Silk

The Silk Road

Like thousands of other merchants throughout the Han Dynasty of 206 BC, Lee-An traveled a road that stretched from East, South, and Western Asia to the Mediterranean and Europe. Limited by superstition and the threat of marauding peoples and wild animals, Lee seldom strayed beyond his boundary of ten square miles. His ancestors had collected wild caterpillar fibers since 3500BC, and with the technological advance of farming, he could now extract silk fibers directly from cultivated Mulberry worms. Silk was Lee’s, and in turn China’s major item of trade. The road and its tributaries would become The Silk Road, the most famous trading route in human history. Other goods traveled as well - technologies, religions and philosophies, and in time, even the bubonic plague.

General Wu-Ti traveled the Road and its tributaries along the Hexi Corridor and reached Shang-du and the Great Plaines of Inner Mongolia. There his army baked mercilessly upon the Great Plain, under an unrelenting summer sun. Many died of exposure. Others sacrificed their horses for food. Rumors of a Black Sea and a golden city beyond drove Wu-Ti on.

Wu-ti’s diminished army crossed China’s Taklimakan Desert by camel. Each man additionally had two horses, either cattle or sheep, a few gold coins, and barrels of silk to trade. They arrived in Dunhuang and looted the Mogao Grottoes of its Buddhist sculptures. Wu-Ti paused only long enough at Kashgar and Hetian to steal its jade. Overcoming illness and hunger, they crossed the desolate Iran Plateau and snow-covered Pamirs, reaching the prosperous seaport of Ormuz at the mouth of the Persian Gulf. Rejuvenated, they crossed the Black Sea, passed through the land of Euphrates, and reached the age-old Middle Eastern city of Baghdad –having traded nearly all their silk for food. Nevertheless, Wu-Ti, went on to rule China and trade his silk in every corner of the world.

Two thousand years later, Wu-Ti’s umbilical silk threads would entwine the generational lives of a Russian peasant family

St. Petersburg, Russia, 1881

Abram Rabinsky, twenty-three years of age, walked cautiously, between the canal’s guardrails. The cold drizzle and murky sky was beginning to thin the crowds. The feelings given to him upon reconsideration were no longer critical. Safe in his Gentile disguise he casually watched the broken ice packs gently flow down the Reka Bolshaya River.

He wore a fine black wool coat, his collar turned up, a gray knit scarf wrapped twice, and a seal fur hat pulled low over his black curly hair. He could toss entire sides of beef onto his wagon, yet he walked lightly, with an economy of motion. He felt safe from the police whom he knew to be brutally unwelcome to the Jews in tall hats that dared to venture into St Petersburg.

He carried a worn leather briefcase that only moments before had contained half his life’s savings. His rendezvous with Colonel Alexi Donanovitch had gone as expected. A huge grizzly man, the Colonel had claimed to have booked Abram’s shipboard stateroom to Stockholm, and could now do no more than wait for Abram’s bogus passport to arrive. The Colonel had insisted that his commission was reasonable compensation for assisting a Jew to flee Russia. Abram trusted the Colonel no more than any other Gentile but knew of no other way to escape the life he could no longer bear.

Colonel Alexi Donanovitch, of the Tsar’s Guard, had first encountered Abram when he led his Cossacks, swords drawn, into the suburban shtetl of Medzhybizh, and randomly ransacked the defenseless Jewish town. Under the authority of the Tsar, the Colonel had performed his duties efficiently and regularly until the young, cunning Abram Rabinsky had persuaded him to bypass his shtetl in favor of a more lucrative single payment.

Most Jews of Medzhybizh were artisans - shoemakers, tailors, carpenters, and watchmakers. Abram’s unique social mobility allowed him to sell the fruits of their skills to the Russian peasants whose farms bordered St Petersburg. Twice a week the farmers journeyed to Kirovskiy Square to shop for their necessities. From his horse-drawn cart Abram sold salt, sugar, matches, kerosene, tobacco, and other items that the Gentile farmers did not produce themselves.

Every Jew knew that Christianity and Russia were one. Like the fate of Abram’s father, expulsions to Siberia was the lot of any Jew that openly criticized the Tsar. Emigration was Abram’s only escape from the ruling Romanovs, particularly now, since his mother’s fatal heart attack had eliminated his last attachment to Medzhybizh.

Abram rarely analyzed why he alone had the courage to give kickbacks to the Colonel in the heart of St Petersburg. Life, to him, was better lived than examined. He looked down on the simpleton Russian farmers – goyham - unlike in Medzhybizh where everyone was related, where Rabbis passed the ancient wisdom of the Talmud down from cousin to cousin. He was of the "Chosen People, Chosen by God Himself. He declared himself unique every morning, afternoon, and evening, free of self-doubt. Atu Bechartunu mkol ahamim. … You chose us from all others."

