8

Perm, Russia
August 1888

As the sun set over the city of Perm, Stephen Morrison, Yuri Kodarov, and Sergeant Amos Johnson sat on the long porch of the Kodarov dacha. The beautiful house, located north of the city on the northernmost bend of the Kama River, was their final destination of the day. Even the normally taciturn Johnson had loosened up on the journey thus far and seemed to be enjoying their travels immensely. They sat in wicker chairs, drinking vodka delivered to them by the servants who attended to their every need.

The journey to Perm had begun with a long train ride on the newly constructed first leg of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. It afforded ample time for Stephen to read, and he and Yuri had lengthy discussions over the merits of the books that Yuri had given him. Morrison found it ironic that when he challenged Yuri on various points, invariably Yuri would return to the concept that, as an American, Stephen had no idea what it was like for the average Russian peasant who lived constantly under the boot of tyranny. The looming revolt of the workers always dominated Yuri’s rhetoric. His passions had only been reinforced by their visit to his family’s mine earlier that day.

Perm was a burgeoning industrial center at the foot of the Ural Mountains and was also the local seat of government. The first phosphorus mine in Russia had been recently developed there, and the Kodarov family was the major shareholder in the venture, but Yuri didn’t hesitate to point out the appalling conditions under which the miners worked. “Disposable human capital,” was what he cynically called the mine’s employees. In addition, most of them lived in squalor near the mine. They were the uneducated descendents of serfs, people that Yuri and his kind so desperately strove to educate. At one point, when Yuri was called away from their tour of the mine complex, Sergeant Johnson whispered into Morrison’s ear, “He sure complains a lot for a wealthy young man! Would he rather switch places with all these poor bastards? Seems to me that he’s got a guilty conscience.” Morrison only nodded in response.

As the warm sun continued to set, the three men sipped their drinks in silence as the servants began to bring out trays of food. When they began to eat, Yuri started to speak. “Gentleman, I hope your visit here has been instructive. Here, as in St. Petersburg, you see the two Russias: the Russia of the sun and the Russia of the shadows. When true justice will prevail, only God knows!” Finishing his vodka, he looked at his two guests. “Our train leaves the day after tomorrow. I thought we’d spend tomorrow here relaxing, unless you have any other places you’d like to see. We can even go sailing on the river, if you like.”

Actually, Stephen did have something in mind. He had been thinking about it since they left St. Petersburg, but he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. Now seemed like an opportune time. “Yuri, I do have something I’d like to do tomorrow. It’s a bit of an unusual request, but since we are in Perm, I really would like to locate a family if I could.”

“Stephen, who could you possibly know in Perm?” asked the somewhat bewildered Russian.

“Actually, I don’t know anyone. It’s a favor for someone in my father’s congressional district. He’s a fairly influential rabbi in New York City who emigrated from Russia. His family was from Perm, and my father promised him that, if I could, I would check on his surviving relatives. If it is at all possible, I’d like to try, Yuri.”

“But Stephen, there are no Jews left in Perm. I’m almost certain of it. After the last pogrom, it would be suicidal for any Jews to remain. They have all been banished to the Pale of Settlement. Really, I think the vodka has gone to your head, my friend.”

Morrison turned and looked his friend straight in the eyes. “You asked, Yuri, and I’m answering. I want to track down this family, if possible. I am trying to honor my father’s request, a United States congressman’s request. I realize that the effort may be in vain, but I do want to try. Now, will you help me or not?” he asked, with a bit of annoyance in his voice.

The young Russian looked down at his dinner plate and sighed. “Of course, Stephen, of course. Tomorrow we will try to track down these mysterious and likely nonexistent Jews. I promise we’ll make a noble effort to do so.”

That night, Stephen lay in his giant bed in one of the huge guest rooms on the second floor of the Kodarov mansion. Finding it difficult to fall asleep, he kept going over details in his head. What were the exact details of his family history that his father had told him so long ago? He found it somewhat humorous that for all the times he had been annoyed by his father’s frequent reminiscences about his family in Russia, now he was here trying to recall exactly what his father had said. His mind drifted back to his father’s lectures.

