Sergei did not know where such eloquence came from, or such courage. In the next moments he might be both rejected and made a fool. He watched Anya for any sign.
Valeria broke the silence: “Anya, I expect you have some things to do in the kitchen—no, I think in your room. It seems that Sergei and Andreas and I have things to discuss.”
Anya responded softly, but with firm resolve: “Mother, I’m quite sure I have nothing more pressing in the kitchen or my room than what happens here. I shall stay.”
Then she turned to Sergei, and he looked at her face, and he knew her answer even before she spoke.
Andreas, however, was less than entranced. “Sergei,” he began, “you say you want to share your life with Anya. What life would that be? What are your prospects for providing for her safety and security?”
It was the best and the worst question Andreas could have asked. For the first time in Sergei’s life he wished he were a wealthy man. Meanwhile, the question remained, hanging in the air. What indeed could Sergei offer besides devotion?
He answered as well as he could manage. “I understand your concern, Andreas. I have only a modest salary, right now, but I have discipline. I’ve survived alone in the wild. My hands are skillful, my mind quick to learn, and I don’t mind hard work.”
Andreas responded as the man of the house and Anya’s brother. “That is all well and good, but you’ve known my sister only a few weeks. You should take more time to get to know each other.”
Sergei spoke to Andreas but again looked directly at Anya. “There is nothing in this world I look forward to more.” Then, turning to Valeria, he said, “I love your daughter with everything I am or ever will be. I will do anything for her. And I will protect her with my life if need be. This I promise.”
Sergei concluded, “I will go to school, work long hours, and improve myself in any way possible to bring Anya a good life.”
“Still, Sergei—”
“Andreas, enough!” interrupted Valeria. “Let the poor boy eat.”
“Sergei is not a boy, Mother,” said Anya.
And Sergei knew that all would be well.
He could not know that a few days later all his hopes might be destroyed.
.15.
IT BEGAN with lighthearted conversation over dinner, when Valeria asked Sergei about his plans for the future.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll do whatever I can to better myself. There are many opportunities in America…”
All movement stopped around the table.
Andreas spoke first: “Did you say America? But I had assumed—”
“We all assumed,” said Valeria, her voice flat.
Sergei stared at Andreas, then at Valeria. In a flash he understood. He had a job; he was getting settled. They all believed that his plans had changed—that he would continue to live there, with Anya, until they had found a suitable place nearby.
Sergei, for his part, had informed them more than once of his intention to emigrate and had presumed that they understood: He and Anya would make a new life together across the sea.
Valeria, broke the silence, saying, “You cannot take my daughter across the sea. I would never see her again.”
“Mother,” said Sergei. “Please. I know how much you love Anya, and would want better circumstances—”
“What ‘better circumstances’ do you refer to in this America-across the-sea?” she demanded.
Sergei took a moment to gather himself. “You know the times have never been easy for Jews—with the Cossacks roaming, and the pogroms—”
“You don’t have to tell us about Cossacks or pogroms!” Andreas interrupted, his voice strident. “We have ample evidence of animosity toward the Jews. We are reminded by our father’s empty seat at the table. Why else do we play this sham of fitting in? Why do you see before you ‘ Valeria,’ and ‘Anya,’ and ‘Andreas’? Do not tell us of difficult times!”
“I apologize for my thoughtless words, Andreas. But don’t you see—these difficulties are all the more reason for you and Valeria to come with us to America. Take back your names and your heritage! Build a new life! In America you can celebrate Shabbat openly, and families can worship however they choose.”
Sergei turned to Valeria. “Mother, I don’t wish to take Anya away from you. I only want to take her to a better life. Come with us!”
Valeria stood. “I…am going to my room now, to think. Anya, the dishes—will you…” She turned and hurried out, but not before they all saw the pain on her face.
Anya started to follow but stopped, knowing that her mother would call if she needed her. So Anya remained at the table with Sergei and her brother as they sat in silence. Sergei wanted to speak—to bridge this chasm that had opened, to heal this fresh wound—but he had said all that he could.
He wondered: Is it selfish of me to pull Anya from the only family and home she has known, to take her so far away? He turned to Anya as she stared down at her hands, and he raised her chin. When her eyes met his, she said in a whisper, “Sergei…whatever happens and wherever you go, I will stand by your side.”
Sergei knew then that they would be married—that he would be her husband, and they could go to America. But how could she leave without her mother’s blessings?
Sergei sighed, and thought how love and family could pose more challenges than a winter in the mountains. In the wilderness, the rules were simple—but there were no maps to the human heart.
“Mother won’t go,” Andreas said. “You know that, Anya. She is deathly afraid of the sea. She will never cross an ocean.”
After that, they waited in silence.
Finally Valeria returned, and her voice halted any further discussion: “I will not go to America,” she said. “I was born and will die on Russian soil. It is where my husband…” Her voice trailed off, and then she looked at Anya, squeezed her hand, and said, “Although I give my blessings for this marriage, I will never give my blessings for Anya to go across the sea…but I do give my permission. She must go where her husband goes.
