Assassination of E. Hemingway

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

January 1915 - Odilsk, Russia

Pasha knew his father’s instructions were important. His Papa would roar like a bull when he was angry or wanted to make a point. This night, however, his father spoke in low tones, as if emphasizing their importance.

“Follow the stars. The stars are your friends. Remember what I say, Pasha. The stars are your only friends. Keep going west. Do you hear me, Pasha?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“The Cossacks will hunt you down if you stay on roads, but they are afraid of the forest. That will be your advantage.

Once over the mountains, approach with caution. Muzhiks are the peasant farmers breaking their backs tilling the Tzar’s land. They will have no love for the Tzar. Avoid villages. Some nosy Babushka will point the finger at you in exchange for a coin from the Okhrana, the not-so-secret police. Take this map I made,” handing Pasha a folded paper.

Pasha said nothing, staggered by the fervency in the old man’s words. He unfolded the crude map, studying a trail marked by his Papa.

“The bastards are afraid of the forest. You and I know better, my son. Use their fear of wild animals and imaginary creatures they fear lurk in the dark.”

“Follow the rough paths through the trees. Nobody lives there. Search for water. The forest is blessed with small streams. The timberland provides the food you will need. You knew how to find nourishment. When you reach the far side of the trees, you will see mountains. Turn south until you spot the way between the two peaks shaped like a camel. Cross over and keep hiking west.”

Pasha watched his father wipe the moisture from his eyes but pretended he didn’t notice.

“I made that route once when I was your age. It’s an arduous trek in the dark months of winter. Look for a town with many churches. The town is called Solikamsk. Ask for the “Mad Priest” named Gennady. If he’s still alive, your uncle Gennady will help you. Now, go.”

Uncle? Mad priest? Did I hear correctly?

At the first sight of the rising moon, Pasha lifted his bag. He never forgot his father’s body-hugging embrace. The young man turned away and stepped out the back door. He breathed in the earthy scent from the neighbor’s two mules. They didn’t look up from the feeding trough as Pasha vanished into the graying dusk.

Pasha paused at the edge of the forest. Shifting his carry-all, he turned for a final look at his village and a sight that would scar him for life. He used his hand to part the tall grasses. He witnessed Cossacks drag a man to the middle of the street. Even in the dimming light, he knew it was his father. They began striking him with rifles and repeatedly kicking him. Pasha watched until there was a disturbing flash of light, followed by the sound of a gunshot. His father’s body lay on the road, motionless.

Pasha pulled his hand back, the parted grasses closed like a stage curtain.

Struggling to cope with the sight of his father’s murder, he made a vow of revenge.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He looked up. Using the stars as a guide, he headed into the thick forest. Pasha, the son of a woodsman, vanished quickly into the darkness. He soon set at a steady pace.

He wouldn’t need a calendar or watch, even if such things were available. Darkness enveloped the Russian north in mid-winter. The cold was tolerable for a young man born to it. Trees with broad spreading branches kept the bone-chilling wind at bay. Moving facilitated blood flow, helping maintain his body temperature.

Pasha knew that if he kept this pace, he would have the advantage over anyone following him into the trees. In their irrational fear, they would wait for daylight. In January, darkness lasted nearly nineteen hours. That gave Pasha a considerable head start. He walked at a steady pace. Each hour puts more than three miles behind him.

Once, he stopped at the sound of a nearby animal scurrying away.

Advancing, he sniffed for the odors of forest creatures. Those unfamiliar with the woods at night might be tentative and afraid. Young Pasha advanced as if he was on a city sidewalk.

He knew the woods also had dangers, but that was the risk he had to take.

He stopped when he sensed the unique scent of a bear. Pasha kept still, listening to the beast sniffing and pawing for food. The bear seemed unaware of a human’s proximity. Glancing up at tree leaves fluttering, Pasha understood the reason for his good fortune. He was upwind from the animal. Finally, the bear’s footsteps evaporated into the surrounding trees. When it was safe to do so, Pasha let out a long breath of relief.

Inhaling cold air and expelling vapor, Pasha kept trudging until the first light. When the first traces of sunlight streaked through canopied leaves overhead, he stopped. His legs throbbing, pain impossible to ignore. He consoled himself, knowing he no longer needed to push himself as vigorously.

Using his carry-all as a pillow, he lay back watching a large raptor, a Norther Goshawk. He smiled as it glided in graceful circles, watching for prey.

Pasha slept, bathed in the subtle warmth of sunlight.

In five hours, darkness would return. He needed to be on the move again, but he was confident nobody was close behind.

But images of his father’s murder pushed restful sleep to the side. Still, Pasha couldn’t cry, his emotions locked away.

The following night, Pasha was glad he maintained the demanding pace that first night. Each mile put a significant distance from those hunting him. The forest was his chief advantage. Cossacks looked grand on horseback, but such horses were no use in a thick forest without clear trails, especially at night. They were bred for galloping across the vast expanse of the wide-open steppes.

Now, moving among oak, birch, spruce trees, and dense undergrowth, the near-impenetrable forest calmed Pasha. The thick woods were inaccessible to anyone unfamiliar with them. Taking no chances, however, he continued to force himself at a punishing pace. Five days later, Pasha stepped into the sunlight, leaving the shadowy woods behind.

