The Little Russian

by Susan Sherman

  While he was in Mosny it all seemed possible. He was attentive and affectionate, brushing the hair out of her eyes when she worked at the sink, nibbling the back of her neck, stealing kisses even when her parents were in the house. But when he was gone and she didn’t know where he was or when he was coming back, the doubts would begin to surface, making it increasingly hard for her to believe that there would ever be a wedding or a life with him in Cherkast.

  That spring he stayed with them for several weeks while he traveled the countryside buying wheat. One day, he invited Berta to come along, and soon after that she was accompanying him on most every trip. Typically, they would start out early, just after sunrise, and not be back until late in the afternoon. Sometimes they traveled great distances before they came to a particular farmstead that Hershel had marked on the map that hung over his bed. They both enjoyed these outings in the sunshine and under the new leaves, especially since Hershel was good at finding dry roads and staying out of the mud that plagued the other travelers.

  Whenever he pulled into a drive, she would ask: chaver or prostak? A chaver, a friend, meant that she could go down with him. It meant that the bol’shak wouldn’t be offended if he brought a female onto the property. A prostak, an uneducated boar, meant that she had to wait for him up on the road. If he brought her with him, there would be too many questions and it might jeopardize the sale.

  That afternoon they stopped at the top of a drive overlooking a small farmstead below. A line of clothes was drying in the hot sun and a woman bent over a washtub on legs. She straightened to look at them, sheltering her eyes with her hand and shushing the dog that had begun to bark.

  “A prostak,” replied Hershel to Berta’s question. “So you better get out here and wait for me.” Berta looked disappointed, but gathered up her parasol, book, and blanket and climbed down.

  When Hershel came back up nearly an hour later it was already getting late. The ride back was a long one, but he knew a shortcut that would get them back before dark. They rode out under a tunnel of glittering leaves, emerging now and then into the brilliant sunshine. Somewhere along the way they came to a crossroads marked by a signpost where numerous signs for peasant villages and townlets were posted in Russian. They were just passing the sign when Berta cried out to stop and Hershel pulled up on the reins.

  “Did you see that?” she said turning back. She was nearly shouting in her excitement. She didn’t even wait for the carriage to come to a stop, but jumped down and ran back to take a look at the signs. “Hershel look, it’s Leski! It’s only three versts from here.”

  Beside them was a freshly plowed field of sweet-smelling earth. There were women in the field moving up one row and down another, sowing handfuls of seeds from sacks hitched over their shoulders. Their attention kept getting drawn away from their task to the two people in the new droshky who had stopped at the crossroads. They were strangers who were probably lost and arguing about which way to go. They were far more interesting than the seeds.

  “I know. Get in. It’s late. We have to be heading home.” He suddenly sounded very tired.

  “But it’s so close. Don’t you want to see it?”

  “No.”

  “But it’s where you were born.”

  His expression hardened. “Berta, get in the carriage.”

  “Why?”

  “Just get in.” He kept his eyes on the road.

  She shook her head and climbed back into the carriage. She adjusted her skirts and held on to the side as it lunged forward. Even though it took over an hour to get home, they rode in silence.

  THAT SUMMER Hershel came often, his visits sometimes stretching into weeks, and it seemed to Berta that he was with them more than he was away. It was calming and exciting to have him so close, to meet him in the hall in the morning, to sit across from him while they ate their bread with wild blackberry jam that she had made the summer before. Many mornings she woke up with a luxurious feeling of contentment, knowing that her doubts were trivial, that she had nothing to worry about, that she could dream about a new life and not be afraid.

  One night after supper, she and Hershel went out walking down the main road into the countryside. There was a full moon and their shadows glided along beside them, over the ruts in the road, over the piles of dead leaves still smelling of hot dust. They walked on until they came to the tavern on the outskirts of town, where a blind man sat with his son at an outdoor table. He wore a long coat of homespun wool, beside him was a wooden staff propped up against the table, and in front of him was an empty shot glass. He looked up and stared sightlessly at Hershel and Berta as they walked past. His son, who was sitting beside him, raised his head from the table to see who was going by. His hair had been hacked into uneven waves that nearly covered his ears. His beard was ragged and mostly gray. His blind father asked him about the strangers.

  “Only zhydy from town,” his son told him. He dropped his head back down on his arms and closed his eyes. He was more tired than drunk. “The grocer’s daughter and the wheat merchant.”

  They walked on until the only sound they could hear was the clacking of the bare branches in the wind, the snuffling of horses in the pasture, and the crunch of their feet on the gravel. Hershel stopped by a small collection of gravestones and leaned over to kiss her. He paused just as his lips touched hers. His movements were unhurried and even a little playful, nibbles on her upper lip, his mouth covering hers, until finally what had been innocent became more urgent. When he was about to let her go, she drew him back, reaching up and pulling him closer.

  Afterward, they stayed in each other’s arms, her breasts against his chest, their bodies so close that she could feel his belt buckle pressing into her stomach. They began to sway together, ever so slightly, dancing without music. He whispered in her ear. “I’m going away soon.”

  She pulled away from him. “Again? Where?”

