by Dan Millman
No, he reasoned, they had to be in Ukraine, where atrocities against the Jewish people continued. But Ukraine, stretching more than a thousand kilometers from the north to the south and from west to east, tested his strong heart and will. He might as well have been searching for a coin buried in a forest.
Sergei zigzagged west then east and ever southward, toward Kiev, the center of Ukraine. He followed rumors like a scent but found only trails of smoke that dissipated in the wind.
Avoiding the larger city centers, Sergei sought out isolated cabins, farms, and small settlements, where Zakolyev’s band was more likely to strike. Near one such settlement he spoke with an elderly Jewish man who, lacking a horse or mule, was pulling his own cart. The old man offered to share a little bread from his meager stores.
“Thank you, but I need information more than food. Have you heard of any recent pogroms?”
“Who hasn’t?” the elder replied. “In settlements outside Kiev, Minsk, Poltava, and elsewhere, horsemen appear from now here. Wolves dressed like men. No, worse than wolves, because they kill their own kind—men, women, children, it’s all the same to them. For what reason? What reason?”
When Sergei asked him where such marauders were last sighted, his eyes turned down and he would not or could not speak. He only shook his head slowly, back and forth.
AS WINTER CAME, Sergei’s patience grew thin. He rode across frozen soil, wrapped in his long burka, leaning into the wind. Grim and haggard, he pushed Paestka onward. But doubts plagued him.
For all his skill and discernment, Sergei could not track men by sniffing the air, nor could he see the faces of men in a bent twig. He needed tangible signs, omens, clues—a sense of direction. Until he found something tangible he could only follow rumors to gossip, and gossip to settlements, where he might find witnesses. In the meantime, his questions were answered by puzzled looks and fingers pointing in different directions.
He fasted and prayed for a clear path to his son, but no sign appeared. Then he thought, Maybe I’m asking the wrong question. His breathing changed, and he descended into a deep trance and lost all sense of his body. In that state he asked, Where is Dmitri Zakolyev?
The answer came in a form quite different from the one he expected. Out of the void, the face of Dmitri Zakolyev flickered before him—the same sallow skin, blond hair, and dead eyes. He had not imagined that face; he had actually seen it—and he felt the full force of Zakolyev’s torment and madness. He felt it as his own.
.43.
AT THAT EXACT MOMENT, as Dmitri Zakolyev lay sleeping, the face of Sergei Ivanov suddenly loomed before him. He awoke in a panic, seeing Sergei the Monster standing over him. He gasped for breath, his eyes wide, peering into the darkness. The face of his enemy showed no anger but something closer to…pity. Then the face vanished.
Zakolyev rose quickly and paced frantically, pounding his head with his fist. A momentary impulse arose, to tell his daughter the truth. But what was the truth? If only he could remember…
WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN, Konstantin and Paulina were almost inseparable. Now Konstantin cherished each brief opportunity to meet—like the time he found Paulina between training sessions, sitting with her feet in the cold stream above the falls, not far from their hiding place. He sat down next to her, removed his shoes, and let his bare feet join hers in the brisk waters. In that moment, he nearly asked her to run away with him. But words failed him—he had no idea where to begin. So he said nothing, out of cowardice, out of love.
Paulina now looked at her Konstantin in a way that made her blush at times. She had seen one of the men with Oxana, out behind the barn. It had seemed coarse and crude, with the noises they made. But now she wasn’t so certain. It was as if her mind and body could not agree on this, the end of innocence. Paulina had no one with whom she could share her inner turmoil, not even Konstantin. Especially not Konstantin.
ONE MORNING after Elena had left the cabin, Paulina opened her locket and was gazing at the faces of her grandparents when Father Dmitri passed by her room and said, “Get to practice. Yergovich will be waiting.”
Paulina sighed. Yergovich was always there, waiting. One day she would rise earlier and get to the barn before him. But not today. She was too tired—she felt off balance, cranky, and…something else she couldn’t name.
