Robert L. Jefferson
During the expulsion of Jews from central Russia to Poland, in Smolensk, a very important city, there lived a wine merchant named Peter Lipski. He was a Jew, born in Smolensk, where his father and grandfather traded in Hungarian wines. Many years of hard work and extraordinary frugality gave Lipski capital, and he became practically the most influential merchant in the gubernatorial center.
When the decree was issued that Jews had to leave, of course, many were very upset. At that time, about 30 percent of the population of this city were Jews. Peter was one of the first to meet with the governor-general and tried to change the decision regarding himself. His efforts to avoid the dreadful decree that had come from St. Petersburg, however, were in vain, and worse still, the governor of Smolensk was an anti-Semite to the marrow of his bones. He not only executed the emperor’s will regarding the Jews but went even further. The position of governor was such that it gave him unlimited power in the Smolensk gubernia. The expulsion of the Jews became a torment: the governor-general pounced on every Jew in his jurisdiction with fists and iron heels.
Unfortunate Jews fled the gubernia. Many, too poor to take advantage of the already existing railroads, were forced to traverse many difficult roads through the empty outskirts of outer Poland, subjected to attacks and mockery from the Russian population. Many Jews fell dead by the roadside, as the villagers through whose lands they passed denied them even the bare necessities of life, even when the Jews offered money in exchange.
In Smolensk, there were several successful Jews, mainly merchants, whose situations were even worse. They were given a certain period during which they had to dispose of their property. The time, however, was also limited, and the resistance against them was so great that many of them, at the end of the allotted time, were left without money, and their shops were confiscated. One such Jew was Peter Lipski. The wealth accumulated by three generations of Lipskis perished before his eyes. One morning, a police sergeant handed him a passport and papers. It was written that Lipski had to leave the borders of Smolensk within twenty-four hours, or he would be taken out under the bayonet.
Jewish merchant on the run. Poland, 17th century.
Lipski had a wife and several children. He was a relatively young man, certainly no older than 35, handsome, brave, and, in a Jewish manner, shrewd and cunning. The last twenty-four hours he spent carefully gathering his belongings. With the money he could obtain, he bought a cart and three horses from some creditors, and as a last resort, he went to the governor-general. Somehow, he managed to get an audience with the local semi-monarch. Lipski threw himself at the feet of the governor and began to kiss the shoes of the emperor’s favorite. But the governor-general struck him in the face. Lipski begged for a little more time to recover from the loss of his trade, but the governor would not listen. The satrap struck Lipski again and contemptuously shoved him away. Soldiers tossed the Jew from hand to hand down the staircase until they threw him out of the governor’s house onto the street. Lipski fell into the mud, and some drunkard in rags approached and gave the unfortunate man a kick.
That very night, Peter Lipski left the city of Smolensk. His wife, children, and a dozen crates of Hungarian wine were in the cart. The long night was hard for the horses, as their load was too heavy, and at dawn, they passed a small village where the residents threw stones at them. Later that day, the Lipskis arrived in another village, whose people were very anxious and agitated, as it was a Jewish village, and its residents were fleeing. However, here Lipski managed to obtain some food and water for the people and animals.
There is no need to detail the sufferings of this unfortunate family as they traveled hundreds of versts separating Smolensk from Poland. They were so insulted by the Russian peasants that, for self-defense, the Jews were forced to travel at night. In every village, they were refused bread and water, and Peter was compelled to steal so that his wife and children would not die of hunger.
Finally, the border zone between Russia and Poland was reached, and in the first town, Peter handed his papers to the chief, receiving instructions from the imperial authority in return. According to these instructions, he was to go to the town of Kovno in the Kyiv region, where he had the right to do as he deemed necessary.
