The Little Russian (28 page)

“But, Monsieur—”

“No, let me finish. You need to hear this. You need to know how things are. It’s very simple. You’re a Jew and nobody wants to buy from a Jew, especially not now, not with the war and the talk of spies. A peddler maybe, a window washer, but not a shopgirl in a fine salon. Nobody wants a Jew getting that close to them, seeing them in their underwear and touching them. It wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. I wish I could help you, and if it were a different time, you’re right, I would hire you.”

She nodded slowly, thanked him in a small worried voice that she hardly recognized, and left the shop. She knew he was telling her the truth. He would have no reason to lie; he was just trying to help her. But she couldn’t let him frighten her. She had to keep going. Something would come up. She would meet someone who knew someone who was looking to hire and she would hurry over and get there before anyone else. That’s how it would happen. All she needed was a bit of luck and so far, up until now, she had been very lucky in life.

She spent the rest of the afternoon trying every shop on Davidkovo Street, big and small, dress shops, milliners, a department store, even the green grocer on the corner. No one would hire her. Eventually the
shops began to close, the wind came up, a light dusting of snow began to fall, and still she wouldn’t go home. So she walked down to the river. It was frozen solid and even though it was nearly dark, there were still ice fisherman hunched over their holes in the ice. Several of them were following the footpath up the bluffs with a catch of silvery fish dangling from a line.

When it got too cold to stand out on the bluffs, she turned back to the city and followed one of the main streets back into town. She walked through what was left of the German neighborhood and on past the Cherkast Agricultural Academy on Skakovaya Street. Slowly the reality of her situation began to sink in: She was alone with two children in a country at war. She had no money and no skill that could earn her a living, nothing of value left to sell, and there was no end to the war in sight. If her children were to grow up, it would be because she found a way to keep them from starving. If they received an education, she would have to pay for it. It was all up to her now, no one else, just her.

She kept going, not wanting to turn back and face the responsibilities that waited for her at home. The snow fell harder driven by the wind. It was wet and it ruined her hat, soaked through her clothes, and crimped her hair into frizzy ringlets about her face. She was shivering and her hands were starting to cramp despite her gloves. She kept thinking of the beggar woman on Podkolokony Street in the Lugovaya Market begging for kopecks with a rented infant. A phrase began to circle through her thoughts like the tail of a kite.
Beg, borrow, or steal. Beg, borrow, or steal.
It became like a tune in her head that wouldn’t leave.
Beg, borrow, or steal. Beg, borrow, or steal.
But she would not beg and she could not steal, so what did that leave her? Borrow. She would borrow the money. She stood in front of a burned-out shop that had once been a German bakery and looked up into the black sky, letting the snow fall on her cheeks and lips while she thought it over. She opened her mouth and the flakes landed on her tongue and melted instantly. She thought about where she would go, whom she would ask, and the more she thought, the more it began to look like a simple solution to a dreadful problem.

The next morning Berta went to see Aleksandra Dmitrievna and was told by her maid that she was still asleep. Berta would not be put off and pushed passed the girl, saying that it was all right, Madame Tretiakova had asked her to come around and get her up early. She went up the stairs, her hand gliding over the marble balustrade carved to look like waves on an ocean, and opened Alix’s door without knocking. She found her friend asleep under a mound of quilts and down-feather pillows and shook her awake.

“Berta,
milochka
. . . so early?” she croaked. “What time is it?”

“It’s time you were up.”

“But it’s still the middle of the night.” Alix never got up before noon, sometimes not even before two or three in the afternoon. She never went to sleep before dawn. She was fond of saying that she kept Moscow hours, even though she had never lived a day in Moscow or anywhere else except Cherkast and the little village near Kiev where she was born.

Her father had been a cotton mill owner. He had nine children, most of whom he didn’t like very much, but Alix was the baby and he loved her dearly. He always treated her like the baby until the day he died and that was fine with her. So fine, in fact, that even after she had five children of her own and had reached middle age she still couldn’t see why she should be treated any differently.

