“TATEH… Tateh… wake up.”
Hershel opened his eyes and found his daughter’s face not three inches from his own. “What is it?” he mumbled, turning over and closing them again.
“You have to tell Galya that she can’t put Masha out into the snow.”
“Who’s Masha?”
“Masha, Tateh!” she said with exasperation, her eyes filling with tears. “She had her kittens last night and Galya wants to put them out into the snow. You have to get up.” She shook Hershel and bounced on the bed. “You have to tell her she can’t do it.”
“Yes, all right. Only let me sleep now.”
“No, Tateh! She won’t listen to me. You have to get up and tell her now!” She pulled on his arm and tried to drag him out of bed.
“All right, Sura. All right, my darling, I’m getting up.” He sat up and wiped his face with a hand. “Where’s your mother?”
“Looking for Samuil.”
Just then the door opened and Berta came in. “Sura, I told you not to wake your father.”
“I want him to tell Galya she can’t put Masha out.”
“I already told her. She’s making a proper place for Masha.”
Sura jumped up and ran for the door. “Did you tell her to use the laundry basket? Galya,” she shouted out in the hall. “Use the laundry basket!”
Hershel collapsed back down on his pillow. “What time is it?”
“It’s late. Nearly teatime. Why don’t you get up and help me look for Samuil.”
“Where is he?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be looking for him. I think he’s in your study.”
Hershel’s smile faded. “My study? I don’t want him in my study.” Hershel swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.
“I’ll go see if I can find him,” she said.
He found his clothes laid out on a chair and started to dress. “No, I’ll go.”
“We’ll both go.”
“Berta!” But she was already out and calling down the hall.
Hershel heard her by the door of his study calling out Samuil’s name. He tucked in his shirt and buttoned his trousers. He wanted to put on his boots, but more than that he wanted to get his wife and child out of his study. So he left the boots and went barefoot out into the hall. There were the usual sounds of the maids chattering downstairs and the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen. He found the door to his study closed. When he tried the knob and found it locked his apprehension began to grow.
“Berta, open the door,” he said quietly.
He listened for footsteps and heard them crossing the room, first muffled by the rug and then loud on the hardwood floor and then muffled again. The door opened and Samuil stood there nearly in tears.
“I’m sorry, Tateh. It was just a game. I won’t tell anybody, I promise.”
He looked past his son to his wife, who was sitting on the floor in front of the closet. In her lap were two revolvers and a German pistol.
She looked up. Her face was stiff with shock. “Hershel?”
He ignored her and took his son’s hand. “Samuil, come here.” He sat down in his desk chair and drew his son over. Then he put his hands on his shoulders and looked into his face. “I’m going to tell you something very important and I want you to listen.”
Samuil began to cry.
“There’s no need for that. You’re not in trouble. But I need you to understand what I’m about to tell you.” Samuil nodded and stifled a sob. “In Russia, Jews are not allowed to own guns. Do you know what that means?”
He nodded again and brushed away his tears.
“What does it mean?”
“They shouldn’t have guns.”
“That ’s right. So those guns shouldn’t be here. And if anybody ever found out, we’d all be in serious trouble.”
“I’m not going to tell anybody, Tateh.”
“Nobody, not Galya, not anybody.”
“I know. I won’t tell a soul.” The little cords on his neck stood out as he tried to catch a sob.
“I know you won’t.” Hershel pulled his son to him. His hair smelled of mothballs from the closet. “We just have to be very, very careful. There are people out there who want to do us harm. Not Mameh and me, necessarily, but other Jews in the towns and shtetlekh, understand?”
Samuil nodded.
“They do terrible things to them. And the Jews have no one to protect them, not the police or the army. So they have to protect themselves and that’s what these guns are for.”
“Yes, Tateh.”
“So now you understand.”
He nodded.
“Good. Now go find your sister. Help her with Masha’s kittens.”
Samuil nodded and walked slowly to the door. When he had gone, Berta got up from the floor and went over to the sofa and sank down on the cushions. She grabbed a pillow and held it to her chest, wrapping her arms around it for comfort.
“What are they doing here, Hershel?” Her voice was even and cold.
He picked up a gun and examined it. “They’re called spitters,” he said, casually fingering the trigger. “As if all they ’ll do is spit at you.”
“You think this is a joke?”
“I’m just keeping them for a friend.”
“A friend. What friend?”
“A friend, Berta. You don’t need to know.”
“Is he a Jew? What kind of a friend asks you to keep guns in your house?”
“They ’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
“By tonight, Hershel.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t take orders.”
He stooped to gather up the guns and walked into the closet. He put them back in the hidden cupboard, locked it, and came back out with the key. He went over to the desk, pulled the drawer out, and taped the key to the underside.
“And what if you get caught?”
“I won’t.”
“But what if you do? You’ll be sent to Siberia. You’ll die in a Siberian labor camp.”
“I’m not going to get caught. You’re getting excited over nothing.”
“Nothing, he says! Our life, is it nothing? Our children, our house, our home?”
“That’s enough, Berta.”
“Why are you doing this? Why are you jeopardizing everything?”
“I said that’s enough!”
He turned his back on her and looked out the window. He could see her reflection in the window pane, sitting on the couch on the other side of the room, her lips pursed in disapproval. He was aware of the cold floor under his bare feet and the draft coming in through the French windows. He suddenly wanted his boots. He wanted to be dressed. More than that, he wanted to be away from her. He turned and walked purposefully past the couch to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I want to get dressed.”
“But we haven’t finished yet.”
“This conversation is over.” He walked out the door.
She jumped up and ran after him. “Hershel…”
He kept on going.
“Hershel!”
“I’d advise you to stay away, Berta.” He walked into the bedroom and shut the door a little too hard.
At first he was too angry to think. He sat down on one of her fancy chairs, then realizing where he was, grabbed his boots and went across the hall to his own room. It was freezing in there, so he rang for Vera. She didn’t have to be told what he wanted. She appeared at the door with a basket full of wood and promptly got the fire going in the stove. While he waited to warm up he poured himself a whiskey and sat down on the bed to drink it. When he was finished he poured another and this time sipped it more slowly. After a while he set the glass down, lay back on the pillows, pulled the comforter up to his chin, and closed his eyes. He fell asleep and when he woke he was still angry, still didn’t want to talk to Berta, but lying there in the darkening room, with the whiskey taking the edge off his anger, he had to admit that it might be time to quit. Not that she was right. Not that she had any say in the matter, but last night’s journey on the train had told him something that he could no longer ignore: He wasn’t afraid of sharing his compartment with the army officers, and he should’ve been. He should’ve been on high alert, tense, aware of every detail, straining to hear snatches of conversation, making notes in his head. Instead, he was tired and bored and even dozed. Mistakes happened when you were that comfortable. He’d seen it in other men.