September 12, 1940
Riga, Latvia
Looking at his mother, Stephen wanted to throw his arms around her and drown her anxiety in his exuberance. The whole way from Talsi to Riga she had looked as though they were on their way to a funeral. And once they arrived at the Riga train station, she had become visibly upset, her eyes full of tears, not even attempting to hide her grief. It made no sense—they ought to be celebrating, as his special athletic status would prevent him from being drafted into the Red Army, the fate that awaited the other seniors at his high school. The Russians had already required all of the boys fifteen or older to engage in practice military drills every afternoon and all day on Saturday. He was leaving all that nonsense behind for the privileged life of the star athlete. Until next summer. Then he would return for Rachel’s wedding. By then Rachel would have finished the statue, and he and Lily would be free to leave the country, with or without Father’s approval. The Great Artist hadn’t even felt compelled to come to the station to see him off. No matter, this was still an occasion to celebrate. If only Mother would smile.
They stood near the doors leading to the platform where the train to Moscow waited for boarding.
“It won’t be long now, Mother,” Stephen said.
She nodded, glancing about the station as if she feared something terrible might happen.
Stephen followed her eyes. Red Army soldiers stood or sauntered everywhere, but that was nothing new.
Stephen looked at Rachel, who shrugged.
“What is it, Mother?” he asked.
Elizabeth motioned for him to come closer. When he was directly in front of her, she took a small velvet pouch from her coat pocket and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
“Tell yourself it’s candy,” she said, her voice so soft that he had to lean forward to hear.
Surprised by her tone of voice, which bordered on frantic, he nodded. “Sure.”
She hugged him, her lips near his ear, then began to whisper. “Inside is one of my earrings. The ones that used to be Grandma Hummel’s.”
Stephen looked at her in amazement.
“Don’t say a word,” she chided. “Try to look normal.”
But he couldn’t hide his disbelief. Grandma Hummel’s earrings were so valuable that his mother rarely wore them, and never in town for fear that someone would see them and break into their home to steal them or the Russians would confiscate them.
“I don’t understand. I’ll be back for Rachel’s wedding—if not sooner.”
“Let’s hope so,” his mother said. Yet her expression said otherwise. He had never seen her look so depressed. “But,” she continued, “should anything happen, and you aren’t able to come back home—” she paused and squeezed his arm, struggling, he could see, to keep her emotions in check. “Remember,” she continued, “Survival. No matter what happens to any of us, you and Rachel must survive.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a photograph. Her hand shaking, she held it out for him to take. He took it, seeing that it was Rachel’s picture.
“If we’re separated,” his mother said, “I want you to find her.”
Her voice penetrated his disbelief and a spasm of fear shot through him.
“What about you and Father?”
“Forget us. Find her.”
“Mother!” he protested.
She hugged him, then held him at arms’s length.
“Once you get on board, do whatever they tell you. They’ll protect you, but only if you obey them. And I mean obey. Don’t ever say what you really think. Not to anyone. Including us, on the phone or in a letter. As far as you’re concerned, Stalin is a saint and you’ll do whatever you can for the glory of the team. If anything happens, the team will protect you.”
Looking over his mother’s shoulder, Stephen saw Rachel suddenly glance up at the big board showing departures. He caught her eye and she pointed to the departure board.
“They’re going to board the train, Mother.”
She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “You can’t trust anyone. Someday, Stalin will be history, Hitler gone. Use the earring to buy your freedom—a future somewhere else. England or America.”
Over the loudspeaker, they announced that the Moscow train was now boarding.
His mother looked into his eyes. What he saw there forced him to look away.
“I will always love you,” she said. She embraced him and kissed him on the lips.
Shaken, he stood motionless, unable to move or speak.
“Now say goodbye to your sister.”
As she turned away, he saw tears flowing down her cheeks. He wanted to comfort her, but a second boarding announcement came over the intercom.
Shaking his head, Stephen went to Rachel.
“Mother’s really upset. What’s going on?”
“She’s worried,” Rachel said.
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You know how it is—when you get older you worry about all the bad things that might happen. When you’re young, like us, you feel invincible.”
“I’m going to be fine. This is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“And you’re going to be the best thing they’ve seen in years.”
“Thanks. What about you?”
