Karena entered Uncle Matvey’s bungalow thinking of Alex. He was likely to arrive soon with his commanding officer, and then interrogations would begin. She thought of her brief meeting with him earlier on the road. For a moment, his eyes had looked directly into hers, and once again, as on that fateful day on the wharf at Kazan, she had sensed his awareness of her, not as a possible revolutionary under suspicion, but as a woman.
Then again, maybe it was her own feelings she was interpreting. She was reading too much into his look. Perhaps he was merely noting the differences between wealthy aristocrats like the Roskovs and the gentry. The difference was a chasm. While most of Karena’s wardrobe was for life in the countryside of Kiev, Tatiana had jewels and Parisian gowns.
The bungalow was not typical, although it once had been, before Ilya and Grandmother Leah Jilinsky came here and settled after a pogrom in Warsaw had left them destitute and alone. Papa Josef had added two tiny bedrooms, so that when Uncle Matvey came from St. Petersburg, he could have the larger room connected to a cubbyhole for use as an office.
The original bungalow was built of thick, dressed logs with a hall and two rooms. One of these was used as the kitchen, containing the stove, which reached nearly to the ceiling. Close to the stove and just under the roof was a platform wide enough for the family to use as the warmer sleeping area when the snowy Russian winter came. Karena and Natalia had used it growing up, when they had come here to spend a night and visit Uncle Matvey. Karena could still remember waking those early mornings to the delightful aroma of Grandmother Jilinsky’s sweet breads, fresh and warm, waiting on the back of the stove.
On some evenings, Uncle Matvey and Ilya would have dinner at the manor house, and after supper, they would gather with Papa Josef and Sergei around the large kitchen table, drinking coffee and smoking their pipes, and discuss everything from the future of Russia to emigrating to America through Ellis Island in New York—something her father would not even consider.
The peasant’s bungalow was normally lined with wooden benches along the walls, but Grandmother Jilinsky had furnished her kitchen with a large dining table and six comfortable chairs. One corner of the room displayed an icon hanging in a niche, though neither the Jilinskys nor Uncle Matvey paid it any attention. It was there to assure any outsiders and watchful officials of their loyalty to the state church.
Orthodox Jews considered such icons in their home tantamount to gentile idolatry, but Grandmother Jilinsky boasted her eyesight was getting so poor she could hardly trouble herself to see it in her “good Polish kitchen,” and Ilya, having lost his parents in a pogrom, was not inclined to think much about religious traditions.
By the side of the house, an enclosed yard had stabling for two horses. There was also a bathhouse and a small cellar. In the latter, Grandmother Jilinsky stored her root vegetables for the winter, along with preserved foods and salted meat.
Karena caught a waft of cabbage and beef cooking and went to the kitchen through the open doorway. She found the big pot simmering on the stove and lowered the flame. The water in the coffeepot was boiling, unattended.
Grandmother Leah Jilinsky stood in front of the small window, staring out toward the road and the soldiers. Her eyes, when she turned toward Karena, were brimming with fear and hatred. She had spent a half century enduring the pogroms in Nalewski, the Jewish quarter in Warsaw, and her past cast long shadows on the present. Her aged face and sunken cheeks told of a lifetime of insecurity. Her home, usually a place of refuge from the uncaring world, had always been a knock away from the invaders.
Russia had its own pogroms, as Karena knew well enough. She’d been a child when she heard about the dreaded Kishinev pogrom of 1903 and the devastation to Russian Jewry. Jewish families were grabbed from their very beds, their eyes gouged out, and their babies and children tossed from windows onto the pavement below. Many even had nails pounded into their flesh and were left to die in their sufferings. The rampage had gone on for three days in autocratic Russia, where a person could hardly breathe without the czar’s approval, yet the czar had done nothing.
That was also the time she had first heard the name Theodor Herzl, the founder of the World Zionist Organization, and his call for a Jewish homeland. Herzl had since died, but the Zionist movement lived on under its new president, Chaim Weizmann. Karena had learned much of the movement to return Jews to Palestine through working with Uncle Matvey on his manuscript, for as he said, “You cannot adequately discuss the Messiah without also understanding the land and the people to whom the land was promised.”
After Karena returned home from Kazan, she’d spent the rest of the summer, at her uncle’s request, writing letters to Chaim Weizmann, who was born in Russia and emigrated to England, asking questions that would be dealt with in Uncle Matvey’s book.
