“What else? Be specific, woman.”
Her wan face colored. She was aware of what he wanted, and what the punishment would be if she failed to cooperate completely. “He preferred to make love in the night time. He always did it twice. He said the first time was to loosen the cap of the bottle, and the second time to pour out the juice.”
Katrine’s face was flaring with emotion.
“What was his religion?”
“He said he was a Jew.”
Belinski sat back in his chair and folded his hands. “One last question, Sofia Milosz. Did he promise to marry you?”
Her bowed shoulders came slightly erect, and her eyes raised into those of her tormentor. They had told her exactly what to say, but by doing so, she was pretending to herself that it might have been true. “Yes. He said that when I finished another job, we would go away and be married.”
Belinski let her stand there for a full half minute, and then motioned to Zedoff to take the woman out. When Zedoff resumed his seat, Belinski took out a cigar. The stocky police captain quickly struck a match. Belinski puffed away for a few long moments, and then looked over at Katrine seated there with eyes far off and lost.
“Countess,” he said softly. She pulled her attention back to him. “Isaac Herthsog, real name, Levi, left Poland the moment Sofia Milosz was apprehended. About a year later, we arrested a woman at Kharkov. She told us the exact story that you have heard from Sofia Milosz, with the exact details. The man used the alias of Gregory Kvitka. He fit the same description, had the same scar, made love in the same manner, said he was a socialist, was Jewish, and he had her transport his publications in the same manner.” His next words came with precision. “And he promised to marry her after the next operation.”
Katrine had begun trembling. Belinski fixed her with a harsh stare. “She committed suicide shortly after she knew the facts,” he went on. “Countess, I ask you to carefully consider if your friend is the same man. You can either tell me the truth, and we will then discuss your future, or I shall leave this room instantly and let Capitan Zedoff take over the interrogation. I want your decision at once.”
Katrine could scarcely get enough breath. Her breasts were rising and falling in agitation, and her face was a fiery red. She swallowed with difficulty. “I would like a few minutes to compose myself,” she finally got out. “That woman’s story was most distressing.”
Belinski’s face tightened. “You have ten seconds,” he said roughly. “If you start talking the eleventh second, I will not stay to listen.”
A few seconds ticked by, Belinski’s face expressionless, Katrine’s still flushed with shock. At the end of ten seconds, he rose and began walking towards the door.
“I need a little more time,” said Katrine quietly.
He did not slow down or answer.
When the door closed behind him, Zedoff stood up. A gleam of near blissful expectation flashed from his eyes, and his body was already swelling with lust.
“Well, whore,” he growled with anticipation. “First we’ll hear how well you talk; then we’ll see how well you poke.”
An hour and a half or so later, Zedoff came out of the interrogation room and climbed the stairs to the police station. He found Belinski reading from a pile of reports in the station captain’s office.
The stocky officer came to attention in front of his superior. “She knew him by the name of Hershel Bloch. He is residing near Kovno, apparently on the other side of the Neris River. It takes him about an hour to ride to Kovno, so he is within fifteen or twenty versts of the bridge. It won’t be difficult to find him now.” He took out his notebook. “He fits the description to the letter–if you’d care to hear it.”
“That isn’t necessary. Take a detail of men and get him.” He leaned back into his chair. “What do you plan to do with the Countess?”
Zedoff’s face glowed with an inner warmth. “I regret, Excellency, but the woman tried to escape. She fell and broke her neck. We are arranging matters to prove that it was the result of a runaway horse and overturned carriage.”
He saluted and started to leave the room. “Zedoff,” he heard the low call from Belinski. He turned. “Be sure you have covered your tracks completely. For if not, you will curse for a very long time the woman who gave you birth.”
CHAPTER 16
Hershel rode quietly into the yard, stopped his horse at the entrance to the stable, then looked about sharply. The moon’s bright rays made a quilt work of pale swathes and black holes. He smelled danger, as he had smelled it for the past four days, so he focused his attention into the black holes, each evening expecting one or more of them to erupt in fury to blast out his life. And each night he returned with the reins in his left hand and the right resting on the butt of the revolver stashed in his waistband.
