segued into a state of motionless silence during which Kira imagined Frankmann as a young man, wondered if she would have loved him, borne his children—and during which Frankmann bemoaned his age and the cruel irony of being born in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“So, sir, do you want me to put the cash in the safe?”
“Not today, Kira.”
“Okay,” she said, pushing the box across the desk in Frankmann’s direction.
“Take it to the butcher and his wife.”
Kira was surprised. “The money?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?” Frankmann nodded. His order was so uncharacteristic, so commercially illogical, that she wondered what his motives might be. “And what should I tell them?” she asked.
Frankmann turned his back to Kira and looked out over the wharf, over his small empire. “Tell them,” he said, “to stop cursing the Jews.”
Kira observed the old man’s silhouette in the window. “Your generosity might make it worse, you know.”
Before Frankmann could respond with a story about his dear aunt Elena, one that would have confirmed Kira’s sad thesis, a knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Frankmann was accustomed to carrying large amounts of cash, and he had been robbed several times over the years. Kira knew better than to open the door with so much money left unsecured, so she rose, lifted the metal box, stashed it in the safe and hurriedly closed the heavy metal door. Frankmann opened the top drawer of his desk and surveyed the four pistols. He chose the 1933 Tokarev TT, scuffed matte silver with a black handle—a fine weapon, reliable and powerful, that he had purchased under questionable circumstances from a Red Army officer desperate to rid himself of the gun.
Frankmann peered through the peephole in the door but saw no one. “Who’s there?” he called out.
“It is Julian. Julian Pravdin.”
“Who?” Frankmann asked, turning to Kira for assistance.
“My name is Julian Pravdin.”
“It sounds like a boy, a young boy,” whispered Kira.
“Are you a boy, a
young
boy?” Frankmann asked.
“Yes, I am, sir.”
“Are you here to rob me?”
Confused, Julian did not immediately respond. “No, sir.”
“Then why are you here?”
“My mother sent me. She is dead and said you would help me.”
Frankmann wondered who this woman could be. “Who is your mother?” he asked through the door.
“My mother is Maria Pravdina, the wife of Ivan Pravdin.”
“Pravdin the hunter?”
“Yes, that was my father.” Julian pressed his ear against the door.
“I knew of him,” Frankmann said. “He was regarded in this region as a great man. A brutal ending with the tiger, though. But I know nothing of your mother.” Frankmann raced through the list of women he had known in his life, a short list for a man of his advanced age. “I’m sorry, but I know no such woman,” he said.
Kira walked over to the door. She, too, pressed her ear against the wood so that now both she and Julian were listening through the heavy door. “I think he is crying,” she said. “We should let him in.”
“No,” said Frankmann. “It may be a ruse. It wouldn’t be beneath these wretched thieves to employ a street urchin in their treacherous scheme.” Kira shrugged her shoulders and returned to the desk.
“Please, sir,” Julian called out, stepping away from the door. “My mother said you would help. I have no one.”
“Who is your mother?” Frankmann punched the door in frustration. “How would I know her?” the old man demanded.
Again, Julian did not respond quickly. He composed himself, wiped away his tears with the back of his hand. “My mother was a prostitute,” he said, “and you were her customer. She treated you very nice, gave you things that you were lucky to have.”
Frankmann shivered. He dropped his head, trying to avoid Kira’s stunned look. He peered through the peephole one more time and again could see nothing, no one. He released the bolt and
“So, sir, do you want me to put the cash in the safe?”
“Not today, Kira.”
“Okay,” she said, pushing the box across the desk in Frankmann’s direction.
“Take it to the butcher and his wife.”
Kira was surprised. “The money?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?” Frankmann nodded. His order was so uncharacteristic, so commercially illogical, that she wondered what his motives might be. “And what should I tell them?” she asked.
Frankmann turned his back to Kira and looked out over the wharf, over his small empire. “Tell them,” he said, “to stop cursing the Jews.”
Kira observed the old man’s silhouette in the window. “Your generosity might make it worse, you know.”
Before Frankmann could respond with a story about his dear aunt Elena, one that would have confirmed Kira’s sad thesis, a knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Frankmann was accustomed to carrying large amounts of cash, and he had been robbed several times over the years. Kira knew better than to open the door with so much money left unsecured, so she rose, lifted the metal box, stashed it in the safe and hurriedly closed the heavy metal door. Frankmann opened the top drawer of his desk and surveyed the four pistols. He chose the 1933 Tokarev TT, scuffed matte silver with a black handle—a fine weapon, reliable and powerful, that he had purchased under questionable circumstances from a Red Army officer desperate to rid himself of the gun.
Frankmann peered through the peephole in the door but saw no one. “Who’s there?” he called out.
“It is Julian. Julian Pravdin.”
“Who?” Frankmann asked, turning to Kira for assistance.
“My name is Julian Pravdin.”
“It sounds like a boy, a young boy,” whispered Kira.
“Are you a boy, a
young
boy?” Frankmann asked.
“Yes, I am, sir.”
“Are you here to rob me?”
Confused, Julian did not immediately respond. “No, sir.”
“Then why are you here?”
“My mother sent me. She is dead and said you would help me.”
Frankmann wondered who this woman could be. “Who is your mother?” he asked through the door.
“My mother is Maria Pravdina, the wife of Ivan Pravdin.”
“Pravdin the hunter?”
“Yes, that was my father.” Julian pressed his ear against the door.
“I knew of him,” Frankmann said. “He was regarded in this region as a great man. A brutal ending with the tiger, though. But I know nothing of your mother.” Frankmann raced through the list of women he had known in his life, a short list for a man of his advanced age. “I’m sorry, but I know no such woman,” he said.
Kira walked over to the door. She, too, pressed her ear against the wood so that now both she and Julian were listening through the heavy door. “I think he is crying,” she said. “We should let him in.”
“No,” said Frankmann. “It may be a ruse. It wouldn’t be beneath these wretched thieves to employ a street urchin in their treacherous scheme.” Kira shrugged her shoulders and returned to the desk.
“Please, sir,” Julian called out, stepping away from the door. “My mother said you would help. I have no one.”
“Who is your mother?” Frankmann punched the door in frustration. “How would I know her?” the old man demanded.
Again, Julian did not respond quickly. He composed himself, wiped away his tears with the back of his hand. “My mother was a prostitute,” he said, “and you were her customer. She treated you very nice, gave you things that you were lucky to have.”
Frankmann shivered. He dropped his head, trying to avoid Kira’s stunned look. He peered through the peephole one more time and again could see nothing, no one. He released the bolt and
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