Pasha stood in awe of the snow-covered mountains. He had never been this close before. Cloud banks swept between peaks as if an unseen dragon was on the other side, blowing streaming vapors west to east.

Gathering kindling, he started a fire, no longer worried about being detected. Pasha used his knife to deftly skin the rabbit he’d trapped. He held the meat over flames.

He felt overwhelmed at the scale of the mountains. He stared at the map his father made for him, with a V mark to indicate a place to cross. When the rabbit was cooked, he paced back and forth, chewing on the meat, wiping drippings from his growing beard. Then he saw it. Two mountain peaks formed an almost perfect Vee, just like the mark on his father’s crude map.

Resting two more nights, he set off, plunging his feet through the top layer of snow. He tried to ignore the cold. It seemed like being attacked by a swarm of bees, biting hard pellets striking his face.

No turning back. From here on, it was one foot beyond the other. Then one more after that.

He imagined his father making this trek. Pasha’s tears turned instantly into frozen beads.

Moving and stumbling down the western slope of the mountains, Pasha didn’t look back. He tried to put the memory of his mountain crossing behind, a blur of cold, wind, snow, and ice.

Reaching the mountain top, he’d faced the wind and stretched out his hand. It was too cold to celebrate. He was caked with snow, looking like an albino nailed to a crucifix. It was foolish. Time to move on.

More distance from Papa.

Each step and stumble down the west-facing slop brought warmer temperatures. Soon he was walking along a dust-covered road.

Pasha carved a mark on his walking stick each night. It was a woodsman’s trick to keep track of time. He’d cut fifty-three marks into the wood when he stopped at the last farm. He had no way of knowing he’d pushed himself at a brutal pace for over nine hundred miles.

His beard, grown long, was filthy with dirt. His leather boots, now worn through, added to Pasha’s limp from a recent sprain.

He could tell they were wary, but invited him in. He’d asked how he would know the town. “When you see rising church spires in the distance, that will be Solikamsk. You will recognize many churches,” the peasant woman said, her husband nodding in agreement.

Pasha, heeding his father’s counsel, had approached the farm with caution. Papa was right. These people held no love for the Tzar. Farmers he met along the way were all suspicious at first. Strangers always brought with them an element of peril.

“We toil and farm the land. The Tzar takes the crops and meat.” Saying this, the old woman, with a face like a raisin, spat into the fire. The man nodded, exhaling smoke from his pipe, forming a cloud around his head.

“They don’t leave us with enough to live on,” the old woman said. “They don’t care about us as long as we meet their quota.”

“We have our ways,” the man said. “Crops and game are hidden under rocks and places they don’t know about.”

“Shush,” the Babushka said. “The Okhrana has big ears.”

“Rest tonight,” she told Pasha. “Follow the road tomorrow. It leads to Solikamsk, on the banks of the river Karma.”

“What about Cossacks?” What about Okhrana? Pasha asked.

“Not so much on our side of the mountains,” the old man said. “It’s the Army you need to worry about. They have orders to conscript men your age. Although you can see them coming for miles with all the dust, they stir up, get off the road quickly. Lay flat. It makes it impossible to see you among the sunflowers, grasses, and wheat.”

The next morning, Pasha encountered people moving in the opposite direction. Heads low, they mumbled what might pass as hello, or not. Russians rarely looked strangers in the eye, and peasants never did so.

Now, on the edge of the town, he wondered. Was it true? Did Papa have an uncle here? If so, was Uncle Gennady still alive? Entering town, passers-by gave him sullen, suspicious glances. Pasha did the same, not trusting them either. It was ingrained. Russians had long ago learned to avoid eye contact.

Pasha entered the town market square. Dust clouds swarmed around his feet like a swarm of mosquitoes.

A tall man strode toward him, cassock billowing in the wind. He was a black priest, called that because of the color of his robe. The scowling priest tried holding his robe together with one hand, his skufia with the other, while cursing the wind.

Noting theskufia, a hat worn by lower-ranking priests, emboldened Pasha. He held up a hand to stop the man, obviously annoyed to be delayed.

“Reverend Father, I’m looking for my uncle, a priest here. Will you help me, please?”

When the sour-faced priest heard the name Gennady, he looked like he wanted to spit.

“I don’t know why that man wasn’t defrocked long ago,” the priest said. “A troublemaker. Hah, I know he’s being watched by the—.” He didn’t finish. “Still, if you are indeed related, search for the dilapidated wooden church,” pointing toward the river. “If the termites haven’t chewed it to the ground, he will be there in all piety, handing out food to beggars.”

With that, the priest with the red skufia strode off, looking as if he had a sign on his back saying “Жопа.” Pasha laughed at the Russian word for arsehole.

The wooden church wasn’t as decrepit as described, but it was no rival to the grand churches in the center of town. A man in a blue cassock stood in the center of a crowd. He ladled soup into gourds, while an aide at his side handed out slabs of bread. Pasha stood back, watching.

No one started eating until the priest held a slab of bread over his head. “In the name of our almighty redeemer,” he began. After the blessing, people ate slowly, as if knowing it may well be the last.

There was no mistaking the man. Pasha, feeling light-headed, stared as if seeing an apparition.

Uncle Gennady and his Papa were twins.