Abram was also expected to fulfill his sexual obligations with any number of Medzhybizh’s Jewish daughters who were reared to bear their husband’s children. Since it was believed that fertility depended only on the woman, those women who could not bear children during the first seven years of marriage, according to the Talmud, were hence divorced. Childless women were compelled to divorce even if their husbands loved them and had lived happily together with them.

Abram did not wish to marry until he was better established in St Petersburg, presumably well into his thirties, whereas girls wed much earlier. Encouraged by the suggestion of a higher authority, Abram had spent much of his free time bedding the divorcees of Medzhybizh .

Jews walked to prayer on Friday and at sundown, as it was forbidden to travel on the Sabbath. Most stayed in their homes with their shutters closed. Abram chose this particular Friday evening to betray his partner, the Colonel.

With the approach of clear mild spring days, under budding trees, hundreds of farmers filled the streets of St. Petersburg. Horse-drawn carts were piled high with fresh vegetables. The spring air carried the promise of renewal. Abram had a similar expectation but more for the promise of fog, though no such expectation could last when the cold Siberian winds reached the Baltic Sea.

In answer to Abram’s prayers, the evening fog was thick enough to blur his extended arm. He wore his wool coat and his Rabbi’s fine seal hat that he hoped to never return. He assumed that he appeared no different than the goyham. His leather brief case held wool socks, several changes of underwear, and the balance of his fortune.

Now, since four months had passed without any response from the Colonel, it was evident that he had stolen Abram’s money.

Feeder vessels carrying freight and passengers were a common sight in the port of St Petersburg. Notable were the Thuku, from Finland, and the Swedish freighter, Vaxjo, who on alternate days, other than Sundays, shared the same dock. Having taken their fill of passengers, they would depart at 6:00 PM and return on the morning of the alternate day. Abram had already obtained a ticket to board the Vaxjo, to Stockholm. As a Jew however, he was without the necessary Russian passport.

Edging along the entrance to the fog-bound pier Abram timed each step to the stamping of passports. Silently slipping past the Russian customs agents, shoes in hand, he waited in the fisherman’s cabin, twenty-feet from the Vaxjo’s gangplank.

Two hours had passed since the ship’s scheduled departure, enough time for the passengers to repose in their cabins while the crew waited for the first break in the fog. Abram took a deep breath and stepped gingerly onto the gangplank. There was no turning back.

With the first rattle of the floorboards, Abram’s faint hope of avoiding the crew passed.

Sir! a fog diffused figure, no more than three feet away, called out. Welcome aboard.

Abram stepped towards him. Terrible fog, he said, now able to clearly see the officer’s nautical blue coat. He assumed that the clipboard under the large man’s arm held the passenger list. Is my stateroom available, officer? Abram asked.

We have no staterooms sir, just cabins.

No, that cannot be, Abram insisted. I left the Tsar no more than an hour ago. Colonel Alexi Donanovitch assured me that all arrangments had been made to depart on the Thuku. You are mistaken, Abram insisted.

Sir this is the Vaxjo of Swedish registry. The Finnish Thuku will arrive tomorrow, and does have staterooms.

Fools, Abram cried in mock frustration. Listen to me very carefully, he said, gripping the large man by the elbow. You are in a position to influence history and must answer me truthfully. What is your first stop?"

Helsinki, by mid-afternoon sir, if the fog soon lifts. The large man’s tone indicated that he was both curious and sympathetic to Abram’s stated predicament.

The name of Medzhybizh’s old Finnish shoemaker came to Abram’s mind, but was his name too Jewish, he wondered. Would the big Swede see through his pretense? Professor Franz Berglund, he said, extending his hand to the large man.

The officer received Abram’s hand and said in seeming sincerity, "I am so sorry sir, but we are fully booked."

Listen to me then forget what I said, Abram said softly, as if to take the large man into his confidence. Tomorrow, in Helsinki, representatives of Finland and Sweden are scheduled to jointly participate in the financing of the Russian Trans-Siberian Railroad.

Rumors of the construction of the TSR, the longest railroad in the world, had been circulating throughout Europe for years, particularly in the Baltic region. The officer’s wide eyes belied his interest.

Abram put his finger to his lips, looked around, and in an even softer voice, continued. The meeting will be conducted in secrecy because there is a revolutionary force here in Russia that does not want this event to take place. That is why I travel without papers so that my identity may never be revealed should I be captured. Only the Tsar and Colonel Donanovitch know of my mission. With that, Abram reached into his briefcase, revealed the bundles of money to the large man, and gave him one. It is perhaps a year’s salary, he said. Now, what can you do to aid this monumental enterprise?

