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

train to Kaunas, then a coach through Slabodka to here.”

      Hanna pulled the last whisk of feathers from the chicken and rose, carrying it to the table. There she took up a sharp knife and deftly slit open the bird, drawing out its entrails. Carefully, she cut away the gizzard, the liver, and the heart, discarded the rest into a slop pail, then chopped off the bird’s head, also into the pail. She severed the neck and legs, and placed everything into a pot of cold water. She would leave it to soak for half an hour, then place the dismembered chicken on a board and sprinkle it with heavy salt to draw out the blood.

      “Why to Gremai?” she asked, wiping her hands on the apron.

      Hershel had finished his work also. He scraped the waste into the slop pail and washed his hands in a basin of water. “Last year I spent almost two months in the shtetls of Poland. This time I wanted a freer type of Jew to sketch.”

      “Freer!” Hanna began laughing. “You must be joking.”

      Hershel started chuckling also. “You’re right; I did not express it properly. I mean…well, you live among the gentiles, you deal with them more than the Jews in the shtetls, you come and go more easily.”

      “Speaking of coming and going, did you register with the gendarmes?”

      “Not yet. I’ll do that tomorrow.”

      “They will want to know why you came here.”

      “I’ll tell them.” He turned away to slip on his jacket and casually asked, “What are the police here? Russian?”

      “Yes. Both the District Chief and his gendarmes. Two of them come by Gremai now and then.”

      “How about the Bürgermeister?” This was also casually asked.

      “We call him a seniunas. He is Lithuanian.”

      Israel and the three children came in from the yard. Gitel was eleven, small and slim as a bird. Reba was ten, hearty and robust. Zelek was five, a fierce, unruly boy who rarely stood still for a long moment. They had already met the stranger, and Israel had to drag them out of the house so Motlie and Hanna could get supper ready. Motlie had the fire going, borscht from the night before being reheated, the fish cut into slices and frying in a pan. Spots of color had come back into her usually wan cheeks, and Hanna thought again how lovely her mother was when she did not look so ill.

      It was a cheerful supper. The extra fish, the new man at the table, actually paying for his food, and the light talk made Israel and Motlie’s spirits high.

      Afterwards, Israel and Hershel went outside and sat on a bench smoking cigarettes while Hanna and Reba did the dishes, and Gitel straightened up the room. Zelek stood shyly by the door listening to the two men speak. When all was done, Hanna and Motlie placed shawls around their shoulders to guard against the night chill and joined the men to catch a breath of fresh air. There was some little talk, then they all went to bed.

      Hershel said he would sit a while before turning in, and when all inside had quieted down, he lit a cigarette and began walking down the road. He knew the location of the house he was heading for, even in the dark, for he had checked it carefully during daylight hours. The hard packed dirt streets were empty, as they usually were at this hour, and the moon was low, concealing him from curious eyes. A few blocks away, he tapped gently on the door to a trim, well tended house. When it opened, the lamp inside had been turned low, so little light escaped to show his form.

      A tall, slender man, bearded, dressed in town clothing, stood there. “Yes?” he asked softly in Russian.

      “I am Hershel.”

      “Quick. Come inside.” Hershel stepped through the doorway into a comfortable parlor. The man turned up the wick of the lamp and scrutinized the visitor. “You fit the description I was given. A vodka?”

      “Yes, thanks.”

      The man poured two glasses and handed one over. “I am Thomas,” he said.

      “I know that.”

      Thomas motioned Hershel to a cushioned chair, took one facing it, and they drank. “What news do you have for me?” he asked, wiping his neatly trimmed mustache.

      “We can bring in pamphlets every four weeks. The drop point will be a house east of Smalininkai.”

      “How many copies each time?” There was wonder and excitement in his voice.

      “One thousand.” Hershel was watching Thomas closely. You could never be too sure of a person, even with the best of credentials, and the eyes of a man are often an open book. Thomas seemed safe. It was reflected in the neatness of his middle class Lithuanian home, the determination in his manner.

      “I can dispose of more. Two thousand at the least.”

      “I’m sure you can,” said Hershel easily. “But it means additional exposure. Just pass on what you receive.”

      “Do you have any information as to what they will say?”

      “The first issue or two will contain only general news stories. The contents themselves are of secondary importance. What is important is the fact that the pamphlets are written in Lithuanian and have been brought into Lithuania.” He sipped at his drink, his ears and eyes alert to any unusual movements or noises. “In the editorials we will emphasize the right of news items to be published in Lithuanian. In no way will we attack the Russians. They will growl, but they will not take oppressive actions, outside of banging the skulls and fining those caught with pamphlets. Later on, we will deal with the twenty-five year long conscription that they impose on the young men caught up by army recruiters. We will demand that the maximum service be only three years. Once that occurs, you can expect the police to step up the number of informers to seek out the printing plant and the means of distribution. Our next step will be a demand for self-rule. Not freedom–that would bring down a slaughter greater than that of sixty-three–but the right of self determination.”

      Thomas had been staring at Hershel with total concentration, his eyes narrowed in thought at the steps being laid out. “You have shown a great interest in us Lithuanians,” he said softly. “Especially for a German. How do our problems concern you?”

      “I am a socialist. The problems of all mankind concern me.”

      Thomas gave a short, tight laugh. “I worry when a man speaks of helping mankind. I feel more at ease when he wants to help himself.”

      Hershel could not restrain a smile. “I am helping myself. I am making history.”

      Thomas shrugged ever so slightly. It was horseshit, he knew. There had to be a more rational motive to involve what was apparently an educated, intelligent man. From his dress, he was very well-off. Then a thought struck. He had been told that his contact was a Jew. He certainly did not look like one, for he was clean-shaven, except for the mustache, and he did not wear that fringed affair. Or at least it did not show. Anyhow, Jews were also oppressed by the Tzar. Socialism was the leveler of man, of society in general. Therefore, a Jew could move up a notch or two in a Socialist world. That made more sense.

      He poured for each of them another glass of vodka. “How much will this cost?”

      “One hundred rubles an edition.”

      Hershel could see from the man’s expression that the price had shocked him. “That’s high,” said Thomas tightly. “I will have trouble raising the money.”

      “Do what you can. Writing, translating and printing the pamphlets are not the principal costs. Getting them over the frontier–that is expensive. Anyone caught with a large number of the publications would be sent to Siberia before the week is out.” He stared straight at Thomas, “For the rest of his life,” he said slowly.

      Thomas nodded in understanding. “Can you tell me where the pamphlets will be printed?”

      “In Prussia. More than that, I cannot say.”

      “How about books?” His tone was wistful. “It