  “All over. Odessa mostly.”

  “For how long?”

  “Don’t know. Depends. Could be a while.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before? I could’ve prepared for it.”

  He laughed. “And how would you have done that?”

  “I don’t know. I would have thought about it and gotten ready. As it is, you’ll be off and I’ll still be getting used to it.”

  “I’ll write if I can.”

  “If you can? They don’t have pen and paper in Odessa?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been there in a while.”

  She looked at him and burst out laughing. “What am I going to do with you? You’re thoughtless and cruel, and I seriously want nothing more to do with you.”

  “Well, if you’re sure about that.”

  “Of course, I’m sure.”

  He slipped his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him. They walked on, happy to be in each other’s company. For the moment there was no past or future, only the two of them, the night, and the road back home.

  Chapter Four

  March 1905

  THE JEWISH intellectuals of Kaminits-Podolsk were like the Jewish intellectuals everywhere in Little Russia—frequently unemployed and always on the lookout for a way to pay the rent. For the lucky few who had a formal education, there was law, medicine, or engineering. The rest sought a position in an office or in a school where the work wasn’t too taxing and they had time to pursue their real interests, be it scholarship or politics. Eventually, certain offices became known for their concentration of scholars and radicals. The Office of the District Chief was known as the Conservatory of Arts and Letters, the Municipal Waterworks became the Academy of Sciences, and the Podolia Trade Bank was the Yiddish Literary Society. The society was famous in certain circles as the place to go if you were Jewish and looking for small firearms.

  Hershel had spent this last trip traveling first to Odessa and then up to Moscow and back to Odessa on consortium business. He had seen buyers, met with shippers, and in one case supervised the loading of tons o
f wheat into the hold of a cargo ship bound for Great Britain. Once he was finished with the consortium’s business he was free to go off on his own. When a series of pogroms broke out in Podolia Province, the General Jewish Workers’ League, the Bund, sent him and a brickyard worker named Scharfstein to see what could be done.

  It took them nearly three days by train to get from Cherkast to Proskurov, where they hired a sledge and set out for Kaminits-Podolsk, a small city located on the Bessarabian border. After the long train ride Hershel was too tired and cold to appreciate the scenery. Scharfstein drove the horse up into the mountain passes, past woods of jumbled undergrowth and half-frozen streams, through rich valleys stilled covered in snow.

  By the time they reached the town it was late and all the shops were closed. They didn’t bother to look around for the best room but took the first one they found, which happened to be in a respectable family hotel run by a Jewish widow and her daughters. The girl at the desk showed them the room, which only had a bed, a dresser, and a washstand.

  Once she had gone, Hershel and Scharfstein eyed the bed and decided it was too small for two no matter how they positioned themselves. Hershel offered to flip a coin, but Scharfstein declined. He insisted that Hershel take it. “You’re paying for it. Why shouldn’t you have it?” Scharfstein had a wife, five children, and no money for train tickets or hotel rooms, so it was understood that Hershel paid for everything.

  The next morning Hershel walked into the Podolia Trade Bank looking for Mendel Kramer. At first glance, the place looked like any other bank: neoclassical columns holding up a vaulted ceiling, heavy oak counters, and an immense safe in the back, all sturdy and well built to give the impression of solidity and permanence. But this was no ordinary bank. One only had to look at the clerks to know that; their beards were untrimmed, their collars yellow and limp, their shoes too comfortable and in need of a shine.

  Mendel Kramer met him at the door and shook his hand. “Monsieur Alshonsky, it’s so good of you to come by on such short notice. If you’ll step over to my desk, I’ll explain the problem with the loan.” He said this in a loud voice for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. Lately, there had been talk that the Literary Society had been infiltrated by members of the Okhranka, the czar’s secret police. Although there was no concrete evidence of this, precautions had to be taken.

  Kramer was a large man with a thick moustache that covered his entire upper lip. His face was shaped by his large, slightly protruding eyes and the dark hollows beneath them. Hershel had met him on several occasions in private homes and once in Kiev at a concert. He had gotten the impression of a man who was dedicated to the party but not a fanatic, measured in his actions, judicial, a thoughtful man that could be trusted.

  After they sat down Kramer took out a file from his desk and showed it to Hershel. Hershel noticed that it was a mortgage written on a warehouse for a man named Joseph Blank. He pretended to look it over while they talked.

  “They were supposed to arrive last week, so we are all pretty worried,” Mendel Kramer said, as he pointed out a clause to Hershel. “We think they may have been confiscated in Chernivtsi, but not by the authorities. We would have heard otherwise. Somebody has them and it looks like they want to keep them. Still, you never know. They could turn up. Or maybe an offer will be made and we can buy them back. How soon are you going?”

  “Now.”

  “Then you have a problem, my friend.”

  “You don’t have any here . . . a few revolvers, a rifle or two?”

  “Everything we have is up in Frampol. There’s been a lot of trouble up there lately. I know this isn’t good news, but there’s a chance the shipment will turn up.”

  Hershel shook his head. “I’m not going to wait.”

  “You might want to think about it. Otherwise you’ll have to cross the border yourself. It’s not so easy up there. I can’t think where you can buy them safely. It might be wise to wait.”

