The Little Russian (16 page)

Then she took her seat behind the table and closed her eyes. Slowly she relaxed; her chin slumped forward until it came to rest just above her large bosom. After a while her breathing became deep and regular and her hands fell out of her lap and hung by her sides. She appeared to be in a deep trance.

“You may sit up now,” Monsieur Fevrier said quietly.

Madame Gorbunova sat up and opened her eyes. She stared straight ahead, seemingly blind to the twenty or so people who sat in their chairs leaning forward, holding their breath.

Nothing happened.

The audience sat waiting, growing bored, whispering among themselves, and fidgeting in their seats. Berta was beginning to worry. But soon Madame Gorbunova’s eyes began to flutter liked moth wings and she started to speak in a husky man’s voice. It was the voice of Prince Cribari, an Italian who always spoke Russian, a fact that nobody bothered to question.

“There are three of us here tonight,” the Prince said through Madame Gorbunova. She shifted her position in the chair, crossing one arm over her stomach and using it to brace her other arm. She held an invisible cigarette between her fingers and occasionally took a puff.

“Can you describe them?” asked Monsieur Fevrier.

A long pause. “A soldier with medals on his chest. He is angry because he wasn’t supposed to be shot. He says it was a mistake. It was supposed to be the other fellow who ducked to light his cigarette. He is looking for his wife. He sees that she is not here tonight, so he has agreed to step aside.”

Another long pause. “A foundry worker from Moscow. He is upset because he says he is late for work and they will fine him if he doesn’t hurry. He cannot understand why he is so cold, since he works in front of a furnace all day long. He doesn’t know he is dead. The others have been trying to explain it to him, but he refuses to listen.”

She sat up and craned her neck as if trying to see something at the back of the room. “I see a little girl over there with brown curls. She is coming over. A sweet little thing. She has something to say.”

“What is her name?”

Madame Gorbunova took a long puff on her invisible cigarette and blew out invisible smoke. “Eva.”

There was urgent whispering in the room. The Rosensteins huddled together, speaking in low intense voices.

“May we speak to her now?” the assistant said, quietly.

Madame Gorbunova’s head slumped down on her chest. Then, after a moment or two, she slowly raised it again. This time she uncrossed her legs and twirled a finger around an imaginary curl. Even though she was well over forty with baggy cheeks and thinning dark hair, she had transformed herself into a little girl.

“Mameh, I didn’t hide Bobbeh’s teeth.”

“Oh my God.” Madame Rosenstein rose from her seat.

Monsieur Rosenstein grabbed her arm and pulled her back down again. “Sit down,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re making a spectacle out of yourself. It’s only a trick.”

“It wasn’t me, Mameh.”

“It’s Eva!” Madame Rosenstein cried out in a hoarse sob.

Her husband said, “It’s not Eva. She is dead and in the Garden of Paradise.”

“I was just looking at them. I wasn’t going to hide them.”

“I know, darling. She’s not angry with you.”

“They fell, Mameh.”

“I know. We found them. They were behind the bed.”

“Bobbeh is angry with me.”

“No, she’s not angry, my precious. She loves you.” Her voice broke and tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Bobbeh is angry because she can’t find her teeth.”

A mist began to form over Madame Gorbunova’s head. A shock rippled through the audience followed by a cry from Madame Rosenstein. Monsieur Rosenstein’s hand shook as he took hold of his wife’s arm. “We’re leaving,” he said firmly. But when he tried to get up, his legs buckled out from under him and he sat down.

A hand reached out for Berta’s shoulder. “Madame . . .”

She jumped, turned, and found Vera standing behind her. “What is it?” she hissed.

“A telegram.”

“Not now, Vera.”

“It’s from His Honor.”

“For God’s sakes, we’re right in the middle of—”

As she said these words the mist evaporated. After a moment of darkness, Monsieur Rosenstein led his sobbing wife from the room. Madame Gorbunova opened her eyes and watched them leave. Then she looked around at the crowd and asked Monsieur Fevrier what had happened.