The rabbi had said that they had left Perm in 1872 when Stephen was an infant. According to the rabbi he had left behind a younger brother. Stephen struggled to remember his uncle’s name, and then it came to him: Chiam. There perhaps had been some sort of falling out between the two brothers. The rabbi never talked about the cause of the rift, but something happened, apparently long before the Kambotchniks had left for America. The rabbi hinted that his brother had never left Perm, but he never elaborated on his circumstances. On the one occasion when young Lev Kambotchnik had asked about his uncle and his family, the rabbi had ended the conversation abruptly. Stephen thought it very odd that his uncle would even attempt to remain in Perm under the Tsarist policies, but he couldn’t know for sure if in fact he had remained. He hoped he would soon be able to resolve this longstanding family mystery.

The following morning after a sumptuous breakfast, Stephen and Yuri headed out by carriage for Perm, destined for the government record house located in the midst of the city. In this building, the young men felt they had the best chance of locating the fate of a man named Chiam Kambotchnik. As their carriage headed up the long dirt trail leading from the dacha, they looked back and saw Sergeant Johnson sitting on the front porch with his legs up on the railing, an ever-present cigar lodged in the side of his mouth. The boys laughed to see him staring at a Russian language newspaper. Johnson didn’t speak a word of Russian.

The Kodarov family name opened all doors in Perm, and before long, they sat opposite the head bookkeeper in the government record house. Stephen outlined his request: to locate, if possible, one Chiam Kambotchnik and any of his relatives. To assist the bookkeeper, Stephen added the facts that the man was a Jew and that he had a brother who had left Perm after a pogrom in 1872. The bookkeeper seemed a bit puzzled that this young, well-dressed American who spoke Russian so well could possibly be interested in a Jew. Going through the archives of the municipal registries that had been used to collect taxes from the early 1870s, the bookkeeper announced, after an hour-long search, “I found him! At least, I found out what happened to him.”

“Is he still alive?” asked Stephen.

“No, there was a reference to his death in 1872. I looked into some of the police reports that matched the dates referenced. It appears that he was a victim of that last pogrom. It was pretty gruesome reading,” replied the bookkeeper. “You don’t want the details, do you?”

“Yes,” replied Stephen. “I do.”

“Well, it appears from the report that this Jew you were looking for had a big mouth and a lot of nerve. When they were interrogating him, he refused to cooperate and, in fact, became belligerent. Apparently, they wanted to know where to find his brother and his family. Seems the brother was some sort of influential rabbi and was trying to flee.”

“And?” inquired Stephen.

“Well, not only did he refuse to cooperate, but he spit in the interrogator’s face. The report states that they took him outside to the center of the village and tied him to a tree. They doused him from the waist down in kerosene and set him on fire. Just before the flames reached his chest, they slit his throat.” The bookkeeper looked at the stunned Stephen Morrison and said, “Anything else you need to know?”

“No. No, thank you. I’ll just have my father inform the family that he died of natural causes.” Stephen Morrison suddenly felt slightly nauseated.

“Just glad I could help,” replied the bookkeeper with a smile.

* * *

Shortly after learning about his uncle’s fate and on their journey to the next major Russian city, Ekaterinburg, Stephen’s nightmares began. The rhythm of the train’s rocking motion had gently lulled the three travelers to sleep. As usual, when he slept, Sergeant Johnson snored like a buzz saw. Stephen smiled as he removed the cigar from his bodyguard’s mouth and extinguished it. He laid his head back, closed his eyes, and soon fell asleep.

In his dream, Stephen found himself in a dark room tightly bound to a wooden chair. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. There suddenly appeared the image of a menacing man whom Morrison didn’t recognize. The man brandished a large knife, walked up to his captive, and lowered his face to the young man until he was just inches from him. At the same time, he held the blade of the knife against Stephen’s throat as he whispered, “Make your choice.” After a pause of a few seconds, he repeated, “Make your choice.” Morrison had no idea how to reply to this threat and felt too paralyzed with fear to attempt to reply. The assailant then slowly sliced his blade deeply across the soft tissue of the young man’s throat.

As the warm blood spurted onto his chest, pain seared into his brain. Morrison awoke with a start, blurting out, “No!”

Yuri looked over at his companion and noticed that the young American was sweating profusely. He had been awakened by Stephen’s scream, and Sergeant Johnson also began to stir. Johnson looked at Morrison, who was seated in the middle between himself and Yuri. “You all right, Stephen? You look as if you’ve just seen a goddamn ghost!”

“I’m … I’m fine. I just had a strange nightmare, that’s all. Really, I’m fine,” he replied. Before long, the three men again drifted off to sleep. The porter had to awaken them when the train pulled into Ekaterinburg station.