“I’ll be okay. I’ll finish the statue, Avilov will get Father and Mother to a safe place, and after Michael and I are married we’ll leave.”
“Lily’s going to come back for your wedding—and to get me. We’ll all get out of the country together.”
“Let’s worry about that next summer. For now, you concentrate on soccer while I take care of the statue.”
Rachel reached out to him, her arms encircling him. She held tight, causing him to gasp. He was always amazed by her strength, given her small frame.
“Careful,” he said, “you’re going to crack a rib.”
They both laughed.
Stephen turned back to his mother, but she waved for him to go. Grabbing his trunk, he went to the doors leading to the platform, glanced back to wave, and then rushed toward the waiting train.
* * *
Although his parents had met in Moscow, held their wedding there, and lived in the city for years before returning to live with his grandparents in Talsi, Stephen had never been there. His parents never spoke of their time in the city, or of the life they had shared in the Soviet Union. What little he knew, he had learned from Rachel, who had managed over the years to get bits and pieces of information out of their parents: Their grandparents had sent Mother to Moscow when she was just seventeen to work as a language tutor for one of Russia’s wealthiest families, the Schukins. She was fluent in French, German, Russian, and English, and her parents felt that she was wasting away in their small town. Their hope was that she would meet a wealthy Jewish young man through the Schukins. While tutoring the children, she met their father, then a young artist, who had returned to Moscow from Munich at the outset of World War I with a famous artist, Kandinsky. They became engaged only a few weeks after being introduced at a party that the Schukins, who had assembled the greatest post-Impressionist collection in the world, gave for Kandinsky to welcome him home.
According to Rachel, Father had belonged to an artist’s group founded by Kandinsky, but Father had never spoken of it to him. There was a time when Stephen had wanted to know everything about his father’s life, but resentment had long ago smothered his curiosity. Father had made it clear that nothing Stephen accomplished could make up for his lack of artistic talent, and Stephen had reciprocated by pretending indifference toward his father’s artistic background. He also learned from Rachel that their parents had been forced to leave Moscow because the government had turned against artists like Kandinsky. They had escaped to Latvia, which had been granted its independence following the war. Until the Soviet invasion of Latvia, neither of his parents had ever returned to Moscow or any other part of the Soviet Union.
Perhaps that was why Mother had been so anxious about his leaving, Stephen speculated. So far, at least, the Russians had treated him like a star. He had been directed by the conductor to a private section of the train, where he had been greeted effusively by a coach and a dozen other youths who had boarded the train in Leningrad, all of whom, he soon learned, were joining various teams. Their part of the train had its own dining car, sleeper car, and lounge.
There had been only one strange moment—the coach who greeted him had given him a temporary identification card that listed his name as Stephen Hummel.
“Play along with it for the rest of the trip,” the coach advised. “The Director will explain it to you once we reach Moscow.”
Stephen had accepted the card with a smile and a chuckle. See Mother, I’m following your advice. He could think of no reason for this other than that it was something to do with his father. It had been somewhat awkward introducing himself as a “Hummel” but he told himself it was another game for him to play, and win.
The other youths were friendly even though Stephen was the only soccer player. He nevertheless found it easy to talk sports with everyone. The hours passed quickly as they rolled east across the rich Latvian farmland. No other passengers entered their part of the train, and they never left it, not even when the train stopped at a station. To maintain their privacy, curtains were drawn whenever the train made a stop, so Stephen soon ceased to pay any attention to the outside world. Ensconced in their well-appointed cocoon, they played cards, talked sports, ate lavish meals, and slept.
They were given sleeping berths, two to a compartment. His room mate, a swimmer who spent all his waking hours either eating or playing bridge, was already snoring. Tucked away in the solitude of his berth, lulled by the gentle sway of the onrushing train, Stephen finally took out the pouch his mother had given him. He carefully tilted it into his hand until the earring dropped into his palm. Only a bit of light penetrated the berth, so he could just make out the shapes of the two emeralds, one like a thumbnail and the other like a pear. Rolling the jewels to catch the light, he remembered how beautiful Mother looked when she wore them, the top emerald surrounded by a circle of clear white diamonds, and dropped below, the pear emerald circled by slightly smaller white diamonds; they matched her eyes in color and bathed her face in their cool light.