When Peter Lipski and his family arrived in Kovno, the small town was literally overrun by Jews. The Polish population was very small. For every Pole, there were as many as ten Jews. For several days, the once prosperous wine merchant from Smolensk was forced to sleep in the open field on the outskirts. But, possessing the mind of a merchant, the exile seized every opportunity. Lipski, having gathered a dozen crates of Hungarian wine, sold them at good prices to the local residents. Living on a very small portion of his earnings—no more than ten kopecks a day—Lipski was soon able to buy a small wooden house on the outskirts of the town for a few rubles. From that day, he began his hard struggle against misfortunes and persecutions. We will see what came of it.
Being poor, he lived better than hundreds of his co-religionists in Kovno. He could borrow a few rubles here and there at good interest, which provided a certain income that he distributed well. Months, and even years passed, and from such a modest beginning, Peter Lipski managed to gain a certain weight in the town. He resumed trading in wine, and since Kovno became an important center, the Christian population significantly increased, largely due to the officials needed for the administration of bureaucrats or government functionaries. Whenever Lipski bought more land or built a small tavern or inn, there was immediately scrutiny from the authorities, which greatly worried the Jew. Soon a hospital was built near the town, as Kovno became a training ground for several regiments of soldiers. The doctor of the hospital usually sent to Lipski’s store for bottles of wine, but the latter did not receive payment, as the bottles were taken supposedly for state needs. Also, often Russians, reeking of vodka, would enter Lipski’s store, and asking for a bottle, would toss a few kopecks instead of rubles and threaten if Lipski dared to protest. They would bring him to the chief, and Lipski was punished for his reckless boldness.
Thus, a long and hard struggle continued between Christians and Jews, and it must be acknowledged that the Jews were winning, for it was evident that they were progressing all the time. Lipski did not miss opportunities. When travelers passed that way, they could only stop at Lipski’s inn. He had no tariffs. He charged whatever he deemed necessary, and all the time he listened to curses for his horrendously robbing prices. Lipski always smiled and shrugged, but in the end, he had to pay.
Synagogue in Smolensk in the early 20th century.
Throughout all these years, he nurtured in his heart a bitter hatred, so long-standing and deep that nothing could erase it from memory. Lipski worked so hard not for his own elevation, nor for the comfort of his family, for he lived and dressed simply, and people did not respect him. Lipski lived only for the moment when he could pay back the blows to the Smolensk governor.
The Jew was already old when such an opportunity arose. Old not so much in years as in soul. His back had become hunched, his hair had turned gray, his hands had shriveled, his eyes had sunk. Among the Jews of that town, he was the most unremarkable, and yet the wealthiest.
One day, a carriage arrived in town on its way to Kyiv. The station was crowded with passengers, and an arriving high-ranking official ordered the driver to go to Lipski’s inn. Fortunately for Lipski, who welcomed his guest at the stairs, the visitor could not see the astonishment in the Jew’s eyes, for the visitor was almost blind and wore blue glasses. But Lipski recognized him as the governor of Smolensk, with whom he had once crossed paths. At the governor’s disposal was the best room in the house, the best food that could be prepared. Lipski himself had never been as nimble as on that day. With all humility, he received the governor’s passport and informed him that it needed to be shown to the police chief immediately. As for the horses, his excellency need not worry about that. Even if there were no horses at the station, Lipski promised to provide them himself, as well as a driver who would take the official to the next station.
Lipski’s ingenuity was of the finest mind. The host told the governor that by evening it would be impossible to obtain horses, for Lipski had none, but he was sure they could take horses from a Russian peasant who lived nearby. The governor was satisfied, or at least seemed so, for he was old and already stood with one foot in the grave. The passport was returned, the horses were found. His excellency the governor got into the cart, and the peasant who took the place of the driver received instructions from Lipski himself.
“You will not be able,” he said, “to go by the main road, for I heard at the station that the river has overflowed its banks, and there is at least a meter of water there. You need to take the upper road through the forest. Do you know this way? Take a lantern, and when you reach the alley, do not forget to turn, otherwise, you will never find the road.”
