The Accidental Anarchist (41 page)

We threaded our way down a succession of jolting corridors. While we waited to be seated in the dining car, I expressed my concern that Madame might still be searching for him at the station, not the safest place for a lady to be on her own.

Vasya  looked at me with a bitterness I had not seen since his days under the fist of the arch-fiend, Lieutenant ‘Haman.’

“She is not the dear, helpless creature you seem to think she is,” he said.

My heart pumped a warning. Could one of the servants have been spying on Madame?

But he said nothing further until we were seated at the table and a bottle and two glasses before us. To set my mind to rest, he said that Madame would have already received his message informing her that he would return by train at two o’clock in the morning, and to have his carriage waiting. He said that he often went away on business without telling her in advance.

Then he filled my glass and cleared his throat. He had something serious to speak to me about, but didn’t know how to begin.

I put a heavy hand on his elbow and said, “Good brother, let me begin for you. You have a wife who is one in a million. And yet you treat her as though she didn’t exist. Before I say goodbye to you for good, I want to know why.”

Trees scoured and stunted by the winds flashed past our window. Vasya ordered another bottle. We drank several glasses in sullen silence.

Fearful of meeting his eye, I picked up the new bottle, but his hand covered the rim of his glass.

“Our tragedy is common enough,” he said. “She is desperate for a child. And why should she not be?”

“Then what the devil is stopping you? I remember, in Petersburg, the times you stayed out all night. And not merely drinking and gambling.”

But this was not an aspect of his sad time of which he liked to be reminded, either. Especially by me, a witness to his degradation. “That is exactly my tragedy. One of those low women gave me a disease. And now I am so fearful of passing it on to my wife, I use every possible excuse to avoid being with her. Even if I were cruel enough not to care, the disease has advanced so far that it has left me incapable of fathering a child.”

“You’ve been to doctors, of course.”

“The best. Each had his own procedures, usually painful and humiliating. Nothing helped. All they did was make me lose whatever respect I had for doctors.”

“Then why not tell her the truth? Admit you are avoiding her, not from aversion, but out of your love for her.”

“You don't know her family. If they ever suspected what a libertine I had been, not only would she put an end to our marriage but her father would ruin me.”

“You would prefer that Madame believe you hate her?”

His bones sagged. “At one point, we developed a plan: we would choose another man to father our child.” I felt pinpricks of sweat bursting from every pore.

“You look shocked,” he said. “But that was how much I loved her. The only problem was finding the right man.”

“You do your wife an injustice,” I tried to say without sputtering.

Vasya laughed at me outright. “She told me the whole story, herself, the very next morning. How you had fled from her as though she carried the plague.” He chuckled as though, for once in his life, he had gotten the better of me. “I never doubted you were an honest man, Yakov, but you’re a fool. Why do you suppose I made you wait so long for your passport? Why did I even offer you a partnership? She and I thought we had found the perfect candidate. What normal man would have passed up such an offer?”

I felt a shiver of disgust. “You sent her to me?”

He grinned. “I know, I know. ‘A horse and a wife you don’t lend.’ But, oh, she was willing enough, more than willing. How I hated you for that! And yet, if anyone in this whole business behaved decently, it was you.”

A chill ran down my back. I was glad, at least, that we hadn’t had this conversation before I left Irkutsk. “And what will you do now?”

“Nothing. It’s over.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Your sudden arrival was like a miracle. A last chance to revive our marriage. I could see she was drawn to you. Not that she ever, in so many words, said she loved you. But you were the only man of whom I ever heard her speak without contempt. I thought, finally, the two of you would give me a child. And now I have no hope left at all.” Damp-eyed, he refilled his glass and drained it in one gulp. “When I get home tomorrow night, I'll tell my wife she can have her divorce. If she accepts, she would marry you in a second.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because she told me so. The only question was your interest.”

I didn’t know whether to feel pity or rage, and had to force myself to keep from shouting, “Are you asking me to marry your wife?”

Vasya laughed. “You sound terrified. Not that I blame you. Thus far, you’ve seen only her gentler side. There are other times when the sting of her tongue would send the Angel of Death howling for mercy.” Yet he said this with a peculiar kind of pride.

Needled by curiosity, I asked, “You wouldn’t be jealous?”

“I would die of envy. But I swear to you, I would cherish your children like my own.”

Moments later, he murmured drunkenly, “Will you at least consider it?”

I was inclined to fling the contents of my glass into his face. But my response was shamefully civil. In those unsettled times, who knew what I would find in Poland? Was it really unthinkable that I might, one day, be glad to escape back to Irkutsk?

After about three hours, the train stopped and Vasya got off. We embraced like brothers and promised faithfully to write to one another. But we both knew we were lying.

Pyavka sat sprawled in our compartment with his boots up, a snowy napkin tucked into his vest, his cheeks brazenly chewing on the contents of the basket Madame had packed for us both. Undaunted by my disapproving look, his only observation was, “You are still on the train?”

“Where else would I be?”

“I thought you and your old comrade were staging this whole masquerade to be rid of me.”

“You don’t think I want to see my family as much as you do?”

“It seemed to me you already had a ‘family’ in Irkutsk. A partnership in a great business, and another kind of ‘partnership’ with Madame.”

My impulse was to put a fist through his face. Rather than wondering what he knew, I tried to understand whether what I felt was honest indignation or the sly sting of regret.

I tucked a napkin into the front of my vest and applied myself to the roast goose. A moment later, the first mouthful nearly stuck in my throat. At the bottom of the basket lay a letter in Madame’s inflated handwriting. It was addressed to me.