As Father Dmitri was about to leave. Paulina pointed to the photograph and said, “Father, I’ve been curious…you don’t look at all like your father—your hair is light and his is dark, and—”
“Do not trouble me with such nonsense!” he said. “Just remember who killed them, and increase your efforts in training!” He slammed the cabin door.
Hurt and angry at this unjust rebuff, Paulina trained so furiously that morning that she pulled a muscle in her arm while throwing Great Yergovich. She flinched with a stab of pain.
“What’s wrong, little one?” he asked.
“It’s nothing, Bear—just a strain. I’ll be all right; don’t tell my father.” She tried to lift her arm, then bit her lip.
“No, it is not all right,” he said. “Go put your arm in the stream until you cannot feel it. Then rest.”
“No rest!” she cried. “I need to train harder!”
“First you soak your arm, then we’ll see.”
“First you soak your head!” she cried, running off too fast for the Bear to catch her.
Paulina sat alone in her room, as depressed as she could remember. Rubbing her arm, she decided that maybe she should put it into the cold stream. It would take her mind off her father’s anger. She had no idea why she had displeased him with a simple question. He was the one who had given her the locket in the first place—and it was a natural question. But apparently not one he wanted to hear…
She turned to find Father Dmitri standing in the doorway of their simple cabin, looking disheveled and distraught. Paulina silently chastised herself for losing control. She wanted to apologize, but something held her back. Why should she apologize? For what?
She just stood there, staring at the floor until he spoke. “Paulina, I’m sorry I spoke with you harshly. I didn’t want to talk about your grandparents because it brings back too many terrible memories.”
He came and sat on her bed. His voice was hoarse with emotion as he said, “I know I bear little resemblance to my father, but not every child looks like his parents. It’s lucky that you do not look like me. You are fortunate to resemble your mother. Still, you and I share a birthmark…”
He pulled back his straw-colored hair to reveal a red mark on his neck, like the one she bore.
“We are the same blood, you and I,” he said, touching her hair. “That is why I’ve trusted you to…why you need to train even harder. I remind you that Sergei Ivanov is not only a well-trained fighter; his voice also has the power to deceive and enchant…make you believe that earth is sky and black is white. So when you meet him, you cannot give him a chance to speak his lies or he will confuse and then kill you.” Father Dmitri had told her this so many times she had memorized his words.
When he turned and left her, Paulina touched the raised mark on her neck. She hated the monster Sergei Ivanov for making her father suffer. One day she would find him. One day he would pay.
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, during an afternoon practice, Paulina was frightened to find blood on her pants and on her leg. Yergovich excused her without another word; he must have thought it was serious too. She ran from the barn back to her cabin and tried to find the wound. She wasn’t hurting—just a little cramp deep in her belly. She wondered if it was some kind of illness.
Shura entered the cabin a few minutes later. “Yergovich told me,” she said—and she was smiling, which only confused Paulina more. “It’s normal, means you are a woman, now—no longer a girl. About time; you’re later than most. The bleeding will happen every month. Now go change your pants. For a day you will probably need to train lighter.” Shura gave her a few pieces of cloth and said, “When you bleed, put some of t
hese up in between your legs.” Then she turned and left before Paulina could ask her about anything else.
What other mysteries don’t I know? she wondered. What else have they not told me? She touched her neck, recalling what Shura had said about a burning stick.
THE NEXT DAY Paulina fell ill with chills and fever. She couldn’t keep her food down. Her head spun, and she couldn’t even stand. She had never been so sick. Elena avoided her, but Old Shura came and put cool cloths on Paulina’s forehead, touched her cheek, and made warm drinks that tasted awful.
Hazy images passed through her mind in that netherworld between waking and sleeping. There was something she wanted to ask Shura, but she couldn’t think of it…Then other questions arose that she had never thought to ask…about herself and the world around her. What does my future hold? How many years will I spend hunting a man who might not even be alive?
