“What? What is it we can do, surrounded as we are?”
There was a new look of determination in Katerin’s face. “The time has
come to be bold,” she said. “If Zorogoff expects us to wait here for his
will or his coming, we must surprise him—we must go straight to this
American officer and ask him to help us to escape the city, even if he
has not been sent to us by friends. But I’m sure we will find that he
has been dispatched here to rescue us.”
Michael put his hands to his face and stared at Katerin, aghast at her
suggestion. He turned and sat down in his chair as if he had no strength
to remain standing longer. “What in the name of God are you saying?” he
whispered. “Do you mean we should put ourselves at the mercy of the
Ataman?”
“Are we not now at the mercy of the Ataman? Are we not waiting for his
men to knock at the door? How much worse off will we be if we make an
attempt to reach this American?”
“And how much better?” asked Michael. “Will it do us more good to be
shot down by the sentries as was Ilya than to remain here waiting for
some turn of fortune which will save us?”
“Fortune has made the turn,” replied Katerin. “What more do we ask than
that an American officer be in the city?”
“But if we never reach the hotel? What good would a regiment of
Americans do us if we are shot on the way?”
“We must take the chance and get to the hotel,” declared Katerin.
“Surely, you must see that it is better to risk ourselves for the short
time necessary to get to the Dauria than to remain here and wait for
certain doom.”
“Madness!” exclaimed Michael. “What we would be going to would be death
in the dark.”
“We shall go by the first daylight, while the sentries are being changed
in the streets,” said Katerin quietly. It was plain that her mind was
settled upon the thing.
Michael peered at her across the candle flame as if he doubted her
sanity. But Katerin looked back at him without the slightest sign that
she wavered in her determination to abandon the house.
“I see what you mean,” said Michael sadly. “You prefer to die by bullets
rather than by the poison. Perhaps it is the better way—and I shall go
with you and we shall die together.”
Katerin went to him and took up his hands. “I shall not cross the
threshold of that Mongol’s house alive, my father. I prefer to chance
death—and if we fail—then we are with God and have died as Russians. It
is better to die by the bullet of a soldier than by my own hand.
Remember the threat of Zorogoff and consider my reasons for not fearing
death.”
Michael gave the table a mighty thump with his fist. “Truth, by the Holy
Saints!” he exclaimed. “But I am the one to make the attempt to get to
the hotel—and find the American. I cannot see you walk into the streets
with such wolves about.”
“No,” said Katerin, “I do not wish you to go alone. We shall go
together—and if we must, we shall die together. But we cannot go against
the designs of God—if the American officer has been sent to this city by
friends to save us, we must not lose a minute in making ourselves known
to him. The Ataman said he would come back—and he will come. He knows
what I fear more than death. Very good. We must not wait here for him to
come—It is not in us to lie hidden here like jackals in traps for the
pleasure of the Mongol dog. We must flee with all possible speed toward
the American.”
“You are right,” agreed Michael. “Zorogoff will lose no time if he
learns of this American—and perhaps he knows of the stranger now. At
least, as Wassili heard it, it must be common gossip in the city. So
whatever Zorogoff plans against us he will accomplish without delay. But
how are we to escape from the house? Are we to go out openly, as we
are?”
“We shall escape through the servants’ gate,” said Katerin, her eyes on
the candle as she planned. “It will be safer to wear the clothing of
peasants. If there is a morning fog, it will help to conceal us. The
greatest risk is in being seen as we get into the street. We cannot know
how closely the house is being watched. But once clear and into the
street, who is to think that two poor peasants are Michael Kirsakoff and
his daughter—unless we should be stopped by soldiers and made to tell
what our business is, where we came from, and who we are.”
“True, that is the difficulty,” said Michael. “But as you say, if we
once get to the hotel, Slipitsky, the old Jew, if he is still alive,
will take us to the American. Do you know if Slipitsky is still in
charge of the Dauria, Wassili?”
“When I heard last, master, Slipitsky still lived,” said the _moujik_.
“Am I to go with the master and the mistress and do what I can to
protect them?”
“No,” said Katerin. “You would be recognized and betray our identity to
observers. You are to stay here with the old woman, and if we die, you
shall be rewarded for your loyalty. Bring us old boots—the worst you can
find—and cabbages to carry in a bundle, that we may appear to be
peasants come in from the country to market.”