I was seized by the temptation to tear it up, unread, and scatter the pieces out the window. Perhaps Vasya was correct about my being fool for passing up such an opportunity.

For a fraction of a moment, I longed for Madame so keenly that I wanted to leap from the speeding train.

Pyavka said, “What’s wrong? Your face is turning green.”

I pretended I had choked on a bone.

Later, while he dozed, I slipped the letter into my sleeve and stood outside the cabin to read the letter in privacy. My head whirled. What if she begged me to take the next train back? What if she offered me . . . I didn’t know what? Would I have the resolve to continue on to Vishigrod?

Blindly tearing open the envelope, I held the letter close to my blurring eyes.

Her message was brief. “Hearty appetite!” Nothing more.

Chapter 35:Return to Warsaw

My heart leapt in anticipation as much as in fear. Until now, our forged papers, first-class tickets, stylish clothes and rich men’s demeanor may have shielded us from being challenged. But here, in these tense and bloody times, the terminal was certain to be swarming with policemen who would be somewhat less impressed by English tailoring.

The moment we set foot on the platform, Pyavka’s old regal demeanor put iron into his spine. This was truly his kingdom. But instead of surveying the environment opportunistically, he snapped his fingers and summoned a porter to help with our trunks. Barely troubling to glance back over our shoulders (as who would dare steal from the “King of Thieves?”), we crossed the waiting room unchallenged.

While Pyavka summoned a motor-taxi, I glanced behind me. Our porter, panting under the weight of our bags, had not yet caught up with us. But suddenly two unmistakable police types were walking alongside him, showing indecent interest in our expensive luggage.

The porter shrugged and looked about him, then he pointed in our direction.

I shoved Pyavka into the cab, piled in behind him and told the driver to whisk us to the Hotel Bristol, the first name that came to mind.

Looking back, I could see our bewildered porter scratching his head. Poor man, he had been cheated of his tip. But I daresay our luggage and its contents would more than make up for his loss.

Let off at the Bristol, we pushed our way through the crowded lobby and, having made sure no one followed us, left by another exit.

The second cab took us to Pyavka’s home. There another surprise awaited me. The royal “mansion” I had expected to see was, in fact, no more than an unremarkable two-story brick house with a pair of haughty “Greek” columns flanking the entrance.

Pyavka begged me to come in with him long enough to at least meet his wife and children. But now that I was back in the normal world, I could not ignore the fact that this was Friday and, according to my new watch, the arrival of
Shabbos
was but minutes away. There was barely enough time to reach my brother’s home before sunset.

But I promised Pyavka I would visit him on Sunday, and then told the driver to speed me to number 72 Pavia Street, Mordechai’s last-known address.

My final glimpse of my partner was of him facing a pale, plain-looking woman in the open doorway who stood there only for a moment before collapsing at his feet.

By the time we reached 72 Pavia, the sky had already been punctured with stars. I climbed out of the cab, ashamed to be seen by Jews in their Sabbath clothes. Apprehensive, I mounted the four flights to Apartment 5, uncertain whether my brother still lived there. It was too dark to read the name-plate, but as I pressed my ear to the door I heard voices joined in a familiar Sabbath melody. The tune brought up a rush of tears.

I tried the handle. The door was not locked. I tiptoed through the unlit corridor and, through foggy eyes, as in a dream, observed the people at the table: My brother, Mordechai, and two married cousins. His wife, Dvorah, was about to serve the fish. The first to see me, she screamed and dropped the platter. Moments later, I was embraced from all sides. Forced into a seat at the table, I was served so many portions of the
Shabbos
dinner that I needed to eat with both hands just to keep up.

My eyes opened to the curiously soothing pop-pop-pop of small-arms fire. It was
Shabbos
afternoon, normally the most peaceful of times, even in Warsaw. I had been lying on my brother’s bed, watching webs of dusty sunlight spill through the lace curtains. I tried to resist, but finally professional interest won out, and I stood by the window to observe the outside action.

Four stories below, lightly armed men in grimy street clothes were running, first in one direction, and then in the opposite, periodically remembering to take cover. Faint puffs of smoke issued from a variety of old rifles and pistols, as the combatants advanced and retreated with all the tactical discipline of schoolboys kicking a football. A dozen years ago, on any day other than
Shabbos
, this might have been me and my friends playing soldier, the only difference being that the firearms in the present picture issuing their noisy reports were real.

Suddenly, as if they’d all heard the same dinner bell, the combatants drifted off in various directions, and a horse-drawn ambulance ground over the cobblestones to collect the fallen.

From the doorway, my brother and his wife saw me at the window and decided that, in view of my persistent fascination with armed combat, something had be to be done quickly to keep me from sliding back into my old, lawless ways.

I tried, vainly, to convince them that, after what I’d lived through – good and bad – I had lost my appetite for disorderly conduct. Nevertheless, to help determine my future, first thing Sunday morning my parents arrived from Vishogrod along with my sister, Malkah.

All agreed it would not be wise just now for me to show my face in Vishogrod. Not that anyone would inform on me. But the Czar had just appointed a new
natchalnik
to rule over our city, a curious creature who was neither married nor a drunkard, and people had not yet determined whether he was corrupt (that is, greedy), or corruptible (meaning humane).

But if I stayed in Warsaw, what were my prospects for a career? The only professional skills I could claim were marksmanship and Cossack dancing. And where, in all of Warsaw, was I likely to find an employer who would not recoil at the mere sound of my name, remembering the baby-faced agitator, the organizer of riots and strikes, the ‘terrorist’ responsible for broken windows and black eyes?