The Little Russian by Susan Sherman Read Free Book Online

walk out. Without hesitation he reached into his pocket, picked out the coins, and gave them to her. Then he picked up his cigarettes, thanked her in French, and left the store to the sound of the jingling bell.
    A few days later, just after sunrise, Berta was out walking a track in
the fields. She had just come upon a farmstead a few versts outside of town, where the old bol’shak , the head of the household, sat with his sons on the porch, eating his bulgur wheat from a wooden bowl. They looked her over with an appraising eye as she passed. They knew her. She was that pretty thing from the grocery where they bought their axle grease and kerosene. She tossed them a look of scorn and quickened her pace.
    Not long after that, she heard the groan of wheels behind her and turned to find the same young man from that day in the store riding up in a broken-down cart pulled by an old horse. She had already asked Meshia Partnoy ’s son, the seltzer man, about him and had found out that he was a wheat merchant from Cherkast. She found out from Meshia Partnoy herself, who put him up in her front room whenever he came to town, that his name was Haykel Gregorvich Alshonsky.
    “They call him Hershel. He is very rich, though you wouldn’t know it,” Meshia said in a conspiratorial whisper when she came in to buy her usual order of Shabbes herring.
    “How do you know?” Berta asked.
    “He smokes Kollis. I could make a whole meal out of what he pays for those readymades. He can’t roll his own like everyone else?”
    Hershel Alshonsky pulled up the horse and wished her a good day. “Would you like a ride, Mademoiselle? I’m going into town.”
    “No, thank you,” she replied crisply. “I prefer to walk.” It was better not to encourage these boys.
    “Suit yourself. But it’s a dusty road. Better turn your back when I drive off and cover your eyes.”
    “I assure you I’ll be fine.”
    He tipped his hat and gave the reins a flick.
    A few days later he met her on the same road. When he saw her, he pulled up on the reins and waited until she caught up with him. She was carrying a book, a thin volume, and he asked about it.
    “It’s poetry.”
    “What kind of poetry?”
    “Good poetry, not nursery rhymes or silly limericks. It’s Yeats . . . I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?”

    He thought for a moment. “Can’t say as I have. Is he famous?”
    “I don’t know,” she said irritably. “Who cares whether he’s famous or not. He’s good, isn’t that enough?”
    “Suppose it is. Maybe I should pick up a copy?”
    She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Although, I don’t think it would be of much interest to you. For one thing, it’s in English. Do you read English?”
    “No.”
    “Well, there you are then,” she said primly, with a note of satisfaction.
    He regarded her with a half smile. “Are you angry with me, Mademoiselle ?”
    She reddened. “Certainly not. Why should I be angry with you? I don’t even know you. I don’t even know why I’m standing here talking to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
    The next time they met he told her to wait as he pulled up on the horse. By the time she decided not to wait, he was already coming around to meet her. “I brought you something. I thought you might like it.” He held out another slim volume. This one had a green cover.
    She eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”
    “Go on. It’s by that poet of yours.” He shoved it into her hand.
    Reluctantly, she read the title and then looked up at him in surprise. “Where did you get it?”
    “In a little shop.”
    “It ’s in French. I didn’t know there was a translation. I’ve been struggling with the English.” She smiled up at him with something akin to gratitude. He returned her gaze, full in the face, without a trace of embarrassment. She found this disconcerting and not a little annoying, but she kept quiet and turned her attention back to the book. She fingered the title, The Wind Among the Reeds