  Hershel knew he was right. The sensible thing would be to wait and see if the arms arrived. Otherwise, he would have to send Scharfstein across to Austria, and there would be no guarantee he would find what they needed or be able to smuggle them back across the border. He admired men like Kramer, thoughtful men who lived lives of measured calculation. He often thought he’d like to be more like him. But his nature was otherwise and there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it.

  “I won’t wait. There isn’t time.”

  “Yes. I understand,” Kramer murmured. And he did too. They chatted for a while longer, mostly for appearances’ sake. Then Kramer got up and walked Hershel to the door, where they shook hands. He stood there watching while Hershel climbed up on the sledge next to Scharfstein, picked up the reins, and snapped them once.

  THE TOWN of Smotrich was located north of Kaminits, about sixty versts east of the Austrian border. It was built on the edge of a forest and named after the river that flowed through it. On the right bank was the town, and on the left, across the town’s only bridge, was a sugar beet factory owned by a rich family who lived in Kiev. Beyond the factory were great stretches of snowy sugar beet fields, broken up here and there by peasant villages, which were merely a line of huts on either side of the road. Smotrich was a real town; it had a proper square, a firehouse, and a collection of shops including a tavern and a tearoom. There were several heders, a yeshiva, eight small synagogues, and a hundred Jewish families. The pride of the town was the Great Synagogue, which was said to be “world famous” for its elaborately decorated ark.

  “Call out again,” said Scharfstein. “There has to be someone around.”

  “I called out twice already.”

  “Well, call louder. Maybe no one heard us.”

  They had arrived in the town square late in the afternoon just as the sleet was turning to snow. They had found the town deserted and locked up tight. They drove around the square looking for the starusta, but so far no one had appeared, only a yellow dog picking his way down a snowy lane. Before Hershel had time to call out again, the door to the butcher shop opened and a man clutching a greatcoat over his round belly poked his head out and called to them.

  “You Reb Alshonsky?” he asked. He had graying red hair and wore a visor cap.

  Hershel prodded the horse and she ambled up toward the man. “Yes. We’re looking for the starusta.”

  “I’m Yudel Polik, the butcher. We have been waiting for you.”

  “Is there some place for the horse?”

  “Don’t worry about the horse. They will come for her.” He held the door open.

  They jumped down, grabbed their bags from the sledge, and followed the butcher inside. The shop smelled of meat and was nearly as cold as it was outside. The glass case was empty, but hanging above it were a dozen sausages.

  “It ’s gotten worse,” Polik said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Much worse.” He was leading them back behind the counter to the staircase. “The babas in the village are saying a Christian girl has been raped. They ’re saying it was a Jew.”

  Hershel exchanged a look with Scharfstein. The old women in the peasant villages were always starting rumors. And it was always about the next village over and about girls no one knew. “Where is everybody ? Did they run away?”

  “No, they ’re hiding.”

  “Well, you better call them out.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now.”

  He thought about it. “Yes, all right.” Then he lowered his voice as he labored up the stairs. “Just don’t say anything in front of my wife. She’s frightened enough as it is. She doesn’t know about the rumor.”

  From up above they could hear his wife calling down to them. Her voice was brittle with fear. Reb Polik called back, assuring her that everything was all right. Everyone would be safe. The strangers had arrived.

  WHEN HERSHEL walked into the firehouse that evening, he had only to glance around to understand the politics that divided Smotrich. On one side of the roo
m were the shopkeepers and officials in folding chairs. These were the Zionists, the righteous men, who longed for a homeland in Palestine. On the other side, sitting on benches or leaning up against the wall, were the workers from the sugar beet refinery and the tannery. They were Bundists and believed, like the Mensheviks, in revolution and a new socialist order. Usually the Zionists went to synagogue and the Bundists to the tearoom, both taking pains to avoid the other. But last week a pogrom broke out in Frampol and twenty people were murdered. Today there were no Bundists or Zionists in Smotrich, only frightened men desperate to protect their families.

  Hershel didn’t have the words for an inspiring speech, nor was there time. The best he could do for them was to give them a job to do. The carpenters were told to make pikes out of ash wood, and the blacksmith was ordered to make spearheads for them. The roofer was sent to help households reinforce their doors and windows, and the locksmith was told to replace flimsy locks with strong ones. He ordered sentries to stand guard day and night on the road leading into town and on the bridge. He ordered night patrols for the town. He picked men at random, often pairing a Zionist with a Bundist. Nobody seemed to notice. Then he told the rest to meet him in the morning for target practice.

  THAT NIGHT they went back to Yudel Polik’s apartment and sat down to supper with his four young sons and his wife. She was a plump woman, twenty years younger than her husband. She had a round, pleasant face, but her features were still with fear. After the blessing, she put a bowl of beets and potatoes on the table and passed around a platter of beef. While Reb Polik helped himself to an enormous slab, she asked Scharfstein about his wife and children. Her voice was strained and her eyes kept straying to the window at every sound. Once she stopped midsentence and looked up, alert, tense, perhaps listening for something beneath the wind.