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

not condescend. She smiled to herself in the dark. I would not want him any other way, she confided to herself.

      Then she turned on her side and willed herself to sleep.

       CHAPTER 3

      The following afternoon Hanna made her way to the igloo shaped mound. Stephen was waiting there with two fishing rods, a pail, and a can of bait. His boat was already in the water, a trim, freshly painted rowboat able to hold three or four people. He greeted her warmly, glad to see that she was wearing a sweater over her shirt waist, and a sturdy pair of shoes under her long cotton skirt.

      Hanna had been on Israel’s boat a number of times before his accident, so she was not apprehensive as she stepped aboard. Stephen pushed off from shore and began rowing strongly over the slow moving water to a bend that curved to the right. He continued on for fifteen minutes or so, then dropped over the anchor.

      ‘You can use the shorter rod,” he said.

      She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “I am not allowed to fish. It is still the Sabbath. Mama and Papa nearly decided that I should not even go.”

      Stephen’s fingers were busy needling a worm to his hook. “I’m not very good at keeping your laws straight in my mind. Didn’t your father sail his boat on your Sabbath?”

      “No, that was work. Torah prohibits us from working on the Sabbath.”

      “Then why are you able to come with me?”

      “I am not on the boat to work. Also, I am not fishing. You are.” Her smile grew broader. “Actually, what Mama and Papa were undecided about was me coming this far from home. The strict Jews will not even leave their houses.”

      “Fishing like this isn’t work. It’s fun.”

      Hanna chuckled. “Try to convince a religious Jew of that. One will say it is work because it is obtaining food, and the other will say it is pleasure. If one changes his mind, the other will, too. The easiest way to avoid an argument is not to fish.”

      Stephen’s heart was nearly bursting. The glow of her face, the whiteness of her teeth, the vitality her body exuded, the curve of her breasts as she moved–he was filled with pleasure at being alone with her.

      He had kissed a number of girls in the past couple of years, and his hands had passed over the breasts of two or three. That had brought a sudden wave of heat in his stomach and loins, then a swift hardness to his penis, a swelling that was almost painful. On one occasion, directly after he had started university, some of the young men had visited a prostitute, and their stories had created near pandemonium among the uninitiated. Stephen had wet dreams for days afterwards, and could think of little else but experiencing the pleasures his schoolmates spoke of. He had agreed to join the group on their next outing, when, during a walk, one of them had pointed out the whore exiting from a store. Stephen’s mind had rebelled at the thought of having sex with a woman certainly as old as his mother, overweight, and with teeth that he could see from across the street were beyond repair.

      “They have younger ones there,” explained a schoolmate, when Stephen had backed out of the venture. “But the one you saw…” whom Stephen later learned was only twenty-seven years old, “…is the best poke of the lot.”

      That made no difference. A whore was a whore, regardless of her age, and by association any loose woman would remind him of the one on the street. Hanna had made an impact. She was pure, and he was certain she would be as ardent as himself, once she cared for a man. But winning her deep affection would not be easy.

      The first fish hooked was a fat carp, and Hanna almost upset the boat in her excitement and eagerness to wield the net to bring it in. Stephen held it up by a gill. “Over a kilo,” he judged its weight.

      “You are wonderful,” burst out Hanna. “Are there many here?” Her eyes began searching the water, for the carp had opened vistas of a free, important food source at a time when every kopek was crucial.

      “Yes. Many kinds. Cod, plaice, even some salmon. Up towards the coast there is much herring.”

      Hanna could barely restrain herself. “Let me try, please,” she finally said.

      Stephen’s eyes crinkled. “Is it for pleasure or for work?”

      “I am enjoying it too much for it to be work,” she admitted gaily, her eyes sparkling.

      Under his tutelage, she placed on the bait, dropped the line overboard, and sat holding her pole tensely. After a few minutes, she looked up. “Nothing is happening.”

      Stephen had to restrain himself from leaning forward and kissing her. “That happens when you fish. Sometimes they bite right away, other times you can wait forever. Move your line a bit. Don’t jerk it. Move it like that worm is alive and wounded. And keep it on the bottom. That’s where carp feed.”

      Almost as soon as she moved the line, she felt a gentle tug from below. Quickly she snapped up the pole, as she had seen Stephen do, and seconds later, she felt a weight and then saw the form of a fish shaking to free itself. “Stephen!” she shouted. “I have one! I have one!”

      They boated another carp, nearly a twin of the first, and Hanna was in seventh heaven, asking for the pliers to take out the hook herself, then looking at it constantly as she rebaited the hook and prepared to drop it over the side again.

      In a little more than an hour, they had caught five fish, none the size of the first two netted, but still good for eating. Four had scales.

      “Let’s go ashore and stretch our legs,” said Stephen. He drew up the anchor and rowed to where the bank was only a step higher than the river. A small woods came to the water’s edge, and next to it was a field of barley swaying in the breeze. He helped her out of the boat, and they sat on the bank, the dying sun’s rays warm on their faces.

      “This has been the nicest Saturday I have had for ever so long,” said Hanna, leaning back against a tree and shutting her eyes with contentment.

      Suddenly, she felt his lips on hers, his hands gently holding her shoulders. She opened her eyes and looked into his, and for the briefest moment her body tensed to push him away. Then her arms went lightly around him and her lips firmed under his, returning his kiss. Her heart sang with delight, and a joy flowed inside that she had never known before. He drew her closer in his arms, and she pressed her lips more tightly to his.

      They drew away to breathe, and she found him kneeling in front of her, his face flushed, his nostrils flaring with his deep breathing, his eyes aflame with desire for her.

      “I love you, Hanna,” he said hoarsely.

      “And I love you, too, Stephen,” she said in a little voice, the pounding in her chest almost too much to bear, her breasts rising and falling with her own emotion and happiness.

      “Do you really love me?” he asked, his eyes shining with wonder.

      She nodded, a smile on her lips, too excited even to reply.

      He leaned forward and kissed her again, shyly, lovingly, and she came to him willingly, her lips soft and full of promise. He turned her to one side and lowered her to the forest floor, his lips still locked to hers, and she felt the weight of him against her breasts. It was difficult to breathe, but she did not care. Instead, she drew him tighter against herself, her lips opening under his, savoring the sweet taste of him, feeling the hardness of his body, her nostrils full of his clean, outdoor smell, the heady scent of flowers in the field.

      His hand moved to a breast and captured it. She cringed at his touch, then she was suddenly on fire, and turned herself towards him to bring him full length against her.

      She felt his penis swell, begin throbbing, and the fire inside her flared with blinding white heat. Reluctantly, they drew apart, and he rolled onto his back, puffing as if he had raced from far off, his eyes closed, waiting for his heart to cease tearing at his chest. His hands were