Wassili went out and at once Katerin began plans and preparations for
their flight from the house. By the time the morning sun revealed a
white fog over the landscape everything was in readiness. An old shawl
had been filled with packets of rubles wrapped in old newspapers, and on
top had been put her sable coat and other clothing. But before the shawl
was tied up at the corners, three cabbages had been put in on top so
that they showed through the openings.
The thick fog of morning gave promise that they could get away from the
house without being observed, unless there were sentries close by the
servants’ gate.
When they were ready to depart, Michael put on the ancient gray
coat—that one which was padded with paper rubles. He belted the shabby
garment about him with an old rope and dropped his pistol into a side
pocket. A dirty old sheepskin cap covered his head and a long muffler
was wound about his neck, the ends trailing over his back. With the
muffler pulled up over his face he could see through the mesh of the
fabric, but his face was concealed. He also carried a short-stocked whip
with a dozen lashes, such as the farmers carry with them. In such attire
it was hard to believe that he had been a general of the Czar and once
Governor—now he was but a bent old _moujik_ who thought of nothing but
his crops and what money he could get for the few provisions he was
carrying into the city.
Katerin wrapped her head in an old shawl, tied a raggy towel across her
nose against the cold, and drew the shawl down over her brow so that she
peered out through a narrow slit. Her chin was concealed in the collar
of a dirty and torn coat which had been mended with many faded patches.
She wore a discarded pair of Wassili’s boots, which had been retrieved
from the wagon-shed, where they had been hung up to be used for hinges
or pieces of leather for repairs. But she also took with her in the
bundle her light shoes and her slippers.
When she finally picked up the bundle with the cabbages, she was a poor
farmer’s daughter come in from the plains to sell her cabbages and buy
salt and candles in the bazaar—and say a prayer at the church.
Before they set out from the house Wassili was sent into the street and
pottered about the casks at the small door in the wall to see whether
the house was being closely watched. He came back soon and reported that
he could see no one.
The old woman who had been doing the cooking stood crying and rubbing
her eyes with her red hands as she saw the mistress ready to go forth
and face the dangers of the city. She cried and prayed by turns, being
sure that disaster awaited them both. Michael quieted her by a plentiful
handful of rubles and an assurance that if they made to the hotel
safely, she should be provided for before they escaped the city—but the
old woman was disconsolate.
“God go with you, master and mistress,” said Wassili, as he said
farewell. He stood in the kitchen door and watched Michael and Katerin
slip through the gate, bent on reaching the hotel and seeking the help
of the American officer against the menace of Zorogoff.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
XII
HIDDEN AGAIN
MICHAEL trudged along stolidly through the dirty snow in the middle of
the street, his head bent against the cold in peasant style. Katerin
followed him, close behind, carrying the bundle which showed the
cabbages.
Once away from the house they felt they had a chance of getting to the
hotel without being halted if they did not appear too eager. So they
proceeded without haste, plodding along as if weary after a long walk in
from the plains. To any one who might watch them they were apparently
heedless of their surroundings and concerned only with where their feet
were to be planted for each step, but they were really watchful through
the cloths which hid their faces. It was not possible to see more than a
hundred yards in any direction, for the fog shut them in and helped to
conceal them from observation.
They had not gone far before they made out the glow of a sentry-fire.
Having planned carefully what they should do in various circumstances,
they had no intention of attempting to avoid any soldiers, so Michael
bore straight for the group about the fire. The soldiers looked up and
scanned the approaching couple for a minute, then resumed their talk.
Michael turned out just enough to pass them, lifted his head to stare at
them through his muffler, gave them a gruff good-morning, and passed on.
The four men about the fire supposed that the man and the woman must
have passed through the outer cordons of sentries and given a
satisfactory account of themselves. So Katerin also walked past them
with a friendly nod, and though she was nervous for a few minutes after
she had turned her back on them, they said nothing.
As the two drew in toward the business section of the city they passed
people who peered suspiciously at them. There were times when Michael
feared that they were being followed, but in time the supposed followers
turned up side streets and went about their business.
