The Little Russian (17 page)

It was a gray dawn when he stepped out of the railway station in Cherkast. The outlines of the buildings, trees, and sledges were slowly coming into focus, their edges hardening against a lightening sky. He waved over a sled and put his cases in first and then climbed in beside them.

“Number 237 Lubiansky Street,” he told the cabman. He was telling him how to get there when the driver interrupted him. “Alshonsky. I know where it is. Go up there all the time. You are an early one. Never had one this early before.”

He flicked the reins and the little horse trudged on through the
snowy streets. Hershel sat back and closed his eyes. There was something satisfying about living in a house that the cabmen knew, a house that wasn’t just a structure, but a landmark.

Occasionally, he’d look back at the journey from Leski to the top of the Berezina and marvel. He knew luck had a lot to do with it and never fooled himself into believing that it was all due to his talent alone. As the sled took him past the warehouse district and up to the nicer shops, past the comfortable homes to the larger houses in the Berezina, he managed to forget about all the money he owed, the debt that was woven into the upholstery of every chair, rug, and drape. Instead he remembered his first job with the consortium, unloading sacks of wheat from the barges. From the barges to the Berezina, what would his father have said? He would’ve cautioned his son to look for the tip of the blue tail, the gleaming teeth, and the claw.
He’ll be under there
, he would have said.
The blue man always is.

The sled pulled into the drive and deposited him at the door. He paid the cabman and carried his suitcases up the front steps to the carved oak door and inserted his key into the lock. When he walked into the foyer he heard snoring coming from the parlor. He followed it and found Yuvelir sleeping on the sofa with a blanket tossed over his shoulders, his head buried in a pillow, his blond hair streaming over his face. Hershel thought about waking him and sending him home but decided against it. It would have meant a conversation, and besides, he was used to finding a stray guest sleeping in his parlor after a party.

He carried the cases upstairs and stopped off in his office. He fumbled in the dark until he found the desk lamp and switched it on. The lamp only lit a small portion of the room, leaving the rest in semidarkness. There was a staircase to one side of the desk that was decorated with carved devils and demons from the Faust legend. The small puddle of light elongated their features and cast eerie shadows on the wall behind them. Hershel went to his desk and pulled out the top drawer. He emptied out the few contents and turned the drawer over. Taped to the underside was a small key. He took the key and went into a closet full of winter coats, left over from past seasons. He moved them aside, revealing a small door near the baseboard. He used the key
to unlock it and pushed it open. Then he went back to retrieve the suitcase and quietly unloaded the revolvers and the newspapers into the hidden cupboard. Once the case was empty, he closed the little door, locked it, and returned the key to the underside of the drawer and slid it back into place. Then he turned off the light and walked down the hall to Berta’s bedroom.

They called it her room even though he always slept there, except when he came in late and didn’t want her to know. It was a comfortable room filled with feminine things that he found endearing: several wardrobes stuffed with dresses and shoes, a dressing table laid out with silver brushes, combs, and a silver bowl filled with hairpins, and buttons, broken chains, and objects he couldn’t name. There was a Chinese screen in the corner that she had bought at auction for a ridiculous sum and a large porcelain vase filled with peacock feathers that made him sneeze. The fire in the porcelain stove was fresh as was the fire in the fireplace. He pulled off his boots without the help of Petr and set them down on the floor. Then he pulled his shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it.

“What happened to you,” she asked without opening her eyes.

“Didn’t you get my telegram?” He dropped his pants and stepped out of them.

“I thought you said you’d be home for my party.”

He came over to the bed and lay down beside her. “Sorry,
mishka.
I wanted to come. I really did.”

“Sometimes I think you don’t like my parties.” She reached out a hand and drew him closer. He put his head on her breast and could hear her heart beating.

“And how am I supposed to answer that? If I tell you the truth, you’ll be angry with me, and if I do not, you’ll accuse me of lying.”

