The Accidental Anarchist (32 page)

After correcting his impression that the man was “my” printer, I pointed out that we were already such a hopeless distance from Warsaw that even a few thousand miles more amounted to barely a blink of an eye. And reaching Irkutsk, I reminded him, would bring us that much closer to America, a country we knew to be so disorderly that anyone who bought a ticket was allowed to ride on a train, and no policeman had the right to demand his passport.

But Pyavka’s quarrel was over something more immediate. Bitterly envious of our fellow thieves and outcasts, he pointed out that, while we spent our days in squalor and anxiety, doing nothing more productive than wearing out our shoes and trembling at the sight of copper buttons, the working thieves scattered merrily through the city each night and stole with both hands.

His complaint reminded me that my partner was not your common criminal. He was an artist, driven to maintain certain standards of excellence in his challenging vocation. I was convinced that, even if there were no money to be made from stealing, he would continue to exercise his skills as lovingly as a young prodigy who spent endless hours scraping on his violin with no assurance of worldly recognition.

This was not to say that I had given up hope of reforming him. The only question was what else could a man of his obvious talents do to support his family?

“We could give lessons,” I proposed one day.

“In what, stealing?”

“What about tutoring young ladies in French, a language essential for advancement in society, even here?”

“What does it pay?”

“Whatever it pays, at least it’s honest work.”

“Do you know French?”

“Don’t you?”

“Who in Warsaw needed a fourth language?”

“Maybe we could teach Polish?”

“That would help young ladies advance in society?”

Thus ended our first and last discussion of how to support ourselves honestly.

Chapter 27: Osip’s Table

We had been living in the woods outside the city, creeping in tentatively each day to try to find something to eat and a way to get to Irkutsk when, behind our backs, the non-criminal householders of Chelyabinsk suddenly lost patience with being plucked by every felon who blew into town on the Siberian wind. But instead of merely cursing the plague under their breaths, they petitioned their Military Governor to do something about it. It must have been the first time that the citizens of the town expected this man to perform a useful function and, to their astonishment, he obliged them beyond all expectations.

Thus, early one morning, without a hint of fair warning, the city was flooded with Cossacks, militia and other such riffraff that the law had empowered with its uniform. These good servants of the Czar began combing through each neighborhood, arresting people right and left. Those who had neither documents nor a fixed residence were given a good thrashing and put in chains, to be shipped to some camp whose inmates had been dying faster than the Mother Country could replace them. A dozen of our fellow castaways at the excellent Cafe Łódź had also been shot or severely clubbed. This made for a rather sour atmosphere and left Pyavka and me eager to move on. But how, and with what?

Venturing deeper into the forest in search of shelter, we came upon a decaying lakeside cabin belonging to an elderly fisherman. We didn’t have time to consider the wisdom of counting on the goodwill of the owner, but fortunately Osip was a staunch Christian whose grandfather had been banished to Siberia for some unnamable political crime. He needed only to be assured that, despite my villainous appearance, I was not a professional thief. About Pyavka he had no doubt, recognizing him instantly as a born aristocrat.

The old man trapped fish by sitting up all night in his boat, and watching over his nets. It was his ill fortune that, every year, there were not only fewer fish (each of which, he assured us, he knew by name), but fewer people able to afford his merchandise. If not for the few Sabbath-observing Jewish householders in Chelyabinsk (of whose existence we had been ignorant), he would have no customers at all. Because the Russians – “a curse upon them!” – would only buy his fish when it had begun to stink and he was forced to sell it for next to nothing.

My partner and I had just begun to feel secure when, on a treacherously starlit night while Osip was out on the lake, we were roused by the sound of scattered shots and avid hooves heading in our direction. Moments later, stray bullets punched through Osip’s hut, obliging us to dive through an unglazed window. Outside, I stuffed Pyavka’s ungainly head under a thick patch of sweetbriar and kept a firm hand on his neck to let him know that, should he move or even breathe aloud, I would smother him. Meanwhile, other fugitives raced past, wide-eyed with terror, hunted like rabbits by a column of mounted Cossacks. The horsemen easily caught up with those who had been running, but moved too quickly to spot our shallow concealment. We remained facedown, trying to block out the pitiless cries of the pursuers and pursued.

At the first light of dawn, I risked looking around. In the moisture-heavy stillness of night, I found no trace of Cossacks. Chelyabinsk, itself, seemed to have sunk into a sea of fog up to its glistening domes. But we didn’t trust that it was safe to return to town. Thus, much as it pained me to continue burdening his hospitality, we returned to Osip’s hut.

Seeing us return, the old man turned white with shock. When he had arrived back from the lake and found that we weren’t there, he took for granted that we had been slaughtered. He had even gone to look for us and found several bodies that, he assured us, had not included ours.

Pyavka politely let on that he was not only alive, but hungry. At which Osip, with a shrug of regret, showed us his breadbox. It contained not so much as a crumb. And because of heavy winds, he had been unable to haul in his nets last night. As a result, he had no money with which to buy bread.

I gave Osip one of our remaining rubles and asked if he would buy bread and herring for the three of us. He returned some hours later, loaded down not only with several fat herrings but a five-pound loaf of bread. We fell upon the food and tore it apart with our hands. Osip, gentle soul that he was, looked surprised that we expected him to share “our” meal.

But he spoiled our enjoyment by reporting on last night’s toll. Of the convicts who had fled into the forest, eight had been shot, sabered or clubbed to death, and an unknown number had been wounded or captured. The fugitives, though, had fought back with knives and iron bars, leaving one of their pursuers dead of stab wounds and several others with broken bones. This so infuriated the Cossacks that they were rampaging all over town. Finding few criminals left on whom to let out their indignation, they had begun to mistreat the very householders who had most urgently called for their help. These same good citizens now prayed for Chelyabinsk to return to the peaceful state of being robbed by professional thieves, men who at least knew when to stop.