The large man did not hesitate. You will stay in my cabin tonight Professor. You will arrive in Helsinki wearing one of my uniforms and walk past customs with me. We will perhaps need more money for some of the crew. Now, come with me, quietly.

Nineteen years later, Abram Rabin, his name long Anglo-Saxonized, stepped onto Ellis Island in June of 1900. He held a large travel bag in one hand and his seven-year-old son, Ruben, in the other. Like many Polish, Russian, Italian, Irish, and Jewish immigrants swarming around him, he had no papers.

Queried at customs, he revealed that he had been living in London these past eight years where he worked for a silk textile house. He maintained that his wife had died only a few months ago and that his son was still mourning. When questioned nonetheless, the seven-year-old Ruben indicated that his mother was fine when last he saw her. Although put off by the boy’s contradictions the customs officers were more concerned with the tidal wave of refugees to be processed before sunset. Abram and Ruben hurriedly moved on to the final processing stage.

A customs agent sat behind his desk. Name and nationality, he said, not bothering to look up

Abram Smith, and, he lifted the boy up for the agent to see, my son Ruben. We are English.

Not with that accent you’re not, the agent said, and scribbled several entries onto the form. Ruska- right?

"Yes Abram said, anxious to complete the process on any terms.

Okay, Russia! Abram and Ruben … he paused, looking at the boy’s hand. What’s that you’re holdin’, lad, the agent asked.

Frightened, Ruben placed a small smooth rock on the agent’s desk that he had been nervously caressing.

Stone, the agent laughed. That’s it Stonetsky’s - welcome to America.

Abram Stonetsky and son, with a travel bag of worn underwear, and more than ten-thousand pounds of British Sterling sewn into the lining of his wool coat, stepped off the ferry and into an America more hospitable to his predatory talents then any before. A man of many countries, many names, but always a Jew, he would never again move on. His son Ruben would never know of his mother, the Finnish whore, or the British mistress who had provided the funds for their journey. The trade skills that she had taught him, while working for her silk textile business, were woefully inadequate for the affection he had lavished on her withering body. A self-possessed Abram Stonetsky looked up and announced to God that he was home.

PREFACE

The era of the Great Depression signaled the collapse of the modern industrial world. Sepia photographs of 1933 depicted American bread lines, soup kitchens, and dusty shantytowns. Headlines proclaimed President Roosevelt’s New Deal, Hitler’s rise to power, and Japan’s annexation of Manchuria. Duke Ellington played to packed houses at the Cotton Club while Americans went hungry

Secure in upper-class privilege, Charles Stone and his father, Ruben, had little concern for the sociopolitical reforms sweeping the world. In need of a reliable supply of silk material for their family’s New York textile business, they established an Asian trading company in China at the outset of World War II. Trapped in Shanghai with cunning European robber barons, marauding Japanese armies, and a bewitching Eurasian woman, they dodged both the murderous Japanese and vengeful Chinese Communists.

Silk is a story of love, international business, and vengeance throughout the bloodiest era in human history.

Chapter 1

New York, 1933

If young Charles Stone had only known that by crossing Park Avenue and taking the slate steps to his grandfather’s brownstone he would lose everything, he wouldn’t have.

The morning September sun felt unusually warm. Charles drew a deep breath and pushed the button below Francine Stone’s brass nameplate. It had been two years since the death of grandfather Abram Stone, when last he saw her. Disregarding his hatred of her, he nevertheless had come on behalf of his father.

Francine’s had acquired her appreciation of wealth in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, with her now deceased first husband, banker and socialite, Oswald Barrett.

Seduced by her social status and beauty, and without knowledge of her extraordinary cunning, Grandpa Abram, always the Russian immigrant married Francine and took her son Albert into the family business.

While Grandpa Abram lived, Charles’ father, Ruben, was confident of his inheritance. Francine’s fraudulent revision of Abram’s Last Will and Testament however ended all such expectations. Prior to his death, Abram had spent most of his time in his library lecturing his grandson, Charles, on the promise of his father’s inheritance – a promise now denied by the courts.

The door opened a crack to reveal the familiar sight of the old butler.

Hi Simon, it's me, Ruben's son. I'm here to see my grandmother… no Francine, he instantly corrected. There was no turning back.

The old butler stared up at the young man clearly pleased. My word, it’s you Master Charles. Do come in. Simon ushered Charles into the foyer, his old spontaneity gone.

