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 alclass="underline" 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.
After a while he let his mind wander back to the Kovel terminal, to the man with all the children. He saw him picking up a child in one arm and an array of suitcases in the other… suitcases of all sizes and colors, suitcases like his own, stuffing them under his arm and in his hand, striding through the platform archway, while trailing his brood behind him. Then just before he disappeared under the arch, Pavel remembered that he turned back and glanced at him. At the time it barely registered. But now Pavel realized that it was more than just a random glance in his direction: It was a look of gratitude for a job well done.
Chapter Seven
December 1913
“IT’S TIME to begin, maideleh,” she called out. “I’m waiting.”
Berta broke an egg on the edge of the bowl and dropped the contents into a hollowed-out onion full of water. She swirled the mixture around with her finger while chanting a spell she made up on the spot.
“What is it, Mameh? What do you see?” asked Sura, running over and peering into the onion beside her mother.
“I see a long life, maideleh. A long life with a handsome husband and lots of children.”
“I don’t want children. I want horses.”
“And lots of horses.”
“Arabians?”
“Of course. A whole pasture full of them.”
“Where?” said the child, peering into the onion.
“There,” she said pointing. “Where the yolk swirls into the water.”
“It tells you all that?”
“And much, much more.”
“Like what?”
“Like you must eat your breakfast and get ready to go out.”
They were sitting at the children’s table near the stove in the nursery. It was an elaborate affair with its own kitchen and music room outfitted with downsized instruments, a schoolroom decorated with maps of the world, several closets full of clothes, and a wall of shelves lined with toys. All this magnificence, this extravagance of color and mechanical contrivances that whirred into life simply by winding a key, were placed there solely for the enjoyment of two children: Sura, a fearful five-year-old with tiny, nervous hands, darting eyes, long brown hair, and a rare smile, and Samuil, a precocious seven-year-old, whose insouciance and careless way of addressing adults made him seem much older.
“I don’t want to go out, Mameh,” Sura murmured, her large eyes staring out the window at the brilliant sun and its reflection on the billowy mound of snow that leveled the landscape outside their window.
“But you need fresh air and exercise. It’ll be fun.”
“It won’t be fun at all. It’s cold out there and I’ll hate it.”
“Where is your hairbrush, my darling?”
“Dunno.”
“Where did you put it?” She hunted around and found it on a bookshelf. “Here, let me brush it out for you.” She stood behind her daughter and began to brush out her thick curls while breathing in the comforting smell of her hair, of soap and starched linen.
“What if I get lost out there?” Sura fretted, her brow making a furrow under the fringe of hair.
“You won’t get lost,” Berta told her. “You’re only going out into the yard.”
“What if they don’t find me and I freeze to death like that squirrel we saw the other day. Ow, Mama!”
“Sorry.”
“And what if my hands break off and I melt and become all squishy and turn into a puddle.”
“Galya won’t let that happen. You say this every day and so far you’re still here and you have hands and feet and you’re not a puddle at all.” Berta looked up when her son came in and watched as he collapsed in the chair opposite his sister.
“Why do they even come if they don’t like the music?” he said sulkily. He grabbed a roll and began to butter it. Every Thursday Berta hosted a musical salon and Samuil was already anticipating the intrusion.