“I have to talk to you. It’s important,” Berta said, opening the drapes and letting in a rush of sunlight. Alix’s room was a great lagoon of green satin. The whole house was built around an ocean theme. It had a wavy iron fence out front and a wide frieze of shells and fantastic sea plants just under the roofline. The floors were decorated with inlaid shell patterns and seahorses made of exotic woods.

“So bright,” Alix complained. The light was reflecting off the snow outside and filling the room with a blazing white light. She put her hands over her eyes and the rings on her fingers threw off a thousand tiny rainbows over the satin-lined walls. “It’s a good thing I love you,” she said, pulling the sheet over her face. “Now go away.”

Berta came over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Alix, you have to wake up.”

“I want to sleep. I was up all night on the telephone. Things are bad. Very bad. The cities are starving. And who will plant in the spring? All the boys are dead and buried, poor things. I’m very worried, Ber-tochka. Very worried indeed.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Olga Fedorovna says there is going to be a revolution. Her husband wants it. Can you imagine that? A revolution here in Russia. Of course we always talked about it, but I never thought that it would actually happen.”

“Alix . . .”

“Did you know they tried to kill Rasputin?”

“
Alix!
”

“What? What is it?”

“
Will you listen to me?
”

“You’re scaring me. Is it the children?”

“I need to borrow five thousand rubles.”

She sucked in her breath and sat up. “
Milochka
. . . my God, that’s a lot of money.”

“I know. But I’ll pay it back.”

“I’m sure you will. I don’t doubt it for a minute. It’s just that—” There was a knock on the door and the maid came in. “The house Jew is here, Madame.”

“Why is everyone coming so early?”

“Can’t we finish this, please?” Berta asked.

“Yes, of course. But first I must get up.” Alix sighed and swung her legs out of bed. The maid hurried over to help her on with her dressing gown. “Come down with me. It won’t take a minute. He brought me some bracelets. I have to choose one so that Lenya doesn’t get me something awful for my name day.” She was heading for the bathroom and expected Berta to follow.

“I can’t stay, Alix. I need to know if you’re going to loan me the money.”

“It’s so much,
milochka
. I hate to bring this up at a time like this, but do you know how you’re going to pay it back?”

She followed Alix into the bathroom. “Hershel . . . who else?”

“You said he wasn’t answering your letters.”

“It’s the mail, Alix. And the war. Everybody knows that. He probably already sent the money. It was held up by the blockade. It’ll get here when it’s over.”

“Yes, of course it will. But just in case . . . not that it would ever happen this way, but let’s just say, Hershel doesn’t want to repay the loan. What if he has other plans for the money? How would you pay it back then? I know I’m being overly cautious, but it’s just that Lenya will ask me these questions and, naturally, I have to have an answer. You know how he is.”

“Of course I’d pay it back. I’d find work or sell something, I’d find a way. But it won’t happen like that. Hershel always pays his debts.”

“I know. I’m just being foolish. And you are so dear to me. I couldn’t deny you anything.” She thought for a moment and then brightened. “I have it. I won’t tell Lenya. Why does he have to know? I have my own money.”

After that the two women hugged and kissed and Berta left her in the bathroom splashing icy water on her face, which, as everyone knew, was good for the liver and circulation.

Once it was all settled Berta seemed to uncoil; every muscle in her body relaxed. She was flush with relief. On the way down the stairs she had an urge to talk to someone, to chatter about nothing, to be frivolous and flirty. Which explains why, when she saw the house Jew waiting in the little office off the foyer, she stopped to talk to him. He looked up nervously at her approach, a little man in a shabby tweed wearing a jaunty bow tie that seemed out of place with his grave expression.

“She’ll be down in a little while,” she said in Yiddish.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied, also in Yiddish. He seemed a little surprised at finding a young woman in this house who spoke to him in his mother tongue.

“What kind of jewelry did you bring?”

