The Forbidden Territory (12 page)

They shouldered their knapsacks, and left the hotel under the landlord’s disapproving eye. He looked as though he guessed their purpose.

Outside the darkness of the long Siberian night had
already fallen, lights glimmered from the narrow windows of the houses casting a beam here and there on the crisp, frozen snow. The air was cold, but invigorating like wine, the night fine, cloudless and starlit.

Not many people were about, and to their disappointment they failed to find an inn of any size. As they were walking back to the hotel, a fine sleigh passed them at a trot, and pulled up in front of a small brick building, which had an official air.

De Richleau hurried forward, and was in time to intercept the driver before he entered the building. The man, a tall fellow with high Mongolian cheekbones, was tying his reins to a wooden post.

“Will you hire me your
troika
?” the Duke asked at once.

The man looked up in surprise. “But no,” he said. “This
troika
is not for hire.”

The Duke launched into the same story again, of his sick wife and the urgent necessity of his immediate return to Sverdlovsk.

The tall man was not impressed. He shrugged his shoulders and entered the little brick building.

It was a fine
troika,
with three well-fed horses, the arch above the centre horse brightly painted and with little hanging bells; fur rugs were scattered over the interior.

De Richleau made up his mind instantly. “Jump in,” he cried, giving Simon a little push. “He may be back in a minute.”

Even as he spoke he was untying the reins, and scrambling into the driver’s seat; with one crack of the whip they were careering down the street, the sleigh bells jingling loudly.

The owner came running out of the building, shouting and gesticulating as he ran, but there was nothing to bar their progress, and they very soon had left the town behind.

The whole thing had been so sudden that Simon had hardly time to realise what had happened until they were out in the open country, then he leant forward and shouted in De Richleau’s ear:

“The way—will you be able to find it?”

The Duke’s only answer was to point with his whip to the stars. High above them, and a little to the left, Simon made out the “Great Bear”, with its pointers to the North Star. They were the only stars he knew, but it was enough. He realised that they must be going in the right direction.

The three horses carried them forward at a fast trot, but De Richleau was too old a soldier not to know the necessity of economising their staying-power. Once he felt that they were safe from immediate pursuit he reduced the pace. At the end of each hour he halted for ten minutes, carefully rugging up the horses against a chill.

Mile after mile was eaten up as the night wore on; the road twisted and turned a little here and there, but in the main it led them through vast stretches of glistening, snow-covered forest, ever to the eastward, towards the heart of Siberia.

At one o’clock in the morning they reached the Tavda river. There was no bridge and only a primitive wooden ferry.

They knocked up the ferryman, but he refused to turn out and take them over at that hour. De Richleau did not press the point or attempt to bribe the man; the horses badly needed rest if they were to be fit to travel next day. Simon and he had been up since six that morning, and both of them were worn out.

They found stabling for the horses in the ferryman’s barn, and rolled themselves up in their furs on the floor of his living-room—in spite of its hardness they were soon asleep.

Next morning they were up early and soon away, the horses—hardy beasts—seemed as fresh as ever. All through that long monotonous day they drove onwards, halting with military regularity, but never exceeding their allotted time of rest, except once, at midday, when they made a hurried meal at a wayside farmhouse.

Such farms were few and far between—during the whole of the long journey they scarcely saw a human
being. Wide, desolate wastes of snow alternated with long vistas of silent mysterious forest. The whole land was so deeply in the grip of winter that it was almost impossible to imagine it otherwise, and to picture the fields bright with the thousand flowers of the short Siberian summer.

As the sun was sinking, a dull red globe, into the forests from which they had come, they passed first one farmstead and then another; they topped a hill, and there, in the gathering darkness spread below them, lay a town. They knew that they had reached their journey’s end, and that this must be the city of Tobolsk.

They halted at the side of the road and held a short consultation. The first question was what to do with the stolen sledge—no doubt its owner had notified the police in all the neighbouring towns.

“I think it would be best to abandon it in that small wood to the left there,” said De Richleau, climbing stiffly from his seat. “We can turn the horses loose, they will find shelter somewhere.”