He knew he had no right to possess it. Grandmother Hummel had given them to Mother with the understanding they would be passed along to Rachel as a wedding gift. It was incredible that Mother had split up the pair, giving one to him. No matter, he thought, I’ll give mine to Rachel at her wedding next summer.
Mother had probably given it to him to make up for Father’s absence. Not that Stephen had expected him to come to the station to see him off. Why should anything change? As far as The Great Artist was concerned, Stephen’s athletic ability ranked right up there with being able to chop wood or paint the outside of a barn.
Yet, even as he tried to convince himself that he could care less about his father’s absence, tears filled Stephen’s eyes. Stop it, he told himself. You’re not ten years old anymore. The Great Artist’s a jerk. Live with it.
Growing up, Stephen had been in awe of Rachel’s artistic gifts. He had seen her talent as a form of magic that she had somehow come to possess. He had always taken great delight in her creations, and she had made wonderful gifts for him, all still carefully stored in his room back in Talsi. The one he loved the most was a hand carved chess set with mythological figures as the pieces.
But at ten, he became aware of his father’s disappointment over his obvious lack of artistic talent. He couldn’t draw a straight line, let alone match Rachel’s genius. It wouldn’t have mattered had his father simply accepted that fact. But he couldn’t. So great was his disappointment that he came close to shutting Stephen out of his life. He stopped inviting him to his studio and took little interest in anything Stephen did at school.
For several years he had withdrawn, overwhelmed by his father’s rejection. His admiration for Rachel turned to hate. He did everything he could to spread his misery to everyone else in the house.
It was Grandpa Hummel who got him to take an interest in soccer. An avid fan of the sport, he carved a field out of one of his meadows and equipped it for soccer. The old man personally taught Stephen the basics of the game, and then encouraged him when he saw signs of talent.
Stephen found his refuge on that field. When he wasn’t at school, he was practicing on his own or with new friends who shared his interest. He soon became the best player in his school. Grandpa Hummel and Mother had never missed a game, and much to his surprise, neither did Rachel. He knew how difficult it was for her to give up any of her studio time. Yet she came to every single game that he ever played, and there were hundreds over the years.
His father had come to a few matches, each time growing bored and leaving before they ended. Enraged, Stephen had pushed his body harder, setting records out of spite.
Only once had he spoken to Mother about his father’s hurtful behavior, and that had been at the point where he was spewing rage at everyone in the household. He could recall only that he lashed out at her, blaming her for his father’s rejection. She had tried to reassure him, but he would have none of it. “It’s all your fault,” he insisted, using his words like a knife to stab her. She had burst into tears and fled to the sanctity of her bedroom.
Now, as he lay in the dark, clutching her earring, he wished he could go back in time and erase that moment. Long ago he realized that Mother was as much a victim of Father’s egomania as was he himself. They were all his victims. Father had sacrificed all three of them, Mother, Rachel, and yours truly on the altar of his ego, holding each of them hostage so that he could continue to indulge his own creative drive.
In the end though, Stephen had decided that Rachel had suffered most. Over the past few months he had seen the effects of her work on the godforsaken statue: Rachel was always exhausted, physically and mentally, and worst of all, she lacked spirit. Even after the Russians had invaded, and Rachel had been forced to do portraits of the local Communist officials and their families, and busts of Stalin, her zeal hadn’t faded. But the statue had changed her; she began to act as though she were literally carrying the full weight of the mammoth sculpture on her back. Her shoulders slumped and the glow faded from her eyes.
Believing that she was in real danger, that if she continued working on the statue it would destroy her, just last week Stephen had taken it upon himself to convince her to abandon it. He had failed, of course, and once she convinced him that she had to finish the monstrosity in order to protect Mother, Stephen’s respect for Rachel had blossomed into admiration.
“I wish I could help you,” he told her.
“You can,” she said, a mischievous twinkle returning to her eyes.
She took him to a small storage room in her studio. There, hundreds of plaster maquettes, depicting every conceivable element of the statue, occupied all open surfaces in the room.
“There came a moment,” Rachel explained, “when I totally doubted my ability to do this. So I wasted hundreds of hours doing dozens of these things.” She picked one up.
“What do you want to do with them?” Stephen asked, although he knew the answer.
