Chapter I. Arrival at the Frontier

That day of early spring of 1909 nobody in Armadillo had paid attention to a carridge that entered the town early in the morning. It was rickety and made of rough wood, that creaked all the time. A sad-looking horse pulled it dully in the direction of the town's main street. It drove over the rails, making a loud noise and after passing a little bit further it finally stopped near the saloon. The driver jumped down from the carridge. He adjusted his dirty clothings and then yelled ''arrived!'' to the passengers.

Three men, pale and skinny descended to the ground. One, a small guy with a round face and a barb approached to the driver. He payed him 16 dollars and thanked him for the drive. Meanwhile, the two other guys took down the bags and sacks from the carridge. They all looked very tired, but anyhow they tried to look strong and healthy.

Alex. Abe. C'mon. We have to find a room, he commanded.

Shlomo, but it's a saloon. Not an hotel…

In America you can find a room here as well, Abe.

He took two enormous trunks and went to the saloon. Alex and Abe followed him. They entered the wooden building and stopped in the center of the room. Almost half a hundred eyes gazed at them. A total silence established it's reign. In front of the entry was sitting a group of men, covered with shit, sweat and a stinky smell of alcohol. Probably thugs. In the end of the room, near the stairs stood a piano, but no one was playing it at the moment.

Shlomo made a deep-drawn sigh and courageousely stepped forward. He approached the bar desk and looked at the barman. The people were still looking at them. Shlomo breathed with nervouseness. What if people could hear his Jewish accent? What if they were the same as in Russia? Everyone had a gun. Shlomo has become nervous for the first time since they had left the harbour of Odessa.

The barman, a rugged faced man with large cheek-bones and short cut black hair looked grinned and finally spoke.

Dewey Greenwood for your service. What'ye want in here folks?

Heh…good d-day…sir…I am Shlomo and these are Alex and Abe.- he indicated them with his hand.- We want to rent a room.

Greenwood twisted his mouth.

Well. I'll check on my book then. – he turned his back to them and started to check a big book that had been lying under the picture of a naked woman with a spectacular arse.

While the bartender was turning pages, Shlomo looked from behind the shoulder at the people and realized that they were not interested in them so much already. He could finally calm down. Shlomo stared with more attention to the audience in the saloon and made a conclusion that the American West was a place of armed males. There was no woman in the saloon.

The bartender came back. Shlomo looked at him with hope.

I am sorry gentlemen. All the rooms are occupied at the moment.

Shlomo turned pale, scared and angry.

So, are they occupied for a long time?

No, he smiled. An English guy from above – he indicated the ''above'', said that he was going to Chuparosa the next day. When he's away you can occupy his room.

Sir, but where can I spend the night then? – Shlomo asked.

At Coot's chapel.

Chapel? Shlomo was surprised. Were they going to sleep in a church? Shlomo was a Jew. Though he didn't read the Torah and followed kashrut that stricktly neither, he knew from his mother's lips that he was not allowed to enter any other worship place except the sinagogue.

What is it?

It's a run down church with a cemetry. There are always people livin' there.

Well…-Shlomo stood thoughtful. Though it seemed to be the only option, he didn't want to break up with his Jewish identity. It took him a while to deal with that.

Suddenly, Alex asked in a row English:

Where we buy to eat?

Greenwood gazed at him with smile.

At the grocery store, of course. It's right in front of the saloon. Just cross the street.

Well, thank you, I guess, Mr. Greenwood. We'll go to the Coot's chapel. But tomorrow we come back and you give us a room. Deal?

Sure. The chapel is not far away. Just follow the road you came with and then to the right.

Shlomo lifted his two large trunks and directed to the exit. Abe and Alex followed him. As soon as they'd touched the dangling shutters, Greenwood said loudly: «And buy yourself the hats, boys. Unless you don't wanna be freaks here». Shlomo nodded in approval. They left the saloon and stopped near the post office.

The weather was hot. Almost fourty degrees Celcius. Going almost a kilometer through a steppe loaded like mules would have been a suicide. Abe sat at the porch and straightened his legs. Alex was looking at the end of the street, where a sheriff's office and some homes were situated. Shlomo decided that the two of them needed a rest. He took out a little money he had in the pocket. 12 dollars 45 cents.

Hey, guys. I'll go to the grocery store and buy some food for us. You two stay here and watch for our luggage, Shlomo said and was up to go.

I'll go with ya, Abe said and stood up.

Why?

Dont'ya remember the food you'd bought when we were in Gibraltar. I don't wanna have a stomachache again…

Ok. Alex, you stay here.

Alex nodded.

They both went to the grocery store. It was made of wood as well and was all heaped with boxes, barrils and different containers. When they entered, they saw a great variety of goods: meat, tools, animal skins, and even coguar forefoots… Shlomo and Abe went to the counter amazed. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with snow-white hair and mustache greeted them. "Herbert Moon's establishment welcomes you".

Nice day to you, sir, Shlomo greeted.

How can I help you? – the shopkeeper adjusted his white round glasses.

We need some food, sir.

Very well, there are fresh chickens, dried beaf, porc… - he suddenly stopped talking and stared with both of his blue eyes at them. – What's your name by the way? Are you new at the town? Never seen ya before.