He was for it, that was beyond question. The report from the agents following up Katrine’s trail had stated that she had registered at the finest hotel in Kiev, and then had disappeared without a trace. It was all a dark mystery.
After concealing himself in the bushes for two days, Hershel started coming back to the house in the evening. But at the crack of dawn, he was up, made a sandwich of whatever was available, slipped into a pocket a bottle of water, then rode off to his hiding place, overlooking the road to Slabodka. He had thought long and hard about fleeing Gremai for Germany, but his sense of duty, coupled with his anxiety about Katrine, kept him in place. Colonel Dannetz, commander of his section in Berlin, would have approved of his decision to leave in an instant. But there was more to it than Katrine or duty. The Imperial Secret Service was actually only six years old, and many of the senior officers of the Imperial General Staff considered the fledgling section as being a waste of time, money, and shamefully unsporting. By their precepts, intelligence was gathered by sending out fighting patrols to snare prisoners, and, by dint of superior intellect, tricking the captives into giving information. There were also tourists who passed on tidbits, and German nationals residing in various countries who could be counted upon to volunteer news.
But to unleash a group of secret troublemakers to foment dissatisfaction, or, heaven forbid, trigger a revolution against a constituted, imperial government, was not according to the rules.
Hershel had felt the resentment against his section, and it rankled. Unfortunately, most of his endeavors were long range activities, so there were few ways to demonstrate the results of his, and his brother agents’, efforts. He must just keep plugging away, knowing that someday the detractors would become aware of the great contribution his section was making to the defense of their homeland.
There was still a light in the kitchen, although it was nearly ten o’clock. Probably Hanna sewing something or other. She was always sewing or cooking or washing, it seemed, yet with a cheerful expression. But behind her even disposition, he perceived a tenseness, perhaps a deep concern. It certainly could not be for lack of money, since both he and Jakob had increased the board they were paying her, and, to be coldly materialistic, he guessed she was managing better without the drain of Motlie and Israel. Whatever it was, she was keeping it to herself.
After stabling his horse, he walked into the kitchen. Hanna was seated at the table mending some shirts and jackets, as he had expected. At the other end of the table, Jakob was immersed in a book.
Hanna looked up and smiled. “Hello, Hershel. Have you eaten?”
He shrugged. “I could use a glass of tea, if it’s no bother.”
“How about some bread and herring with it?” she asked, getting up.
“That will do fine. Thanks.” He sat at the table and looked at Jakob, his eyes still glued to the book. Hershel found this total absorption fascinating. He seemed oblivious to everything about him, as if what he was reading was breath and movement, for he did not budge a centimeter.
Hanna quickly served up a slice of rye bread, two pieces of pickled herring, boiled potatoes, still warm from sitting on the stove, and half an onion. She started making fresh
tea, but he waved his hand.
“I’ll take whatever you have.” He knew that she used fresh leaves only for the boarders, and then reused them for herself and the children. She grinned at him and poured out the tea from the family samovar, also pouring a glassful, which she set in front of Jakob.
“Hey, Jakob,” said Hershel softly, to keep from disturbing Gitel and Reba in the bedroom. Jakob kept on reading. “Hey, Jakob,” he said more loudly. Again Hershel was delighted by the instantaneous reaction of the Hasid, who was immediately aware that Hershel had come in, was seated at the table, had been served food, and that a glass of tea was placed in front of him.