“Pearls.”

“She wants pearls?”

“Pearls with diamonds. She says she has a friend who has a bracelet she has always admired and I’m supposed to find her one just like it.”

Berta laughed and wished him good luck. She fingered the coveted bracelet on her wrist as she swept out the front door. It was a cold, bright morning and she took a deep and freeing breath. She hurried down the steps and stopped at the bottom to turn her face up to the sun and catch a little warmth before setting out for home. After that she stopped off at the butcher’s and the bakery and went to the produce market in search of the freshest potatoes, onions, and beets. At last she could open her purse without that familiar dread that came with every kopeck she spent. Now that the threat had been lifted, she could see how frightened she had been. She had contracted into a hard nut, shunning company, avoiding anyone she knew, not even wanting to get out of bed in the morning. But as she walked home at her customary clip, stopping to talk to shopkeepers and even smiling at a soldier who was selling sunflower seeds, she felt whole again, safe. She had pulled herself through.

When she got home she met her upstairs neighbor, Professor Bardygin, on the stair and stopped to invite him over for tea and pastries.

After that she climbed the last few steps to her door and was about to insert her key into the lock when Sura opened it and gave her mother a disapproving frown. “Where have you been? We were expecting you hours ago.”

“Well, I’m here now.”

“What’s all this?”

“If you help me in, I’ll show you.”

Vera hurried over to help. “So much, Madame?” she said peeking into a bag. “Butter,” she exclaimed.

“Did you get something for me?” Sura asked. Berta held up a pastry box. “What is it?”

“A surprise.”

Sura followed them into the kitchen, where they put the packages down on the butcher-block table. It was a small kitchen with a brick stove in the corner. Most of the shelves were empty except for a few dishes and glasses. Vera had her pick of shelves when it came to putting away the dry goods.

“Can I have some now?” asked Sura.

“No, you must wait for tea.”

“Are they little cakes?”

“We’ll see.”

“You must have found work,” Vera said, dumping the onions into a basket on the counter. Then she found the package of meat and her eyes widened. “Meat, Madame. You must’ve found a treasure.”

That afternoon they were in the kitchen preparing the stew. Vera had peeled the onions and Berta was chopping them. Her eyes were tearing so badly that she had to stop and splash them with cold water. The whole house smelled of frying onions, meat, and woodsmoke. The boy had delivered a bundle and now nearly every stove in the apartment was going and it was so warm that Berta had to take off her sweater.

“What if Professor Bardygin wants a chocolate one?” Sura asked. She was following her mother from table to sink and back again. She had stolen a look at the cakes and now she was intent on securing a chocolate one for herself.

“He won’t.”

“But what if he does?”

“We won’t let him.”

“But he’s our guest. We’ll have to let him.”

“Then you can have the other one. There are two chocolates.”

This seemed to satisfy her for the moment until she remembered she had a brother. “But what if Samuil wants it?”

“We’ll give him the lemon.”

“He doesn’t like lemon.”

There was a knock at the door and Vera went to see who it was.

“Then he can have the apple.”

“He’d rather have the chocolate.”

“Then you can share it with him.”

“But it’s so small, Mameh.”

Vera hurried back in and whispered, “It’s Aleksei Sergeevich Tre-tiakov. He wants to see you.”

Berta stared at her without blinking. “How did he look?” she asked, untying her apron with trembling hands.

“Stern.”

She went out to the front room, where she found him standing at
the window, looking out on the street, with his hat in his hand, still wearing his overcoat. There was a red halo around his head from the setting sun. The potted ferns she had brought from Lubiansky Street cast leafy shadows on the walls and furniture and turned the little room into a jungle of chiaroscuro. Even with his back to her she could see that he was stiff and uncomfortable. When he turned at her approach he barely looked at her. She saw the firm set of his mouth under his moustache and the hard glitter in his eyes and her stomach dropped. She knew what he was going to say even before he opened his mouth. It was all over. She had lost and now they would be out on the street.