still incinerated with her husband and children ten years before.

  “Mrs. Abramovich…how did you—?”

  “I still can’t believe it!” she repeated. “As soon as we arrived here, I sent word to the school, but they wrote that you had gone—”

  “The children are…all right?”

  She smiled. “Quite all right—but as you will see, they are no longer children. Sit for a moment, Sergei. I’ll make us tea and tell you everything.” She led him into a sitting room brightly lit by the morning sun, then she went into the kitchen, leaving him on a chair by the windows, overlooking the cobblestone street below.

  He touched the chair; it was somehow familiar. The polished wood floor as well. He had played on that floor. He heard her call out from the kitchen in her high, soft voice, “Oh, Sergei, your grandfather would be so happy to know you are here!”

  “And where are Avrom and Leya?” he asked loudly enough for Sara to hear as water boiled over the primoos, the kerosene burner.

  “They no longer go by their old names…nor do I,” she said, emerging from the kitchen with tea and small cakes. “Now eat! I made these myself, last night. You must tell me how you found—”

  “Mrs. Abramovich—Sara—please,” he said, interrupting her. “How—how are you…here?”

  “How handsome you’ve grown,” she said, ignoring his question. Then she turned to the old windup clock on the wall. “Oh, will you look—the clock has stopped again. I never know the right time anymore! In any event, I expect the children home soon. Oh! I haven’t told you—Avrom is now named Andreas, and Leya is now Anya, and I…I am Valeria Panova. Our new names were arranged by your grandfather, just in case anything should ever…” Her words faded into silence, and her eyes took on a faraway look.

  “Sara—Valeria…what happened?” Sergei asked again. “How did you and the children escape?”

  Valeria turned to Sergei and looked into his eyes. “Escaped?” she asked. “How could your know—” She gripped his hand more tightly, for courage. “And why do you ask about the children, but not about Benyomin?” Hearing the tremor in her voice, Sergei answered with care: “In March of 1881,” he began, “almost a year after my grandfather and I visited you—after the tsar’s assassination—there was talk around the school about Jews
. I was worried about your family. So I sneaked out of the school at night and found the path into the mountains.”

  “In the night? But…you were so young!”

  “I had to warn you…so I found my way to the cabin…I must have arrived right after it happened…If only I had arrived sooner. I wished it so many times…nothing was left…only a pile of smoking rubble. But I…found a body that I believe—that I’m certain—was your husband.

  Valeria’s face slowly collapsed, and she cried.

  AFTER A TIME Valeria gathered herself and told him her part of the story. She spoke slowly, as if not sure where to begin. “You know that Benyomin loved to work with wood. He admired beavers for their ability to build lodges with secret tunnels. So when Benyomin built our cabin, he dug his own tunnel from the root cellar extending forty meters to a concealed trapdoor in the forest. I remember chiding him about this odd project…It took him longer to dig that tunnel than to build the rest of our cabin. But his foresight saved our lives.”

  Valeria sighed and looked out the window for a few moments before adding, “It might have saved Benyomin’s life as well, had he not run back. I thought about it later. Many times. I should have known that he would meet them at the door, to keep them from finding the tunnel. Oh, Sergei, they came so quickly—then the cabin was on fire…

  “They must have expected all of us to run outside…” Her words trailed off for a time before she said in a rush, to get it all out, “After he hurried us all into the cellar and closed the door, Benyomin quickly handed me and Avrom—Andreas—a knapsack, with food and the papers your grandfather had arranged, with new names, just in case…

  “We walked quickly, crouching, into the tunnel. It was pitch-dark, but he was right behind me…then he was no longer there. I only heard his voice, muffled by the earth, far behind. ‘Run!’ he said. ‘When it’s safe, go to St. Petersburg!’ Those were the last words my husband ever…”

  Valeria’s eyes filled with tears and she sighed deeply before continuing: “We waited in the tunnel for an hour or more. Once, I felt the pounding of horses’ hooves above us, and a dusting of earth fell through the stifling air. Then there was only silence. We waited like moles in the earth. We smelled the smoke. I knew that Benyomin would not return to us.” A pained look crossed her face, and she spoke more quickly. “I wanted to run back, to beg him to come with us…only the children held me back. Only the children…” She paused again, then added, “Just before dawn we slipped out and made our way through the forest. We slept under cover in the day and traveled by night until we reached St. Petersburg.”

  Sergei imagined Sara and Avrom and Leya, without any training or skills, making their way those many kilometers on foot, as Valeria continued, “My husband saved our lives by his cleverness and courage, and your grandfather gave us a new life. We were a shambles when we arrived. We didn’t know where else to go but this apartment—”

  “But by that time my grandfather had died—”

  “Yes, but he had made arrangements. We had become like a part of his family by the time Heschel brought his little grandson to visit.” She touched Sergei’s hair, and for a moment Sergei felt like that boy again.

  “Most Jews,” Valeria continued, “are required to live in the Pale of Settlement, far to the south, where conditions are hard, and where the pogroms continue. My husband refused to be told where to live and decided to build our cottage in the forest. Heschel was able to make a different choice. His regular income allowed him to live in St. Petersburg…in his own apartment, which he left to us.”

  “But why did you have to change your names?”

  Realizing that Sergei knew little of Jewish traditions, Valeria explained, “In the Talmud it is written: ‘Four things can change the fate of man: charity, humble prayer, change of name, and change of action.’ After we were attacked in the mountains, we left our old names, our old identities, behind us. Now we blend in. We attend services of the Russian Orthodox Church. Heschel even arranged for baptismal papers, to complete our masquerade.