Jakob closed the book and placed it to one side. He drew out an elegant pocket watch and pressed the cover release. “Ten o’clock,” he stated, thinking nothing of the fact that he had been sitting at the table, reading steadily for two hours without interruption. He also did not comment that Hershel had come in late again. The night before last, Hanna had remarked about the recent absences of Hershel at the supper meal, but Jakob had just nodded his head and cut off the conversation. He had understood that the German was under some strain for the past few days, and had rolled over in his mind whether he should concentrate his full thoughts on the situation, then had decided to ignore it. Hershel must have his own reason for being away from the crack of dawn to late at night, and Jakob was in no mood to begin an exercise of mentally uncovering the motives. There was a more relevant reason for not playing a game he thoroughly enjoyed. It had come to him three days ago, just as he was about to leave with Zelek for the Friday evening service at the synagogue. He had stopped short to watch Hanna light the candles, and the moment her hands passed over the flame, he had felt a sudden tightness in his chest. For a few seconds, his mind nearly lost control, and then it was filled with the most poignant longing he had ever experienced, and he knew that he cared for her more deeply than he had believed possible. A flood of excitement spread over him, and for one of the few times in his adult life, he ordered his brain not to analyze what was happening, but to revel in a sensation unlike anything with which he could compare. It was like being brought to Torah, and when the thought struck him, he deliberately put the comparison aside. He did not want to measure the emotion nor consider the ramifications. All he wanted to do was jump up and shout that he cared for Hanna. Whether she heard him or not was not the issue. What was important was that she was deep in his thoughts.
“Are you all right, Jakob?” he heard someone say, and he forced his mind back to the village, and the house and the lighting of the candles. Reba was eyeing him curiously.
At once, his lightning speed brain took over. “Yes, I am all right,” he replied, starting off with Zelek.
Supper that night was a double delight. He was with the Lord at the Sabbath meal, and he was seated across from Hanna. Having the children about him, joking, laughing, and replying in return with freedom of spirit made him feel like a youth again. Actually he had never really been a child. From the time of awareness, he knew he was different, a combination of royal prince, budding genius, and spiritual conduit of the Lord. He had been placed at the setting of the greatest passion a human could desire–loving his God and demonstrating his adoration by obeying every word of the Law. Even before his Bar Mitzvah, he could think of little else. Torah was like a violent thirst that could not be slaked. He learned Hebrew with a desperation bordering on fanaticism so he could read the words himself instead of having to rely on his father to interpret the stories which engulfed him. And for many years, he did not realize that his rationale was unique, for he supposed that everyone loved and was as devoted to Torah as himself.
Later that evening, in bed, he finally let his mind focus on what was happening. Hanna was certainly attracted to Stephen, that was apparent, for every other night they took walks together or sat on the bench alongside the house and talked quietly. He analyzed his feelings about Stephen without the least pang of jealousy. Stephen was Russian, a goy. He was a gust of wind that lingered for an instant, and then dissolved in thinner air. Whatever Hanna’s attitude about him, her blood would dictate the final choice, if it came to that. His father, Rebbe Golub, however, was the center of all consideration, for it would be his father’s decision whether his affection for Hanna would be realized. Caring for her would count greatly with his father, for the rebbe was an eminently understanding and gentle person when it came to love between a man and a woman. That is, as long as it did not conflict with the Law, for in keeping the Law, Rebbe Golub was not gentle. There was not the least doubt in anyone’s mind that the rebbe was always prepared to comply with the rule of ‘plucking out the eye which offends the Lord’ at a moment’s notice. And that did not apply to the metaphor, but to the actual tearing out of the organ with all its pain and gore and irrevocable loss of sight. Jakob scrutinized his feelings for Hanna from all angles in the light of what his father would think. He could address the initial objection in the mind of his father that she was not reared as a Hasid by explaining how devoted she was to her family, and how competently she managed the situation in times of such sorrow and stress. He would not have to explicate to the rebbe that such a person could be as dedicated to Hasidim once she made her choice, for Rebbe Golub would be far ahead of him. The prize for any Hasid would be the daughter or the granddaughter of a noted rebbe, and his father would weigh emotion against that. The important factor, though, was Hanna’s willingness to become a Hasid. She would need enlightenment to make the decision, for he sensed in her a lust for freedom that could create problems if the benefits were not expounded. He would be able to handle that, he knew.