“But I beg one thing of you both, if you bear any love for me: Do not leave right away. Give me a little time with my married daughter, so I can get to know my new son-in-law better.”
Sergei, much relieved, could not refuse Valeria her one request. He agreed to stay for a few months longer. Only then did a smile come to Valeria’s face. It was a brave smile, willed there by a mother’s desire for her daughter’s happiness.
“So be it,” said Andreas, and he embraced Sergei as a brother.
A few days later, as Valeria busied herself with arrangements, she told Sergei, “You and Anya will have to be married by Father Alexey in the church, or it will not be legal. They will require your baptismal certificate, Sergei. I presume you were baptized at that military school, and that they have such records. So you should contact them soon…”
The school…Sergei’s mind flooded with dark memories he had tried so hard to put behind him.
Since he had taken all his records, including the required certificate, this practical matter posed no problem. But Valeria’s request was a painful reminder that Sergei could never contact the school. He had killed a fellow cadet and fled; he was still a fugitive.
Valeria knew none of this—and he would not tell her, or Andreas, or even Anya. Especially not Anya.
THEY WERE MARRIED on a Friday morning, November 6, 1891, in a small chapel—six weeks after Sergei’s arrival in St. Petersburg. It snowed on that fall day, and the world was cold and beautiful and good. Sergei’s boyhood dream about becoming a part of this family had come true.
Later that afternoon, at home, in a private ceremony before her mother and brother and a few close Jewish friends, they once again declared their love and vows in the Jewish tradition. It could not be a formal ceremony with a rabbi because Valeria could not risk bringing the required minyan, the minimum of ten witnesses, according to Talmudic law.
As a wedding gift, Andreas and Valeria gave Serg
ei and Anya a baker’s cart that Andreas had painted like new—pulled by a reliable old horse—a splendid gift for rides in the country.
When the guests left, Valeria sent the newlyweds outside. “For your first walk together as husband and wife,” she said.
“Is this walk a tradition I hadn’t heard about?” Sergei asked.
“Yes. A new tradition we are just starting. Now go out and get some fresh air,” Valeria ordered, falling into her role of mother-in-law as easily as snow fell from the clouds.
So Sergei and Anya bundled up and strolled through the frosted air. Falling snowflakes glistened in the golden light of a nearby gas lamp. The night air—the glowing lamps, the scent of snow mixed with smoke from many hearths—took on a new clarity, as if Sergei were seeing St. Petersburg for the first time through Anya’s eyes, and she through his.
“Mother was right, you know, ” Anya said. “She pushed us out to get some fresh air—and do you notice how especially fresh the air is tonight?” They both laughed. Then she removed a mitten and asked him to do the same. “I want to feel your hand, Sergei. I don’t want gloves between us. I don’t want anything between us…”
He looked at her. “Let’s go back home,” he said. “I think it’s time for bed.”
Anya smiled, and the flush that rose to her cheeks was not just from the cold.
They discovered that while they were out, Valeria and Andreas had moved their belongings into Valeria’s larger bedroom and Valeria’s things into Anya’s old room.
“It is only right,” Valeria pronounced, as she wished them good-night.
Earlier that day, Andreas had reminded Sergei that according to Jewish law, on Friday nights husbands are directed to give pleasure to their wives.
Sergei fully intended to follow the law to the letter. And maybe surpass it.
ON THEIR WEDDING NIGHT, Sergei showed his bride the locket, and told her about its history. Then he cut five strands of her auburncurls, wound them into a small coil, and slipped this lock of hair behind the photograph of his parents. “This locket was once my only treasure,” he told her. “Now you are my treasure, so I pass it on to you.” After that he held Anya in his arms under the warm covers of their marriage bed and said, “We were married the moment our eyes first met.”
“When you were eight and I was five?” she teased.
“Even then—even before this life.”
Then, after her initial anxiety melted away, she gave herself to him completely. Overwhelmed by desire, Sergei and Anya learned the ways of love as they lay together each night that followed, as they rose and fell in each other’s arms.
One night in bed, Anya giggled softly at his touch, tenderly touched the white scar on Sergei’s arm, and murmured, “This is the happiest I have seen my mother in years.”
“She’s happy because we traded bedrooms?”
“No, silly—men can be so dense! She’s happy thinking about her first grandchild.”
“Ah…then we will have to do everything we can to increase her joy,” he said, kissing the hollow of her throat.
Anya pressed herself against him, her voice breathy in his ear. “Yes…we must begin working on the project right now.” And they renewed their vows with each kiss and every caress.
After their first Friday night, each day that followed, Anya’s enthusiasm for their embraces grew, and they shared a private joke as lovers do: Sergei might be fixing a lamp or reading in the sitting room or shaving, and Anya would slip up behind him and whisper in his ear, “What day is it today, my husband?”
Every day his answer would be the same: “Why, I believe that today is Friday.”
And she would answer, “My favorite day…and my favorite night.”
In the days and nights that followed, whether in the bedroom or kitchen or strolling through the streets and along the canals of St. Petersburg, Sergei told Anya of his young life. She also shared her past joys and sorrows. They shared everything with each other. Almost everything.
