A Game

Abraham Raisin

Reaction, like a black vulture, had spread its wings over all that had lived and struggled. The best and bravest of the revolutionary spirits lost their courage and many were forced to wander forth, to escape to foreign lands, some with the hope of coming back in better and more tolerant times, others in doubt and despair.

Among the latter was Chayim Grossman, who from his twentieth to his thirtieth year, had worked in the movement. More than one barricade had he thrown up in Warsaw’s streets, more than one revolutionists’ banner had he waved from its house tops, and not a few times had he exposed himself to the peril of the bullets. But always his courage and his faith in the holy cause had helped him to come forth from the battle, safe in body and undaunted in spirit.

But at last even he lost courage, and as he reviewed his past activities, for which hanging itself were little punishment indeed, he was overcome by terror. Every night in his dreams there would appear hangmen, in red garb, laughing loudly at him through grinning teeth, and they would drag him somewhere up a high scaffold.... He would be forced to crawl and climb, upward, upward, until he reached the top, which was frightfully high. And now he would fall over the edge, and on waking would find himself bathed in a cold sweat, while his terror was greater than ever.

Shadow-like, he slunk through the “peaceful” streets, trembling at sight of every officer and beholding in every civilian⁠—a spy....

There was only one course left⁠—to escape. But strangely enough, the self-same Grossman who during his ten years’ service in the movement had stolen across the border time and again, now developed a sudden fear at the notion of crossing the boundary-line with the same trustworthy agents as heretofore. And when his more intimate friends, also former fighters for the cause, would ask him, “Chayim, why do you delay your escape?” he would reply dispiritedly, “I tremble at thought of the border. They’re watching very closely now.”

And of all these friends, once upon a time leaders in the revolution, not one would attempt to give him the courage to cross in the old way. This disheartened Chayim all the more, and like a caged beast he paced back and forth, a solitary shadow in the great city of Warsaw, seeking some avenue of escape from his danger....

One day, walking thus engrossed in thought through the Saxon Gardens, where at every turn a gendarme was encountered, Chayim came face to face with Henich, the son of wealthy parents, who had, however, been very active in the days of the revolution and had been very friendly towards Chayim. Henich took him to a secluded spot and whispered to him, “Chayim, do you want to leave the country in the regular, legal manner?”

“Do you need to ask that?” replied Chayim quickly.

“Well, just listen. My sister Eda is about to leave for Berlin, to meet her husband, Sandrovitch. The passport is made out in the name of both of them, but he left earlier than he expected ... so that you can travel with the passport, as her husband....”

There flashed upon Chayim’s memory the black eyes and the bewitching countenance of Eda, whom he had known well and with whom, in the days of the revolution, he had spoken only of matters connected with the struggle. Now, learning that she was already married, he felt a queer twinge at his heart, and growing pale with emotion, he answered quickly, “Yes, certainly, I’ll go as her husband.” Then noticing that Henich eyed him suspiciously, he added: “I’ll avoid capture.”

Henich, being an amiable sort of chap, slapped him on the back, “You⁠—captured. That doesn’t worry us at all!” he exclaimed.

Then, after having made arrangements for leaving in about a week, they separated.

That week went by as slowly as a year for Chayim. But not because he was so eager to leave Warsaw and its terrors behind; rather because of his desire to travel as the husband of dear, beautiful Eda. The make-believe relationship began to take on for him a most serious aspect, and as he lay in his room, which was situated in a remote section of the town, he conjured up the pretty face of Sandrovitch’s young wife Eda, who would soon be under his own personal care. A trembling, new-born longing took possession of his heart....

Boruch Sandrovitch⁠—Boruch Sandrovitch. He repeated the other man’s name over and over again, so as not to betray himself at the border. And so, muttering the name countless times during the week he began to feel that from now on he was no longer Chayim Grossman, former revolutionist, but Boruch Sandrovitch, a student of Berlin University, a fair-haired fellow of twenty-five, whom the beautiful Eda loved to distraction....

“Well, here is your wife!” Eda’s father, a tall, broad-boned Jew, with a patriarchal beard, and gold-rimmed spectacles on his aristocratic nose, turned to Chayim, who, at the words, was overcome by a sensation of sweet warmth that suffused his entire being. He stole a bashful glance at the slender Eda, who made a pretty picture as she stood there in her traveling clothes, smiling sweetly at him.

“Take good care of her,” added Eda’s mother, a woman of some fifty years, with large eyes and dressed in black.

“She’ll be as precious as the apple of my eye,” blurted Chayim fervently, and of a sudden blushed at the impassioned tones of his promise.

“And be sure not to forget that you’re Boruch Sandrovitch,” admonished Eda, beaming at him with the same sweet, friendly smile.

“I’ll remember that only too well,” exploded Chayim, with the same passion as before.

“Here is the passport; I am now in your hands,” declared Eda, giving him the book.

Chayim placed it carefully in his pocket, and gazing at Eda most eloquently he managed to exclaim: “This is a most pleasant charge.” And immediately he regretted his words.

