The Little Russian (13 page)

Pavel shook his head and hoped she’d go away. Instead she chatted on about her nephew at the ministry, her trip to Paris, and the impeccable service at her hotel. Instead of listening he kept his eyes on the
crowd outside his window, hoping to see the porter returning with his case. Surely, there must’ve been some trouble. How long could it take? In his mind he saw a gendarme riffling through his suitcase, his big hands pawing through the fine linen shirts his mother had bought at Muir and Mirrielees, digging underneath, past his trousers and vests to the hidden compartment below. There the officer would have no trouble finding a stack of
Brdzola
, the Struggle, a seditious newspaper started by a former Theological Seminary student turned revolutionary named Iosif Vissarionovich Djugashvili, later to be known as Koba, and later still to adopt the underground
klichka
of Stalin. Next to the papers the gendarme would find five semiautomatic Browning pistols. After that, there wouldn’t be much left of Pavel’s life—a speedy trial and an exile order. By Christmas he’d be in Siberia, where the temperature typically hovered around sixty below. How many winters could he survive there? Two? Maybe three?

Pavel was Jewish. More than that, he was a socialist and a member of the Bund, the General Jewish Workers’ League. He attended most of the Bund meetings at the Kleinmikhels’ or at the coffeehouse where he learned about organizing the Jewish worker and about melding the socialist rhetoric into a palatable concoction that promised civic rights and freedom from the anti-Jewish laws of the czar. The particular branch of Bund activity that interested Pavel was forming the self-defense units to protect the townlets and
shtetlekh
against the ravages of the pogroms that had been increasing dramatically since the October Manifesto of 1905. Factions loyal to the czar blamed the Jews for what they saw as a threat to the autocracy. The day after the czar announced the manifesto granting a constitutional government to the people, these factions launched pogroms in more than three hundred cities across the Pale, beating thousands to death, destroying homes and businesses, and orphaning thousands of children. That was five years ago. Now Mendel Beilis, a minor factory official, had been accused of killing a Christian boy for ritual purposes—the old blood libel from the Middle Ages revived to stir up trouble. The trial had begun in September. It was now December and the Jews were holding their breath.

During the day, Pavel was a second-year university student, but at
night he became a revolutionary, an organizer, a protector of those who had never thought of protecting themselves. His dedication to the Bund had nothing to do with Inessa Zenzinova—even though Morris Eiger, his boyhood friend from his years at the gymnasium, insisted that it did. Morris was also a Jew and an exasperating cynic and the only person in the world, aside from Mariasha, who could call him Pavlech.

Morris was dead wrong about his feelings for Zenzinova. It was absurd to think that Pavel was only there for her. True, her smooth thighs, ample breasts, and fascination with free love were a draw. Yes, she was older and could offer him excursions into unexplored territory heretofore only imagined in adolescent fantasies. But how could one think that the afternoons in her apartment on Amsterdam Street, even with her mouth firmly planted around his cock, his tongue assailing the portals of her perfumed crotch, the full-length mirror in the corner reflecting their coupling, while brilliant in every way, could be the real motivation behind his socialistic zeal? It was nonsense. He was a dedicated radical, willing to sacrifice everything, even his life, for the laboring masses.

A couple of weeks earlier they were seated in the Kleinmikhels’ faded living room. Everyone was there: Antokolsky, Dobroliubkov, Lliodor, and the rest. Mariya Kleinmikhel had just brought in tea and vodka and Pavel was in the middle of one his “florid expostulations,” as Morris liked to call them. “Ever meet a worker, Pavlech?” asked Morris, with mocking interest. “I mean aside from that one time you visited your father’s factory. Ever actually sit down and talk to one?”

Pavel generally ignored Morris’s puerile attempts to humiliate him in front of Inessa and the others. But on this occasion, when everyone was laughing at him and even Inessa was suppressing a smile beneath the lip of her glass, Pavel had no choice but to fight back. When Antokolsky asked for volunteers to smuggle newspapers and pistols over the Polish border, his hand shot up. Nobody laughed at him after that. He wasn’t just talking in the safety of the Kleinmikhels’ parlor; he was acting—which was more than could be said for the others. For one glorious week Pavel was a hero. Even Morris had to grudgingly allow him his glory.