Then a band of roistering soldiers swarmed out of a _kabak_ and bore
down upon the father and daughter. The men were tipsy after a night of
drinking and were singing wild songs and indulging in pranks among
themselves. They hailed Michael with pleasantries but made way for him,
and were respectfully silent when they passed Katerin, willing enough to
let peasants go on without being molested. Had they known that the two
“peasants” were General Kirsakoff and his daughter their attitude might
have been entirely different.
Katerin struggled along, the great boots tiring her, for they were heavy
and ill-fitting, and where the snow was packed hard at the street
crossings, the boots slipped under her and with the heavy bundle she
found it hard to walk. But she knew her father could not help her if
they were to keep up the pretense that they were peasants. But Michael
slowed his pace at times to let Katerin come up with him.
They reached the church, and stopped before it a few minutes to rest.
They prayed and crossed themselves and lingered as long as they dared,
for though they were both tired and cold, they hoped to get to the hotel
before the fog was dispersed by the sun. They were fortunate that so few
people were abroad.
“Have good heart,” muttered Michael. “It is not far now to the hotel,
and the roads will be better.”
“The boots make me slow,” whispered Katerin. “But do not think of me.
Save your strength, for I can walk all day. And we must not appear to be
in a hurry.”
“It is plain that no one has suspected us,” said Michael, peering back
through the fog to make sure that they were not being trailed.
“The test will come at the hotel,” said Katerin. “There we may encounter
spies, so we must be most careful.”
“It is too early for many officers of the Ataman to be about,” said
Michael. “But there is safety in boldness.”
They went on. Soon they passed the ruin of the great house which had
been their home in the years while Michael was Governor. Only one wall
stood, black and charred and penciled with white in crevices of the
timbers where the powdered snow had sifted in. The vacant windows yawned
upon them, showing a dismal background of drifting fog. In that house
they had lived as rulers of the Valley of Despair.
In time they came to the upper end of the Sofistkaya where a road turned
off to the prison on the hill. They moved down past the big store which
had been looted thoroughly by the Bolsheviki and the exiles who had been
freed from the prison after the fall of the throne. The great windows
along the street were boarded up, and a pair of Japanese sentries stood
by the entrance. From the roof flew a red and white flag which marked
the headquarters of the Japanese commander.
Next they passed the wrecked bank. It was there that Michael’s partner
had been slain while attempting to save what was left of the bank’s
money after the first big raid. The windows were also boarded, so that
in case of another uprising by revolutionists the building could not be
used as a rifle-nest for snipers.
Now there were more people in the streets. But every one was going about
his business and paid little attention to Michael and Katerin. Such
soldiers as they saw ignored them. They reached the bridge over the
Ingoda, and now could see the front of the Dauria, not far ahead. They
soon gained a position on the street opposite the entrance to the hotel,
and crossed in the middle of the street after the manner of people from
the country. Michael paused before the door, and waited for Katerin to
come up with him.
“This is the place,” said Michael gruffly, and then he pushed open the
door. He was afraid that there might be a group of people inside, but
his fears were relieved at finding a sleepy-eyed youth drowsing by a
fire-reddened stove on a bench.
Once through the door, Katerin let her bundle drop to the floor. It was
so warm inside that she began to worry lest they be expected to uncover
their faces, and in that case, if they did not find Slipitsky at once,
they might be recognized by some casual passer-by who would carry the
news of their arrival at the hotel to some of Zorogoff’s spies.
The youth by the fire roused himself reluctantly and gave an angry look
at the intruders. It was plain he felt that people so poorly dressed had
no business in the hotel. He eyed the bundle which Katerin had put down,
and then motioned them out of the door with an angry gesture.
“Get away with your cabbages!” he snarled. “This is no public place
where people can warm themselves. This is the best hotel in the city and
only for rich people.”
Michael bowed abjectly. “I have come to pay to Mr. Slipitsky money which
I owe him.”
The youth stared the harder. The heat from the stove was oppressive
after the cold of the streets, but Michael and Katerin made no move to
uncover their faces.
“You can give me the money,” said the youth, holding out his hand,
though he did not rise from the bench. “Slipitsky is not here and if he
were, he would have no time to bother with you. Come! Hand the money to
me and get out!”
“Slipitsky not here?” demanded Michael. “But he told me to come. You
mean that he has gone away?”
“I said he is not here,” said the youth curtly. “I have other things to
do besides answer questions. I’ll take the money.”