Although only two years had passed since Charles last visited his grandfather’s home, his memories of the cheery old mansion felt inconsistent with the dark atmosphere of Francine’s restoration. The old pine paneling had been varnished to the color of mahogany. In place of the massive iron fixture that Grandpa claimed to have purchased from the mythical King Arthur, an elaborate crystal chandelier flooded the foyer with streams of light. Dark burgundy carpeting now covered the polished parquet floor where he had spent his visits playing marbles. Gone were the holidays, the Friday night Jewish Sabbath dinners, the underpinnings of their lives.

It’s good to see you, Sir, Simon said affectionately. You look so like your father – tall, handsome.

Thank you and I’ll be starting Harvard in a few weeks. It felt good to brag. The old butler had been a professional companion to his grandfather and kind to Charles whenever he visited. He didn’t doubt Simon’s affection for Grandpa, but in Francine’s service he could no longer be trusted.

Your father must be very proud of you, Simon said. And how is Mister Ruben? he asked. I’ve missed him since your grandfather passed away

Charles knew Francine had forbid even the mention of his fatherz. Dad’s a little grayer, but fine. He’ll be happy to know you’re okay.

Simon nodded. Mister Ruben was my favorite you know. I can still hear your father and grandmother shouting at each other, he said, and paused in thought. I cared deeply for your Grandfather - Mrs. Stone however requires constant forethought. I must consider everything I say and do before I do it.

The old servant was running on empty, thought Charles. But he also remembered the shouting, and Grandpa mute in his wheelchair, his eyes darting furiously between Francine and his father. None of that however explained why Grandpa gave his power of attorney to Francine and not his own son. Simon’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. Is Mrs. Stone expecting you?

No. Charles suddenly felt rooted to the spot, searching for the words intended for Francine. I didn’t even tell my father I was coming.

An expression of concern crossed Simon’s face. I will tell Mrs. Stone you are here. He crossed the foyer to the marble telephone stand.

Charles listened as Simon spoke softly. He felt sorry for the old servant, trapped in Francine’s employ.

Mrs. Stone will receive you. Be careful, Sir.

Thanks, Simon, he said, with an affectionate pat. He would have preferred the tigress to come down, closer to the front door, but that had already been decided.

Simon opened the wrought iron gate to the cage that served as an elevator. Good luck to you Master Charles, he whispered. Call for me if… he paused and looked away.

Charles stepped into the elevator he had loved to play in as a boy and pulled down on the polished steel cable, sending the open cage up past three floors of dimly lit hallways. To his dismay the photographs of grandpa, his father, the hallway’s pictorial history of the Stone family, had been replaced by elaborately framed oil paintings.

Suddenly, in expectation of an unrelenting enemy, he found himself shrinking - but I'm only twenty. Was it too late to save his father? In the frightening hush of his own thoughts, he knew it was. Clearly, the family that had defined Grandpa’s life meant nothing to Francine. Yet, despite her cruelty, Charles still hoped to persuade her to amend her decision. He thought of Grandpa’s general mistrust of Gentiles and wondered why her Waspy manner had appealed to him. Perhaps it had something to do with the Depression, a fear that hung over the parents of many of his friends at school. Park Avenue however, was not a neighborhood steeped in darkness. His friends were still bright with optimism, and there was a general belief that the country would quickly reclaim its former glory. He firmly believed he was owed a better outcome. So how did Grandpa, armed with such cunning and experience, allow an outsider to destroy his life of hard work? He had to have had some earlier inclination of what was in league against him. It seemed implausible that he could wreck so successful a career with one monumental screw-up. And how more implausible were the demands Charles was about to make to the architect of Grandpa’s undoing.

Charles heard the faint sound of the evening news broadcast and knew that back home his father would by now be wondering where he was. White fur slippers followed by a red velvet robe slowly descended into view. Charles gripped the cable tightly, halting the elevator. A faint glow emanated from the hallway.

Francine Stone’s wiry figure stood in the hallway light - her owlish gaze painfully familiar. Her face had wrinkled noticeably and her tight chignon drew her eyes back thinly. She offered no greeting – instead, her long eyelashes dropped down over the bulge of her eyes and when they drew back her pupils were as edgy as a snake’s. With pursed lips she searched his face for the frailty she knew to exist in all men.

Charles? she said? For a moment I thought you were Ruben.

Sorry to disappoint you, he said. She was older and hopefully dying. He wasn’t afraid of her anymore and wished only to be heard. He pushed aside the iron-gate and stepped across the elevator’s metal threshold.

