Broken Song

by Kathryn Lasky

  It was suddenly dawning on Rachel that this was no game.

  She had grown stiff in Basia’s arms, stiff with rage as her hand was waved. Then her entire body began to twist and struggle. Reuven could hear her piercing furious shrieks through the glass. Rachel tried to kick the window with her feet, but Miri came to her mother’s side and held them tightly. Rachel leaned toward the window, having freed one little fist, and began to pound on the glass. Her face was glazed with tears. Reuven watched, transfixed by the enormity of her fury.

  And the words of Lovotz came back so clearly in his ear. It was as if Lovotz were standing beside him on that platform. “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself what am I? And if not now, when?”

  Part II

  RUSSIA

  1900

  FIFTEEN

  “LIEUTENANT VACHEK, first munitions officer, reporting.” Reuven Bloom snapped a smart salute to the officer of the day.

  “Your papers?” the officer replied.

  Reuven drew out his forged orders from the inside pocket of his uniform. He was always nervous when he presented the papers but especially now. It was the first time he had used papers done by the new forger in Moscow. Of course, half of these soldiers couldn’t read anyhow—at least the ones in these units. Hardly the elite, mostly made up of ragtag hooligans who only lived for their ration of three fingers of vodka a day, as promised by the tsar. Still, Reuven never got over the fear. When one did, when one became too confident, he was killed, like Jacob Pinsk.

  Jacob had been their best demolition man—their best wracker—but then something happened. He got cocky. He started taking outrageous risks. He not only blew himself up, but he also exposed the whole scheme the demolition team had used. It took them months to invent a new system, train people, and begin to implement the attacks. So far it had worked. In some ways it was superior to the previous methods. Reuven had become the key to this new system. Because his Russian was so fluent and his hands were so nimble, they had been able to more finely target their attacks. No more blowing up innocent bystanders. Reuven had become the expert at weapons demolition. “A virtuoso!” Isaac Dorf had declared. And soon he became known as String Man, the best wracker in the demolition team. Isaac, his cousin Lovotz’s friend and owner of the music shop in Vilna, had taken over as the director of the Bund in Vilna after Lovotz had been murdered.

  “Virtuoso!” Reuven muttered the word in disgust. It had been months since he had had time to pick up the rather inferior violin that Isaac was able to get for him. But who would want to take a Ceruti where he often had to go? Reuven’s life in the last three years had been lived in the shadows of espionage, violence, and narrow escapes. He had become one of the Bund’s greatest assets, not as a labor organizer but as a spy and wracker. Reuven Bloom was known for his ability to steal anything out from under the most elite guard of the tsar’s troops—everything from the finest caviar to ammunition to horses. And he had an uncanny ability to understand the mechanics of death machines—rifles, artillery, mortars, weapons of all sorts. He saw through them. He had a feel for their spring actions, the chemistry and charge of the propellants, and he possessed an almost mathematical understanding of the trajectories of the projectiles. As Reuven saw through these machines of death, they became abstract to him. He neatly analyzed them the way he had once analyzed the structure of a concerto—coolly, without passion. It was only when he played that the passion had come. But as a wracker, the passion never came, which was the way it should be. For just as he had so coolly analyzed, so had he rationalized: he was not really killing. He was just blowing up the killing machines. If a rifle exploded in a soldier’s face, so be it. There was one less rifle and one less soldier to kill innocent people.

  Never had his talents been more valued than in the past eighteen months. Alarmed by the strikes in Minsk two years before, the tsar had stepped up his efforts against all revolutionary activities. Close to five thousand people had been arrested within the last year and a half. Most of them were Jews, but many were not. Two thousand had been exiled to Siberia, and the unrelenting pogroms continued with a growing ferocity and destruction because of improved weapons. It was said that the tsar and tsarina had stopped spending money on their favorite jeweler, Fabergè, who made the fantastic porcelain eggs inlaid with jewels, and instead were spending it on guns like the new ones into which Reuven had become so skillful at slipping thermite.