December 1913

 

HERSHEL stepped off the train and screwed up his face against the cold. Behind him the train was belching and spewing out a curtain of steam that evaporated in the cold air. The snow blew in sideways under the platform roof and blanketed the worn boards, piling up against the benches and hurrying the passengers inside. Clutching his hat with one hand and his suitcase with the other, Hershel ran for the station door, slipping on a patch of ice and catching himself on the back of a nearby bench.

The station was stifling and smelled of burned butter and pickled vegetables. There was a railway restaurant on one side of the terminal with its display of blue mineral water bottles stacked in a pyramid. He caught his reflection in the glass partition that separated it from the rest of the station. Flakes of snow still clung to his beard and he brushed them off, reminding himself that it needed trimming.

Hershel strode to the ticket counter where he called over the stationmaster and gave him his suitcase to watch and a ten-kopeck coin. On his way out through the big glass doors he checked his pocket watch and found that it was half past seven. He had left instructions in Kherson that morning that he wanted a telegram delivered to Berta at this time so she would think he was still there. He knew she wouldn’t be happy with him when she read it and that he would have to make it up to her when he got home. He pictured her in the foyer, dressed for her salon, tearing open the telegram, reading it, crumpling it, and handing it back to Vera. He knew after that she’d take a moment to compose herself before returning to her guests, adopting that strained half smile that she reserved for public disappointments. He didn’t like
disappointing her, but there was nothing to be done about it. His presence in Poltava was unavoidable.

Out on the sidewalk his eyes teared from the cold, but he didn’t mind. It woke him up. He’d been on the train since early morning, traveling up from Kherson, following the Dnieper past Elisavetgrad and finally on to his destination. He couldn’t tell Berta that he was in Poltava, because it was only about fifty versts southeast of Cherkast and she would expect him home for her party. So in the telegram he wrote that he was still in Kherson meeting a buyer for supper.

A young couple ran past him, holding hands and skipping around the slower-moving pedestrians. They ran over to a tram that sat waiting on the tracks. Hershel walked over to the same tram and followed the couple up the steps. He paid the conductor and sat at a window seat looking at his reflection in the glass. The tram was mostly empty except for a small group of soldiers in the back. They were passing around a bottle. They had probably just started drinking since they weren’t even half drunk.

The tram started up the hill, passing dimly lit streets and shops. All the way along the horses strained against the steep grade, steam rising off their flanks, their hooves crunching on the snow, their breath whitening the air. On Tzarskaya Square the shops were still open and brightly lit. There were Jewish shops of quality: the Dochman Stationery shop, the Aronheim and Cohn Department store, and Albert Baum’s grocery shop. There was a shop that sold baskets and another that sold hats and another for gramophones and English bicycles. On one corner a small band was playing and a few couples were dancing in the street.

Hershel got off at the corner of Petrovskaya and Ulitza Kotlyarevs-kago in front of the bronze statue of the Little Russian poet I. P. Kot-lyarevsky. He stood on the corner to get his bearings and started down Petrovskaya in the direction of the Jewish district. They were paving the sidewalk on that side of the square and the workman had left piles of wooden blocks along the curb. He had to avoid them and step down into the snow to make his way along, avoiding the slippery ice wherever he could.

The Yiddish Art Theater was located on the street of bakeries. It was in a converted warehouse, a drafty building with blacked-out windows, a rough stage, a dusty curtain, and row upon row of salvaged theater seats. The house was full that night because a new play, one direct from America, had just opened that weekend and the word in town was that it was a three-handkerchief performance. Hershel sat in the middle of a row in the orchestra section among noisy couples, whining children, and picnickers sitting in their coats eating their supper out of a basket. There was no attempt made to quiet down even after the curtain was raised. Instead they continued to talk loudly, calling to one another across the theater and passing food around as if they were at their kitchen table. Fortunately the plot was simple and the acting was so broad that it was easy to follow. Not that Hershel cared about the performance.

He looked around at the people sitting next to him. To his right was a prosperous-looking fellow, his wife, and five children; to his left was an elderly couple eating chicken and kasha from covered bowls. A row of yeshiva students sat in front of him and beside them sat several widows wearing black dresses and heavy winter shawls.