He let his fingertips trail down her sternum between her breasts and over her belly, moving down to the cleft between her legs. His fingers were in no hurry.

“So you couldn’t lie in a believable way?” she said, pushing him away and pulling the sheet up over her body.

“I like the idea of your parties.” He slowly pulled the sheet back
down again. This time he kissed her breasts, brushing her nipples with his lips the way she liked, teasing her with the conversation.

“Well, you would’ve liked this one.”

“Why?”

She sucked in her breath. “There was a séance.”

He stopped what he was doing and looked up at her. “A séance?”

“No, excuse me, a communion.”

“With ghosts and mist and tambourines?”

“No tambourines. I think there was mist. It was all very dramatic. Madame Gorbunova,” she breathed.

He slid down between her legs and parted her thighs. He was home in his den now, safe from the world, hidden deep underground. Her scent welcomed him, sweet and loamy with a hint of perfumed powder. “Who’s Madame Gorbunova?”

She sucked in her breath. “Galya’s medium. The one she always goes on about.”

He looked up at her and burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Now, that, I would’ve liked to have seen.”

“I know. You would’ve been amazed.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of thing.”

“You should’ve seen it. It would’ve made a believer out of you.”

“I doubt it. They use all kinds of tricks, you know.”

“I don’t think so. Not this time. It looked too real.”

He shook his head and looked at her with affection. “
Mishka
. . .”

“What?”

“I missed you.”

She gave him a little laugh, scrunched down under the covers, and took his penis in her hand. When she put it into her mouth, words left him; syntax became meaningless; the world began to fade. She stretched her body over his belly and chest and sat up over his pelvis, guiding him in. Slowly, methodically, she began to rotate her hips, leaning forward until her nipples just brushed his lips. Her eyes remained half open and glittering in the firelight.

Hershel was a lucky man. He was in love with his wife. Other men
had mistresses and dalliances of all kinds, but he never did. He still liked having sex with her. She thrilled him. The events in his life were often so chaotic and uncertain that he needed something he could count on, a place to come home to, and Berta provided him with that. Yet, she, herself, wasn’t predictable. He knew her to be capricious, moody, and even trivial at times. She could be exasperating and still he adored her. He couldn’t help it. Their relationship was one of his many contradictions. He needed certitude, a quiet routine, possession, and belonging, but he also loved a challenge. And Berta was all of that.

 

“TATEH . . . Tateh . . . wake up.”

Hershel opened his eyes and found his daughter’s face not three inches from his own. “What is it?” he mumbled, turning over and closing them again.

“You have to tell Galya that she can’t put Masha out into the snow.”

“Who’s Masha?”

“
Masha
, Tateh!” she said with exasperation, her eyes filling with tears. “She had her kittens last night and Galya wants to put them out into the snow. You have to get up.” She shook Hershel and bounced on the bed. “You have to tell her she can’t do it.”

“Yes, all right. Only let me sleep now.”

“
No, Tateh!
She won’t listen to me. You have to get up and tell her
now
!” She pulled on his arm and tried to drag him out of bed.

“All right, Sura. All right, my darling, I’m getting up.” He sat up and wiped his face with a hand. “Where’s your mother?”

“Looking for Samuil.”

Just then the door opened and Berta came in. “Sura, I told you not to wake your father.”

“I want him to tell Galya she can’t put Masha out.”

“I already told her. She’s making a proper place for Masha.”

Sura jumped up and ran for the door. “Did you tell her to use the laundry basket? Galya,” she shouted out in the hall. “Use the laundry basket!”

Hershel collapsed back down on his pillow. “What time is it?”

“It’s late. Nearly teatime. Why don’t you get up and help me look for Samuil.”

“Where is he?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be looking for him. I think he’s in your study.”

Hershel’s smile faded. “My study? I don’t want him in my study.” Hershel swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.

“I’ll go see if I can find him,” she said.

He found his clothes laid out on a chair and started to dress. “No, I’ll go.”

