Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [76]
The Chief did not appear as though he had gotten his position through kindness. His face spoke of too much vodka and his heavy hands appeared to be the recipient of many bribes.
“Sir,” I pleaded and tried to repeat my case, but was silenced by his fist banging on the desk. He looked me over to determine how much I could spend for a bribe. He didn’t like what he saw.
“Did you look in the lining of his coat?” the Chief asked.
“Yes, nothing hidden.”
“Shit. Little turd bastard. All right, Jew boy, do you know anyone in Kiev who can pay your fine?”
“No, sir.”
“You are in serious trouble. Take him away.”
That night was the most horrible I ever spent. I was tossed into a huge cage of a cell that held a dozen drunks. There was only the wet cement floor to lie down on and no toilet. Drunks were urinating and vomiting all over the cell, which was already covered with bugs.
As soon as it turned dark, I felt the hands of a very powerful man on me. He reached between my legs and tried to fondle my private parts. His smell was something which I will never forget. I managed to run to the other side of the cell screaming.
“Murder! Rape! Help!”
A guard removed the pervert to another cage. I was almost dead with fear. Nor could I eat the slosh they slipped in under the door with a slice of bread.
One of the prisoners decided he would be my protector for the night and I eventually calmed down, but I could not sleep for a single instant. Every little move startled me.
As the darkness came on, I shivered throughout the night in a tiny corner. I blamed my father for this. Why should I be sent so many thousands of miles away, while Mordechai was safe in one of the finest yeshivas in Russia? It was not fair. It had never been fair. God forgive me, but during the night I personally hoped my father would die from his stroke. It would serve him right. But he should not die until my body was shipped home for him to see.
At last morning came.
“Jew boy!” a guard called at me.
I was taken again to the Chief’s office.
There was a very well-dressed Jewish-looking gentleman with a Van Dyke beard. My passport was returned. I was given to the custody of the gentleman, Mr. Lapidis, who I understood paid my fine. I found out from his carriage driver that Mr. Lapidis was a wealthy merchant with special permission to live in Kiev. The Chief had a thriving business in catching stray Jews, for whom Mr. Lapidis always paid the fines. This kindly gentleman had saved me from a terrible fate. He drove me to the station and admonished me to stay put. You can bet I wasn’t looking for more adventures in Kiev.
Mariupol, 1911
I HAVE NEVER BEEN in such a house as belonged to the Borokovs in Mariupol. There were seven rooms if you can imagine such a thing. The parlor and a separate eating room were filled with silver and cut-glass crystal and figurines. The furniture was upholstered with velvet, like a rich bride would wear, and the curtains were made of fancy lace. Rugs were beneath your feet wherever you walked.
Tante Sonia was a tall woman who dressed every day like it was the Sabbath. Her fingers were filled with rings and she never had a hair out of place. She was a pinched, tight woman who tried to smile, but when she did her mouth went crooked, and when she reached to pat you all you could see were her long, bony fingers and those rings. She ran the house like it was a museum. You walked around, I guarantee you, on tiptoes.
Uncle Boris likewise didn’t have a shabby thread on his coats and jackets, which were numerous. He spent as much time away from Tante Sonia as he was able, withdrawing to his personal library to read and work on accounts. Their meals were wordless.
Let me tell you something, that even with all the high-and-mighty business the food was delicious. Tante Sonia had a woman who did nothing but cook for them and there was meat three, maybe four times a week.
“The first thing you must learn, Nathan, is how to eat properly,” I was informed. For such food I could take a little torture with her meat slicing