At intermission he got up and followed the crowd into the lobby. He went outside for a smoke along with three other brave souls. The gusts were so violent that the snow seemed to fall upward into the black sky. A dog ran by with a muzzle covered in ice. Across the street a figure hurried along the snowy sidewalk wearing a greatcoat and clutching a blanket around his shoulders for warmth. Hershel found a sheltered spot against the building and after several attempts managed to light his cigar. It was a waste of a good cigar since he couldn’t possibly finish it before intermission was over, but he hadn’t had one all day and the urge was strong. While he puffed away he studied his fellow smokers huddled against the building. None of them returned his interest. Instead they kept their eyes averted, taking long pulls on their cigarettes and filling the night air with plumes of white smoke.

The audience quieted down for the second half of the performance. There was too much going on even for this garrulous bunch to ignore. The hero, who had escaped the army and fled to America in the first
act, was never heard of again. The heroine kept waiting for a letter that never came. When word finally reached her that her fiancé was killed in an accident, she was forced to marry another man. The dead hero came back in the final scene to speak through her mouth, vowing to love her forever. Women wiped away their tears and blew into handkerchiefs. Men grew quiet and children stopped fidgeting. Only Hershel seemed unmoved. He kept looking at his watch and wondering when it would be over. Finally the bride killed herself and the curtain came down. After numerous curtain calls, the house lights came up and the audience filed out.

Hershel kept his seat until the theater cleared. He looked around at the empty rows of seats and wondered what he should do next. Should he give up and leave? It was possible that his contact never showed. Maybe he sensed some danger of which Hershel wasn’t aware. Maybe he had taken the money and left town. It wouldn’t be the first time Hershel had been cheated. But then he thought to look under his seat and then the seat next to him, where he found the suitcase. As he picked it up and walked up the aisle to the door, a child’s gold star on the spine of the case caught the stage lighting and winked.

It was late. He didn’t expect to find a cab in this district, so he wasn’t surprised to find the street empty. Most of the theater crowd lived in the vicinity and had already hurried home. He knew it was going to be a long cold walk down to Tzarskaya Square. As a stranger carrying a traveling case in the deserted streets, he was more concerned about standing out than getting frostbite. He finished pulling on his gloves, picked up the case, and started down the hill. Fortunately the wind was at his back. He took care not to slip on the ice, navigating his way down the dark street.

Just before the square he saw two gendarmes smoking on the corner under a lamppost. They took the smoke deeply into their lungs and let it out in billowy puffs while they talked. When one of them spotted Hershel, he nudged the other and together they watched him struggle down the slippery hill. He knew Poltava well. He had met “friends” here many times and knew the streets, especially the ones around the square. So without hesitation he stopped to talk to the police officers.

“I think I’m lost. I have a warm room and a bed waiting for me somewhere around here. You know where I can find Gogolevskaya?”

The one with a fat neck that spilled in rolls over his collar nodded and gestured down the street. “It is on your right. You are headed in the right direction, just keep going.” Hershel thanked him and walked on. When he came to Gogolevskaya, he turned in, just in case they were watching. He kept walking, knowing that the street curved back to the main road farther on.

By the time he got back to the station the restaurant was closed, which was too bad, because he was hungry. He retrieved his other case from the stationmaster and found a bench where he could doze while he waited. Of course the train was late but not hours late, as it usually was. It arrived in a cloud of smoke and a hiss of steam, coming to a clamorous halt of grinding iron and screeching brakes. Most of the windows were dark and the shades were drawn. Hershel walked down the platform and boarded the train somewhere in the middle.

He was hoping for an empty compartment but found it crowded with sleeping army officers, their greatcoats thrown over their bodies for warmth, brass buttons gleaming in the subdued light, braids, epaulettes, and knee-high boots of fine leather. A few stirred when he walked in but soon closed their eyes and went back to sleep. He hoisted the suitcases up onto the overhead shelf and settled down in the last empty seat for a watchful night. But he was too exhausted to stay awake and soon closed his eyes. After the train fell into the easy rhythm of the tracks, he drifted off.