IN THE FOLLOWING WEEKS a vague foreboding, no more substantial than smoke or shadows, intruded upon Sergei’s happiness. It was the sense one gets before an approaching storm. The source of his unease centered on his promise to remain for a time in St. Petersburg. If it had been up to him alone, Sergei would have booked passage on the next train to Hamburg and from there the first ship to America. He had resolved to honor Valeria’s plea, but he could not delay much longer.
In mid-January he had a private conversation with Valeria, reminding her of his intention to leave for America as soon as feasible. “I will soon have enough money saved, Mother—one month, or two at the most. So prepare yourself for our departure.”
“Of course, I understand,” she said. “But everything is going so well, Sergei, and we are all so happy. You don’t need to rush across the sea.”
Every conversation on this topic ended this way, and Valeria kept finding things that needed repairing and asked if he might help a little with the expenses, so his savings grew ever more slowly. Still, Sergei could not refuse these requests; after all, he was living under her roof, and it was only right that he help with expenses.
Valeria’s difficulty in accepting the idea of their departure created tension between them as the weeks passed.
Sergei’s anxiety only grew as news of pogroms in the south and rumors of other isolated incidents reached his ears. But despite the urgency gnawing at his insides, day-to-day life in St. Petersburg was peaceful and good. Sergei convinced himself that his fears were exaggerated.
.16.
GREGOR STAKKOS set out each day with clear purpose, untroubled by the petty concerns or morality of lesser men. Lean and sinewy, but disinclined to meaningless labor, he stole food and funds and a better horse, leaving the injured or dead behind. Certain that he was a giver of life or death, with powers and rights above those of ordinary men, he already thought of himself as Ataman—Cossack leader. Soon enough, others would do likewise.
Men such as Gregor Stakkos have become leaders of nations—but to lead, they need followers with the loyalty and skills to become the leader’s eyes and ears and limbs. He would soon gather such men. It was all planned. In the meantime, Stakkos observed and asked questions But he left no friends or goodwill behind.
One day Stakkos arrived at a Cossack settlement near the Don River, an outpost maintaining the southern border from marauders. After a few days’ stay, he was confronted by a young man who claimed that Stakkos had stolen a knife. For this slander, Stakkos beat the boy badly, nearly putting out an eye. The knife was never found.
A few days later a young girl accused Stakkos of taking her by force. Because she was the daughter of the village Ataman, Stakkos had to leave quickly and seek a more suitable settlement.
I will have to show more restraint in the future, he thought as he sharpened his newly acquired knife.
As Stakkos rode away, he was followed by a tall, one-armed horseman about his age, a man the villagers called Korolev. Stakkos had already noticed and asked about this Korolev. He’d learned that everyone knew of him, but few knew anything about him. Korolev stood a full head taller than Stakkos himself, with chiseled features, deep green eyes, and long black hair tied in the back. A powerfully built and handsome brute, save for a large scar on one cheek, eyes too small and close together, and the missing left arm.
“He keeps to himself,” an elderly Cossack villager had said. “Arrived half a year past but never fit in.” Now this giant of a man was following Stakkos.
Stakkos stopped and confronted him. “What do you want?”
“I have seen you handle yourself. I want to find out if you are a worthy companion.”
“I am no one’s companion, but I can be a generous leader to those who ride with me.”
“Then you will have to best me in battle,” Korolev said as he dismounted. His voice had an odd sibilant quality, like the hiss of a snake.
Gregor Stakkos nodded, careful to hide his rising excitement behind a cold
smile. “Let us find out.” Although his adversary looked formidable, Stakkos’s hidden power was his willingness to accept pain or death rather than defeat. This bravado impressed Korolev, who usually intimidated most men into cowering dogs before the fight even began.
They circled one another and then fought, each testing the other’s ferocity and commitment. Korolev fought well—amazingly so for a man with one arm. In fact, he would have won, as he always did, except that he made one significant error. He had underestimated Stakkos, who took full advantage of the mistake and threw Korolev down, at the same time drawing his knife. With his knee on Korolev’s massive chest and his knife on the giant’s cheek, Stakkos said, “I see that you have some artwork to complement your pretty face. Would you like a matching scar on the other side? Or perhaps I should take off your other arm to improve your balance?”
“As you wish,” answered the one-armed man, “but I will ride with you, in any case, and follow you while it pleases me.”
“Well said. Then I will leave you as you are.” Stakkos reached down to help Korolev to his feet, but Korolev sprang up on his own and mounted his horse. As they rode they spoke, not as trusted friends—they would never be that—but as allies.
When Stakkos asked direct questions, Korolev answered them without embellishment: The scar was self-inflicted as a boy to make his face “less pretty.” The loss of his arm had come three years earlier, when he had attacked an ax-wielding man with nothing more than a knife. Before Korolev killed the man, the bastard had cut into Korolev’s left arm so deeply that it would be useless and might become infected. So after he tore open his opponent’s throat, he took the man’s ax and finished the job, then jammed his stump into a nearby brazier to seal it. He lay sick for a time after that but survived.