I sat for a long while at the table before opening the letter. I must have drunk four or five cups of tea. I was sure that my fate was sealed in its contents. I closed my eyes and thought of nothing and everything, all at once, just as my own grandfather had taught me. I envisioned myself wandering through a dark labyrinth. My hands grasped for the walls, which were solid and unbroken. In some form or another, I had been wandering this way for thousands of years. And yet, suddenly, I was also very aware of the entirety of the labyrinth, each corridor and tunnel and secret passageway. I had never seen the center and I was certain I never would, but I was also certain that it was bathed in luminous moonlight. How badly I wanted to find the center! To lie in that moonlight and let it blanket my skin and let whatever needed to happen to me happen. But I was lost in that labyrinth and there was nothing I could really do about it.
When I finally opened my eyes, I was able to give myself over to fate. In the first two pages or so, Alexander wrote about his health and good fortune and explained in detail about his recent move to Moscow, following Yudenich’s failed siege in Petrograd, in which he had played a vital role. He wrote that he was in charge of new operations in the Don, but that he was not at liberty to say more. He also wrote for some length about Moscow: an extraordinary city brimming with new artists and workers, a city that would be the center of the world in ten years, a city on the brink of history’s end. Afterward, the tone of the letter changed, and he became more personal. I don’t have the letter with me. It was too dangerous to keep it. But I remember some of his exact words: I often think of our last argument just before you left for Vitebsk. If only there were a way for me to show you. If only there were a way to reconcile that day, I would invite you here, to Moscow, but I know in my heart you would not come. In any matter, dear friend, I believe your life is currently in danger.
Following this, Alexander briefly stated that the man who had visited me had been with the White Army’s intelligence section. Then he gave me detailed instructions for emigration to the United States. For evident reasons, he couldn’t condone emigration to the United States, but he also understood that many Liteh Jews were going there. In his letter, I could sense a certain triumph, but also regret, and, if I’m not mistaken, a sad resignation in the certainty that our paths were diverging. For a long while, I stared and thought about those words: dear friend.
As a child in Vitebsk and as a student in Petrograd, I never had friends. Friendship was what other people experienced. For most of my life, I held the belief that I was surrounded by a thick mist. But here was a friend. One that understood me. At the end of the letter he wrote: It’s impossible to know where we will end up, but one day I think we will see each other again. I will find you, or, with any luck, you will find me. I have a certain confidence in this. I reread Alexander’s letter nearly ten times and committed it to memory before destroying it in the fireplace. Two days later, another polite and spotless Red Army soldier hand-delivered a thick envelope. There was no letter in it. Instead, it was full of money orders, traveling papers, and visas for Alinochka and me. Through Alexander’s friendship, I felt as if everything was connected in ways that were both microscopic and vast.
After three days of preparation, we left Vitebsk for Brest on a supply train. The train stopped in Minsk and Red Army soldiers boarded. They were clean-shaven and young, yet most looked tired beyond their years. From there, we traveled south by night into the Ukrainian territories that were claimed by both the Bolsheviks and the forces of the Ukrainian People’s Republic, who were in alliance with the Polish Army. In the outskirts of a small town, I was surprised to see a small unit of Ukrainian soldiers board our train. When I asked a Russian soldier about the Ukrainians, he explained to me that the Poles and Russians were both turning the Ukrainians against each other.
“The greatest hell,” he said to me, “is when you’re forced to kill your own brother.” At some point we slept, but I don’t remember when or for how long. The miles were ceaseless and full of flat plains and plateaus for as far as the eye could see. Sometimes on the western horizon, we could see strange outcroppings, possibly natural borders or the ruins of villages, which, later, in my dreams, took on the shape of human faces. In the sky, gray rain clouds formed in the east and then dispersed and then formed again.
At one point, the train stopped in the middle of a wheat field. A unit of soldiers got off the train and started marching east. I asked Alinochka to stay on the train and I got off with one of the captains to get a better look. It took a moment, but then I saw where the soldiers were headed. Hundreds of corpses lay on a road in the near distance. I couldn’t tell if the corpses were those of the enemies or ours. I guess it didn’t matter. Farther east, the entire wheat field was burning. Thick smoke rose from the field and cut its way eastward in the sky. The captain barked orders and passed around binoculars. I don’t remember for how long we watched the flames, but by the time the soldiers returned half the landscape was shriveled and black, a volcanic wasteland more than a wheat field. The captain told me to board the train. Inside, my beautiful Alinochka was sleeping and holding the small mound of her belly. That mound was you, Benjaminas.
Telling you all of this now, I realize that you were there for everything. How strange! At that moment, I felt deeply thankful for Alinochka and for life. I had never felt that before and I thought of fatherhood and the corpses and in some small perceptible way I wonder if this was the moment I truly understood that I could die. The sensation felt like I was passing through a wall. Finally, the train left and we headed west toward the Carpathian Mountains, leaving the burning field and civil war behind.
