one in Poland had been caught and beaten so savagely that she had divulged his identity, he had understood, and his heart had ached for months over the pain and privation he had caused her. He had suffered a degree of pain himself, for while escaping the police, he had taken a bullet in his upper leg, and it had festered badly before he had managed to cross back into Germany and obtain proper treatment.
He loved Katrine deeply enough to marry her, but it would mean the end of his work if he did so, for both would be marked people from that moment on, since he would no longer be able to conceal his true identity.
Katrine had smiled at his remark about the Tzar spanking her with a heavy hand if she were caught. “Is it so important that all these services be controlled by the people? The Tzar does it well enough. And anyhow, the people are not competent enough to rule.”
Hershel chuckled. Loving her sometimes made him forget that she was essentially a despotic monarchist, and that he was enjoying her favors in spite of that fact. He was tempted to argue the point, but it would not be worth the effort, for if he convinced her that in Russia were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of untitled people capable of running the country for the benefit of the masses, not just for a privileged class, would he gain a more cooperative accomplice? Would it help one iota to explain that the Tzar himself owned about seventy percent of every meter of soil in Russia, and that the oppressive taxes went directly into his own coffers? Or that many of his court officers were exempt from taxes on their massive estates? And if he tried to convince her that the salutes she received because of her rank should also be extended to untitled women who excelled in medicine or writing or even, heaven forbid, politics, she would probably agree, but definitely not at the expense of her own position. His mission was to influence large numbers of people, not to expend his energy to convince the one.
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot,” said Katrine. “There is a plan being developed to move all the Jews from Lithuania in the event of war with Germany.”
Hershel almost rose from his seat. “Where did you hear that?” he asked quietly.
“At an engagement party for a friend of mine in St. Petersburg three weeks ago. Old General Kokov was holding court. He is about ninety years old, can barely stand, yet his mind is as clear as a bell. Someone brought up the subject of the war with Turkey twenty-five years ago, then someone else spoke of Turkey’s growing friendship with Germany, and another person said that your Kaiser Wilhelm is so totally influenced by von Waldersee that a preemptive war against Russia is inevitable. Anyhow, General Kokov said that if war did break out, the first thing the army would do is move the Jews from Lithuania into Russia.”
“Did he say why?” Hershel made no attempt to conceal the interest he felt, and Katrine could see that her remarks were of great import.
“He said the Jews would certainly try to assist the Germans, and that they must be placed where they can do no harm. Anyhow, everyone knows that your strutting Kaiser will start a war sooner or later. All he has on his mind are uniforms and marching.”
Hershel sighed as he rose to refill their glasses with champagne. “You’re right, of course. He waves his saber too much, and one of these days he will accidentally stick someone who will fight back. But he has done wonders for the people on social issues. Look at us Jews for example. We own land, are permitted in all the professions, hold officer rank in the Imperial Army. I could go on and on.”
“Did you know that just this month he proposed a law to jail trade union activists?”
“Only if they endangered the security of the Empire.”
“Come on, Hershel. You know that’s just putting curtains on the windows. That law is designed to destroy you Social Democrats.”
Hershel resumed his seat, a gleam of pleasure in his eyes. “Katrine, I have misjudged you. I have been thinking that your main attributes are being the most beautiful woman and the finest bed partner on this earth. Now I see that you are much wiser than women are judged to be in your social and political position.”
“Why don’t you make up for it by giving me a poke right here on this table?”
He laughed with delight. “I suspect that the hard wood will ruin my knees. Can I settle for poking you twice in a comfortable bed?”
“You want to keep the conversation going, don’t you?”
He saluted her with his glass of champagne. “The devil with politics. Come on, off to bed, then.”
At mid morning, Hershel left Teddy’s flat, tipped the stableman to saddle his horse, then rode through the streets to a section near the Jewish shtetl. He had visited Kaunas four times during the past year to familiarize himself with the city, so he avoided crowds by taking short cuts through alleys. He looked about carefully as he traveled to see if he was being followed.
He passed a harness shop, employing a dozen or more leather workers, paid special attention to items hanging in the window, went on another block, then swung off his saddle and tied his horse to a hitching rail. Soon he was knocking on the rear door of the shop. Julijonas Grinius, a short, portly Lithuanian with a well-trimmed beard opened the door and led him into his office.
Julijonas smiled warmly as he proffered his hand. “Hello, Hershel. Welcome back.”
“Hello, Jonas. You look well.”
“I eat too much. All of it goes to the stomach.” He motioned Hershel to a chair and sat down. “A bit of vodka?”
“It’s too early in the day.”
“You look tired. Still poking the girls night and day?”
“I gave up the daytime girls for Lent.”
“For Lent!” Julijonas started roaring, his stomach quivering with his delight. “Why not for Passover?” he finally managed to get out.
“I did. But only for Jewish girls.”
Julijonas wiped his eyes, poured a large glass of vodka and gulped it down. “Hershel, you make the day almost worth living.” He wiped a few drops from his beard and licked them off his hand. “You’re late. Did you have any trouble?”
Hershel shrugged his shoulders, gesturing with his palms up. “Trains run late. Horses go lame.”
“There was an incident in Lodz four weeks ago. Seems the textile workers were trying to form a trade union. My cousin, Vincas, was visiting a friend, and says he saw a fellow exactly like you in a cafe talking with some of the organizers before the police began cracking skulls.”
“Vincas talks too much. His eyes are also bad. He should wear glasses.”
Julijonas grinned. “In the event that Vincas’ eyes were all right that afternoon, what were you doing in Poland? I thought you were warned to stay out of there.”
“Sometimes my ears are as bad as Vincas’ eyes.”
The portly man poured another drink, but sipped at it this time. “Stay out of Poland,” he said gently. “The police have a good description of you now. Anyhow, we need you with us. More than they do.”
“That’s what the textile people said. I couldn’t let them down.”
“Well, I know you will do what you want, not what makes sense, so I’ll drop