“Ner,” Simon protested. “If we can find a stable for them they may be useful later on.”

“As you will,” agreed the Duke, wearily. He was over sixty, and the long drive had been a great strain upon him. “But where do you suggest?”

“Farm,” said Simon. “Lots of farms round here.”

“Don’t you think they will be suspicious—surely they will wonder why we do not drive on and stable our horses in the town?”

“Lame one of them,” suggested Simon, quickly.

“Lame a horse! What are you saying?” De Richleau was nearly as shocked at the idea as Simon had been, thirty-six hours earlier, when the Duke had killed a man.

“Say one of them is lame,” amended Simon.

“That is different—they will take them in I do not doubt. One thing is certain—we dare not drive into the town; we could not abandon the
troika
in the streets, and to attempt to stop at an hotel would be almost as good as walking into the bureau of the police.”

Simon nodded vigorously. “Better try a farm. If there’s a real muddle and the police are after us the farm people may refuse to let us have them again, but if we do as you say, we’ll never see them again anyhow!”

De Richleau roused himself and climbed once more into the driver’s seat. “Ah, what would I not give to be once more in the Hispano,” he said, with a little groan. “Heading for Curzon Street, my evening clothes and dinner. May the curse of God be upon the Soviet and all its works!”

Simon chuckled. “Wouldn’t mind Ferraro showing me to a table at the Berkeley myself, just at the moment!”

De Richleau whipped up the tired horses, and they proceeded a quarter of a mile down the road, then Simon tapped the Duke on the back. “What about that?” he suggested, indicating a low house to the right that had several large barns and outhouses clustered round it.

“Ah!” exclaimed the Duke, starting—he had almost fallen asleep over his reins. “Yes, why not?” He turned the horses into the side-track that led up to the farm. “Why is it, Simon, my friend,” he added, sadly, as they pulled up and he climbed down once more, “that you have never learnt either to drive a pair of horses or to speak Russian?”

“Never mind—we’re nearly through, now,” Simon encouraged him. Simon had not only slept soundly from one o’clock the previous morning till six in the ferryman’s hut, but, while the Duke was driving the solid twelve hours after they crossed the Tavda River, he had been able to doze a good deal of the time. He was therefore feeling full of vigour and enthusiasm now that they were so near their journey’s end.

“Nearly through!” the Duke echoed. “You have taken leave of your senses, my son—we have hardly started on this mad journey of ours.”

The farmhouse door had opened, and a dark-skinned woman, enveloped in so many layers of clothing that all semblance of waistline had vanished, stood looking at them with round, dark eyes.

Immediately De Richleau’s ill humour and fatigue vanished. He went up to her, breaking into voluble Russian. It was evident, however, that she had some difficulty in understanding him—and he her. Even
Simon could appreciate that her harsh patois had little resemblance to Valeria Petrovna’s sibilant tongue.

A lad of about seventeen was fetched, also a little girl and an aged crone. The latter regarded them with bleary eyes, and for some mysterious reason shook her stick threateningly at Simon.

De Richleau produced his well-filled wallet once again, and it was obvious that whatever might be the ideas and wishes of the Kommissars, hard cash still had a certain value in the eyes of the thrifty Russian peasants.

The young boy unharnessed and led away the horses, the Duke gave liberal payment for their keep in advance, and soon the two friends were trudging down the track to the highway.

“Have you considered what we should do now?” Contrary to custom, it was the tired Duke who asked the question.

“How far to the town?”

“Three miles,” said De Richleau, bitterly.

“Come on, old chap.” Simon thrust his arm through that of the older man. “It’ll be all right—don’t you worry.”

They trudged on through the darkening evening; somehow, since they had left Moscow, it had always seemed to be night, the short, sunny days of these high latitudes were gone so quickly.

De Richleau walked in a stupor of fatigue. Simon was racking his able brain for some idea as to where they could spend the night; some shelter must be found, that was certain—they could not sleep in the snow. The hotels in Tobolsk were barred to them in this forbidden territory.