“No, no,” said Michael. “Mr. Slipitsky must sign the paper if I pay him
the money—it is always so. I do not know who you are. I must see Mr.
Slipitsky, I tell you.”
The youth got to his feet and looked closely at Michael, as if
suspicious of his purpose. He had probably been shrewd enough to
understand that Michael did not talk wholly as a peasant. Having
scrutinized Michael, he turned and looked at Katerin, but she ignored
his gaze and looked about the walls at the dirty old posters with
pictures of Russian ships.
“Go away!” said the youth finally. “I can’t be troubled. This is no time
to come asking for Mr. Slipitsky.”
“But I have come twenty versts this morning to see Mr. Slipitsky and
give him the money and I must get back to my cow,” insisted Michael,
seeing that he was making an impression on the youth despite the
latter’s show of contempt. “And if I have to go back to my house, it
will be two months again before I can pay——”
A black figure appeared at the top of the stairs while Michael was
talking, and called down sharply, “Dazo! What are you doing? Who is
there?”
“I don’t know who it is,” said Dazo. “Some fools in from the country who
have lost their way and——”
“And is it a grand ball or something you are having down there with all
this talk I hear, till I can’t do anything with my figures?” demanded
the one above wrathfully. “Who is it come to talk with you so early in
the morning? Maybe some rich gentleman from Moscow, eh?”
Michael now recognized the person above as Slipitsky, and knowing that
they were safe at last, called out, “Mr. Slipitsky, I have come to pay
you the money I owe to you.”
Slipitsky leaned forward and peered down the stairs. “What! Somebody
would be paying me money and that stupid goat of a Dazo does not know
what is wanted. Dazo! Is it money you would let slip away from me in
these times? Oy! A poor man you would make of me, stupid one! Tell the
gentleman to come up.”
But Michael did not wait to be urged by Dazo to go up. He started at
once, and Katerin picked up the bundle and followed. Slipitsky remained
standing in the dim light of the upper hall at the head of the stairs,
peering down, and as Michael drew near the top, waved him forward. “Come
this way to my office, please. And you—Dazo! Keep the door shut or I
shall be beggared with buying wood from the Buriats. It is the house we
wish to warm, and not all of Chita.”
Slipitsky trotted ahead of Michael and led the way into a tiny room. By
the time Michael entered, the old Jew was standing behind a desk.
“You have come to pay me money?” he demanded when Katerin had entered
the room. “Who is it, I ask?” he added, suspicious now because Michael
had not uncovered his face.
Slipitsky was old and bent himself, with long black whiskers, a grave
and wrinkled face, small black eyes that seemed to grasp what they
looked at. He wore a round black cap on his head, and about his
shoulders was a long black cape tied in at the middle with a green cord
which had ended its usefulness as a curtain cord. His brow was furrowed,
and he had no teeth that were visible, but his face had a benevolent
expression as if he found it hard to be stern with people. There was
something about his manner as he stood behind the desk which suggested a
teacher. A wrinkled little smile lurked about his eyes—a ghost of a
smile which had dissipated perhaps under the cruel times that had come.
His breath smelled of boiled onions and the same odor pervaded the close
little room.
“Who is it, I ask?” repeated Slipitsky when Michael made no answer but
turned to close the door behind Katerin. The old Jew was on his guard at
once, for he knew these muffled figures might be robbers or secret
police sent by Zorogoff to arrest him.
“We have come to have a talk with you privately,” whispered Michael.
Slipitsky’s face was instantly screwed up with terror, and his jaw
dropped. For an instant he was in something of a panic and he drew back
into a corner, for he knew that no rude peasant would speak so correctly
as had this stranger before him. And whispers always meant secrecy if
not imminent danger.
“You are not peasants!” mumbled Slipitsky. “You have come in here by a
trick! You do not speak now as peasants! Who has sent you here to make
trouble for me in my house?”
Michael whipped the muffler down from his face by way of answer and
thrust his face forward into the light from the frosted window so that
Slipitsky might recognize him without further talk.
“Prophets of Israel!” cried the Jew, suddenly relieved of his worry as
he recognized Michael. “You are dead!”
“Not yet, by the kindness of God,” whispered Michael, and turning to his
daughter, said, “Also Katerin Stephanovna has come with me. You must
hide us both, for we are beset by the Ataman and have fled away from our
house to save our lives.”