Now sitting on the train, waiting to be arrested, he couldn’t believe he let his pride drive him to this precipice. Yes, he wanted Inessa’s respect and even more her glorious thighs wrapped around his back, but to die for it? Why didn’t he see then what he saw so clearly now? There had to be a traitor in their circle. He had been betrayed. Soon there would be an arrest, followed by a short trial and a long death, and the worst of it was he had brought it all down upon himself.

When the porter arrived a few minutes later with his suitcase and passport in hand, Pavel nearly collapsed with relief. He gave the man a large, ludicrous tip and sent him on his way. After that he ordered fresh tea and turned his full attention to the Duchess Milista, listening to her account of her problems with her head gardener and the coming-out party for her niece. Suddenly he was a charming and loquacious traveling companion. The transformation was no less than miraculous. Soon he had moved over to her table and was offering her slightly off-color anecdotes about student life, not enough to offend her, but enough to get her to wag her handkerchief at him and pretend to blush.

When Pavel arrived at the Vienna station in Warsaw he took the junction line to the Kovel station, where he was to catch the express to Moscow. He didn’t have much time. He found the bench where he had been instructed to sit, put the suitcase down at his feet, and waited. There was to be an exchange; that ’s all he knew. Someone was to come and take away the case and leave an identical one in its place. He opened a newspaper and tried to read it but ended up reading the same two sentences over and over again without comprehension. He found himself watching the passersby, searching their faces for a subtle look, a nod, a sign. But they passed him without a glance. His stomach churned. He wondered what he would do if no one came. He wanted to leave the case and walk away, but what if someone saw him and ran after him or, worse, called a gendarme?

Then he noticed a well-dressed man with a neatly trimmed black beard and a long cashmere scarf standing near the archway that led to the platforms. At first, Pavel had the notion that he might be the one. His heart beat faster, there was a cold seep in his stomach, and for a moment he was convinced he’d been saved. He had fleeting thoughts of returning to his life, to the monotony of classes, to Inessa’s breasts,
when he noticed that the man wasn’t carrying a traveling case and was giving him one of those looks he had seen in a public toilet once and a couple of times in a club. He gave the man a frosty look and let his eyes slip away. It was enough to make an end of the business. The stranger shrugged it off and moved on.

There were only a few minutes remaining before the train departed when a large, red-faced gentleman with thinning ginger hair and a silver-tinged moustache, accompanied by his wife, four young children, and their exhausted nanny, walked through the large double doors that separated the terminal from the town outside. To Pavel’s consternation, the family found their way to his bench and before he knew it had spread out their belongings, driving him to the very edge of his domain. Even with the nanny in attendance there were just too many runny noses, too many sweaters to remove, and fights to break up. The clamor of their voices filled the terminal and drove the other travelers to vacate the vicinity and seek refuge in other parts of the station. Pavel wanted to join them but he had his orders. He couldn’t leave his bench.

He watched the father trying to cope with his brood and then turned away in disgust. The man’s sanguine attitude toward the piercing voices, the whining and crying over hats and toys, made him prickly with irritation. Obviously the man loved his children too much to be an effective disciplinarian. He wondered if a man like that ever had real cause to worry. True, he had responsibilities, a household to maintain, a wife to please, and an exhausted nanny, but he didn’t have five semiautomatic pistols in a suitcase at his feet.

A stuffed camel sailed through the air and glanced off Pavel’s shoulder. Pavel turned to the child who threw it and gave him a cold look of reproach. The nanny dove for it and gave it to a smaller child who stopped screaming once he realized the coveted thing was back in his lap. Pavel sat there brooding, bearing it as best he could, while silently willing the family to leave. It seemed to work, for soon after that, the patriarch stood and announced that they were off again. After a flurry of activity and an anguished cry over a missing doll that was soon found, the father, carrying a child in one arm and an array of suitcases
in the other, led the way across the terminal and out through the arch to the platforms.

