Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

“It seemed like it,” Max said, changing his tone. “I was tired, but many things ran through my brain. I could not sleep. Then, poof” he snapped his fingers. “I was out.” He cocked his head to see if his change in tone could restore her. “I dreamed of you,” Max said, and Deena looked back to him.

“You did not,” Deena smiled, and held his gaze.

“I could not help myself. With all that waiting, I was worried.”

“Worried for my safety?” Deena said, smiling again and tipped the top of her head.

“Worried for your virtue.” Max said.

“In a church?”

“Especially. That is where you are judged.”

“Max,” she murmured, smiled and cupped his cheek with her hand.

Just at that moment, the door flew open and Zalmund strode in with a package in his arm. His face was flushed and his breathing a little fast. He immediately saw them at the side of the room. Without a change in step, he announced to them, “We have what we need, now let’s get to the station. Max, you get the bags.”

Later on the train, Max sat behind Deena and Zalmund, staring at the back of her neck. The delicate red tufts of hair stuck out from her hat, and the gentle ginger down followed the contours to her collar. The pale, translucent skin and the soft lobes of her ears. With nothing to think about, he thought of the worst. His parents, lost and starving, no help and no hope. The chaos of soldiers and guns that stood in his way. Maybe Deena wanted him to rescue her from this, and how could he miss the chance? His stomach was knotted, and he only took small bites of the bread and butter Zalmund passed him.

During one of Deena’s walk through the train aisle, Zalmund jumped back to sit next to him. They sat looking forward for a moment, and before Zalmund could start, Max started conversationally.

“You were late, last night,” he said.

Zalmund knew he had him then. “Yes, yes, such a beautiful church. Very romantic. Deena was so taken with such beautiful things.”

“Was she?”

“Yes, yes. She is a creature of passion. I love her like that.” He waited for the pain to set in. Max shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “It’s like riding a tiger!” Zalmund turned to watch Max wince.

“In a church?” Max said with a touch of distain.

“Not my church. And believe me, Deena has not been close to the gospel recently,” Zalmund coughed, and then cruelly winked at Max.

“She said no,” Max said softly.

“Did she? Oh, I guess it’s not something she wants to talk about,” Zalmund said victoriously.

They sat in quiet until Deena returned. The conversation restarted, and Deena began to tell Max about their complicity in the Red Terror, in a certain sanitized style. Zalmund contributed commentary and sarcastic humor. She covered their recruitment in Poland and pilgrimage to Moscow, and their witness to the throes of the revolution, leaving aside their most vivid memories and intimate participation. Mostly they discussed the ardent personalities and captivating philosophy that made every act a supporting pillar of a larger, inspirational justice. Max disregarded the ideology and was discomforted by the chaos and violence he heard and imagined. He listened to Deena with slack jaw astonishment. This was no way to live, he thought, careening around Russia at the service of zealots who stood ready to throw your life away. He saw this too much in the war. Max felt a tugging in his heart to save her from this illusion, and from this seducer.

Zalmund listened to Deena’s narrative, only occasionally corrected her. His anxiety grew, and he had trouble concentrating. He knew these lofty pronouncements from both sides of the revolution were excuses to take what was left unguarded. The hypocrisy made him restless and sweat beaded on his forehead. He yearned for a settled way but gloried in his rebellion against it. However, the other rebels offended him, because their motives were clear and selfish. Zalmund’s guilt wrapped in beneficence and arrogance was a noble motivation to steal and yes, murder. His chest felt tightened and his comments became more cutting and crueler. When the story came to their escape to Kyiv, he cut the conversation off.

“And then we needed money, so we headed off to Amsterdam to collect on some old family debts,” he summarized. He rubbed his forehead and put his hands in his lap as if this was all that was needed on that topic.

After discovering their apartment burglarized in Kyiv, Zalmund and Deena packed what they could in suitcases and in late October 1918 headed west to Lublin, ahead of the advancing Polish troops. There they reunited with their local revolutionary comrades, and the tailor who allowed them to sleep on the second floor above the shop while they made their plans. The imminent victory of the allies, and the collapse of the German and Austro-Hungarian Empires, promised to open up communication with Western Europe that had been closed to them for four years. As soon as the Armistice was declared on November 11, 1918, Zalmund and Deena began their trip to Amsterdam.

Train travel was slow and difficult. The direct route was impossible because of the damage to transportation and the scars of trenches from the War. They had to thread themselves through southern Germany and Northern France, and approach from Lille and then Antwerp. The trains were filled with soldiers demobilizing and returning home. Some of them were joyously celebrating, but many were grim and stone faced, shellshocked and contemplating what awaited them on return. On a few trains it was faster and cheaper for Zalmund and Deena to gain passage by bribing the conductors, who had not been paid for weeks, than try to secure seats from the overwhelmed station agents.

Their destination upon arrival was Amstelstraat in the downtown financial district. It was located across the Amstel canal from Jodenbuurt, the Jewish quarter, where they found a boarding house room. Dutch banking had been in decline since the middle of the last century, as Berlin, Paris and London surged in business opportunity and offered more attractive lifestyles. Many original firms had been founded by German Jews immigrating since the 1600’s, and Isaac Hofitz had chosen one firm he remembered that had been mentioned by his German grandfather.

Wertheim & Gompertz was housed in a massive dark red brick mansion on the narrow street. The entrance was a large light-stone archway flanked on each side by two smaller arched windows of the same light-colored stone. The second floor had another arched window above the entryway with a stone false balcony, and two square windows on each side. The third story had four small square windows under a roof with a pitched arch at the center and a circular window in the facing. Zalmund and Deena dodged horse-drawn carriages and fashionably dressed pedestrians as they made their way inside.

After a brief wait, they were collected from the entry room by Mr. Morris Eltzbacher, a partner in the firm. Zalmund had first visited the building with his father Isaac in his bar mitzvah year of 1901. With the boy in tow, Isaac had met with Eli Wertheim, a descendent of the founder, and opened an investment account with a substantial sum of German marks he had skimmed unreported from the rent and tax receipts of the Koszuty estate. Isaac Hofitz had chosen the bank he remembered from his childhood as sufficiently far away to avoid the detection of theft and managed by Jews he assumed would be loyal and discreet. He continued to make deposits for thirteen years until the outbreak of the War made it impossible. The bank invested the money in the various European government projects it helped finance, such as the upgrade of the Moscow to St. Petersburg railroad. Returns were significant and steady, and the account balance grew over the years.