Yes. We have arrived half an hour ago. My name is Shlomo Klein and this is Abe Rabbin. – Shlomo extended his hand to Herbert Moon.

In a matter of a second, a Winchester carbine appeared from behind the counter and was now looking right in Shlomos forehead, ready to blow out his brains. The kind face of Herbert Moon has changed to a fierce grimace of a serial killer.

You, damn Jewish bastards now get out of my store, or I'll make a fine wide hole in your fucking heads. – Moon spoke through his teeth.

Shlomo was frightened to death. Abe stood silent and all tensed, trying to keep the situation under control. They made a step back. Moon's fierce eyes were looking through the foresight at them.

Get the fuck out of my store, you Jewish bitches. I won't repeat.- he lifted abruptly the carbine.

Ok. We go.- Shlomo said.

They slowly went away. Shlomo's fears have justified themselves: even there in America, there were people, who hated Jews. They approached to Alex. He gazed at them with a surprise in his eyes. Shlomo looked sad.

What happened? – Alex wondered.

The sonofabitch is an anti-Semite. Won't sell us anything. - Abe said in a rough voice.

Pointed his fucking gun at us, Shlomo added.

Alex stood up.

I can buy what we need. I am not a Jew though.

I don't want to buy anything from him. He's the same as these Romanian bastards, who killed my father during the pogrom.

Alex understood Shlomo, but if they didn't buy something to eat they would have to live almost a day without food. They were tired as hell and needed to recuperate themselves. So, they had to forget about their ethical disgust towards the shopkeeper and go buy something.

OK. Take the money Alex. But I am not sure that he will allow you to buy something in his store not being a WASP.

Don't ya worry. There is no fortress that a Russian couldn't take over.

You say so, Shlomo said and handed him seven bucks and some coins. Try to buy kosher.

Alex laughed, making Shlomo and Abe angry. He was probably going to buy some pork.

Alex went to the grocery store, leaving his friends to watch for the luggage. Alex was a pale young Russian with blue eyes, chestnut short hair and beautiful European face. He was from an aristocratic Russian family and was probably the best-educated person at the place. He was sure that he would be able to handle anything.

He entered the store and looked at the counter. Herbert Moon was cleaning the goods from dust.

Nice to see you, mister, he greeted the shopkeeper.

Moon lifted his head and gazed at Alex. He stood a while watching him directly in the face, just like if he was scanning him for Jewry. After having checked Alex's phenotype, he concluded for himself that Alex wasn't a Jew.

Hi, he greeted reluctantly.

I would like to buy some ham, potatoes and butter.

What's your name, son? Moon asked.

Alexander.

Last name? Moon didn't even looked at him.

Brunnow.

Are you Jewish?

Nope. Russian.

Good. Because the Jews won't be tolerated in my establishment.

And that's very good of you. The Jews drink Christian babies' blood…

Herbert Moon smiled. In all these years he finally found a person who would understand him. And they talked. Talked a lot. About the Jews, the Brits, the Government, the Chinese, the Chili-eaters and many other bad things that happened to the United States of America. After half an hour of a discussion, Moon and Alex became very good friends, and Moon even made him a discount.

When Alex came out with goods, Abe and Shlomo were pleasantly surprised. There was finally food to eat. They took their luggage and went to the Coot's chapel to wait for the following morning and have a good dinner.

The road was difficult. They wore the huge trunks under the burning sun. The sweat ran down from their faces. When they arrived to the destination, they barely could stand on their legs. They fall on their trunks and bags and closed their eyes. The enchanting darkness and cold of the church touched their tired bodies.

Finally in America, Shlomo said with a smile on his face.

Yup, Alex consented.

Aha, Abe sustained.

[From The illustrated encyclopedy of the Bolshevique Party of America; vol.1/ Commune Press/ Liberty City, 1963 563p. p.12]

The founders of the BPA were three immigrants from Russian Empire: Shlomo Klein, Abraham Rabbin, and Alexander Brunnow. Klein was born in 1889 in a poor Jewish family near Odessa, a Russian city on the shore of the Black Sea. Klein's native language was Yiddish. He was a talented kid, though he had almost no education. Klein passed only three classes of local Heder (Jewish religious school). Klein lost his mother in the early childhood and had to live with his aunt, who abandoned Russia in 1896, leaving the seven years old Klein on his own. His father was killed during the Pogrom of 1906. Klein left Russia in 1908 with the friend of his Abraham Rabbin.

Not much is known about Rabbin. He was an orphan and barely any documents are left, concerning his early biography.

Alexander Brunnow (baron von Brunnow) was a total difference to his comrades. Born in a rich aristocratic family in Odessa, he was a son of a prosperous Russian railway magnate. He had a perfect education. He dominated besides Russian both German and French perfectly. English for him was difficult though he studied it very hard. Alexander Brunnow had serious contradictions with his family because of his difficult character. Since his early days he dreamt of seeing the World and take part in adventures. In 1908 he decided to leave Russia and to settle in America. He got acquainted with Klein and Rabbin during the Pogrom of 1906 in Odessa. The Brunnow family hid their Jewish neighbors in their mansion.