The Little Russian

by Susan Sherman

  “No, no, you’ve been very helpful. I can’t tell you how helpful you’ve been.” She took Gorbunova’s hand, kissed it, and held it to her cheek. “This has meant everything to me. I’m very grateful.”

  The old woman looked relieved and visibly lightened after that. Perhaps it felt like her previous life had returned to her. They chatted for a while and then took their time saying good-bye. Berta parted the sheet and left the way she came.

  TH AT NIGHT, after Samuil went to sleep, she sat up at the little table, with Sura’s locket wrapped around her fingers. The street was deserted because of the curfew. A jagged edge of moonlight sliced through a section of the alley and illuminated the soggy rubbish that had recently been resurrected after the first melt. Berta closed her eyes and whispered: “Sura, it’s Mameh. Where are you?” The wind outside blew the papers about and scattered the clouds across the sky.

  “Try, maideleh. Try to talk to me. It’s Mameh.”

  Night creaks of an old building.

  Are you there?

  Scratching in the walls.

  She sat for some time, listening for a response. When none came she concentrated very hard, closed her eyes, and imagined the words flying out the window on the wind. She saw them flying on the currents over the earth, over Little Russia and off to Europe. Now, they were riding a gale over the ocean, now on a wind rippling the sands of a desert. She saw them all jumbled up on a gust over the glassy surface of a lake and tumbling back into order over a swollen stream. Finally they came drifting in on a breath.

  Are you there?

  “Yes,” came the answer. Clear and strong.

  But it wasn’t Sura who answered the question.

  It was Hershel.

  Chapter Nineteen

  March 1920

  BERTA SAT on the top step of the stoop, cleaning a chicken. It lay across her lap, its head drooping over her knees, her fingers straining with the breast feathers as she pulled them out and stuffed them into a sack. Lhaye would be grateful for them. There wouldn’t be many, but someday, if more chickens came her way, she would have enough for a pillow. Pavel was sitting a step below her watching the children playing war in the street. The battle consisted of lobbing small chunks of rubble at each other accompanied by the sounds of explosions, running, hiding, and dying dramatically.

  Pavel had come over late in the afternoon to bring her the chicken along with a fresh loaf of hard-crusted bread and a box of sugar. She invited him for supper. She had no idea where he got these things and never asked. She figured he was a thief or maybe some big macher in the black market, although he certainly didn’t act like one. He didn’t brag or throw his money around, and he rarely talked about himself. Mostly they talked about Moscow in the old days. She was older by at least ten years, but they knew the same families, rode and skated in Petrovka Park, sledded down the same hills, and summered at neighboring estates. Once he told her he had been in a labor camp and was freed after the Kerenskii revolution. He never gave her any details, not even how he lost his finger, and she never asked, though she wanted to know.

  As she worked to clean the bird she told him about the peddlers, about the woman they were looking for from the Berezina, and what Gorbunova had said about someone trying to communicate with her. She didn’t tell him about the answer she received the night before, because now, in the light of day, it seemed ridiculous. Like one of her mother’s stories.

  “I want to go to Poland,” she said, struggling with a stubborn pin feather.

  He looked up at her and then back at the children. “It’s dangerous. They’re shooting people at the border. How would you get across?”

  “I thought maybe you’d know. I’ve heard there are people who take you for a fee.”

  “Yes, and sometimes they take your money and dump your body in the middle of the river. There are always bodies washing up on shore drowned or shot in the head. And what about Samuil?”

  “What is there for him here? What future would he have? I just buried one child, I won’t bury another.”

  Pavel reached up and grabbed a feather that was floating away. The oldest boy in the street ordered his younger brother away. He didn’t want to go, so the bigger boy dragged him to the curb and told him to stay put, explaining in detail what would happen to him if he didn’t. Then the bigger boy returned to the battle, while the younger one watched from the curb. His coat was threadbare and one sleeve hung by a few threads. His nose was red and the cold had turned his knees purple.

  “You’ll need some money,” Pavel said. “I can give you what you need.”

  “I can’t promise to pay you back. I’ll try, but there’s no guarantee.”

  He let the feather float away and then stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I won’t need it back. When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “I can get you a travel permit.”

  “Will it look good?” She assumed it would be a forgery.

  He laughed. “It won’t have to. It’ll be official.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  They sat there talking while she finished cleaning the bird. She didn’t want to think about what lay ahead so they talked about Moscow, about Kartsev’s chocolates in the Upper Trading Rows and about Elizaveta Fedorovna’s wedding, which they had both attended, she, as a guest of the bride, he, as a little boy. Their talk meandered to other families, to summers in the country, to picking mushrooms and making wild strawberry jam, and never once did they mention the revolution, the labor camps, the prisons, the mass shootings, the hunger, or pogroms, or the journey she was about to take.

  LHAYE HAD been sitting at the little table for most of the morning watching Berta tack up the fabric to make it look like blouses and then stuffing it into bundles to disguise it as old clothes. Inside the lengths she hid soap, candles, matches, and pouches of tobacco. Lhaye had been arguing with her ever since she found out that Berta was going to Warsaw. No matter how many times Berta tried to explain it to her, she couldn’t understand such foolishness. They were shooting people for nothing. What made her think she could get across the border? Why would she risk Samuil’s life to go to Poland because of what some peddlers were saying? It was crazy. If she wanted to leave, she should have gone with Hershel in the first place. Now, it was too late.

