— 9 —

Well after dark on the first Wednesday in April, 1900, Max Siegel harnessed the sickly dray horse to the wagon Mikheladze had taken from the stable last December. He knew the way to Brody—his brother lived not far from there.

He had slept well the night before; he could travel until dawn if he needed to. But, he thought, I could gain time and perhaps head off the caravan if I took a more direct route through the woods rather than along the road. Riding that way presented no problem for him—he had lived in Trusheny his whole life. He knew the countryside, but he had not taken that route for years, now that he was tied to the public house. Though he had heard about it, he did not know exactly the site of the new quarry a mile and half to the west of Trusheny.

By nine that night he had arrived at the western side of the woods. Cold rain drove between his shoulder blades. He stopped at the forest’s edge to button his greatcoat and squinted across the wide plain ahead of him, trying to spot the caravan’s campfires through the sheeting rain. He urged the dray horse forward again, the wagon’s wheels slipping in muck. The horse stumbled on stones as Siegel urged it toward the rough-hewn walls of the new quarry.

The dray horse stumbled once more, toppled with a jolt, and fell, pulling the wagon toward a hole into which the horse had tumbled. Water bit cold.

Siegel surfaced, gasping in icy shock. Beside him, the horse fought against the wagon’s weight, which was pulling the animal under water. Max sprang upon the horse’s back to release the harness. When the wagon began to sink, he held the bridle and urged the horse to what looked like solid ground, but again it was ice and the ice broke; he made another spring and ice broke once more; he made plunge after plunge until he had broken the pond open all around, clinging to the reins, trying to hold the horse’s head up, to keep the deep water from drawing them both under.

Finally his shoulder bumped against the bank of the quarry pond and he heaved himself ashore, shivering with cold, rattling with icicles. He pulled at the bridle, urging the horse to jump, but the horse kicked at his hands and he dropped the reins. Exhausted, the sickly dray horse gave up its fight to stay afloat and slid to the bottom of the pond.

Siegel stood, saturated and freezing, and squinted once more through the rain. In the distance the lights of a cabin burned. Against the bitter squall he staggered toward it, pounded at the cabin door, called out. Nothing. He pounded again, drowsy now, beginning to freeze. After a long delay the door opened a few inches. A gust of warm air from inside the cabin hit Siegel in the face like a hammer. He sank to his knees in his ice-laden greatcoat, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the ground.

——

When dawn broke, the blacksmith and his pimpled son rode at the back of the wagon on the bench where Carsie and Lilia sat. The blacksmith’s nose bent to the right. He snarled more than talked as he told of escaping a Cossack five months ago and coming upon the caravan. “I grabbed my son and we ran. We ran over the bridge and after we caught our breath, we came out of the forest. We heard a wagon approach and we hid in a ditch, but when we looked up a Cossack stood over us. I begged for mercy for the boy. He aimed his pistol down at us, raised it and fired five shots at the tops of the trees. Then, like a miracle, he got back up on his wagon and left. After that we found the wagon train and joined up.” While he told the last of his story, the blacksmith removed his shirt. He ordered his son to look for lice on his back.

Carsie had never seen a man so naked, his back blanketed in dark, curly hair. She wondered if her father’s back had been like that—Papa was always cold, but she couldn’t see how, if all men’s backs were covered in hair, like this man’s was.

Shortly before noon the wagon master rode down the line with a large bundle over his shoulder. He handed down loaves of stale bread to each of the teamsters, who tore off hunks for themselves before they distributed the rest to the passengers in his wagon. Carsie halved her portion and wrapped Lilia’s fingers around the piece she held out.

Lilia threw the bread down. “No, I don’t want it.”

Carsie retrieved the bread and pressed it into her sister’s hand again. “Eat some,” she urged. “We don’t know when we can eat again.”

“No stale bread, Carsie. You know I don’t like it.”

The blacksmith leered at the girls. “You think you are better than stale bread? Perhaps you are not hungry enough.”

“Leave her alone, Papa!” his son growled from the shadows. “Pick on me, but don’t pick on little girls.”

Farther on, the caravan passed a row of soot-blackened men marching alongside the road, each of them carrying a tremendous bag of coal. The men were guarded by two Cossacks—one in front, the other at the rear. Their wagon neared the middle of the row.

The blacksmith called out, “Run! Run, to save your skins!”

One of the coalmen frowned up at the blacksmith from under his enormous bundle. “Run?” he muttered. “I am so tired I can barely walk.”

Crows flocked in a corn field, scavenging what remained of last autumn’s harvest. The blacksmith’s son tossed the last of his bread to the birds.