After chatting with the driver, Lipski handed over his lantern, which the driver tied to the yoke. Then Lipski took off his high pointed hat and bowed to the governor down to the ground. The cart moved slowly, as the wheels got stuck in the sticky mud of the village street. Lipski walked behind the carriage to the corner of the street, and further ahead of them lay uneven terrain. The driver cracked his whip and urged the horses on. They immediately broke into a gallop. The cart rattled, banging and swaying from side to side. But no one saw another passenger who sat behind the folding top of the cart.
Jewish merchant bringing oats to the Cossacks
It was Lipski, whose withered hands clutched the edge of the cart in fierce hatred. The loud clatter of hooves, the turn of the road reached, and the driver stopped the horses, pulling the reins to carefully pass the tricky section. It was at that moment that something happened. Someone struck the driver hard on the head. The blow was so quick, sudden, and heavy that the man did not utter a sound. The passenger inside, being almost blind, saw nothing but felt something strange at his feet, as if another sack had been thrown there. It was the unconscious body of the driver. The horses rushed on. They did not turn onto the alley as Lipski had told the driver, but wildly sped down the main road. From a distance, the water of the swiftly flowing river shimmered, and here Lipski untied the cart, got off it, and tied the traces of the outer horses to the traces of the central mare. Then he returned to the cart and peered inside. He opened the lantern that was dangling on the yoke and waved it so that the rays of light fell on the man who was curled up in the back.
“Your Excellency,” said Lipski.
The passenger of the cart leaned forward.
“What is it?” he asked in a thin voice. “What is this on my feet? It is something very heavy. Did something fall from the yoke?”
“Your Excellency, allow me to help you. The bundle has fallen, please get out.”
The governor protested and commanded, but now he was too weak to resist for long. He allowed Lipski to help him out of the cart, and Lipski pretended to strive to remove the supposed bundle. In a second, the Jew turned, grabbed the governor by the shoulder, and began to shake him with his left hand. In his right hand, he held the lantern and shook it in front of the governor’s nose.
“Tadeusz the Younger from Smolensk,” he shouted. “Do you recognize me? Do you recognize me?”
The governor was stunned by the ferocity of his opponent and pitifully asked, “Who are you? Who are you?”
“On your knees!” shouted the enraged Jew.
“On your knees! I am Peter Lipski. You have forgotten, old man, but I will show you what you once did to Peter Lipski.”
The old man tried to break free, but the Jew held him too well. With a hand that felt like iron, he was forced to kneel, and Lipski brought his eagle-like nose close to the governor’s face.
“Peter Lipski!” he shouted. “Remember! Remember!”
“I do not remember. Have mercy! What are you doing? I cannot see your face. Is it about money? Do not kill me!”
“Smolensk!” hissed Lipski. “The wine merchant Peter Lipski. Do you not know? Do you not remember?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” shouted the governor, squirming. “I remember, but what do you want to do? So you survived. Oh!”
The Jew struck him in the face several times, and then with his long hands bound and beat the governor until he lost consciousness. After that, Lipski calmed down, lifted the body into the cart, untied the horses, sat on the yoke, began to shout and crack the whip. The carriage flew forward. It shook violently and rattled. The river was now very close. In the dim light of the stars, it seemed like a sea, for there was a flood, and the entire surrounding area was drowning in water.
From under the hooves of the horses, splashes of water flew, and soon they began to reach their heads, but Peter continued to ride. His face, if anyone had seen it, was adorned with otherworldly joy, his hook-like nose held high, yellow teeth visible to the gums. Lipski’s small eyes danced and almost radiated light.
The horses were already up to their necks in water, then they submerged completely, the cart shook violently, and it overturned. The carriage sank into the water, but one of the horses, in a wild panic, tore the harness and surfaced. A man’s head also appeared, who was struggling for his life with all his might. The man and the horse collided. The man desperately climbed onto the back of the animal, and they swam down the swift current. They swam and swam, tossed about. Finally, they got under logs that were floating on the surface. The man was struck by a log, and he sank like a stone. The horse neighed and also drowned.
Under the black eagle. Stories of Russia By Robert L. Jefferson. III. Lipski, of Smolensk // The Minneapolis journal., July 18, 1903, Summer Fiction Supplement, Page 4.