We knew it was not safe to remain so close to the city, but Osip said it would not be possible to board a train to Irkutsk. The city was still so thick with uniforms that we would never get near the station. However, if we were willing to hold out one more day, someone called “Baba” would arrive and guide us to safety.

That night, while we tried to formulate another avenue of escape, a storm whipped the lake into waves that leapt as high as the windows of Osip’s hut. The wind threatened to tear off the roof, and I felt as though a hungry wave could fall upon the frail cabin and drag us all into the black depths of the lake.

During a brief lull in the storm, whose purpose I suspected was only to gather more strength, we heard a chilling sound – the whinny of a horse. Osip peered through a gap in the wall and in a choked whisper reported a Cossack patrol, soaked, and in foul temper, cradling their rifles for instant use.

“Do you know how to row?” Osip asked me.

I was touched by the old man’s offer. I had grown up on the banks of a river. But it is one thing to glide along our civilized Vistula and quite another to navigate a raging Siberian lake. If Osip’s boat sank or we failed to bring it back, he would be left to starve. And yet he offered it without a second thought.

Pyavka chose that moment to offer his opinion that being shot was a more merciful way to meet his end than drowning.

“Then stay here if you like,” I snapped,

“What’s on the other side?” Pyavka now asked, sounding like a man deciding where to take his family on holiday.

“Rocks, trees, swamps. But the Cossacks are not likely to follow you,” Osip said.

“What if they shoot at us while we’re rowing?”

“I thought you preferred a quick death,” I said.

“Not without a proper burial.”

“Do as you please.” With one knee on the windowsill, I prepared to jump. But first I promised Osip that we would bring back the boat as soon as the storm, and the Cossacks, let up. We arranged for a signal by which the old man could let us know when it was safe to return.

The little boat, tethered to a tree, danced at the water’s edge, skittish as an untamed colt. Pyavka took one look at it and announced, “I’d rather stay and be shot.”

I shouted above the wind that staying with Osip would not only endanger our generous protector, but that he, Pyavka, would sure be dead by morning and his wife would never know the location of his grave.

Mentioning his family was my most compelling argument with Pyavka. Although he wavered, I took him by the neck and threw him into the boat. He took a seat, plainly relieved at not having had to make the decision, himself.

Meanwhile, we heard the Cossack patrol heading our way.

Osip untied the rope and, with his bare feet braced against the slippery clay, gave us a hard shove into the water. Although dense curtains of raindrops hung between the Cossacks and us, we would make a target hard to miss until we were at least halfway across the lake.

Pyavka took the tiller while I tried to row. Mountains of water erupted under our feet, tossing the boat high as a ball, and slamming it back down while snatching playfully at my oars. There was no question of trying to navigate. All our strength and ingenuity went into shifting from side to side to keep from tipping over.

A faint thread of silver gave us a glimpse of the opposite shore on the horizon. Encouraged, Pyavka stood up for a better look and nearly lost his balance. Lurching to pull him back, I dropped one of the oars into the water. I lunged for it, but almost ended up head first in the water, myself. Pyavka seemed to find all this highly entertaining. “If only you could see yourself!”

I admitted that I probably would not want to be looked over by a prospective father-in-law just then. But Pyavka looked so woebegone that it gave me a pang to realize how close I had come to losing my only companion in the world.

By the pale glow of a freshly washed sky, I saw that we were not even halfway across the lake. But ahead of us lay the small, stony ledge of either an island or a peninsula. As I paddled there with a single oar, I was bathed in sweat. Hearing the echo of shots behind us, I shuddered at the thought that Osip might have paid for his hospitality to us. In twisting my head to look behind me, I lost sight of the landing, and heard a harsh scraping beneath my feet. I feared that, in my indecent lust to survive, I had wrecked Osip’s only source of livelihood. But I managed to beach the boat safely between two jutting rocks.

We clambered up a shallow cliff on our hands and knees, until we reached a level spot where we waited for the miserly sun to melt the ice in our bones.

The next time I opened my eyes, I judged that it was close to noon. The lake, which last night felt like a turbulent ocean, was less than half a mile across. I squinted, hoping to spot a signal from Osip, but there was neither a warning nor any indication that our friend was still alive.

Now that we were safe, Pyavka announced he was in mourning. And with no encouragement from me, proceeded to share his grief. He confessed that, despite his youthful appearance, he was more than fifty years old, which was not the best age to be a fugitive in Siberia. He also claimed remorse for having chosen a profession of which his parents had disapproved. In punishment for which, who knew if he would ever see them, again? In his melancholy, Pyavka vowed that the moment we reached the other side of the lake, he would give Osip the last of his money to buy us a revolver.

I pointed out we were in Siberia, not the Wild West.

Pyavka shook his head. “Not for self-defense. The revolver will be for us to kill each other, as a final act of brotherly friendship.”

“You mean, I kill you, and then you kill me?”

He agreed that this would be difficult to do, and almost smiled. “But you can kill me and then yourself.”

“And what if, after I’ve shot you, I don’t keep my end of the bargain?”

“I promise, once I’m dead, I will not hold it against you if you change your mind.”

Now that we were both able to laugh at the idea, I told Pyavka that he could do as he pleased but I would not give Czar Nicolai the satisfaction of seeing Yakov Marateck do away with himself.

Through the corner of my eye, I picked up a sudden glint of mirrored sunlight. I shouted to Pyavka, who had found a comfortable place for a nap, “We’re going back.”