“True enough, it is Michael Alexandrovitch, his Excellence who was
Governor!” whispered Slipitsky as if assuring himself that he was not
deceived by his eyes. He clapped his hands over his ears. “It was said
that you were both dead! Four months ago I heard you had been killed! Is
it that you have risen from the dead by a miracle, my old friends? By
the patriarchs! This is a sight for me! Both of you—and dressed in poor
rags like serfs come in from a farm to sell butter!”
Katerin had exposed her face and smiled joyfully at the old Jew.
“Take care or you will be heard speaking to us and we shall be
betrayed,” warned Michael. “No one must know we are here, or Zorogoff
comes——”
“Enough!” cried Slipitsky, and ran out from behind his desk, keys
jangling in his pockets, and shot the bolt on the door. “As you say, the
place is like a beehive with spies,” he whispered, turning back to
Michael. “That rascal, Dazo, below stairs is one of Zorogoff’s men, I
know! The Cossacks made me make a place for him there at the door to
watch—but I know he is an underground for the Ataman!”
“Then we shall be delivered,” said Michael, pulling up his muffler over
his face again. “If it be already known to him that we are here——”
“We must fool him,” said Slipitsky. “What is the good of having a head
if we do not use it? You must go out again and——”
“But where shall we stay?” demanded Michael, alarmed at the Jew’s saying
they must go. To be turned into the streets again meant certain capture
by soldiers of the Ataman.
“Please, you must hide us for our lives!” pleaded Katerin. “If you do
not hide us somewhere we shall be killed!”
“We shall all be killed!” exclaimed Slipitsky. “Take off your covering
and let me see your face again, mistress! Ah, yes, it is you! Can you
doubt that I will not do what I can for old friends? Be patient.”
“Then we can stay?” asked Katerin. “But what of the spy below? Will he
not reveal us?”
“We are desperate,” urged Michael. “Zorogoff has given us the mental
torture—if he finds us again he will take my daughter to his palace
to——”
“Toosh!” exploded Slipitsky. “Zorogoff is not to find you. I have known
persecution in my day—who of my people have not? And in your time you
were good to some of my friends. Ah, I never forget, my friend! I will
hide you well. But if Zorogoff knows, then we are all dead together—as
dead as the prophets! That Ataman is a robber, Excellence! Every week I
must pay him money till I am beggared. Taxes, he calls it! Is the last
kopeck from a poor man taxes, I ask? And every name that goes in the
book he watches, for fear I would have a stranger under my roof who
might be a spy against him! And that dog of a Dazo is his eyes. But we
must fool Dazo, as you shall see.”
“He will know if we do not go away again,” said Katerin. “How are we to
fool him on that?”
“Toosh! Who is to suspect that the two peasants who came this morning to
pay me money were his Excellence the General and his daughter? It is how
you get out again, as Dazo sees it, that gives me troubles. But I shall
put you in rooms and no names in the book for the spies. So we must fool
that stupid one below. Wait here for me, Excellence.”
The Jew unbolted the door with cautious fingers and looked down the
hall. Then he went out and closed the door after him to look down the
stairs. He saw Dazo lying on the bench, his back to the stove,
apparently napping.
“Dazo!” yelled Slipitsky frantically, at the same time beginning a wild
caper like a dance, “Dazo! Stop the two—the old man and the woman with
the cabbages! Stop them I say, or I am ruined for twenty rubles! Oh, oh,
oh!”
Dazo rolled off the bench and sat up, staring about him in bewilderment,
startled out of a sound doze by the screams of Slipitsky.
“What is the trouble?” called the youth. “What has happened now?”
“Enough has happened!” cried Slipitsky. “The two peasants who came in
with the cabbages to pay me money! Stop them! Oh, I am ruined!”
“But I saw no one!” cried Dazo. “I tell you no one has come in or gone
out from this place while——”
“Stop the talk and run!” screamed Slipitsky, wringing his hands in
agony. “I signed the receipt but the rubles they gave me were bad!
Twenty rubles, I say, I lose! They just went out the door while you were
dreaming of the wife you beat in Irkutsk! They just went out the door!
Run for them and drag them back by their hair! Run, run—hurry!”