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!”

“You are crazy,” muttered Dazo, but he reached for his coat to the wooden hook on the wall, not sure now that the two strangers had not evaded him while he was asleep.

“I am crazy for my twenty rubles!” raged Slipitsky, and Dazo pulled on his coat and dashed into the street.

Slipitsky ran back to his little office and let himself in.

“Come!” he commanded. “I will put you in rooms, now that I have sent that fool of a Dazo down the Sofistkaya looking for you.”

Michael and Katerin followed him down the long hall. The Jew put a big brass key into a door, and, turning the lock, thrust Michael into the room and handed him the key. “Keep quiet till I come with food, and if any one knocks do not answer. We have fooled that fox of a Dazo, and we shall fool the Ataman!”

And the old Jew put his fingers to his lips against the thanks which Michael and Katerin would have expressed, slipped out through the door and was gone, wailing through the hall about the fictitious twenty rubles which he had lost by the carelessness of Dazo, the spy.