They had a one day layover. Yuri again proved to be an excellent host and tour guide, taking the two Americans all over Ekaterinburg. That night, they dined as the guest of the local governor, and, by the time the dinner had ended, all three of them were slightly intoxicated and bone tired. They were lodged in the city’s finest hotel, one reserved for government aristocrats and foreign dignitaries. Stephen was so exhausted when he finally got back to his hotel room that he quickly undressed and went right to bed. Within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, he was sound asleep.

He again found himself bound to a chair by thick ropes, tied so tightly that he couldn’t move at all. He also found it difficult to breathe. In the corner of the dark room flickered a solitary candle that provided the only source of illumination. Suddenly, a door opened. The rays of light that entered the room momentarily blinded Stephen. As his night vision slowly returned, he could see a man, a total stranger, walking toward him. The man, garbed in formal dinner dress, held what appeared to be a machete in his right hand. Morrison’s heart started racing with fear. He felt totally powerless, totally at the mercy of this stranger walking toward him.

The man in the dinner dress stopped in front of the young man and smiled. He bent over, placed the machete blade at the base of Morrison’s throat, and held it there. Leaning over until his lips practically touched the young man’s left ear, he whispered, “Make your choice.” Terrified, Stephen opened his mouth in an attempt to answer, but no words came. Again, the stranger whispered, “Make your choice,” and waited for some reaction from his young captive. Hearing nothing, the stranger said, “Very well then,” and slowly began a sawing motion, pushing the machete blade deeper into the young man’s neck with each swipe of the blade.

Blood spurted onto the floor in front of the chair, and suddenly Morrison found his voice. “God, please help me. Please, dear God, help me!”

In the adjoining room, the screaming awakened Sergeant Amos Johnson. He reached for the Colt revolver on his nightstand, leaped out of bed, and ran into the hallway. Hearing Morrison’s cries, the bodyguard kicked down the door and rushed in. He found his young charge screaming in his sleep.

He rushed over to the bed and began shaking the young man vigorously. “Stephen, wake up! For God’s sake, wake up!” He continued shaking Stephen, and the boy’s eyes flew open. For a moment, he appeared totally disoriented and too upset to speak. The older man again saw his charge bathed in sweat. As the young man struggled to sit up, the bodyguard softly said, “Stephen, I think you just had another one of those nightmares. They must be real beauts!” He sat on the side of the bed, as the young man calmed down and tried to get a grip on his emotions.

“I’m really sorry, Sergeant. I don’t know what the hell is going on with me. I almost never have nightmares. Now, two nights in a row.” The older man handed him a glass of water, and Stephen eagerly drank it down. “They are so vivid, too,” he continued. “Someone is trying to kill me. Do you ever have nightmares, Sergeant Johnson? I mean, these lifelike, vivid ones, where someone is trying to do you real harm?”

“Oh, well, let’s see,” replied the older man, scratching his chin for effect. “Maybe, say, like every night,” he said, winking at his young friend. “Let’s face it. In my line of business, I make a lot of enemies, so there are many people who would like to see me dead.” He started chuckling, and his humor brightened Stephen up considerably. They both start laughing, and the bodyguard tousled Stephen’s hair. “You’ll be the death of me yet. Don’t worry Stephen, it’s probably just a phase you are going through. It’ll pass.” Johnson stood up and looked at the clock ticking away on the wall. “Jesus, Stephen, we better get some sleep. We have to make a 7:00 A.M. train.” He was walking toward the door when the young man called out.

“Sergeant Johnson?”

“Hmm?” Johnson replied, turning around to face the young man.

“Thanks for being such a good friend. I mean it.”

The older man smiled at Stephen and then continued out the door. Christ, he thought to himself. I’m gonna have to pay for that broken lock. Oh well, the congressman won’t mind.

Stephen Morrison laid his head back on his pillow. He knew that the story about his uncle had seriously affected him, but the sergeant was right. This was just a phase, and he would soon get over it. Within minutes, he was sound asleep and snoring loudly.

He couldn’t know it yet, but for the rest of his life, he would be plagued by these recurrent nightmares. They would always be variations of the same concept. He was bound in a chair, and a stranger was placing a knife at his throat, ordering him to make a choice. He would never clearly understand what choice he was being asked to make, but he often thought about these dreams. Ironic, he would reflect, that I’ve been making choices all my life: immigrant Jew or modern American, to run from conflict and humiliation or fight back, Princeton or the Naval Academy. I’ve always had to make difficult choices, and I’ve made them. Probably more so than most people. Will I ever stop having to make these choices? Will I ever have to make a choice to live or to die?