May, 1945
Tashkent-Poland
All the way across Russia, Rachel presented her false identification papers without incident so that by the time they reached the Ukraine she referred naturally to herself as Mrs. Radek and to Stephen as Ilya.
She didn’t draw, although each day of their journey west presented her with a multitude of stirring scenes engendered by the movement of millions back across the land. Her old self was imprisoned behind her wifely facade; but with each passing mile her yearning for liberation grew.
They planned to go through Poland to Czechoslovakia. Boxcars loaded with impoverished Jews returning to Poland were attached to their train, but they rode in a deluxe car, a luxury befitting a war hero and his wife. Their fellow passengers freely expressed their disdain for Jews and Rachel was amazed by Stephen’s self-control. He showed not the slightest reaction to talk of a Jewish conspiracy to topple Stalin in the war’s aftermath.
The Ukraine proved to be the most tedious part of their long trip. For two days they saw nothing but fields, blackened like the bottom of a pan of grease left to burn on an open fire. During those two nights Rachel was awakened by images of Zip Uk, but the dawn swept his ghost away and she shut him out of her conscious thoughts.
They were at lunch in the dining car on their third and last day in the Ukraine when the train slowed to a halt. They sat on the open plain for half an hour. Then they heard the pounding of hooves and saw men on horseback approaching. She and Stephen looked at each other, seeing their true selves for the first time since they had left Samarkand.
“Don’t worry,” the conductor, a bulbous man with heavy jowls, assured those in the dining car. “They won’t bother anyone here. They want the Jews.”
Stephen looked out and then back at Rachel. He knew that those in the boxcars would fight back; he could feel it. Hatred welled up in his throat. At last, he could fight for something other than himself.
“I’m going back. You stay here.”
“I have to go with you.”
“Good.”
They got up from the table and walked away, drawing looks of reproach from both sides of the dining car.
“Where are you going?” the conductor demanded.
“Outside,” Rachel replied.
“To do what?”
“To help fight them.”
“Is that so? Get back here, Jew-lover.”
He reached for her and Rachel avoided his hand by ducking under it. Stephen turned on him and he backed away. They made their way to the end of the car and then down onto the singed earth.
Gunfire erupted all about the train and suddenly the boxcar doors flew open and people leapt out, brandishing sticks and knives, socks bulging at one end with rocks. From atop the train, Jews returned fire at the horsemen with a few pistols as the mob engulfed them.
Stephen raced into the fray as Rachel crawled under the train. Their faces contorted with rage, cursing at their assailants, the Jews faced gunfire at point-blank range and dragged many of the horsemen to the ground where they stomped them to death, tearing their bodies apart. Through the dust Rachel smelled fear and saw it in the eyes of the horsemen. Outnumbered, they whipped and kicked their horses in an attempt to break free; only a few escaped alive.
Their hands and clothes splattered with blood, their boots stained bright red, the victors began to sing and dance. Rachel crawled out from beneath the train and wandered through the crowd. She saw Stephen as he moved through the crowd searching for her, his uniform torn, his hands bloody. She ran to him, calling his name.
He embraced her. “Thank God you’re alive,” he said.
“Let’s go back,” Rachel said.
Shots were fired into the air and she saw that several youths had dragged the engineer and conductor from the train. The engineer, a dapper man with the trim appearance of a dancer, calmly surveyed the crowd while the conductor, hatless and sweating, his cheeks flushed, looked in every direction, panic-stricken. The two were surrounded by Jews demanding their execution. Stephen and Rachel were drawn into the ever-expanding circle. A self-styled leader asked for a voice vote and a resounding cry favored death for the traitors.
“Anyone for letting them live?”
“I am,” Rachel said. Hundred of eyes immediately turned on her. “We need the engineer to get to Poland,” she argued.
“What about the conductor?”
“It’s not necessary to kill this man,” Rachel said. “He’s pathetic.”
At that, the conductor fell to his knees and begged for mercy. The savageness of the crowd dissipated. They dispersed, leaving the blubbering man on his knees. All at once, a fair-haired youth turned, ran behind him and shot him in the head. The body fell into the dust and the youth cried out triumphantly “Justice!”
Rachel, like the others, glanced from the body to the youth. In silence they moved back to the train.
Stephen started toward the boxcars.
“Where are you going?” Rachel asked.
“I’m staying with them.”
She shook her head. “We don’t know what Stalin will do with them, now.” She saw that he was debating with himself. “Stephen, she’s waiting for you. How can I ever explain that you wound up in the Gulag when we’re so close to the border.”
To her relief, he nodded and began walking with her back to the train.