The blacksmith pitched forward, grabbing at the bread. “You fool! Don’t ever waste food!” He raised a mighty arm and brought his fist down on his son’s head, then pounded the boy a second mighty blow. The boy’s shoulders shook and he fell sideways.

“You hurt him!” Carsie cried out.

The blacksmith shrugged. “He is my son, I can hurt him if I choose. He gave his food to the birds. If he did not want the bread he should have shared it with...with others here in the wagon.”

“You mean, with you.”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll make sure you can’t eat for a month. Then you won’t need to worry who is sharing food.”

The blacksmith’s son groaned and rolled over.

“You see?” The blacksmith smiled at Carsie. “He is fine. Now, stay out of our affairs.”

The caravan stopped at the outer reaches of Brody, where the wagon master ordered all the travelers down from the wagons. He led them, single file, through the town to a music hall. Several men in brown shirts stood outside the theater. The blacksmith cut to the inside of the line and walked faster, ducking his head, trying to make himself small. He reached the door, and almost inside before two more men in brown shirts forced him aside. “You,” a brown-shirted man motioned to the blacksmith. “You’ll come with us.”

“Papa!” The blacksmith’s son stopped, watching as the men prodded the blacksmith, herding him to a wagon. “Papa, wait! I am coming with you.”

“No!” the blacksmith motioned to his son. “Stay with the group! Go on in, you will be fine—I’ll be back in a moment. These men just want to tell me something.”

One of the men chuckled and jabbed the blacksmith with a rifle butt in the small of his back. “Oh, yes, we are telling him something that will change his life.”

Inside the theater, Carsie led her sister to seats near the front, where the blacksmith’s son sat. “Hello,” she said to him. “Did your father hurt you?”

The young man looked away, scratching at a pimple on his face.

“Are we going to get a musical show, I wonder?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “It doesn’t seem to me we’re here for entertainment.” He looked over his shoulder at the door in back.

“What are we doing here, then?”

“Just another step in the journey, I think.”

“Oh.” She thought for a moment and sighed. “My name is Carsie Akselrod.”

The blacksmith’s son said nothing.

“Carsie Akselrod, I said.”

Silence.

“My name is Lilia Akselrod,” Lilia smiled up at the ceiling.

The boy scowled at Lilia, but he answered her. “My name is Louis Levy.”

“Hello, Louis Levy,” Lilia giggled. She sang to herself, rocking back and forth in her seat.

Carsie studied the boy again, curious. “How old are you?”

“Stop asking questions. Leave me alone.”

“I’m fourteen,” Carsie persisted. “My sister is ten.”

Louis Levy leaned over and stared at Lilia. “She’s an odd one, your sister.”

“She was sick, maybe that’s why.”

“Is she better, now?” Louis peered at Lilia again.

“Yes,” Lilia said, still rocking back and forth in her chair. “I’m much better now, Louis Levy. I am much better, thank you. I had typhus.”

Louis gasped and slumped back in his chair, quiet again. He twisted, checking behind him once more and to the sides of the theater.

“Still looking for your father?” Carsie asked.

“Yes. I hope he comes back before we have to leave.”

Carsie pulled her coat around her. “Button up, Lilia. There’s no heat in here.”

“Seventeen,” Louis said sullenly. “I’m seventeen.”

Other men from the caravan left with the soldiers in brown uniforms. Afternoon stretched into evening. The travelers moved quietly, spoke softly, made no gestures. While Lilia pressed her nose to the pages of the fashion magazine Carsie squeezed her eyes closed and thought.

Her thoughts returned to her parents’ argument in Lucava, to the Cossack raid, to the trip to Trusheny. Grief and anger and frustration made her stomach hurt, but still she could not weep. She could not grieve for her mother and father, and now there was more—Max Siegel had turned out to be someone other than the safe harbor she craved, and she had lost the only piece of her parents she had—her gold kopek necklace.

Carsie turned her back to the others and unbuttoned her inside coat pocket. She pulled the hundred-ruble notes out and counted them. One, two, three, four, only four notes...but the postman said he had given her five!

She tried to think who might have been close enough to reach into her coat pocket. “Lilia,” Carsie whispered, “did you take any money from my coat pocket? It’s okay if you did, but I need to know.”

“Carsie, no! I didn’t take anything. Zirl gave us five hundred rubles, yes?”

“That’s what he said, but there are only four hundred rubles here.”

“Only four hundred? Is that enough?’

Nikitin climbed the short set of stairs and walked to the center of the stage. “I have made new arrangements,” he called out. “We go now to the train, but it is a different train from the one you might have taken. Zol zayn mit mazel.” He turned away and shook his head. “I am sorry. I tried. Zol zayn mit mazel.” Good luck.