Grandmother Jilinsky wrung her thin, wrinkled hands. “The soldiers have come for Sergei,” she said as she left the window. “There is no place of refuge, my child, not for any of us. They will take him away. They always take them away somewhere, somewhere.”
Karena looked for faith to comfort the older woman and found she had little to offer.
“We will pray to the icon,” Karena murmured from custom. “St. Nicholas will help. We will light a candle.”
Grandmother’s eyes smoldered. “St. Nicholas! Oy vey! Why not the God of Abraham, I ask? Are you afraid to answer, my child? Then I shall speak! It is because neither St. Nicholas nor the God of Abraham can help us! They have not helped me in the past. Why should I still believe?”
Karena went to the side of the kitchen chair and put an arm around her, patting her in wordless comfort and feeling her bony structure through the worn peasant blouse of bright colors. “Oh, Grandmother, you are so distressed. Why, look what Uncle Matvey says. He’s convinced God has not given up the seed of Abraham. That’s why he’s writing Chaim Weizmann.”
“What can Weizmann do for the Jews?”
“God may be using his movement to bring Israel back to the land to become a nation again. Uncle says some Jews think that Jesus was the promised Messiah. And many Christians say the Scriptures teach that Israel will be a nation again, and when it happens, the Messiah’s second coming may be drawing near. Mr. Weizmann is negotiating with the British parliament. He has something important that could be used in the war. In return, the British government may work for a Jewish homeland. Just think! A nation all our own. No more pogroms!”
Grandmother Jilinsky looked doubtful. “Matvey, he is turning into a goy. I do not know what to make of him when he says that crucified one was the Messiah. My rabbi in Warsaw, when I was a girl your age, would groan in his grave if he heard that. How could the Messiah have come? Where is the kingdom promised to King David and his people? We are not even in the land.”
“Grandmother Jilinsky, you just heard me explain about the new Zionist movement and what it may mean.”
“We are scattered all over the world, forgotten, despised. Our bones are dried up; who can make these bones live again? Not Chaim Weizmann.”
“No, not Mr. Weizmann. The Zionist movement is secular, but Matvey has researched another group of Jews, called Messianic, who are looking for Messiah to come to the nation Israel, to rebuild the Jewish temple in Jerusalem and establish peace.”
Karena remembered Matvey’s references to the prophet Ezekiel. “You just quoted from Ezekiel 37: ‘Can these bones live?’ The bones are the whole house of Israel. And Matvey says many Bible scholars believe Israel will become a nation again. That isn’t all. God told Ezekiel that after we become a nation again, a time will come when God will breathe new spiritual life into Israel. So you see? There’s hope. Grandmother Jilinsky, what if Jesus truly is the promised Messiah?”
The older woman stared at her. Karena hadn’t realized it, but in putting forth what Uncle Matvey was writing, she’d grown to embrace the ideas with unexpected enthusiasm.
“Oh!” Grandmother Jilinsky exclaimed and rushed past her toward the black stove. Karena heard something sizzling in the fire. She turned and saw the water for coffee was boiling over.
Karena laughed, and even Grandmother smiled as she added the right amount of coarse grounds to the pot, stirring it with a big spoon.
Karena’s laughter faded into thoughtfulness. Talking about Jesus had brought a special mood to the little kitchen. Maybe I will do what Uncle Matvey suggests—read the book called Matthew.
Through the window, Karena and Grandmother Jilinsky watched the czar’s conscripts make camp for the night in a distant section of the field where the wheat had already been harvested. Karena remembered that food needed to be scrounged up from somewhere—enough to feed a large group. She needed no reminder that Colonel Kronstadt and his superiors would dine at the manor house.
And Sergei … What would happen? Surely there was no proof of his attending last night’s meeting. Maybe after questioning everyone, they would ride on in search of Lenski.
“They intend to camp out on the land as the colonel requested this morning,” Karena told Grandmother Jilinsky. “They will want food.”
“Poot—colonel requested!”
“Actually, yes. He did ask to camp his men for the night. They are on their way to Warsaw,” Karena said dully, “to join the general there. The war has begun.”
“I was up early this morning baking. And now will Sergei’s enemies take my bread?”
“Grandmother Jilinsky, please, do not upset yourself. You know what Mother said about your heart.”
“My heart beats well enough. They will not take my bread.”
“Is there any choice? If they wished, they could take over the manor and bungalow both. They could bed the soldiers down, and there would be nothing we could do. So far he has requested only necessities and been polite. Colonel Kronstadt is a friend of Uncle Viktor Roskov and Aunt Zofia. He is likely to become engaged to Cousin Tatiana.”