Now he was seated at the table, three days later, caring more and more for her, and realizing how noble and desirable she was.
“Would you like some bread and herring, too?” asked Hanna.
“No thanks.”
“What were you reading so intently?” asked Hershel.
“A book about Jesus Christ.”
Hershel chuckled. “You must be kidding.”
“Not at all. He had a magnificent mind. Had he been able to remove the Romans from Palestine and bring peace to the people, he could very well have been considered the Messiah. At the very least, had he not been crucified, he could have formed a new branch of Judaism. It was that idiot, Paul, who abandoned the greatness of Jesus.”
“How?”
“Paul took him from his position as a marvelous teacher to that of divinity – the son of God. Paul was more than an idiot – he was a fanatic, who convinced himself that he could revise Judaism itself by doing away with the Torah.”
Hershel began laughing. “I expected something more profound than that,” he said. “At least, circumcision.” He yawned. “I’d love to go further, but I am exhausted. So, off to bed for me.”
Hanna rose at the crack of dawn, built a small fire to heat water for tea, and then washed. She checked the barn. Hershel’s horse was gone, so he must have risen earlier and ridden off. Something was certainly wrong. He had not taken his easel again, and there was a limit as to what one could sketch on a pad.
Well, she could not dwell too long on that, for there was a great deal to do today. First, she had to deliver a bundle of clothing that she had mended the night before, and then stitch up a corner of a wedding veil for the niece of the Rich Widow, a wealthy German lady who had the grandest vacation estate in the district, which had been accidentally torn. Actually, Hanna had made the entire wedding gown. The niece was to be married this very afternoon at the local church, and for the past two days a number of distinguished guests had arrived, most of them taking suites at hotels in Kaunas. Hanna had never before seen such finery on lady or man. There were body-clinging dresses of organdy and silks, stitched with a perfection that made her work seem clumsy, and wide brimmed hats with long feathers and decorative bone work, and men in marvelously tailored white linen suits with matching panama hats, wearing black and white wing-tipped shoes. What shattered her was that the apparel the
y came in was not for a gala function, but was everyday wear. They rode in elegant carriages, with stiff-backed coachmen handing them in and out like royalty.
They came to pay their respects to the Rich Widow and to look over the bride and groom. The village turned out at the sight of a burly, bemedaled cavalry general riding up with two stern faced Cossack escorts. The Cossacks were of special attention to the Jews of the village. Here was their arch enemy. It was only twenty years since the Russians had gone on their greatest rampage in a pogrom that even the Tzar could not conceal from the world. From the Black Sea to the Baltic, the Jews of one hundred and sixty-seven villages, towns, and great cities had been beaten, raped, and murdered, their property confiscated, and those still alive had been driven into ghettos in Western Russia. Every strata of Russian society had joined in the slaughter – the peasants, merchants, even nobles, but the most vicious and fanatical were the hated Cossacks.
The Jews stood silent, watching them ride by, pushing their yarmulkes slightly forward so their enemies would know just who they were; stark hatred showing on their faces. In turn, the Cossacks stared back stonily, their attack spears dangling by leather thongs on their right arms, their single shot rifles slung across their backs; the dreaded nagaika whips thrust into their belts; their sabers hanging free. During the great pogrom, several groups of Jews had purchased weapons to defend themselves. The Tzar had sent in troops to disarm them, and then signaled for the peasants and the Cossacks to take over.
Gitel had taken Zelek through the side streets to watch the great ones ride past, and they were in position when the Cossacks came. Zelek heard the muted curses of some of the men standing nearby.
“Are they Cossacks?” he asked Gitel.
She nodded her head; her eyes wide with apprehension.
He pulled his hand free and took a step forward. One of the Cossacks glanced down at the boy. He blinked his eyes at what he saw in Zelek’s face. When he rode by, he turned his head to look again. Zelek was still staring at him. Their eyes locked for a long second, and then the Cossack spat on the ground and faced ahead again.
Enemy of the Tzar Page 15