  “And even if you do manage to get across, you don’t speak Polish and you mustn’t speak Russian. They shoot Russians in Poland.” Her voice was brittle with anxiety and incipient tears. It was nearly time for Berta to leave.

  Berta stopped what she was doing, came over, and took up Lhaye’s hands in her own. “We’ve been through all this. Please don’t worry. I know where to go. I have enough money. We’ll be all right.”

  Lhaye could smell the kerosene that Berta had smeared on her neck, wrists, and ankles as a safeguard against lice. She walked over to the window and looked down into the street. Samuil was already there waiting with Pavel. “And what if you do manage to get there and you find out that Hershel’s not looking for you? What if he’s dead? What proof do you have that he’s even alive?”

  “I’m not going to argue anymore.”

  “Berta, think about it. You’ll be in Warsaw with no place to go. You won’t know anyone or even speak the language. You won’t have any money. Can’t you see how dangerous this is?”

  “Come down with me. I want to say good-bye down there.”

  Lhaye’s cheeks flushed and she started to cry even as she struggled against it. Berta came over to her and put her arms around her shoulders. The smell of kerosene was overpowering.

  “Lhaye . . . mein teiers, we’ll be all right. You’ll see. Please, let’s not argue anymore. We have so little time.”

  “I’m afraid,” Lhaye sobbed, holding her sister close. “I don’t want you to go.”

  Berta stroked her hair and brushed her forehead with her lips. “I know. I know.”

  When Lhaye had collected her
self, she walked Berta down the stairs and out to the sidewalk. There she said good-bye to Samuil, telling him to take good care of his mother. She kissed him and hugged Berta one last time, swallowing hard to keep back the tears. She said nothing to Pavel, because she blamed him for Berta’s reckless decision. After all, he had provided the money and the travel permits. As she watched them walk away, her dear ones, the last of her extended family, Berta turned back once and waved to her. She was crying. Lhaye couldn’t wave back. She could only stand there until they disappeared in the crowd.

  THEY FOUND the station empty except for a few wounded soldiers on cots in the corner, an old woman and two young children, and a nursing mother sitting on a bench near the door. Berta knew they had just missed the train. Then, as if to confirm this fact, the passengers that weren’t able to find seats began trudging back in from the platform. Most were grim faced because they had been waiting for days and now they were going to have to wait even longer for the next one.

  “You don’t have to stay with us,” Berta said to Pavel. “We’ll be all right. We’ll find a seat by the door and wait there.”

  “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  He left her standing there and walked over to the two militiamen by the platform door. They were dressed in greatcoats and lambskin papakhas emblazoned with a red star. At first she thought he was going to bribe them and was apprehensive because she had never bribed a Red Army soldier before. So it took her by surprise when, before he could say anything at all, they jumped to attention and saluted him smartly. “Comrade Commissar!” they said, nearly in unison.

  “I want to see this woman on the train,” he said, glancing back at her.

  “Yes, Comrade Commissar.”

  He motioned to Berta and Samuil and they came forward and followed him out through the open doorway to the platform. Berta was dumbfounded. Clearly she had been wrong about Pavel. He was neither a thief nor a black marketeer. Now she didn’t know what to think about him.

  Outside the air was frigid and smelled of smoke and grease. The rafters were filled with pigeons that wheeled overhead and fought over places to perch. Behind them the militiamen followed at a respectful distance; ahead the train idled on the tracks, a deep-throated rumbling coming from the engine. People were everywhere, sprawled on the roof and on the bumpers; every stair was taken, as was every seat inside.

  “You are a commissar?” she asked, as they walked down the length of the train.

  He looked weary and slightly annoyed. “I suppose I am.”

  “Of what?”

  “Does it matter?”

  As they approached the last carriage, the militiamen went on ahead. The muzhiki saw them coming and moved off the steps so they could go inside. Berta could see them through the windows ordering two passengers out of their seats. They were peasants dressed in belted sheepskin coats. They got up without an argument, at first searching for another place to sit, but seeing none, gave up and left the train. The militiamen came back to report that the seats had been cleared. Samuil climbed the steps and went inside, while she stopped on the first and turned back to Pavel. But he was already walking away—looking as he always did: sour, exhausted, a disappointed man.

  She saw him signal the engineer in the locomotive as he passed. A moment later the whistle blew, steam blasted out over the tracks, and the train lurched forward with such force that it sent the passengers in the aisles tumbling into each other. As the train began to move out of the station she climbed into the carriage and found her seat by the window. Soon the wheels were clanking over the switches and smoke was pouring out of the stack. She saw him through the glass, standing on the siding just beyond the platform. He was searching for her among the passengers at the windows. She thought he must have seen her. For in the next instant, Pavel Ossipovich Lepeshkin raised a hand to say good-bye.

