Enemy of the Tzar: A Murderess in One Country, A Tycoon in Another. Lester S. Taube

the glint of controlled humor, for you could see she always had a grin inside waiting to break out, and the…what was it?…pride, I guess. His grandfather said it was the stiff neck of the Jews.

      Both his grandfather and his father had a low opinion of Jews, Stephen knew, and he was quite prepared to feel the same, except that Larisa, whom he thought the world of, said that Hanna and her family were first class. He decided to wait a while and get to know her before making a decision about them. There was a mystery about her, not of gloom or misfortune, but of warmth, like the shadow of a forest floor when you rested on a pile of leaves.

      “I can give it to you as soon as I finish with these fish. Another ten or fifteen minutes.”

      “All right. Can I help you?”

      Stephen had to chuckle. Most women could not stand the smell of fish, let alone want to handle them. “No, thanks. I can manage.”

      She sat quietly watching him work. She knew he would not speak unless first addressed. He had a deep reserve, something rare for the usually vocal Russians. Larisa had gone into the house to drop off a package, and it was the first time the two young people had been alone.

      “You are going to the university, are you not?” she asked.

      “Yes.”

      “What are you studying there?”

      “Engineering.”

      “What kind of engineering?” Hanna’s curiosity made the words seem to jump from her lips.

      “Mechanical.”

      “My grandfather used to build things, too. Well, not exactly. He did cement work. My father did the same thing when he was a boy.”

      Stephen wanted to say it was too bad about her father being crippled from that boat accident, for he felt it might make her sad, and he would rather bite off his tongue than cause her unhappiness. Everyone knew that if it were not for Hanna working all hours, the family would have starved long before now. His own father, come to think of it, was not much better off physically, what with diabetes and his rheumatism, but at least they were well off financially with his pension and mother’s dowry invested in several buildings in Vilnius, and the family farm a verst out of town managed by a Polish foreman.

      He finished gutting the last fish, washed his hands at the pump, then went inside the house, soon returning wearing a new shirt. He handed over his blue woolen one with the ripped sleeve.

      “I’ll pick it up when it’s ready,” he told her.

      “All right. It will be finished tomorrow.”

      “That’s your Sabbath, isn’t it?”

      “Yes. But…” she grinned, “…giving over a shirt is not against our religion.”

      As she picked up the pail containing the fish, he stepped closer. “I’ll carry it home for you.”

      She held her ground. “Thank you, Stephen, but I can manage.”

      He nodded, and stood back as she started away with her various packages. There was a sudden tingling inside him as he watched her erect figure walk gracefully down the street, and he abruptly felt a sense of loneliness, as if he had lost something of value.

      It was nearly dusk when Hanna arrived home. Her mother, Motlie, was waiting in the kitchen, her face flushed with excitement.

      “We have a boarder,” she said at once to Hanna.

      “I heard,” replied Hanna. Boarders were common in the shtetls of larger towns and cities, but one in the village of Gremai was a rarity. “Who is he?”

      “A young man.” Motlie’s eyes danced. “A handsome young man, from Germany.”

      “How much is he paying?” That was the key to Hanna. Money meant food, six cords of firewood, a coat for her sister, Reba.

      “Three rubles a week,” burst out Motlie, barely able to contain her joy.

      Hanna was impressed. The money would pay for his food four times over. “That is good,” she conceded, placing her packages on the table. “Look, Mama, fish. Stephen, the brother of Larisa, gave them to me.”

      While Hanna changed to a smock and her worn felt boots, Motlie began scaling the fish. “I put him upstairs in bubbe’s room,” she said. The mother of her husband, Israel, had slept there until her death two years ago. Since then, the room had been closed off to conserve linens in the summer and heat in the winter.

      “What is he doing in Gremai?” asked Hanna, coming back into the kitchen.

      “He says he’s an artist, and that the Jews here came from Germany, hundreds of years ago. He wants to sketch us to show the similarity.”

      Hanna began dressing the chicken, plucking the feathers and placing them in a cloth bag. “We will need more than this chicken for tomorrow,” she remarked. “I will pick up another one tomorrow on my way home.” Then she looked up. “What difference does it make?” she asked.

      “What do you mean, what difference does it make?”

      “What difference does it make if we came from Germany, or from Poland, or from anywhere?”

      “I suppose it makes a difference to him.”

      It is a waste, thought Hanna, to learn about this or that unless it fits into the scheme of things. If it was history, that would be all right because history is a never ending chain that turns in circles, and having it suddenly brought to a stop to make a record for those in the future to learn that nothing truly changes, well, that is important. Like myself. What am I really here for? To pluck this chicken? It is for my family, and I do not mind doing it for them, but beyond this chicken is me, and the me can think of a hundred things I would rather be doing. Like dancing. How I would love to be in someone’s arms whom I care for and whirl around and around. And having a dress that swirled with me. A dress? She caught herself beginning to laugh at the thought. A coat for Reba would be a better subject to dream about.

      She awoke to hear her mother say, “He’s coming downstairs now.”

      “What is his name?”

      “Hershel Bloch.”

      “What does he speak? Hurry!” She could hear him descend the last steps.

      “We spoke Yiddish,” whispered her mother.

      Hanna looked up as Hershel came into view. He was tall and handsome. He had a pleasant, rather long face, thick brown hair worn to the collar of his three-quarter length leather jacket, and sported a full, carelessly tended mustache. His eyes were brown, alert, and a small smile seemed fixed to his lips.

      “The room is very comfortable, Mrs. Barlak,” he said at once. He looked with interest at Hanna. “And you must be Hanna, are you not?”

      Hanna suddenly felt that he could easily become a very close friend. A person you could care for without the sex that her cousin, Zelda, kept harping on. He was in his late twenties, but something in his eyes made him look older as if he had once been unusually sad, or if he knew something was coming that he did not want to face. But his easy smile and his warm, friendly way of speaking seemed part of his nature.

      “Yes, I am Hanna.”

      He looked back at Motlie at work. “Can I help you scale the fish?” he asked.

      “You will spoil that lovely jacket,” she replied, a bit of the coquette in her voice.

      “Voilá,” he said, taking off his jacket and draping it casually over a chair. He was wearing a fine cotton shirt underneath, and, rolling up his sleeves, he took the knife from Motlie and started expertly to scale the fish. “I became pretty handy at this en route to Lithuania,” he explained.

      “Where are you from?” asked Hanna.

      “Berlin.”

      “Did