  He now set to work on the shells for the artillery guns. He had announced to the ordnance officer that he wanted the shells stacked by the emplacements, and he had brought along devices for measuring and weighing them.

  “Many irregular shells have been issued from one factory near Kiev and we must be assured these are not among your supply. They can be very dangerous,” Reuven had said. That was his cover story. What he intended to do was to make the existing shells useless. If he removed the detonators in the middle of the shells and replaced them with duds, the artillery missiles would launch shells that never exploded. He worked quickly. He had managed to compartmentalize his mind in situations like this. His concentration was fully on unlocking the detonators and inserting the duds. Yet another part of his mind was alert to the approach of any soldier. He always explained that what he was doing he must do by himself, as it was dangerous. Accidents could happen, and he must not be distracted by idle chatter.

  He had worked this ploy twice now over a period of several months, at encampments widely spread apart so that no pattern could be detected. But he and his immediate superior at the Bund knew that this would be the last time. Such ploys had a limited lifetime, especially when they depended on impersonation and were basically done in broad daylight. There were other ploys, however, that could be played time and time again. They were more dangerous too.

  Reuven felt someone approaching now. “Get back!” he yelled without turning around. “Didn’t the commanding officer tell you this is dangerous work, checking these shells?”

  “Sorry, sir. I was just asked to request that you look at the newest shipment of regimental rifles.”

  What luck! Reuven thought. Let me at those rifles. Too bad he had not brought more bits of thermite with him. One small little slug of thermite could destroy the entire barrel of a rifle. Once a cartridge was fired, the thermite chip began to heat up to such a ferociously high temperature that the insides melted down.

  When Reuven had finished with the artillery, he was led to a shed where there was a table stacked with the new regimental rifles. Reuven opened his eyes wide. He had heard about these new guns. They were the smokeless-powder rifles. They fired jacketed lead bullets, and used not the ordinary black powder, but powder made from something called gun cotton, which was much more powerful and burned more efficiently. The bullets weighed a half ounce or less and could travel at a velocity of over six hundred meters a second. They were the deadliest of rifles. But with a chip of thermite, they would be useless forever.

  When Reuven had finished his work, he was invited in to have a drink with the commanding officer. He refused, as he always did. He never liked to give anyone too much time to study his face or listen to his voice. Although he knew his Russian was perfect, he still feared that perhaps some slight tinge of a Yiddish accent might creep in, especially if he were drinking vodka. So he declined the invitation and went on his way.

  His horse, which had been stolen for him a few days before, carried him in the direction of Nikolayev. He had his orders. He was to stop at a farm on the outskirts of Nikolayev. At the farm were sympathizers, non-Jews but very helpful, and he would leave his horse with them as payment for all they had done to assist the various Bund agents. He would also leave his uniform with them. They would keep it in case he needed it again, although everyone had pretty much agreed that this strategy had been exhausted. He was then to proceed into the city where at seven in the evening he would go to the cafè across from Alexandra Park. At the cafè he was to sit in the far northwest corner.
Another agent would meet him. He would come to his table and say, “Do you still take your tea black as fish eggs?” It was this agent who would tell him of his next assignment.

  Reuven found the farmhouse and the farmer. They offered him a plate of pickled herring and a glass of tea. The wife gave him a big lump of sugar. He knew it was expensive. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He placed the lump of sugar in his mouth and sipped the tea so it strained through it. A shaft of sunlight fell across the wooden table. There was a vase of flowers, field flowers, delicate and pale in color. Reuven was savoring this moment. There were so few in his life like this—quiet, domestic, a lump of sweetness in his mouth, a slant of sunshine through the window. A little face peeked around the kitchen door.

  “Aaah!” he said softly. It was a little girl, about the age that Rachel had been when she left for America what seemed like ages ago.

  “Won’t you come out and visit me?” Reuven asked in a gentle voice. She peeked out again, a little farther this time.

  “Come, Katrina. Come say hello to the nice fellow,” said the farmer.