Grandmother Jilinsky looked at her sharply. “The colonel who is here to arrest Sergei?”
“He may not arrest him. Maybe Uncle Viktor sent him … Maybe it will bode well for Sergei after all, for all of us,” she added, thinking about her own presence at the college square last night.
Karena looked out the window and watched the older man in uniform with the slouching jacket and cap ride away from the other three toward the manor house. Alex dismounted and remained talking with Ilya and Uncle Matvey for a few minutes. She did not think the older man could be an Imperial officer, but some other specialized bureaucrat in the military section of the Okhrana, whereas she knew from Tatiana that Alex had gone to the elite officer school. Karena took note of his precise military manner and how authoritative he looked as he spoke to Ilya.
Alex finished speaking to Ilya, remounted, and rode toward the path that led to the manor house. Ilya turned to Uncle Matvey for a moment and then followed Alex.
“Uncle Matvey is returning alone,” Karena said. “The other men have gone up to the manor.” She considered going, but remembered Uncle Matvey wanted her to remain here.
Grandmother Jilinsky pushed herself up from the wicker chair.
“He will want coffee.”
The kitchen door opened, and Uncle Matvey entered. Even in his ailing health, his presence brought a feeling of security into the room. Karena stood expectantly, waiting for news. Grandmother Jilinsky hovered at the stove with the coffee.
He reached for his pipe on the shelf. He filled it with tobacco, pressing it in with his thumb.
“There is distressing news. You know this, both of you.” He struck a match. “They will be asking Sergei some questions.” He puffed the pipe. “Sergei told me he wasn’t at the meeting last night.”
Karena shifted her gaze to look at him. Did Uncle Matvey really believe that?
“When did you see him last?” Karena asked quietly.
“This morning, helping Ilya with the harvest.” He took the coffee from Grandmother Jilinsky. “Leah, the soldiers will camp in the field tonight. Major-General Durnov will need some food for the men. I told him you would gather what provisions you could from the storehouse. The rest will be provided by Marta. One of the soldiers will come by the back door to receive it. Could you please get it ready for him?”
Grandmother Jilinsky grumbled her displeasure and left by way of the back door.
Leah restrained the words that simmered in her heart as hotly as her cabbage on the stove. Having gone without food many times in her life, she found it painful to give up what she had been storing away for herself and Ilya.
If I had arsenic, I would put it in the soldiers’ mush and feel no shame. Are they not murderers? Yes, all of them. Russian soldiers, bah! What did the czar do to stop the murder of my people under the heels of his officials? What did he do to stop the Jew haters? He did nothing. Nothing, except to blame the Jews. “The revolutionaries snarling at my ankles are either Jews or backed by Jews.” A lie! There were no more Jews involved than Russians!
Now she was to take her food stores and feed how many? Maybe fifty hungry soldiers. It would take a firm bite from her hard work of canning and preserving.
She entered the storage pantry. In the dimness, she paused, her thoughts spinning back to Warsaw and the robbery done to her son, Ilya’s father, and to the other shopkeepers. The raw memories marched across her soul. The clatter of cavalry on the old cobble streets echoed in her ears again. The shattering glass, the smoke, the heat burning her cheeks as she searched in a frenzy for Ilya—Ilya, in the back of the store while his father fought to stop the Polish soldiers and students. Houses, shops, whole buildings burned to the ground, and the watermen would not come to put out the fires. The synagogues were broken into, objects smashed, rabbis kicked and beaten, men and boys killed, women and girls violated.
Leah’s sob shook her back to the reality of the moment. She was not in Warsaw but in Russia, and the nightmare was now a memory—it was over.
Her wrinkled hands trembled as she pushed her silver hair back from her damp face.
She set her mouth grimly. She respected Matvey’s articles and books written when he had taught at Warsaw. His last book, too, was worthy of him, the one on Russia’s last war with Japan. But the book he was working on now! Why was he wasting his latter years on empty research? The Messiah! The Deliverer.
She snatched containers and cloth bags and grudgingly began taking potatoes, onions, flour, and dried strips of beef from the storage bins. How painful this was to her.
She straightened her shoulders. So be it. Karena had spoken the truth: there was no choice.
“The Messiah,” she said aloud, and then again in Hebrew, “HaMashiach.” It tasted pleasant on her tongue. Not at all bitter, as she had thought it might.
She looked up at the cracked roofing, but it did not come crashing down in wrath. “HaMashiach,” she said louder.