Francine searched Charles’ face in the same condescending way that had irritated him as a child. His apprehensions disappeared at the first sound of her voice - too feminine to be feared. He felt no need to veil his contempt for her and spoke out abruptly. Stone Textiles was my grandfather’s and father’s life. They built it… he began and paused, disturbed by her seeming amusement.

Go on, Charles, this takes courage.

I’m here for my father, he said, and stepped into the hallway. "You’re using your majority ownership to cut his salary in half Why?

Francine laughed. Because I can. I’m the Chairman of Stone Textiles. And yes, I don’t want him in my Company. You’re a child, Charles. Unfortunately, I can’t fire your father, not while he holds one-third of our stock. But I can appreciably lower his standard of living. And if he was so concerned with our business, why didn’t he go to China on his own. I remind you Charles, we’re totally dependent on our dividends – dividends derived from a continuous flow of cheap Chinese silk. But I admire your spunk, Charles. Bravo! Unfortunately, even privileged little boys like you sooner or later get their share of misery.

Charles saw no compassion in her. Further argument seemed useless. His father was right - she was a devil.

Francine’s gaze swept Charles from head to toe, and in a casual tone she reminded him that Stone Textiles was hers. Why else would I marry the old Jew? she said. One day I’ll own all of it.

Over your dead body, he thought. Charles was appalled by her crude reference to his grandfather, and wanted to punch her. He had listened many times to Grandpa’s account of Francine’s loathing of his Jewishness but nothing of her hatred for his father. Okay, he said. You’ve got most of my grandfather’s money, my father’s stock - you won. So just leave him alone?

Francine was disturbed by Charles’ self-confidence, qualities that might one day challenge Albert’s control of Stone Textiles. Fortunately, Charles was naive to the ways of business. She fixed her eyes on him and spoke of things she wanted him to agonize over, things he hadn’t questioned. Alright, Charles, know this. I kept my son from the Stone family name. Barrett would have remained my name too if not for my potential inheritance. And when I die, I will be buried a Barrett, in a crypt - not under a stone. Surely, you can’t deny that we Barrett’s have class, the kind that self-loathing Jews like your grandfather marry for. She laughed. Now, in answer to your question, I stopped hating your father when Albert took over the company. This is business, Charles. Your father is simply more valuable in Shanghai than New York. He can grow rich as our Asian agent, or rot here. It’s his choice. Believe me; I’m doing this for Stone Textiles, which, I remind you, is still one-third owned by your father. Francine leaned forward, her lips drawn to a smirk, her eyes wide in anticipation of his next move.

Smack her, his inner voice urged. His temples throbbed. He surveyed Francine with the same loathing that had always attended her sight. The cunning old bitch had been schooled by the best Louisiana financiers. It may take time, he said, his face taut with anger, but I’ll prove you forged my grandfather’s Will. He paused, knowing he had gone too far, and said in a rush of words, We’ll take half the business right now - no questions asked.

Spoken like your grandfather, you little shit, she sneered. I see right through you, you stupid boy. Why would I give away what’s already mine? Her narrowing eyes belied a more troubling thought, and like the conqueror she was, she knew that she had to eliminate the son of her enemy for all the reasons she had just heard.

Charles had come to engage her, to leave with something. Instead, he felt defeated. He couldn’t leave this way.

Francine saw the confusion in his eyes and smiled. "Relax, Charles, Your father lost the day I arrived. There’s nothing you could have done. Your grandfather’s Will is uncontestable. Your father wasted his money on lawyers. Save yourself the aggravation. Ruben is going to China."

Then, I’m going too, Charles he shouted. What was he thinking? Attending Harvard was his dream. He had studied and practiced day and night to stay first in his class. He was respected, admired. If he skipped college he would never acquire the skill to run any business. Momentarily held in a flood of thoughts, he stared into Francine’s quiet eyes sensing her cunning. His next impulse bore deeper, to a place where his mother lay buried, and he knew instinctively that if he lost his father too he would break. "Go with your gut," Grandpa always said.

Yeah, I’m going, too, Charles said boldly. Nothing is more important than my dad. He felt proud, even noble, and wondered if he had shamed her at all.

Well, Francine said, containing her amusement. That’s quite a trick, Charles, considering that the boat leaves in less than eight hours. And, for what it’s worth, your father may never come back. Her smile was a taunt. So talk sensibly, she said.

Of course, he wanted to graduate from Harvard, but he might arrange a year’s deferral and be home for next fall’s semester. His birth certificate could serve as a passport. Surely, the U.S. Consulate in Shanghai would issue a real passport. And his father’s stateroom would be comfortable enough. Who knows, he thought, this experience could better qualify him to take back Stone Textiles than a Harvard