Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

One Saturday afternoon in the fall of 1917, after Deena prepared the end-of- Shabbos dinner, she walked the perimeter of the grounds with Zalmund in the fading light. Without looking up, she said “Tell me more about Rabbi Zevi.”

Zalmund looked up, surprised and amused. “My Rabbi Sabbatai Zevi?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Well, he was a mystic. He believed that not everything in the world could be observed, and that not everything we saw was true. He thought that some truths of God were hidden and must be discovered. He was a master of Kabbalah and Zohar, a very difficult book to understand. I tried.”

“Even you, Zalmund?” Deena teased.

“Even me, my sweet.” Zalmund gave her a wide smile and took her hand. “Kabbalah teaches that we should work on perfecting our character, and that is what can touch God and live forever. No amount of worship or ritual matters unless it enriches your character.”

“A character that lives forever,” Deena repeated in a low voice. “So many in town have lost sons and husbands. They long to hear them and touch them. Mrs. Najwicz has invited Franek Kluski to hold a séance tomorrow at her home to reach out to dead soldiers and comfort them. He is a famous medium, maybe you have heard of him? He can summon the dead, and he even makes wax impressions of their hands. Father Dziwisz has cautioned against these pagan rituals, but they go on anyway in secret. People want to believe that the dead still live.”

They came upon the ruins of an old stone church on the edge of the baren field. Three half-walls remained, overhung by a tree that had dropped most of its leaves to the ground inside the ruin. Zalmund turned and led Deena through the gap of the former door and into the vestige of the chapel. He took both her hands and looked down into her eyes.

“We long to connect our immortal souls. It is more than a church, bigger than a country. It is a force we cannot resist. A river flowing to eternity.” He bent down and kissed her deeply. Soon he spread his coat on the bed of leaves. As the sun set and the first stars twinkled overhead, Zalmund and Deena made love.

When they finished, Deena smoothed her shift, smiled at Zalmund and took his hand as they started back in the dark. She smiled for most of the way, but as they approached familiar trees and paths, her glorious isolation gave way to fear of the shared mundane. The enormity of her choice overcame her. She clutched Zalmund’s hand with her right and then grasped his elbow with her left. She knew then that nothing would ever be the same.

In a few weeks the papers were filled with the news of the Second Russian Revolution. The Bolsheviks had seized power from the Liberals with hardly a shot fired. Lenin and the Bolsheviks were now in control of whatever was left of the Russian Army. The lethargy of the people of Koszuty gave way to a nervous agitation. Rumors flew about who was a Socialist, who supported the Germans, and who remained loyal to the Tsar. With this level of scrutiny, attention turned to Deena, and then to Zalmund, who did little to hide his feelings from his father. After the Christmas celebrations, Isaac dismissed Deena from their service.

On a routine visit to the dry goods store, Zalmund was confronted by Deena’s brother. He accused him of ruining his sister’s life. “Oh, you liked it better when she worked under Jews?” Zalmund snapped. Deena’s brother charged him, and the fight was broken up by other shoppers. The store owner asked Zalmund not to return.

In March 1918, the Germans and Russians announced their peace. The border to the east was now open. Zalmund found a supplier headed to Poznan, and late one afternoon he and Deena slipped under the wagon’s canvas cover, among the cabbages and onions, and left Koszuty. From Poznan they boarded a train for the short ride to Lublin, which eventually led them to Moscow, and then Kyiv.

By mid-October 1918 in Kyiv, Zalmund and Deena were nearing the end of the money from the sale of the black sedan. Zalmund sold his first Cheka pass to a well-known fixer on Foundoukleevskaja. The Cheka passes were in great demand because of the extensive smuggling from decadent Kyiv into proletarian Moscow, where luxury items were nearly impossible to obtain. For the smuggler, authentic passes were even better than bribing border guards, because the price was fixed and the service more dependable. The illicit transport of large volumes of contraband rewarded the apparatchiks for their zealous pursuit of the worker’s paradise. For his part, Zalmund, like all the rest in the smugglers’ chain, took his payment in the hard currency of Kyiv: German marks.

His goods were unusual, precious, and word quickly spread among the Kyiv underground traders. Zalmund made several hurried deals and then realized his commanding position. He paid a café owner a few marks each week to take messages for him from his clients. He stopped by occasionally to collect the notes and set up times for meetings at the café. The Firebird was not much of a café, and wasn’t even on the main Foundoukleevskaja, but rather on a side alley called Grodsznoskaja. When Deena came with him on a crisp October afternoon, she had to step carefully down the narrow brick stairs to the basement and the wood door with a small peephole. The word “Firebird” painted in flaking yellow paint was scarcely visible from the street. Zalmund knocked twice and held up two fingers sideways in a signal to the peephole. The door opened and they entered a dank and dark basement, with a cement floor and wood pillars spaced about. The room was lit by candles on the tables and from wall sconces, which gave the room a smoky flavor. The walls were otherwise covered by dark colored sheets nailed to the ceiling beam, draping over cracked plaster walls. A few shaggy men were slouched on sagging couches against the back and side walls, partially obscured by the pillars.

“Get Kardvarnya,” Zalmund whispered to the boy who answered the door. He disappeared behind a curtain to the right of the doorway, while Zalmund and Deena stood to adjust their eyes to the dim light. The sweet and pungent aroma of smoked hashish drifted to the front. Zalmund wasn’t the only one who found the Firebird a convenient place to do business, and Kardvarnya proved a cooperative partner. Hashish, opium and cocaine poured into Kyiv, which continued its long tradition even during the war years as a gateway to the Ottoman Empire and the Middle East. The cocaine in particular was not the seven percent laudanum that gentlemen sipped in the tea rooms of Vienna and London. This was the white powder that each week put down one or two of the all-night partygoers and juiced henchmen in the fast lane of Kyiv. Hashish was favored by the homeless desperados who filled up the cracks of the city, ready to do anything, legal or otherwise, for a day’s pay.

Kardvarnya appeared from behind the curtain, wearing a sportsman cap, grey flannel undershirt and wool military jodhpurs, tied at the waist with a stained white silk sash. His beard was salt and pepper, but his eyes were bright under dark bushy eyebrows. He spoke quickly and quietly into Zalmund’s ear, and Zalmund occasionally nodded. He pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket and handed it to a surprised Zalmund.

“One in the back is asking for Starfish,” Kardvarnya said to Zalmund so that Deena could hear. Starfish was Zalmund’s street name among the underground.

“Who’s he with?”

“He won’t say.”

“Take a note. I want a name.”

“Fine.”

Kardvarnya slapped him on the back, and Zalmund and Deena left. They squinted as they walked back to Foundoukleevskaja.

“What was that money, Zalmund?” Deena asked.

“Someone wants to meet me very soon. It was a down payment.”