  SHE SPENT that day seated next to Samuil, looking out the window at the passing fields and farmhouses still wrapped in winter corn husks. The fields had lost most of their snow, revealing black patches of bare earth sparsely sprinkled in new green shoots. Occasionally, she would see a muzhik, his sturdy pony and his family struggling to free a cart that had gotten stuck in the mud. The roads were mired in it, as were the yards around the houses. The sun was getting warmer and the whole region seemed to be waiting for the fields to dry out so planting could begin.

  The train stopped at every country station along the way, sometimes for hours at a time. The peasants were trading freely at these stations despite the new edicts. It took only a few steps around a corner to trade a length of fabric for a meat pie or a pouch of tobacco for a chicken or roasted hare. During one long wait Berta and Samuil got off the train, took a stroll through the little town, came back, brewed some tea, and made a picnic in the park by the depot.

  That night Berta had a hard time sleeping. She and Samuil had made themselves as comfortable as possible, using their bundles for pillows, drawing their coats up around their shoulders, and settling in for the night. Samuil fell asleep easily, but Berta was kept up by an old man across the aisle whose choking snores rose above the clatter of the wheels. Finally she threw off her coat and got up. She stepped across the aisle and nudged the old man until he shifted position and quieted down long enough for her to fall asleep.

  It was near dawn when the train suddenly lurched forward with a piercing screech and stuttered to a stop. The passengers were thrown into the seat backs in front of them, while those on the floor were sent tumbling into each other, their bundles and suitcases torn from their hands, women screaming, men grunting, children crying out in shock and pain. Berta hit her head on the seat back. Samuil flew against the window. The train came to a dead stop in the middle of an expansive field. Outside all was quiet except for the muffled cries of the passengers that sounded like the faraway roar of a river. Inside Berta and Samuil scrambled to their feet and started to retrieve their things. Others were also struggling to get up, calming children, rubbing elbows and heads, dazed and searching for their belongings.

  “What happened, Mameh?” Samuil asked, once they had taken their seats again.

  People in the carriage were beginning to ask the same question. One old man seated across the aisle held up a bloody rag that he had been holding to his nose. “It might be the Directory,” he said, referring to the Ukrainian troops.

  “Or Hryhoriiv’s army,” said another voice from the back.

  The Jews in the carriage fell silent at the mention of this name. Nykyfor Hryhoriiv was the bloodiest of the warlords. His army was notorious for the kind of pogroms they waged. If they had stopped the train, then the men would be dragged off and shot, their bodies mutilated and thrown into a ditch. The women would be raped until they died or went mad, and their children killed for sport.

  A young man dressed in the uniform of a commercial high school student jumped to his feet. “I’ll go and see what I can find out.”

  “Me too,” Samuil said, jumping up.

  Berta grabbed his arm and pulled him down. “You’ll wait right here,” she said severely. He lowered his eyes and gave her a look of reproach. She had humiliated him in public. He was still too young to see the difference between humiliation and death at the hands of Hryhoriiv’s army.

  While the student was gone, the passengers strained to hear what was going on outside. Someone said it was too quiet for Hryhoriiv’s army. Someone else said they may have hit a cow.

  The student returned and struggled with the door until it swung open, bringing with it a rush of cold air. He was a particular young man and made sure the door was properly closed before he turned back to the anxious crowd.

  “Well? What is it?” asked a woman sharply. Her face was stiff and pale with fear.

  “The Reds. They’re clearing the train.”

  “We have to get off?” asked the man across the aisle.

  “Here?” asked a woman incredulously. She had two young children.

  “But there’s nothing out there,
” said Samuil looking out the window anxiously.

  “Hush,” said Berta. “It’s still only a rumor.”

  A line of passengers trudged past their window carrying baskets and bundles. Shortly after that, the carriage door opened and two soldiers and a Red Army officer walked in out of the cold. They were bundled up in greatcoats and wore caps with a red star on the visors. The officer had dark, closely cropped hair and a pockmarked face with round cheeks like a rodent. He stepped forward, looked around at the anxious faces, and said, “Comrades, this train has been requisitioned. You are all ordered off immediately. It is needed in the heroic struggle against the counterrevolutionary imperialist forces. Anyone who makes any trouble will be considered a counterrevolutionist and shot on the spot.” He stood there a moment longer as if to drive the point home, then turned and left with his fellow soldiers.

  At first no one moved. Then a peddler in the back rose and started to gather up his bundles. A couple got up after that and then a few muzhiki and soon the entire carriage was on its feet getting ready to leave. There were so many questions: Where would they go, how far to the next town, where could they stay the night, how long before the next train? Everyone wanted to know the answers, but no one was willing to ask.

  Berta and Samuil gathered up their bundles and followed the line of passengers out the carriage door and down the steps. Outside, the air was cold in the frayed half-light of dawn. Vaporous trails of mist swirled up from the rich black earth. They were standing in the middle of a large field surrounded by birch trees, their papery bark curling around their thick trunks, the undergrowth around them softened into a blur of muted colors by the morning fog. Up the track they could see the railroad workers uncoupling the locomotive. Ahead of that was an armored train stretched out on the tracks, silent and dark, an ancient monolith in the gathering light.