She needed to see Kontin—to talk with him, to take his hand, to look into his dark eyes…He was her eyes and ears, her connection to the world—a world outside the barn, her purpose, her prison…
Her reveries were interrupted by a harsh voice. “Get out of bed!” said Father Dmitri, standing stiffly in the doorway, staring at her. “You have to train, if only a little!”
Paulina tried hard to rise but fell back and slept.
When she next opened her eyes, a wet cloth lay across her feverish brow. She looked up to see Konstantin sitting on her bed, stroking her hair. “Kontin!” she whispered. “What if my father finds you here?”
“Shhhh,” he said. “He’s away on…patrol.” He sat with her, and his smile lifted her spirits, even though it was a sad smile. She closed her eyes to save his image as he spoke softly to her with a tenderness she had not heard before.
“Paulina,” he began in a whispered breath, leaning close to her, his breath in her ear, his hand stroking her hair. “You once told me a secret. Now I’ll tell you one so you will know that I trust you…and that I care.” He took a deep breath and looked into the distance. “If you share what I’m about to tell you with anyone, it will mean my death…”
Paulina, half in and half out of delirium, murmured, “You’ll never die…always here with me…”
“No, Paulina, listen—please! I need to tell you now, and you have to believe me! You’ve been kept in the dark about so many things—I don’t know all of it. But you can’t kill Sergei Ivanov—”
Konstantin turned back to Paulina. She was fast asleep.
AS KONSTANTIN LEFT Paulina to confused dreams, Zakolyev and his men were thundering down on a small, isolated farm. The farmer Yitschok had been urged by friends in a nearby town to move closer, where there might be help should trouble come, but Yitschok had disregarded their advice. “What is one to do?” he’d said with a shrug. “The Pale is large. They have not come anywhere near. And would I be safer near a settlement?” His friends only shook their heads; Yitschok was right—if these murderers came, there would be no safety anywhere.
Zakolyev’s band murdered Yitschok, and his wife and children. And Korolev did more than his share before the woman died. Zakolyev’s men set the farmhouse aflame. Sullen, they moved mechanically, no longer under any illusions that they were serving the Mother Church or the Tsar—only the Ataman’s will.
An argument broke out when some of the men wanted to take the children and others didn’t. Zakolyev cut them off. “Kill them. Now. Do it quickly!” His version of mercy, and they obeyed.
Before they torched the cabin, Zakolyev’s band confiscated anything of value. Later, the Ataman would search through every trunk saved from the fire, rifling through photographs and other personal items. But today he found a special prize—one of the finest horses he had ever seen, deep chestnut, wild eyes—a warhorse if he had ever seen one.
As flames danced from the farmhouse behind them, lighting the evening sky, Ataman Zakolyev laughed. In a manic mood, he slipped a halter over the frightened stallion and announced, “I name him Vozhd—Chieftain!”
All was well for another moment, until the fool Gumlinov blurted out, “He is indeed a great horse, Ataman Zakolyev—but of course you recall that my horse has also been called Vozhd these past three years. Surely we cannot both have a horse with the same—”
Gumlinov’s words stuck in his throat when he saw Zakolyev’s expression—abruptly calm, almost serene as he approached Gumlinov’s horse, joking to his trusted man, “Well, thank goodness you are named Gumlinov instead of Zakolyev, or people would have trouble telling us apart.” This broke the tension, and the men, including Gumlinov, bellowed with nervous laughter.
The laughter died as Zakolyev drew his saber and with one stroke sliced through the knee of Gumlinov’s horse, completely severing the leg. With a shriek, the shocked animal tried to rear up but instead toppled over, its severed leg spurting blood. As the animal whinnied in agony, a horrified Gumlinov stumbled backward, his eyes darting from his suffering horse to Zakolyev.
The rest of the men stared in silence, their mouths open. They had seen the Ataman do many strange things, but this—cruelty to a horse—was sacrilege, and their Cossack blood boiled.
