The war continued to go badly for the Russians, which only increased the demands on the Poznan provincials to supply the advancing German Army. Finally, the starving peasants and workers of Petrograd turned on the Tsar’s government, and the Russian Army followed. Nicholas Romanov abdicated the throne on March 15, 1917. Zalmund and Deena speculated on the outcome. Deena hoped the moderate politicians, supported by the Church, would come to their senses and stop the war. She emphasized her points by swatting the pillows extra hard as she made the bed. Zalmund followed behind her, stroking his beard and nodding. But the Socialists, he reminded her, are the ones who want to make peace.
“And the Bolsheviks,” he said slowly, “are led by an Übermensch. Lenin.”
“A real live Übermensch?” she asked.
“Yes. I see it clearly. He will do anything, stop at nothing, to take over Russia. He is not bound by the same rules as the Republicans. He is building a new morality, a new Russian culture. They cannot defeat him. They are fighting with only one arm.”
“A real Übermensch,” Deena said softly to herself, mulling it over as she smoothed the sheets. “If he stops the war, I am with him!” she finally said, defiantly.
Germany’s joy at the collapse of the Russian Empire was reversed with the entry of the United States into the War in April 1917. The demands of the German Imperial War Department now shifted to the extreme. Isaac Hofitz could no longer protect the town or the estate, and nearly all young men were conscripted. Summer crops were harvested unripen to conceal them from the authorities. The remaining townspeople were on meager rations. The grim news became foreboding of a black future. People were anxious and snapped at each other. They trudged around the streets with heads held low, stomachs churning with doubt and worry. Even the church bells tolled a little softer and sharper, as if God himself held his breath and waited.
One Saturday afternoon in the fall of 1917, after Deena prepared the end-of-Shabbos dinner, she walked the perimeter of the grounds with Zalmund in the fading light. Without looking up, she said “Tell me more about Rabbi Zevi.”
Zalmund looked up, surprised and amused. “My Rabbi Sabbatai Zevi?”
“Yes, that one.”
“Well, he was a mystic. He believed that not everything in the world could be observed, and that not everything we saw was true. He thought that some truths of God were hidden and must be discovered. He was a master of Kabbalah and Zohar, a very difficult book to understand. I tried.”
“Even you, Zalmund?” Deena teased.
“Even me, my sweet.” Zalmund gave her a wide smile and took her hand. “Kabbalah teaches that we should work on perfecting our character, and that is what can touch God and live forever. No amount of worship or ritual matters unless it enriches your character.”
“A character that lives forever,” Deena repeated in a low voice. “So many in town have lost sons and husbands. They long to hear them and touch them. Mrs. Najwicz has invited Franek Kluski to hold a séance tomorrow at her home to reach out to dead soldiers and comfort them. He is a famous medium, maybe you have heard of him? He can summon the dead, and he even makes wax impressions of their hands. Father Dziwisz has cautioned against these pagan rituals, but they go on anyway in secret. People want to believe that the dead still live.”
They came upon the ruins of an old stone church on the edge of the baren field. Three half-walls remained, overhung by a tree that had dropped most of its leaves to the ground inside the ruin. Zalmund turned and led Deena through the gap of the former door and into the vestige of the chapel. He took both her hands and looked down into her eyes.
“We long to connect our immortal souls. It is more than a church, bigger than a country. It is a force we cannot resist. A river flowing to eternity.” He bent down and kissed her deeply. Soon he spread his coat on the bed of leaves. As the sun set and the first stars twinkled overhead, Zalmund and Deena made love.
When they finished, Deena smoothed her shift, smiled at Zalmund and took his hand as they started back in the dark. She smiled for most of the way, but as they approached familiar trees and paths, her glorious isolation gave way to fear of the shared mundane. The enormity of her choice overcame her. She clutched Zalmund’s hand with her right and then grasped his elbow with her left. She knew then that nothing would ever be the same.
In a few weeks the papers were filled with the news of the Second Russian Revolution. The Bolsheviks had seized power from the Liberals with hardly a shot fired. Lenin and the Bolsheviks were now in control of whatever was left of the Russian Army. The lethargy of the people of Koszuty gave way to a nervous agitation. Rumors flew about who was a Socialist, who supported the Germans, and who remained loyal to the Tsar. With this level of scrutiny, attention turned to Deena, and then to Zalmund, who did little to hide his feelings from his father. After the Christmas celebrations, Isaac dismissed Deena from their service.
On a routine visit to the dry goods store, Zalmund was confronted by Deena’s brother. He accused him of ruining his sister’s life. “Oh, you liked it better when she worked under Jews?” Zalmund snapped. Deena’s brother charged him, and the fight was broken up by other shoppers. The store owner asked Zalmund not to return.
In March 1918, the Germans and Russians announced their peace. The border to the east was now open. Zalmund found a supplier headed to Poznan, and late one afternoon he and Deena slipped under the wagon’s canvas cover, among the cabbages and onions, and left Koszuty. From Poznan they boarded a train for the short ride to Lublin, which eventually led them to Moscow, and then Kyiv.
By mid-October 1918 in Kyiv, Zalmund and Deena were nearing the end of the money from the sale of the black sedan. Zalmund sold his first Cheka pass to a well-known fixer on Foundoukleevskaja. The Cheka passes were in great demand because of the extensive smuggling from decadent Kyiv into proletarian Moscow, where luxury items were nearly impossible to obtain. For the smuggler, authentic passes were even better than bribing border guards, because the price was fixed and the service more dependable. The illicit transport of large volumes of contraband rewarded the apparatchiks for their zealous pursuit of the worker’s paradise. For his part, Zalmund, like all the rest in the smugglers’ chain, took his payment in the hard currency of Kyiv: German marks.
His goods were unusual, precious, and word quickly spread among the Kyiv underground traders. Zalmund made several hurried deals and then realized his commanding position. He paid a café owner a few marks each week to take messages for him from his clients. He stopped by occasionally to collect the notes and set up times for meetings at the café. The Firebird was not much of a café, and wasn’t even on the main Foundoukleevskaja, but rather on a side alley called Grodsznoskaja. When Deena came with him on a crisp October afternoon, she had to step carefully down the narrow brick stairs to the basement and the wood door with a small peephole. The word “Firebird” painted in flaking yellow paint was scarcely visible from the street. Zalmund knocked twice and held up two fingers sideways in a signal to the peephole. The door opened and they entered a dank and dark basement, with a cement floor and wood pillars spaced about. The room was lit by candles on the tables and from wall sconces, which gave the room a smoky flavor. The walls were otherwise covered by dark colored sheets nailed to the ceiling beam, draping over cracked plaster walls. A few shaggy men were slouched on sagging couches against the back and side walls, partially obscured by the pillars.