At the western Ukrainian border, we transferred to a passenger train headed for Budapest. From there we transferred to another passenger train for La Spezia, Italy. Although I was worried about the border crossings, all of our visas and papers were in working order. Alexander had thought of everything. After the Ukrainian border crossing, the trip was rather routine and Alinochka and I were grateful for the safety and increased comfort. By the first week in May, we arrived in La Spezia, a coastal port city that also served as a naval base. Many streets and buildings were still devastated by the previous war, but the city was also full of construction crews. New public buildings and monuments were being built everywhere. We couldn’t believe it. The city was restless and teeming with people. We lived quietly and happily in a small hotel room for five months. During the day, we walked the streets of La Spezia and talked and talked. In the evenings, we read Italian newspapers and novels. Then, one morning in mid-October 1920, we boarded a ship headed for New York City.
* * *
Saul unfolded his hands and stared at the candle. “It took nearly nine days to cross the rest of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic Ocean,” he said, “and each day was like a nightmare. As it turned out, we had third-class tickets. We spent most of our days and nights crowded together in small, luggage-filled rooms. Like rats. We slept and ate like rats, too. When we washed, we were forced to use salt water, which caused sores and infections. It was horrible. Anyway, these are details.” He touched the cards on the table and smiled. “All that’s important is that we survived.”
Saul looked at his son.
“Maybe we should stop there,” he said, “it’s late. And Maxwell does not want to hear every detail about the Atlantic crossing. Of course, he is tired.”
“I’m not tired,” said Maxwell. He picked up a stray card, a queen of spades, and imagined the Atlantic Ocean as his father had once described it—as a vast and horrific prophecy, a graveyard, a giant violet in full bloom.
“The rest of the story is something I only told your mother, Benjaminas. I have never told anyone else. It’s like a memory locked away. I want you boys to understand that,” he said.
“You should continue, tateh.”
“But—”
“If you stop now, tateh, you will never tell it.”
“Okay, I will tell.”
* * *
On the fourth day at sea, a man was murdered, said Saul. The rumor of the murder was like a whisper, maybe two or three people in our section of the ship had heard about it. Soon, though, the rumor took shape and quickly spread through the entire ship. The details were few, but clear. An Italian man in first class had been stabbed multiple times and left to bleed to death just outside his cabin door. At first, I didn’t think too much about the murder. These things happen all the time, especially on a ship full of thousands of people. But on the morning of the fifth day at sea, a handful of Italian sailors came to our section of the ship.
The sailors were mostly quiet, but one was armed with a pistol and he demanded in Italian that we move away from our luggage. He was the one in command. Some of the passengers—those that understood Italian—moved away and stood off to the side, even if there was not much room. Alinochka and I translated for those who didn’t understand.
Then the sailors started grabbing our luggage at random. Since most of the trunks and suitcases were locked, they had to wait for the owners to unlock them. The sailors then spilled the entire contents of the trunks and suitcases on the ship floor. They searched everything in great detail: clothes, papers, books, cigarette cartons, etc. But they didn’t find anything important. For the most part, the sailors looked annoyed or bored since they had probably been searching luggage all night and all morning, but the sailor in command stood straight as an iron rod and watched the entire process closely. After some time, he disappeared. The sailors stopped searching. They passed around cigarettes and looked at us like we were rats.
When the commanding sailor returned, he motioned for the male passengers to line up. We did. He then examined each of us closely—our shoes, our shirts, our hands, our faces. You have to understand we were shabby and covered in dirt. More than a few of us, including me, had stopped bathing regularly due to the harsh salt water. I imagine we smelled horrible and I was under the impression that the sailors thought that this was our normal condition, that we were, in fact, rats. It was embarrassing and shameful. But what choice did we have? When the commanding sailor came to me, he motioned to two sailors. They grabbed me roughly. I protested in Italian and told them that I hadn’t done anything, but one of the sailors slammed his fist into my temple and everything went momentarily black.
I remember that Alinochka screamed. I took a few deep breaths and opened my eyes, but I couldn’t see much, just a stack of luggage and a few wretched passengers. Everything was blurry. I turned my head slowly, toward the direction of Alinochka, but I couldn’t see her, either. She continued to scream, at first in Yiddish, and then in Italian. Your mother, Benjaminas, had such a fierce voice! I really couldn’t believe that this was happening. I wondered briefly if the civil war had somehow followed me to this ship. Maybe, Alinochka had been right, I thought miserably, and I couldn’t escape Petrograd. Not even in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. But, as it turned out, that was not the case. The civil war had been a collective and widespread horror. But, for the most part, it was behind us. What was about to happen was more like the nightmare of a madman.
I was taken to a cell near the first-class luggage hold. The cell was narrow and gray. It looked new, if somewhat unfinished. There were two cots, a metal chair, and a single dull light bulb, which hung from a thin wire in the ceiling. Two guards stayed to watch over the cell. They smoked and talked about their hometowns and relatives. Their voices echoed through the cell terribly. There were two other men in the cell, both sitting on a cot and speaking to each other in whispers. They nodded at me. I sat in the chair and felt my temple. A razor-sharp pain spread through my head and I felt a sticky residue, which I realized was blood. Still, I knew I would be okay. I was breathing fine and my vision had returned to normal. Some time passed. Three other men were brought in, which made the total six men. One man, pale and thin, paced the cell back and forth. A few of the other men talked in Polish and Russian, exchanging rumors about possible thefts and the murder of the first-class Italian passenger. The legality of the cell where we were being held also came up, but no real conclusions could be made about this. I listened and remained silent. It wasn’t long before I realized that we all shared at least two major traits: we were all third-class passengers and Jews.