  “Andreas and Anya both cling to their Jewish faith, but only in private. They understand the risk that Heschel took, and the expense…and it was their father’s wish to keep us safe. In our hearts we are still Sara, wife of Benyomin…and Avrom and Leya. But you must call us by our new names, Sergei…for all our protection.”

  Sergei nodded, resolving to remember, though it would seem strange at first.

  Valeria’s thoughts returned to her children. “Heschel’s apprentice, Mikhail, has trained Andreas; he is now a violin maker. He is more serious than his father, but so like him in other ways. And Anya has also grown into a woman of good character and—”

  Just then the door opened. Sergei rose and turned to see a woman framed in the entry, her cheeks flushed, her arms filled with packages.

  Sergei’s legs nearly gave way, and his mouth dropped open once again. He could not believe his eyes, for he was staring at the same young woman from the marketplace. She was Anya, and she was smiling at him, puzzled and radiant.

  HER EYES were as green as emeralds, illumined by an inner light. Her curly hair, highlighted gold by the sunlight, crowned a kind and open face. In that moment, as Anya’s lips parted in another smile—as she set her parcels on the hallway table, and her hand reached up to brush back a stray curl—Sergei fell in love for the second time that day.

  It was as if he had lived in one world and was suddenly catapulted into another one more refined and elevated.

  The rest of the evening passed in a dream.

  When Valeria reminded Anya that Sergei had visited when she was a little girl, a look of recognition came into her eyes, and something else as well, mysterious and intangible, that gave him hope.

  Anya and her mother went into the kitchen, and the light seemed to fade in her absence. Sergei felt a pang of disappointment when Valeria returned alone, even when she said, “I hope you’ll stay with us for a few days, Sergei. Your grandfather would want this, and so do I. You’ll find the spare room quite comfortable—”

  “Is it all right with…Anya if I stay?”

  Valeria put her hands on her hips. “The last time I checked, Anya was not in charge of this household, but I’m sure she has no objections. None at all.”

  When Anya returned, she looked even more lovely, in a deep blue dress that highlighted her figure. Sergei knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn’t help it. At least he had enough presence of mind to close his mouth. Then their eyes met, and for a few moments the world vanished.

  The spell was broken by Valeria’s voice: “Sergei, would you put a few more logs on the fire while Anya and I prepare the evening meal? Andreas should be home any minute, and you two can get reacquainted.”

  They had retreated to the kitchen, and Sergei was feeding the fire, when the door opened and Andreas entered. Still slim and lanky he had not changed greatly from his boyhood self. Valeria emerged from the kitchen and made the introductions. Andreas greeted Sergei in a formal but not unfriendly way, as he had done years before.

  Then came dinner and small talk, but Sergei could hardly concentrate; he kept glancing at Anya, hungry for another look into her eyes. When he told of his plans to emigrate to America, Sergei thought he detected a trace of disappointment on her face. Did she feel something for him, or was she just being polite?

  Then Sergei remembered the clock. Excusing himself, he retrieved his knapsack, returned to the dining room, and took out the timepiece, briefly explaining how his grandfather had given him a map years before, and how he had only just found it, buried in a meadow outside St. Petersburg. “It was my grandfather’s last gift to me,” Sergei said, handing it to Valeria. “As you can see, it had this address…on the back. I believe it belongs here, on your mantel…”

  Valeria smiled. She passed it to Andreas, who set the hands and arranged the weights and pendulum so that it began its rhythmic swing. Even after all these years beneath the earth, it worked perfectly, ticking like the bea
t of Sergei’s heart as his gaze returned to Anya…

  “A beautiful timepiece,” said Valeria. “We can leave it on the mantel for now. When you take it with you to America, it will remind you of the time we had together.”

  In the guest bed that night, Sergei finally drifted to sleep, acutely aware that Anya slept only just down the hallway. He hoped that she might also be thinking of him…

  And she was.

  IN THE FIRST FEW DAYS of his visit, Sergei helped fix things around the apartment, making himself useful. Still, it felt strange to see Andreas off to work each day while Sergei tinkered around the house. He also offered to help pay for groceries—an offer that Valeria graciously refused.

  Sergei knew that the sooner he found employment, the sooner he would have enough saved beyond his four remaining gold coins to finally voyage west, across the sea. His deepest wish was that he might buy two tickets—not in steerage but in the more expensive second class.

  He went out each day after that. Ten days later he found a job at a foundry, in the industrial section at the outskirts of the city. He would assist the blacksmiths who shaped and repaired horseshoes and carriage wheels as well as decorative metal fences and gates for homes of the wealthy. It was hard work, but after his active life in the wild, Sergei welcomed the fatigue of honest labor.

  When he returned home each evening covered with sweat and grime, Valeria heated water and insisted that he take a hot bath before supper. He did so but continued his long-standing practice of pouring a bucket of cold water over himself afterward.

  Sergei needed these cold-water dousings more than ever, given his ardor for Anya. He thought about her many times each day, certain that he could not leave without her.

  One night at dinner, in the most important and difficult minutes of his life, he announced that it was his deepest wish that Anya would consider him as a suitor for her hand in marriage. He had planned, out of respect, to direct his words to Valeria, with Anya a spectator to his declarations. But when the moment came, Sergei spoke to Anya directly, with her mother and brother as witnesses. “As surely as I have ever known anything, I want to dedicate my life to your happiness, if only you will consent to our engagement.”