  “I have a sister. She was just your age when I last saw her. She lives in America now,” Reuven said.

  The little girl finally stepped into the kitchen. The mother put a bun on a plate for her. She shyly walked over to the table and climbed up onto the stool. Reuven turned to the mother.

  “May I show her a trick with these spoons?” he asked.

  “Of course,” said the woman.

  Reuven took two spoons and balanced the handle of one in the bowl of the other. With a quick, sharp tap of his fingers, he struck the handle of the first spoon. The second spoon flipped up in the air. The little girl was delighted.

  “Again!” she cried.

  He did it again and again and again. How good this life could be, he thought. How much he missed Rachel. Would he be able to hold out long enough for the revolution? Would he survive? Would he ever devote endless hours to practicing a Brahms concerto? Would he ever play games with his little sister again?

  SIXTEEN

  REUVEN FOUND the cafè easily enough. It afforded him a good view of Alexandra Park, which was lovely and green. He saw children rolling hoops along the pathways. Others rode on bicycles. There was a balloon vendor and a man with a cart selling pastries and tea by the glass. He saw several parents leading children who clutched toy boats, so he assumed there was a pond somewhere in the park where these boats could be sailed. How in the world did these two realities that were Russia exist? How could there be such a lovely park where sweets were sold and children played with toy boats within fifteen kilometers of a town that had just been burned and all the inhabitants murdered by the troops of the tsar for whose wife this park was named? What kind of God allowed this to go on?

  Sometimes Reuven wondered if things were not only not improving, but possibly getting worse. Since he had joined the Bund in Vilna, there had been more than three hundred strikes, and yet more Jews were imprisoned now and more Jews had been sent to Siberia than ever before. Was it worth it? Had it been worth it? Worth what? He had sent his dear Rachel to America. He had given up his dreams of being a concert violinist. The high holy days of Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah were coming, but how long had it been since he had celebrated them? Or a seder? He could not even bear to think of Hannukah.

  Reuven reached into his pocket and drew out his pouch of tobacco and cigarette wrappers. Smoking was a nasty habit he had picked up in the last couple of years. He looked at his fingers. They were brownish yellow with stains from the tobacco. They were the same fingers that still on occasion played the violin. No violinist’s calluses anymore. His fingering technique, Herschel had said, was slightly odd—”But it works! It works.” Herschel was gone. So was his father, Reb Itchel. Murdered like his parents and Shriprinka. He had never met anyone who had ever heard of a survivor from Berischeva except for himself and Rachel.

  The waiter came, and the tea was very black. It was not a minute after the waiter set down the tea that Reuven sensed that the man who had just entered the cafè was the one he had been expecting. The agent. He was fairly tall, with pale reddish hair and a very full beard.

  “Do you still take your tea black as fish eggs?” The voice was rough and grainy.

  Reuven looked up. His breath caught in his throat. He knew this face. He would know this face anywhere. The man peered back, astounded. “Reuven?”

  “Muttle?”

  “Oh my God! You’re alive. I heard everyone was killed.” Muttle grabbed both Reuven’s arms as if to assure himself that the man who stood before him was real. He patted his shoulders then squeezed them hard.

  “I’m alive … that’s nothing. How about you? You’re not …” But he stopped himself before he could say “You’re not in the tsar’s army anymore?”

  Muttle seemed to recover his wits faster than Reuven. “Follow me. We can’t really talk here. We are just two old friends meeting.” He reached over and hugged Reuven and whispered in his ear. “Good friends remeeting after years. The best cover of all.”

  Reuven paid the bill, and the two walked off arm in arm. The man has become a bear, Reuven thought. Muttle was a head taller than himself and had immense shoulders. They walked down an alley and then turned into a building. They went up a narrow flight of rickety stairs.

  Muttle opened the door. “No key. No lock. Nothing to steal but ideas.”

  “No books, Muttle? I can’t believe it. No Talmud? How can you survive? You breathed words, Muttle.”

  “I’ve still got the words up here.” Muttle tapped his head. “You’ve still got the music.” He softly touched Reuven’s ears.

