Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

“Don’t move. We are not here to hurt you. We are from the Anarchist Army,” Sholom said, puffing out his chest. “We control this town and this station. Just stay here.”

“There is nothing here to take,” the old man said. “We have no rolling stock, and this locomotive doesn’t run.”

“Why?” Max asked him.

“She’s a fussy lady,” the old man sighed. “She came in one day last month, gave a shudder, blew out her steam, and seized. The mechanic said she’s a mess.”

“Where is he?”

“He left with the rest of the army before you came into town.”

Max turned to Sholom and said, “I’ll take a look.” Max climbed into the cabin and immediately noticed that the coal bin was more than half full. No one thought to unload it before they fled. He then reviewed the operating panel at the front. The fire tubes were clear at both ends and the fire-bars were free from clinkers; the regulator was closed and locked, and the tender-break screwed down tight. The reversing-lever was in the middle position. The cocks of the oil-vessels and feed pipes were turn off. All as it should be.

He climbed down and went under the locomotive, laying on the steel pan below the giant engine. After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Max saw the problem: the connecting-rod was missing. He looked at the ends where it would ordinarily attach and saw that the brass cotters were cleaved, and the set screws were missing. But he also notices that where the brass cotters were attached there were multiple welds, one on top of another. This attachment point seemed to be a recurring problem, and repeated patchwork repairs had been done to keep the connecting-rod in place and engine working. But if the cotters were attached improperly they might put too much tension on the connecting-rod, and something was bound to give.

Max decided to continue his review and inspected the brasses of the inner framing, the inside bearings of the cranked axel and the wheel attachment with its pins, bolts and slide-spindles. All fine. Then he noticed the tip of a bar out of place. He reached for it and yanked. It was the missing connecting-rod, which appeared to have been thrown across the engine casing and lodged behind the wheel spanner. This alone would cause the engine to seize. He carefully placed the connecting-rod behind the flange of the steel plate separating the engine from the boiler. He took a last look at the brass cotters, which he recognized as about the same size as the cotters he used in the Fiat-Omsky light armored cars.

Max climbed out from under the engine and found Sholom waiting for him. He wiped his hands together, then onto his pants, and shook his head. “This is not going anywhere. It’s a mess. Must have gotten overheated and seized. I can’t help. Its only good for parts, now.”

On the walk to their new barracks in a commandeered house on the west side of town, Max recounted to Sholom his family’s plan to reunite. Although Sholom was good-natured and had been kind to Max the past few weeks, Max never forgot that he was a prisoner one slip from execution as a foreign spy. While he lay ill and near death, he descended to a desperate point. He was all alone, he thought over and over, and was haunted by the black mood that no one would ever know what happened to him. He would just disappear. His fever spiked when he considered that he had been betrayed by a rabbi – a monstrous deceit made worse by his rivalry for a woman he thought he loved. That too was a betrayal. He had offered love, help and hope for a new life to a woman who turned her back on him, left him to the devil, to return to her old ways. But those old ways were gone. The mileposts of his Ukraine youth were no more – his country had descended into a hellish zone of factions, lawlessness, piracy and death. He was sick in his soul as well as his body. His only respite was the memory of his brothers and parents. At his greatest despair, he thought of his family and his mission – get his parents out and to America. From that point on, everything he did was designed to get him closer to escape.

Max spoke easily to Sholom about his life in Kherson and his training in the gymnasium. He had been a good student, proficient in language and mathematics. He told Sholom he dreamed of a life in his father’s business, a life on the river meeting people in towns. He fashioned a story that he was happy and content in Kherson, but that suddenly his father had ordered him and his brothers to America. He lied that he did not want to go.

“Your father was right,” Sholom interjected. “In America you can get rich doing good things. Here, you can only get rich doing bad things.”

Max continued on about going to Minneapolis for work and finding an apprentice job in the machine shop of the biggest grain mill, General Mills. But without citizenship he was nothing, not American and not Ukrainian, and he couldn’t join the union. So, he and his brothers joined the Army to receive American papers upon their discharge. At this point, Sholom leaned in and asked for details. Max obliged with stories of what he saw on the American lines, dressing up the gore and death, knowing that Sholom was badly wounded in battle and enjoyed hearing that others suffered as much or more.

Max finally got to the meeting with his brothers after the Armistice, and the decision to send one brother back to retrieve their parents. He lied when he said he volunteered.

“How foolish!” Sholom said. “Where did you get the pass?”

Max had said nothing about Zalmund and Deena. “I met a guy, a soldier, at a house in Krakow. He sold it to me.”

“A house or a brothel?” Sholom smirked.

“Maybe it wasn’t a real house,” Max feigned embarrassment.

“Foolish, again,” Sholom sang out. “How much did it cost?”

“A few marks. It seemed like an insurance policy.”

“Didn’t that seem cheap? You didn’t know Lenin was shot?” Sholom asked.

“Yes, we heard about it, but wasn’t that just another Bolshevik killing each other?”

“No, no, no. Well, yes,” Sholom replied. “The British helped them do it. Kotovsky got a message in Odessa describing the fake Cheka passes and warning us about the British. So, when you, an American, show up with a pass, well… I saved you.”

“Yes you did,” Max said with sincerity

“Well, you fixed our trucks. We’re even?”

“Even,” Max said.

“No, not really. But OK.” Sholom put his head down and marched on.

Late the next afternoon when Max was cleaning up at the motor pool, Marusya sauntered in with two cups of strong tea. She handed him one and sat on an empty ammo cannister near the forge fire used for repairing bent metal shafts. With great show she slowly unbuttoned her overcoat and arranged herself in a comfortable position. She pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Max pulled up another ammo cannister and sat across from here. She offered him a cigarette and he took it. He sipped from the tea and nodded his appreciation.

“How was your visit to the train station?” she asked. It was an unnerving question, but Max reassured himself there was no way she could know what he saw.

“You know, I made a full report. The main locomotive facing south is missing a tie rod that is much bigger than anything in our trucks,” he said calmly.

“Bigger than a tachanka ?” she asked. This was an open wagon with a large cannon, drawn by four horses, and her use of the term further cemented her major military credentials.

“Yes!” Max blurted. “That is where I started in the Expeditionary Force.” The memories of his army life only a few months ago now seemed a lifetime away. He hung his head.

After a long gap, she asked “Do you have a woman?” Max looked confused. “You know, a girlfriend waiting for you?”