It was three hours’ ride to the border. Chayim sat the whole time at Eda’s side, and wishing to become more intimate, he suddenly turned to her and suggested, “I think it would help to avert suspicion on our journey, if I were to use ‘thou’ in addressing you, and you likewise with me.”

Having offered this short, practical suggestion he turned red, and his heart beat wildly, as he waited for her approval.

“I really am in doubt,” she hesitated. “In high society man and wife use ‘you’ in addressing each other.”

“But that might arouse suspicion in our case⁠—I mean, that ‘thou’ would be more to our purpose,” urged Chayim.

She finally consented.

Unfortunately, however, Chayim could find no opportunity for using the coveted familiar pronoun. At last the longed-for chance arrived. He was gazing out of the window. The sun, like a blood-red disc, was setting behind a thick forest, gilding the tree-tops with its dying splendor. Chayim, entranced by the scene, cried out, “Just see, Eda, see thou, how beautiful!”

Eda arose and looked through the window. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed.

Chayim was right beside her, but instead of looking at the beautiful sunset he sought to penetrate Eda Sandrovitch’s face, and he grew sad.

A moment later and the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, as if the black forest had engulfed it.

They sat down and Eda began: “You know⁠—”

“Thou knowest,” corrected Chayim. “We might betray ourselves.”

“Don’t worry on that score,” she replied, stubbornly. “You know that we’re almost at the border.”

“We should be all the more careful for that very reason. So then, what dost thou say, Eda?”

Eda smiled good-naturedly, replying, “If you desire to play the game, by all means, with the greatest of pleasure!” And then, more playfully, she added, “I say, my dear Sandrovitch, we’re soon at the border.”

“What of that, darling Eda?” He smiled in return, clasping her velvety little hand.

She did not withdraw her hand. This made Chayim bolder. He pressed closer to her, ever so close, and whispered tenderly, “What a sweet, darling child thou art!”

She gazed at him with her large black eyes, in silence.

At last they pulled into Alexandrovna, the border station. The train suddenly became alive with nervous activity. A tall gendarme with forbidding mustache entered, crying out in official tones, “Passports!”

Chayim Grossman pulled out his passport and gave it to the gendarme.

“And you?” asked the latter in Russian, turning to Eda.

“She is my wife,” answered Chayim, in the same language.

“Very well,” was the response, as if approving the match. Chayim felt distinctly flattered with the approval.

The gendarme collected the passports of the other occupants and then left, locking the door of the coach.

“And now we are in very truth man and wife,” whispered Chayim passionately to Eda.

“Yes, of course,” Eda nodded.

Her acquiescence made Chayim very happy, and he turned boldly to her, asking tenderly, “Wouldst thou have a bite to eat?”

She smiled, and replied good-humoredly, “Not I, but perhaps you would⁠—that is, thou wouldst, beloved,” she hastened to correct herself.

“Yes, I’m really hungry.”

He arose, took down her little traveling bag, which contained their lunch, and gave it to her.

She opened it and took out the food that her mother had prepared.

“Long life to my good mother,” blessed Eda, between bites, and her large black eyes grew larger and darker....

“Eat, Sandrovitch,” she urged Chayim.

“Yes, my little dove. I’ll eat.”

Eda burst into laughter.

“You’re a perfect artist,” she whispered into his ear.

“Why?” he asked....

“Good heavens!” she replied, feigning anger because he did not understand, and resumed her eating.

At this point the gendarme returned, accompanied by an officer, who returned the passports.

“Boruch Sandrovitch!”

“Here,” answered Grossman, not without inner misgivings.

The officer examined him closely, gave him his passport and turned to Eda.

“And you?”

“My husband,” she replied, pointing to Chayim.

“All right,” assented the officer, genially.

And Chayim Grossman, forgetting the revolution, the barricades, and his hatred of the army, felt deep in his heart a warm gratitude towards that young officer; a few moments later, when the gendarme and the official had gone, he remarked, “There are some good fellows among them, at that.”

“Devil take them, every one,” dissented Eda, much to Chayim’s displeasure.

The train began to move.

“We’ve crossed the border!” she exclaimed joyously.

“We’re husband and wife just the same.... Germany is no better than Russia.... We must continue to say ‘thou’ to one another.”

“As you say,” answered Eda indifferently. “Let it be ‘thou.’”

At each stop the train discharged a large number of passengers. Soon Eda and Chayim were the only occupants of their coach.

“We are alone!” cried Chayim, in ecstasy.

Eda could not understand his great joy. She looked upon him coldly, saying, “Now I may address you by your real name. And so, Mr. Grossman, what are your plans in Germany?”

“Germany!” Chayim shuddered at the thought. “Germany?” He was silent.

He was at a loss for reply. He suddenly recalled that the game was over; now he faced the real, hard, sad world of fact, and soon the real Sandrovitch would come to claim this beautiful being as his own, while, he, Chayim, in wretched loneliness, would wander aimlessly through the streets of Berlin. The recollection of all this gripped him, and he was overwhelmed by terror of the long, sinister future.

He gazed out of the window. The night was black. Here and there a light would flash by in the darkness⁠—a far-away gleam⁠—would flash by and melt into the night.

⁠—Translated by Isaac Goldberg.