When the commanding sailor returned, he held a sheet of paper, which I thought might be orders or a list. He said something to the guards and they laughed. Then he opened the cell and one of the guards spoke slowly in Italian:
“Who goes first?”
I translated this into Polish and Russian. One of the men who had been sitting on the cot stood up confidently and said to us in Yiddish, “All of this is a mistake.” He then walked out of the cell.
The guards never brought him back. Every so often the commanding sailor took out another man until it was just the pale, thin man and me in the cell. A few times, he looked at me, shrugged his narrow shoulders, and in Russian said, “I don’t know.” Once, he looked me in the eyes and said, “Back home, I was a teacher. Maybe a Rav one day.” I could tell from his accent that—like me—he was from the Liteh, most likely Pinsk or one of the surrounding villages. He was maybe twenty. He could’ve been a distant cousin, I thought.
We waited. I can’t be certain just how much time passed. Three or five hours. I thought of Alinochka. I worried that she might suddenly go into labor and that I would not be able to be at her side. Sometime later, the commanding sailor retuned and motioned to me. I’m not sure what I felt just then. Maybe nothing, since there was little I could really do. Or maybe a quiet sort of terror. Both probably. I was escorted out of the cell by two guards and led down passageway after passageway, sometimes turning so often I thought that we were doubling back toward the cell. The interior of the ship was immense. I couldn’t help but imagine that I was being led through a labyrinth.
Eventually, we arrived at a large, sparsely furnished cabin. At the far end a small porthole looked out into the ocean. A few empty bookshelves lined the walls and in the center of the room was a long oak table. Behind the table was a black leather chair. Sitting in the chair was the captain. The guards took their positions, one at my left side, one at my right side. They saluted the captain.
The captain wore a spotless white uniform and had a thin, groomed mustache. His skin was smooth and he had a slender, built frame. He must have been in his mid-forties. He wore a small leather scabbard, which I assumed was fit with a knife.
“Would you rather we speak in Russian or Italian?” the captain asked me.
“Russian,” I responded. Although I was confident in my Italian, I thought it might be best to speak in my native tongue in order to avoid any misunderstandings.
“Okay, good. Well, first, let me introduce myself. I am Captain Argenti of the SS Beatrice. Your name is Saul Druer, correct?”
I nodded.
The captain folded his arms and sighed. “Well, this has been a very long day, so let’s get to the point, Mr. Druer. As captain, I normally wouldn’t be as involved in something like this, but I am sure you are aware that a man was recently murdered. He was stabbed fifteen times and left to die. An Italian man. A friend of mine actually. We are all quite upset.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said softly.
He took out a gold timepiece from his uniform pocket and checked it quickly. He then put it on the oak table. Half of his right pointer finger was missing. It ended just above the knuckle. “Is my Russian okay?” he asked.
“It’s good. I understand,” I replied.
“Do you mind if we switch to Italian? I have been speaking Russian all day and my throat is parched. It’s an unforgiving language.”
“That’s fine,” I said in Italian.
“We are looking for the murderer, of course. Do you understand?”
“I do,” I said, “but this has nothing to do with me.” I wanted to ge
t this over with as soon as possible.
The captain stared at me for a long, long time. I remained silent. The simple fact of the matter was that I hadn’t murdered anyone.
He flashed a grin and ran a finger along the gold timepiece. “Of course, of course,” he said, “I don’t think you murdered anyone. But we do have procedures here. Technicalities, you understand. I served on this very ship during the war and was in charge of its conversion to a passenger ship. The SS Beatrice is a wonderful ship. We want to avoid bad luck, especially regarding a murder.” He picked up the gold timepiece and checked it again. Slowly, he said, “An unsolved murder would affect the ship’s integrity, you understand. All this,” the captain said and lifted his gaze as if to encompass the entire ship and the entire problem of the murder, “all this has to be handled at sea. The sea is the proper place for this sort of thing.”
The captain motioned to the guard standing at my left. The guard took out a small notepad and began writing. The captain continued, “So, just to be certain, Mr. Druer, I have a few questions. Let’s begin. Where were you yesterday morning?”
“I was in the third-class steerage with my wife all morning. She’s pregnant and nearly due.”
“Ah! A soon-to-be father. If she goes into labor shortly, you should know we have a doctor on the SS Beatrice for this sort of thing. A good doctor. Normally, he is reserved for the first-class passengers, but we’ll make an exception, of course.” The captain glanced at the guard to my left, who was busy writing. The guard nodded and wrote something down on a new sheet of paper.
The Lost Book of Adana Moreau Page 19