“Guess?”
He had picked up the one closest to him. “Shall I?” Rachel nodded, and he threw it against the wall. She laughed and he charged forward, picking up the plaster models and hurling them against the walls.
“More! More!” Rachel shouted.
“Come on,” he urged. “What are you waiting for?”
Stephen remembered how Rachel had hung back, on the very edge; how he had held out a maquette in each hand, both already covered with the white dust of her lifeless creations. “You have to do it,” he had said. She had taken the plaster model and flung it against the floor, smashing it into pieces, her breath coming in short gasps.
“Well done!” He shouted.
Rachel was already picking up the figurines two at time, flinging them wildly in every direction. He had joined her, and side by side they had smashed their way through the rows of miniature tyrants.
Stephen saw all the broken pieces of Stalin and Hitler in his memory and smiled in satisfaction. He hadn’t been able to save Rachel from having to complete the statue, but he believed he had made it easier for her to make the final break from Father. There would be no repeat of last summer. Given another chance, Rachel would leave the country with Michael and he would escape to Sweden with Lily. Perhaps, they could even find a way for Mother to accompany them. As for Father, let him put his life in Avilov’s hands. That would be his choice, but he wouldn’t be able to force it on the rest of the family. Not again.
* * *
It was late afternoon when they arrived in Moscow, threading their way through a maze of tunnels before emerging into the September sunlight, golden strands strung across the river and through the trees, the lowering rays sparking explosions of autumnal color off the brittle leaves.
Once in the station, they were loaded onto a bus and taken on a quick tour of the city. As they made their way through streets crowded with soldiers and civilians, Stephen was awestruck by the city, especially Red Square and the Kremlin walls. By comparison, Riga was inconsequential and Talsi a postage stamp.
Their tour ended when they were driven through massive iron gates onto the “campus,” its steep hills crisscrossed by narrow lanes that wove through an exquisite landscape dotted with a multitude of athletic facilities and dormitories, all discreetly placed alongside large green squares fronted by groups of trees.
The sheer power of Moscow’s urban center had stunned Stephen, but the golden beauty of the campus thrilled him. An island of peace and leafy tranquility, it seemed to float above the city.
They were taken to the administration building where they would register and receive permanent identification cards, which all were required to wear except when on the field or in their dorm rooms. Once inside, Stephen was met by a staff aide who asked him to accompany her to the Director’s office.
No doubt this would be about his using the name Hummel. He had already grown accustomed to saying it, and given that everyone he had met now called him by that name, it would be impossible at this point to change back to Hirschfeld. So be it. But he saw no reason to single him out. How would he explain this to the other athletes he had traveled with? Perhaps it was more serious. Had they made a mistake? Were they going to send him back? By the time they reached their destination, a non-descript door in a long hallway with the words A. Alexsey, Director printed on the outside, Stephen had decided to fight to stay. All he needed was one chance to show how good he really was on the field.
The aide knocked on the door, opened it a sliver and stepped inside. Left alone, Stephen paced back and forth as the long minutes passed, preparing himself for the interview. At last the door opened and the aide motioned for him to come inside. He found himself in a spacious anterior office where a secretary sat behind a desk. Another door led to the Director’s inner office.
“You can go in,” the secretary said.
Stephen knocked lightly on the door—one thing he had learned from his father, who would throw a tantrum if anyone barged in on him when he was working in his studio, was never open a closed door without knocking first.
“Come in!” a low, gravelly voice shouted.
He opened the door and walked into a long office with windows overlooking the campus. At the other end was a large desk, and a short woman who was smoking a cigarette waved for him to come closer. As he approached, he saw that her face was deeply lined and her hair streaked with gray. He couldn’t judge her age, but she was much older than he expected. Yet her eyes, which were blue, had a youthful sparkle.
“I’m Alla,” she said, measuring him with her glance. “How was your trip?”
“Fine.” He couldn’t understand why, but she made him nervous and his voice shook.
“Relax kid. I’m not going to bite you.”
Stephen laughed, unable to calm his nerves.
“So, you come to us from Riga?”
Stephen shook his head. “Not really. I’m from Talsi, a small town near Riga.”
“No doubt every place in Latvia is near Riga.”
“True.”