“We’ll both go.”

“Berta!” But she was already out and calling down the hall.

Hershel heard her by the door of his study calling out Samuil’s name. He tucked in his shirt and buttoned his trousers. He wanted to put on his boots, but more than that he wanted to get his wife and child out of his study. So he left the boots and went barefoot out into the hall. There were the usual sounds of the maids chattering downstairs and the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen. He found the door to his study closed. When he tried the knob and found it locked his apprehension began to grow.

“Berta, open the door,” he said quietly.

He listened for footsteps and heard them crossing the room, first muffled by the rug and then loud on the hardwood floor and then muffled again. The door opened and Samuil stood there nearly in tears.

“I’m sorry, Tateh. It was just a game. I won’t tell anybody, I promise.”

He looked past his son to his wife, who was sitting on the floor in front of the closet. In her lap were two revolvers and a German pistol.

She looked up. Her face was stiff with shock. “Hershel?”

He ignored her and took his son’s hand. “Samuil, come here.” He sat down in his desk chair and drew his son over. Then he put his hands on his shoulders and looked into his face. “I’m going to tell you something very important and I want you to listen.”

Samuil began to cry.

“There’s no need for that. You’re not in trouble. But I need you to understand what I’m about to tell you.” Samuil nodded and stifled a sob. “In Russia, Jews are not allowed to own guns. Do you know what that means?”

He nodded again and brushed away his tears.

“What does it mean?”

“They shouldn’t have guns.”

“That ’s right. So those guns shouldn’t be here. And if anybody ever found out, we’d all be in serious trouble.”

“I’m not going to tell anybody, Tateh.”

“Nobody, not Galya, not anybody.”

“I know. I won’t tell a soul.” The little cords on his neck stood out as he tried to catch a sob.

“I know you won’t.” Hershel pulled his son to him. His hair smelled of mothballs from the closet. “We just have to be very, very careful. There are people out there who want to do us harm. Not Mameh and me, necessarily, but other Jews in the towns and
shtetlekh
, understand?”

Samuil nodded.

“They do terrible things to them. And the Jews have no one to protect them, not the police or the army. So they have to protect themselves and that’s what these guns are for.”

“Yes, Tateh.”

“So now you understand.”

He nodded.

“Good. Now go find your sister. Help her with Masha’s kittens.”

Samuil nodded and walked slowly to the door. When he had gone, Berta got up from the floor and went over to the sofa and sank down on the cushions. She grabbed a pillow and held it to her chest, wrapping her arms around it for comfort.

“What are they doing here, Hershel?” Her voice was even and cold.

He picked up a gun and examined it. “They’re called spitters,” he said, casually fingering the trigger. “As if all they ’ll do is spit at you.”

“You think this is a joke?”

“I’m just keeping them for a friend.”

“A friend. What friend?”

“A friend, Berta. You don’t need to know.”

“Is he a Jew? What kind of a friend asks you to keep guns in your house?”

“They ’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“By tonight, Hershel.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t take orders.”

He stooped to gather up the guns and walked into the closet. He put them back in the hidden cupboard, locked it, and came back out with the key. He went over to the desk, pulled the drawer out, and taped the key to the underside.

“And what if you get caught?”

“I won’t.”

“But what if you do? You’ll be sent to Siberia. You’ll die in a Siberian labor camp.”

“I’m not going to get caught. You’re getting excited over nothing.”

“Nothing, he says! Our life, is it nothing? Our children, our house, our home?”

“That’s enough, Berta.”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you jeopardizing everything?”

“I said that’s enough!”

He turned his back on her and looked out the window. He could see her reflection in the window pane, sitting on the couch on the other side of the room, her lips pursed in disapproval. He was aware of the cold floor under his bare feet and the draft coming in through the French windows. He suddenly wanted his boots. He wanted to be dressed. More than that, he wanted to be away from her. He turned and walked purposefully past the couch to the door.