“Yes. He’s working on the docks.”
“In three days, have him take the three pieces of luggage to the railroad station. He is to place them next to the first class waiting room door at exactly one o’clock in the afternoon. Not one minute sooner or later. Then he is to leave. I don’t want him to see who picks them up. Do you understand?”
“I understand. I will make sure of it.”
Hershel gently pulled at the tip of his nose while he worked out the procedure. He would have Katrine arrive at the station a few minutes later, place her luggage next to those carrying the leaflets, then have the porter carry all together to her compartment when she started aboard. If challenged, she could always say it was the porter’s fault. As she rarely traveled with less than six or seven cases, even for a weekend, the situation could occur. Justas was a good man, and would follow orders to the letter, but Hershel always liked to hedge his bets. “Don’t tell Justas anything until he gets here–say, half an hour before leaving for the drop. Then pick a cafe ten minutes away from the station, and tell him to be there at exactly ten after one. Stand across the street to see if he arrives. I don’t want him to wait around for the pickup. I mean it–no waiting about.”
It did not deceive Julijonas, this wanting Justas promptly away. “Is your courier a woman?” he asked shrewdly.
Hershel shook his head with exasperation. “Not only are you too fat and drink too much vodka, but you are also too nosy. Would you rather that I lie to you?”
Julijonas did not take offense. Instead he chuckled. “Yes, lie to me. Is she a woman?”
“No, she is a man.”
“Is he beautiful?”
“He is beautiful.”
“Is he a good poke?”
“All couriers are good pokes.”
“Can I peek, just once?”
Hershel sat up straighter. One look at his face told the portly man that the banter was over. “If you peek,” Hershel said slowly, “I will kill you before the day is out, regardless of how close a friend you are.”
Julijonas sobered at once. “I’m sorry, Hershel. I went too far.”
Hershel’s face remained tightly drawn. “All right, Jonas. Just make certain you carry out the schedule to the minute.” He stood up, managed a wan smile, then held out his hand. “I will be back in six weeks.”
Julijonas scrambled to his feet, grasped Hershel’s hand, and nodded. “In six weeks. Go well, my friend.”
CHAPTER 7
Hanna’s first glimpse of Jakob Golub hit her funny bone. She was upstairs preparing the spare bedroom when she heard a wagon pull up in front of the house. Leaning out of the window, she saw stepping down a very tall, very thin man, dressed in a fine quality, long, black coat over a buttoned white shirt and black pants, with a black hat made of velvet on his head. The driver passed over a leather suitcase, and as he began driving off, Jakob raised his hand languidly in farewell with a motion more like a benediction than a goodbye.
He turned towards the house, then he suddenly looked up, as if he sensed a person was there. Hanna’s breath caught in wonder. His eyes were the sharpest light brown she had ever seen, with flecks of gold here and there, and an intensity that was startling. They locked on to her, and seemed to bore straight into her brain. She was unable to look away. His face was pale, as if he had recently been ill, and he wore a small, reddish brown beard that accentuated the paleness. His peiyes, his check curls, hung down below his chin instead of being brushed behind the ears like most of the Jews she knew, and his hair fell almost to his neck. It was odd to see a man taller than Stephen, but weighing no more than she herself.
Then, without a sign of recognition or greeting, he lifted his case and walked inside.
She remained at the window for a few long seconds, wondering about the strange sensation she was feeling inside. His peiyes and clothing were not really that unusual, for many of the orthodox students at the yeshiva in Slabodka had ‘Jew curls’, as the goyim named them, and several of the older, pious men of the congregation wore the long black overcoat and black hat with a fold in the top. Also, just about everyone had a beard. Not only because it was the custom, but because the Lord ordered it to be so.
No, it was more than that. Something seemed to radiate from him, and it was difficult to determine if he realized it or not. Like the way he looked at her. He seemed to know at once the texture of her skin, her bone structure, the slight flare of her nose, and…she felt a flush coming on…the shape and warmth of her breasts. It seemed so incomprehensible, so absurd, that he could strip her down to essentials in the stab of a look.
Shaking her head in puzzlement, she descended to the kitchen. He was already seated at the table with a welcoming glass of tea, and a slice of Motlie’s challah in front of him. He nodded at her when Motlie introduced the two, and Hanna felt a touch of annoyance when his eyes turned away to look at Zelek coming through the door. The boy was carrying a small earthen bowl filled with dirt in which were several worms he had dug up for Hanna’s next fishing trip. Zelek came to an abrupt stop and eyed the stranger with his wide, fixed stare.
“This is my son, Zelek,” said Motlie.
Jakob looked closely at Zelek, then a slow smile crossed his lips. It changed his face completely, thought Hanna. Suddenly, he was a boy himself, each feature warm and friendly. She felt again that same sensation in her chest. Zelek evidently felt it, too, for, without his usual shyness, he came up to the table and held out his bowl of worms for inspection.
“Are you going to fish with them?” asked Jakob in Yiddish. His voice was clear, vibrant. His long, angular face with high cheek bones softened.
Zelek shook his head. “For Hanna. I don’t know how.”
Jakob leaned forward and peered into the bowl. A long forefinger stirred the earth until he saw the worms underneath. “They are fine worms, and will catch good fish.”
“I’m going to be a soldier when I grow up,” said Zelek determinedly.
Jakob did not laugh. Instead, he continued exploring the bowl as he thought over the boy’s remark. “Why do you want to become a soldier?”
“So I can kill the Cossacks.”
Motlie let out a snort of amusement. “Where did you get that notion?” she asked.
Zelek ignored her, his eyes remaining fixed on Jakob’s face. He moved forward and leaned against the man’s leg. Hanna had never before seen him make contact with anyone, except for herself when he was sleepy or his mother when he sensed she was not feeling well. Come to think of it, she had never seen him show fright, or even pain, when he had gotten one of his innumerable bruises or bumps. He rested his arm on Jakob’s leg and looked into the bowl with him.
“There’s a big fellow,” said Jakob, pushing one to the side of the cluster of worms. Zelek nodded his head happily. “Why do you want to kill Cossacks?” he went on casually.
“They kill Jews.”
Jakob