So it was that the last of the mortar holding together Zakolyev’s mind began to crumble. He picked up the severed leg as if it were a piece of wood, and said in a calm, lighthearted tone, “At least now we will be able to tell our two horses apart.” Tossing the leg over his shoulder, the Ataman walked to his old horse and mounted, gripping the halter rope that held his new steed. He called down to Gumlinov, “Better find a new name for your horse—or better yet, find a new horse to name.”
Zakolyev wheeled around, and the others followed, leaving Gumlinov to put the poor beast out of its misery. Soon the dead and bloodied horse lay at Gumlinov’s feet. Twenty meters beyond lay the burning pyre of another family of Jews. Then Gumlinov lifted his saddle over his shoulder and started walking toward an old mare they had let out of the corral.
A loyal member of the band for fifteen years, Gumlinov did not dare to kill Dmitri Zakolyev; but he would love the man who did.
He had decided not to follow the others to their next raid farther north—not on a broken-down, swaybacked horse. Let them butcher the next village without his help. “I’m tired of killing horses,” he said, “tired of killing Jews.”
DURING HER FATHER’S ABSENCE, Paulina grew strong enough to get out of bed and limber up. She had always liked stretching; it made her feel like a cat.
She missed Konstantin. She wanted to feel his hand stroke her hair again—or had she just imagined it? Maybe it was only a dream, she thought. But he had said something to her; she could still remember his breath in her ear. Was it something about her father? She felt angry then, without knowing why.
The next day she asked Elena, “Have you ever seen Konstantin with any of the other girls?”
“I really don’t know,” Elena said curtly, “but I don’t think so.”
Paulina was relieved but wary. She placed little trust in Elena’s words. The woman was no more than her father’s servant—always formal and distant, ever so careful with the Ataman’s daughter—as if Paulina were a duty like cleaning and cooking. Elena didn’t care about her; that was clear. Then why did she pretend? Why did everyone pretend?
Paulina felt like she lived in a cabin of secrets, in a camp of lies.
.44.
IN APRIL OF 1910, as his search continued from village to village, Sergei rounded a hill and saw in the distance the still-smoldering ruins of a small farm. The stench called forth memories of the Abramovich cabin those many years ago. For a moment he felt physically sick with grief for those buried beneath the rubble.
Riding closer, he spied a man standing near the ruins, stooped over by grief, his head bowed in prayer. Dismounting, Sergei walked the last thirty meters to avoid startling the older man, who might not welcome a mounted rider at the moment—especially one who looked like a Cossack. As Sergei approached, he continued scanning the ground for tracks.
When Sergei drew near, he stopped and stood respectfully, waiting until the grieving man looked up, at last aware of Sergei’s presence.
“I’m sorry,” Sergei said. “Were they relations?”
“Are we not all related?”
“Yes, I believe we are.” This old man reminded Sergei of his grandfather Heschel.
“They were my friends. Now they are ashes.”
“Did you see what happened…the men who did this?”
“I was riding to see Yitschok and his good wife…and his three children…” He sighed and after a long pause added, “and as my cart approached, I saw smoke in the distance. I hurried to help, thinking that the barn might be burning. But then—before the farm came into sight—I heard the shouts of men, then…a woman’s scream…and the children…oh, the children!” He held his head in his hands.
“You heard men? How many?” Sergei asked, drawing him back to the present.
“How many? I don’t know…maybe ten. I only saw them from a distance. I was hiding…like a coward—”
“Like a wise man,” Sergei said. “You saw them ride away?”
“Yes.” The man shivered then shook his head sadly.
“Which way were they riding? Please. It’s important.”
The man hesitated, then pointed to the southwest.
Sergei led Paestka twenty meters in that direction. His pulse quickened when he came upon the hoofprints of at least ten horses—the freshest trail he had found since his search began. If Zakolyev’s band had done this, they might have only an hour’s lead—two at the most.
Before riding off, he returned to the old man. “Can you describe any of them?”
“No, I was hiding. But there was one who seemed taller than the rest—a giant. That’s all I know.”
“Thank you. I’m so sorry about your friends. Do you need anything before I go?”