Simon almost wished that they had begged a night’s lodging at the farmhouse, in spite of the threatening ancient and her stick.

As they trudged on the houses became more frequent, until the road developed into a mean and straggling street. It seemed endless, but it gradually grew narrower, and the buildings of more importance. At last they entered a large square.

On the corner they halted. How much Simon wished that this was some provincial town in England. He looked about him anxiously; few people were passing, and these few seemed to be scurrying from one glowing stove, with its attendant pile of logs, to another. Then, suddenly, Simon stepped forward, drawing De Richleau after him.

He had seen a strange figure shamble by—a man, whose dark curls were discernible even in the faint glow from the irregular lamps; a man who wore a strange, brimless high hat, puffed out at the top, not unlike a chefs cap, only that this was made of black velvet instead of white linen.

Simon laughed into his free hand. “Now,” he said. “If only I haven’t forgotten all my Yiddish!”

He addressed the figure, hesitantly, in a strange tongue. The man halted, and peered at him suspiciously, but Simon was persistent. Forgotten words and phrases learnt in his childhood came back to him, and he stumbled on.

That the man understood was evident. He answered in a similar language, asking some questions and nodding at the Duke.

“He is Jewish,” Simon explained to the Duke.

“It is well—come with me,” said the stranger, who was a Rabbi of the Jewish faith.

They followed him down many narrow turnings, until he stopped at last before what seemed, in the dark, to be a large, old-fashioned house. The Rabbi pushed upon the great nail-studded door, and it swung open upon its leather hinges.

Simon kept on his fur papenka, for he knew at once by the Shield of David on the windows, and the perpetual light burning before the ark, that this was a synagogue; although in every way different from the smart Liberal Synagogue in London, of which he was a recognised, but non-attendant, member.

This synagogue in Tobolsk was not used for fashionable
ceremonies, but as a meeting-place—a club almost—frequented daily by the more prominent members of the Jewish community.

The Rabbi led them through the place of worship to the school. A number of persons were present—no women, but about twenty or thirty men in various costumes. They sat round a long table, reading and discussing the Torah, and the endless commentaries upon it; just as their progenitors had, in this or similar synagogues, for upwards of three thousand years.

Their guide took them to an elderly man, evidently the chief Rabbi, whose white curls fell beneath his high velvet hat on to his shoulders.

Soft words were spoken in the guttural Yiddish tongue. “It is the house of God,” said the old Rabbi. “Peace be upon you.”

Simon and the Duke found a warm corner near the stove, and a young man brought them a large platter each of smoked salmon—that age-old Jewish dish. They both agreed that it could not have been better cured if it had been served at Claridge’s or the Ritz. With it were wheaten cakes and tea.

After, they sat talking a little in low tones, but De Richleau’s answers became shorter and more infrequent, until Simon saw that he had dropped asleep.

The evening’s debate upon the eternal “Law” seemed to have come to an end, and the members of the synagogue left in twos and threes. At last only Simon, the sleeping Duke, and two or three students remained.

The Rabbi they had first met came up to Simon. “You will stay here?” he suggested. “We shall meet in the morning.”

Simon rose and bowed. “So be it,” he said in Yiddish.

The Rabbi bowed in return, his hands folded before him, and covered by the sleeves of his long gown. Simon settled himself beside De Richleau, and wrapping his furs around him, was soon asleep.

In the morning the Rabbi who had befriended them came to them again. Simon had been awake for quite a time before he arrived, and had been trying to translate what he wished to say into simple Yiddish phrases. He told the Rabbi the plain truth, without either elaborating or concealing anything.

The Rabbi looked grave. It was his duty to avoid bringing trouble or discredit upon his community, yet he wished, if he could, to aid this brother in the faith from a far country.

“I can take you to the prison,” he said at length. “There are Jewish prisoners whom it is my duty to visit from time to time. It may chance that you shall see the brother whom you seek, but more than this I cannot do. I think it wise, also, that you do not stay here longer than another night, else it may be that you will bring trouble upon us, who have ever many troubles.”