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

      She had closed her eyes also, every nerve in her body pulsating, knowing that if Stephen climbed atop her, she would accept him, eagerly, gratefully, ready to block out of her mind everything but the want of him. His words struck her heavily. She could barely speak. “And I will love only you, too, Stephen,” she finally replied.

      He opened his eyes and sat up. They smiled at each other, their faces still strained with their passion. He leaned down and kissed her gently.

      “I want to marry you, Hanna.”

      It took a few seconds for her to digest what he had said, then she sat up, the implication of what was happening suddenly striking like a wet rag across her face. Their love was as real as the river running at their feet. Their desire for each other, their need, was as meaningful as the fertile ground they had lain on. But marriage! That could never be. All the daydreams she had about Stephen were abruptly make believe. For beyond this wonderful, enchanted spot was reality.

      As far back as she could remember, she had been able to understand what was right in a situation. Now, for the first time in her life, desire had taken over, had challenged her fitness to make a decision, had confused her as to what was right or wrong. It was right to love Stephen. Nothing could dispute or shake that. She had been ready to give herself without the least regret, to suffer whatever might come from their love.

      But another part of her cried out for attention. A part of her that she had been born with. The faith. To keep the faith was essential, even if it meant losing him.

      ‘I am a Jew, Stephen. You know that. I cannot marry you.”

      “You could convert.”

      The wet rag across her face was now icy cold. She turned away, her heart sinking to depths never before fathomed. To convert was to die. Not just herself, but her family as well, for losing her would be losing a part of themselves. And since death cannot be lost in parts, they would surely die as well.

      Oh, Stephen, she said to herself. Can’t you see that you are breaking my heart.

      She turned and faced him squarely. “I could never convert. But you could.”

      He sat back in shock. The very thought of her suggestion was almost profane. To become a Jew, the murderer of his adored Christ, to wear that fringed cloth, that black skullcap, and to accept a religion that God had condemned to eternal damnation, was totally unacceptable.

      Then he realized with an even greater shock how deep was his bias, how unworthy it was of him. He had felt comfortable and warm among the Barlaks only a day ago. But a single day was not enough to alter his very nature.

      “Hanna, I couldn’t do that. Look, we live in a Christian world. Whether religious prejudices are right or wrong is not the principal issue. To be able to live properly is most important. I want to become an engineer. Jews are not allowed to attend the university. So converting would mean that I must give up my career.”

      His comment stung her, though she knew inside that he was talking sense. “There are other careers,” she said testily.

      “Of course there are. If I had no other choice, I would change to a different field of work. But we do have a choice.” He took her hand in his. “I love you very much. I want to take care of you, to give you a good life. But why should we make life difficult for ourselves?”

      “We were born to suffer. Torah says it. It has been taught to us since childhood.

      He shook his head sadly, as if what he was hearing was not properly thought out. “I don’t want us to suffer, Hanna. And I don’t want the children we may have to suffer.” He sat up straighter, a thought suddenly taking form inside. “Suppose neither of us converts. We could marry without changing anything.”

      “Who would marry us?” said Hanna, already knowing the answer.

      “The…” His words trailed away. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll find out.”

      “You were about to say, the priest, weren’t you?”

      He nodded his head agreeably. She was even more intelligent than he believed. Her mind could cut through a problem like a knife. He raised her hand and kissed it. “Is there another way, Hanna?”

      “I don’t know, Stephen.” She climbed to her feet. “It is getting dark. We will have to start back now.”

      He got up and took her into his arms. “We must find a way.”

      “We will try.”

       CHAPTER 4

      Sunday morning the Jewish religious leader, Rabbi Warnitski, visited the Barlaks. Gitel and Reba were helping Hanna and Motlie bake challah and prepare for the farmers coming within the hour. Every Sunday, except during the severest snowstorms, three or four families from farms on the outskirts of the village would stable their horses there while attending mass, then take challah and tea before returning home. It was a welcome source of income for the hard-pressed family, and everyone would pitch in to help. Gitel and Reba, under Israel’s supervision, gave the animals hay to munch on and water to slurp, outside during clement weather and inside the stable in the event of rain or cold.

      Hanna and the girls carried the food to the men while they chatted, and to their womenfolk in the kitchen. There were usually ten to fifteen persons to serve, and at ten kopeks each, it went far to supplement Hanna’s weekly salary of four rubles.

      As there was still half an hour before the guests arrived, Israel invited the rabbi to be seated at the table. At once, Hanna placed before him a slice of soft, golden challah and a glass of tea with the usual cube of sugar. Rabbi Warnitski took a bite of the bread, then shook his head approvingly.

      “Motlie,” he said. “You are a marvel. Such challah should be placed in a museum so people can see perfection.”

      Motlie waved her hand depreciatingly, but everyone could see that she was pleased at the compliment. “Such a tale should be put into a museum. Anyhow, it’s the oven. Israel built it himself. Did you know that?”

      The rabbi turned to Israel with surprise. “You did that?”

      “My father, alav ha-sholom, may his soul rest in peace, was a mason, and I worked with him when I was a youngster. Some of it rubbed off.” He nodded his head with fond remembrance. “He was such a perfectionist that you wouldn’t believe. A mechanic, everyone called him.”

      “Israel,” said the rabbi. “I have a question to ask of you and Motlie. I know you have Hershel Bloch boarding here now. Could you put up with another boarder? First of all, he’s my first cousin’s son, from Minsk. My cousin wants him in the countryside to get fresh air, and he asked me to look after him.”

      Israel glanced at Motlie, who signaled her acceptance at once. Having another boarder was stacking luck on luck. “Well, we do have an extra room upstairs. Hershel said he wanted to sleep alone, so they can’t double up.”

      The rabbi took another sip of tea and set himself more firmly in the chair. “He will pay three rubles a week, like Bloch,” he said, then coughed delicately behind his hand. “However, I should explain one thing. My cousin is a Hasid.”

      Israel sat up straighter with astonishment. “And the young man?”

      “Him, too.”

      It took Israel a moment or two to digest the remark. “There are no Hasidic congregations here,” he said carefully, in the sudden quiet of the room.

      “He knows that.” He leaned closer to Israel. “The boy is twenty-five years old, and is so learned that the congregation considers him a marvel.” There was unmistakable pride in his voice. “He studies twelve, fourteen hours a day, sleeps only to dream about Torah, barely eats, and is so thin that he is just skin and bones. My cousin wants him away for a few months, away from the books, the shtetl.”

      “Did his rebbe give him permission?”