LITMIR.BIZ

      Katrine stretched lazily in her seat. The train connection at Zlobin had amazingly been on time, and one of the car porters had promptly handed down her cases through a window to a leather aproned baggage handler, who placed them on a stout wooden cart with large iron wheels, and, armed with the car number and private compartment of the train to Kiev, sped ahead to pass the cases up to the waiting attendant there to be carefully stowed in her reserved room. Katrine tipped the conductor and car porter liberally, and was fussily handed down the train steps to the platform. With seeming indifference, she walked over to the waiting train, but from the moment the luggage was taken from her room, lazy appearing, but sharp glances had followed the movements of the cases to their new destination. Only when she had been graciously handed up the steps by the new conductor, led to her compartment by one of the car porters, and swiftly counted the number of pieces of luggage, did she let herself relax.

      But the compartment! It was for only two people! She had ordered one for four. Her exasperation was promptly relayed to the car conductor, who rushed to her room, and apologetically explained that all compartments had been reserved before her request had been received, and that a very important chemical manufacturer and his wife had been removed to another car to make this one available.

      To mollify her, he had asked if the Countess would please accept an espresso while she was getting settled. The conductor had personally supervised its making, dipping a finger into the brew and then to his lips to ascertain that it had the precise degree of sharpness that aficionados savored, then brought along a container of finely ground sugar kept only for those of Katrine’s rank and present disposition. He had thoughtfully placed on the tray two petits fours, baked by a French pastry cook in Zlobin.

      Appeased by the coffee and the sweet cakes, she gave herself over to the unexpected developments with Hershel. The thought of marriage to him was consuming her every thought, and as hard as she tried, she could not bring herself down to solid earth. From the moment she realized that she was completely in love with him, almost six months ago, she knew one, unalterable fact; that marriage with Hershel would be for life. Among her peers, divorce was not uncommon, and many of her social order, if ardor waned and divorce was not practical, sought solace elsewhere, either in the arms of a lover or with a hobby or by having children. But that would not go with Hershel. He would work at the marriage as if it was the only thing that existed, and if it did not work out, he would not accept it like the others, for it would destroy him. In his eyes, the marriage would be sacred, and any woman who got him should light a candle each morning with thanksgiving.

      Sharing Hershel’s life would not be a bed of roses, she acknowledged. Fortunately, there would be no financial problems. Her grandmother had left her a small fortune, which her father, a thick, tough, landholder of huge estates three days ride northeast of Moscow, had invested in properties in various cities outside of Russia.

      Hershel had been cool to the idea of meeting her family. “Later,” he had said. This she also understood. His viewpoints on life would conflict harshly with those of her people; that is Judaism, socialism, philosophy.

      “Reasoning,” he had once commented with conviction, as if it were a sore tooth that must be tongued constantly. “That’s the only thing that counts. There is an ocean of mental giants swirling about, who know every leaf that grows, and every shadow cast by a flying bird. But in most cases they are

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