“Ever been to Moscow before?”
“No. But my parents used to live here.”
“So they did. According to your file, your father’s a well known sculptor. I myself don’t know shit about art.”
Stephen laughed, relaxing for the first time.
“Are you the artsy type?” Alexsey asked.
“Not me.”
“Good. I don’t want you to be distracted.”
“I won’t be. I can’t wait to get on the field. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.”
“Music to my ears, kid. You’ll be on the field tomorrow bright and early. First we have a little matter to take care of.”
“What is it? I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Good. The problem is your father’s last name. It’s too Jewish.”
Stephen stared dumbly at Alexsey. He had no response. To the townspeople back home, they were Jews, but religion had been a minor part of their family life. He had been Bar Mitzvah’d in the small congregation Grandpa Hummel had founded and whose synagogue had been built with his money. He had attended the synagogue with his grandfather, as a favor to his mother. But after his grandfather’s death, he rarely returned as his father refused to have anything to with organized religion and his mother went only on High Holy Days, although she continued to be the congregations’s chief benefactor and it was her money as well that paid for the upkeep on the town’s small Jewish cemetery where his maternal grandparents and great grandparents were buried. As had been the case with his grandfather, he accompanied his mother only out of respect for her. But religion itself seemed only a collection of old stories that had nothing to do with his life.
“I am Jewish,” he finally managed.
“True, and there’s nothing we can do about that. But we don’t want to advertise it.”
The choice she presented to him was obvious: accept the name change or he’d be on his way back to Talsi.
“You want me to become Stephen Hummel.”
“Yes. As your mother’s maiden name it will do. It doesn’t carry the obvious Jewish connotations.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Nothing. I’ll take care of everything.” Alexsey rewarded his response with a knowing smile. “For now I’ll list you as Stephen Hummel on everything, even though still legally you’re a Hirschfeld. It will take some time to get your name changed officially. Don’t worry about it.”
“My official papers say Hirschfeld. What if someone notices the difference?”
“No reason why anyone should.”
“What if I have to return home for any reason? Or if I’m somewhere and somebody asks for my papers?”
“Neither of those is going to occur because you’re not going anywhere unless it’s with the team.” Alexsey stubbed her cigarette out on the desk and lit another. “The rules, which apply to everyone, are simple: you stay on the campus unless we take you off it. No visitors, period. Since you’ll always be accompanied by a coach or staff member when you leave the campus, you never have to worry about being asked for your papers.”
Alexsey paused and studied him.
Now she knows, Stephen thought. She knows I’m going to try and get out. She just doesn’t know when or why. I shouldn’t have said anything about possibly going home.
“In fact,” Alexsey said, “you ought to leave them here with me. I’ll lock them in my safe. That way, we won’t have to worry about anyone else seeing them. You’ll have your team identification card—that will identify you as Stephen Hummel.”
Stephen took his identification papers from his billfold and placed them on the desk. The Soviets had issued them to everyone in their town within a week of the invasion. To be caught without them meant instant arrest. Now you can’t go anywhere, he told himself. A. Alexsey is no fool.
“Excellent,” Alexsey observed. “A good beginning. When you leave here, they’ll take you to the main office to finish your paperwork. They’ll issue your permanent identification card, give you your dorm room keys, take care of your school registration. All you have to do is follow instructions and obey the rules. Okay?”
“Yes.” Once again he felt her eyes rake his body, appraising his physical condition. Good, he told himself, she’s got you back on the field.
“Remember,” Alexsey said. “No visitors and you never leave the campus unless you’re accompanied by a coach or staff member. The rules are for your protection. Are we absolutely clear on that?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then.” Alexsey came around the desk to him. She dropped the butt of her cigarette and squashed it with her heel. “Any questions?”
Stephen smiled. “Are there any others besides me?”
Alexsey laughed. “I’m not permitted to say. You see, someday the next one will be asking me the same question and you wouldn’t want me to tell them about you, right?”
“No.” Stephen met her eyes. Now that he understood what she wanted, he felt at ease with her. All coaches were the same—they wanted a winner. You were either on board or not. No ambiguities.
“Excellent.” Alexsey moved to the door. “See you on the field.”
Bright and early tomorrow morning, Stephen thought, already hearing the roar of the crowds.