Pavel waited on the bench a few minutes more until the last whistle blew and the station master called out his train to Moscow. Then he picked up the suitcase, hurried out to the platform, and boarded the train. He told himself that it would be all right. He would dine in his compartment and leave only when necessary. In this way he would get to Moscow undetected, deliver the suitcase himself, and thankfully get on with his life.

Once he was in his compartment with the door locked, he relaxed a little and gradually closed his eyes. He didn’t wake until much later, when his eyes opened with a start and he found the train at a standstill. His first thought was that they had reached Kiev. But it was too quiet, and they weren’t scheduled to arrive before morning. He looked at his pocket watch—it was half past three.

He lay there listening for sounds, trying to ignore the hard knot of fear in his chest. His mouth was dry, his legs felt weak and shaky. Occasionally the train would belch and hiccup. Aside from that, the night was quiet. Far off he thought he heard shouting, but it may have been the wind. That uncertainty worsened his fears and made him restless. He got up, threw on his clothes, and went to the door. He opened it soundlessly and peered out into the corridor. It was empty and silent. It smelled faintly of cigars and clean clothes. He went to the carriage door and looked out at the platform. The sign over it said LUBLIN. They were still in Russian Poland. A soft rain had begun to fall and a locomotive standing on a nearby track glistened slick and black like a slug in the night.

The platform was lighted by one electric bulb and standing directly beneath it were two gendarmes and another man wearing baggy wool pants, a visor cap, and a black leather jacket. They were all smoking hand-rolled cigarettes through cupped hands while huddling together under the covered platform to keep out of the rain.

Pavel watched them for a few minutes more until he was certain they were Okhranka, the czar’s secret police. It was simple, someone had given him up and now they were coming to arrest him. He saw it
all: the questions, the freezing cell, a swift trial, his mother weeping, his father in anguish, and then the long train ride to Siberia. For one queasy moment he stood frozen at the carriage door, staring helplessly into his future. Then he flew back to his compartment, slammed the door, and locked it with trembling fingers.

His first instinct was to escape. He went to the window and tried to open it. It was stuck. He pounded on the frame, no longer worried about the noise he was making until the wood gave a little and the window opened. But the opening was too small for him to crawl through. He thought about sneaking out the carriage door until he heard footsteps down the corridor coming toward his door. He grabbed his suitcase and flung it open. All thoughts of heroism and revolution, of laying down his life for the new social order, vanished as he dove into the suitcase and hunted for the latch that would release the false bottom. His hands were trembling so badly that he couldn’t find it. He tore at the material with his fingernails, but it remained intact. The footsteps were getting closer now and he could hear loud voices. Frantically he searched for his pocketknife until he remembered loaning it to Morris who, as usual, had failed to return it.

Then he stopped and stared at the shirts that he had flung about his compartment. They weren’t his linen shirts from Muir and Mirrielees. They were cheap homemade cotton shirts. The pants were too short and the boots were too small. He slammed the lid. There had been a child’s gold star on the spine of the case that his nephew had stuck there last summer. It was gone. This wasn’t his case. These weren’t his things.

When a knock came at the door he panicked and shoved the suitcase under the bed.

“Are you all right, sir?” It was the
provodnik
. “We heard a noise. Do you wish some assistance?”

“No, no. I’m fine,” he said breathlessly.

“You sure?”

“Yes, leave me alone.”

“Yes, very good, sir.” And then the footsteps retreated down the hall and he heard “Says he’s all right.” “Maybe he’s drunk?” Then a deeper
voice: “Didn’t sound drunk.” The first voice: “Probably just out of his head. They ’re all out of their head.”

Pavel sank down on the bed and waited until his heart slowed and his breathing became more regular. Then he crept out of his compartment and padded down the hallway to the carriage window. The men were still smoking under the electric light. The rain was still falling. Then in a huff of steam and smoke the train pitched forward and started to pull out of the station, going slowly at first, but soon picking up speed, plunging faster and faster into the gloom, a juggernaut of iron and fire. With a great sigh Pavel went back to his compartment and lay down on the cramped bed.