  “I hope so.” Reuven smiled weakly.

  “Of course you do!” Muttle gave him a hearty punch on the shoulder. “Let me see your fingers.”

  “No calluses,” Reuven said almost sheepishly as he held out his hands.

  “Ah, when the revolution comes, you’ll have plenty of time for those kinds of calluses, my friend!”

  The physical transformation of Muttle was almost too much to take in. How had this hairy bearish man grown out of that frail pallid boy?

  “I don’t know how long you were in the tsar’s army, but something must have agreed with you, Muttle. You are huge.”

  “Believe me, it wasn’t that it agreed with me at all. Quite the opposite. It disagreed. Every day they would beat me up. There was one nice old ordnance officer. I don’t know why but he took a liking to me. He had been a boxer and he made me his cause. He taught me how to fight. That is something you don’t find in cheder—a fellow who teaches you how to fight. Argue yes, but not box. So this fellow Vassily, he teaches me, first defensive. Then he starts beefing me up for offensive. He sneaks me extra rations. He makes me run and sweat and lift weights. In two weeks I learn the strategies. In six months’ time, I can defend myself. These fellows, they don’t think at all. They rely completely on muscle. So what I lack in muscle, I more than make up for in strategy. It is not totally different from arguing Talmud—you look for back-door entries, you learn how to lead your opponent into a corner not of faulty logic but of misplaced punches that wear him out.”

  So, thought Reuven, he too must analyze and then rationalize. That is what is required to become a revolutionary.

  “But then what happened?” he asked.

  “I learned all I could from Vassily. I wasn’t getting beaten up anymore. I begin to think, Hell I am a fighter. Why should I let the tsar have such a champ as myself? So I joined the Bund.” He paused. “But I am not like you, String Man.”

  Reuven chuckled. “So you heard.”

  “Of course I heard, but I didn’t know why they called you that. I just know they say you are one of the best wrackers. I thought maybe the nickname had to do with your wire-laying abilities, the dynamiting of that munitions factory near Minsk. I had no idea it had to do with violins. I thought it was for the fuses—that the string in ‘String Man’ referred to the fuses.” He chuckled to hi
mself and shook his head.

  “Oh yes, that too. But in Vilna where I joined the Bund, before I started working with the explosives and wracking, I sometimes played in a chamber music group—we all became wrackers, as it turned out. I took the name String Man. There was flute man, an oboist—now known as Oblow!”

  “Oblow! Yes. I’ve heard of him.”

  “Yehudi Binder, a wonderful oboe player. He’s working in the north now.”

  “So do you miss it?” Muttle asked him suddenly.

  “Miss what?”

  “The playing.”

  “I play sometimes.”

  “You know what I mean, Reuven. The studying, the complete immersion, your head full of concertos, notes spilling out of your ears.”

  Reuven laughed softly and stuck a finger in his ear to scratch it. “I do try to protect my ears working so much with explosives. Of course I am never that close, if I am lucky. If I do my job right, I am miles away by the time the artillery guns blow up or jam. Tell me. Do you miss the studying?”

  “No! Not at all. It was, I realize now, an indulgence.”

  “An indulgence?”

  “What is the point of arguing with old rabbis about what God means when what we need to be doing is making a revolution? Arguing about God’s meaning when millions of people are starving, oppressed, can’t make a decent wage? No, I don’t need God or any books explaining him. And I take it you don’t either, String Man. I heard about what the String Man did over near Smorgon when the troops came in to gun down those strikers.”

  Reuven looked off into space, not meeting Muttle’s gaze. Revolution, Reuven thought. He was almost sick of the word. It didn’t seem like revolution to him. Their world had not been turned upside down. It just seemed broken. He felt as if he were standing knee-deep in the shards of wrecked lives, wrecked ideas, wrecked love. There was a dissonance, an all-encompassing dissonance, the shrillness of which was almost unbearable. He felt that if he didn’t get out, his eardrums might shatter.