The Red Tide

by Christopher Nicole

  One of his aides opened the door. Kerensky nodded to Sonia.

  She looked at the Grand Duchesses. “You will have to do without me for a while,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an immense effort.

  “Oh, Bolugayevska!” Olga ran forward to embrace her, and her sisters followed.

  “We shall miss you so,” Anastasia wept.

  “Do come back to us as quickly as you can,” Marie admonished.

  “Of course she will,” Tatiana said, and kissed her.

  Kerensky waited patiently by the door. Olga and Sonia looked into each other’s eyes. They both had the same feeling, that they were not going to see each other again. Then Olga embraced her a last time. “We shall pray for you, Sonia,” she whispered.

  “And I for you,” Sonia promised. Then she walked through the door.

  To her surprise, the hallway was empty, save for armed men, lounging in a not very military fashion, but straightening as they saw Kerensky. Sonia wondered if they would trouble to pick her up if she fainted; she certainly felt as if she might, from sheer relief at the realisation that she was not immediately going to be torn to pieces. “What is in there?” Kerensky pointed at one of the doors leading off.

  “The Grand Duchess Marie’s apartment,” Sonia said.

  “You mean Marie Romanov’s apartment, madame. In there.”

  My God! Sonia thought: can he mean to rape me himself? But she opened the door and went into the room. Kerensky followed, and closed the door behind him. They both inhaled Marie’s scent. “Sonia Bolugayevska,” he said. “Ex-Princess of Bolugayen. Rasputin’s mistress.”

  “As you are Alexander Kerensky,” she retorted. “But I know nothing more than that. Are you now President of Russia?”

  “I am Minister of Defence in the new government. I control the Army. As long as I do that, there is some hope for all of us. What have you to say for yourself?”

  “You mean you have not yet decided whether or not to have me shot, or thrown to the mob. I was never Rasputin’s mistress. I was his slave. I had no choice, as he rescued me from the Okhrana. Will you send me back to them?”

  “The Okhrana no longer exist, Madame Bolugayevska.” He gave a grim smile. “The mob has done that. Is still doing it. But I know you were arrested by the secret police, not once, but twice. That makes you one of us. What were you doing here?”

  Sonia shrugged. “They offered me sanctuary. Because I worked for Rasputin.”

  He nodded. “But they can no longer offer you sanctuary. Do you have anywhere to go? Bearing in mind that you are no longer subject to arrest by the Okhrana.”

  “You mean I can leave here? By myself?”

  “I would recommend very strongly that you leave here. Leave Petrograd, in fact. And do not ever come back.” Sonia licked her lips. “My things...”

  “Things can always be replaced. A life cannot. Run for your life, Sonia Bolugayevska.”

  Sonia went to the door, hesitated. “And the Romanovs?”

  “Those girls are splendid creatures, aren’t they?”

  “You cannot mean to give them to your men?”

  “No,” he said. “My aim is to restore civilisation in Petrograd. Not destroy it entirely. I will do whatever I can do for them. They have relatives. The King of England is their cousin.” This time his smile was wry. “So is the Kaiser. But as it is my intention that we should continue the war with Germany, that would not be a good idea. I will do what I can. But you, Madame Bolugayevska, you must hurry away from this place.”

  Chapter Ten - Going Home

  One of Kerensky’s soldiers used his bayonet to help Sonia tear a drape into pieces and secure her a length of the material to use as a headscarf. This she could legitimately wrap around her face, as it remained very cold. The rest of the material she wrapped round her shoulders, thus concealing the fact that her clothes were of good cut and allowing her immediately to look as ragtail as the rest of the women milling about the palace complex. But even so, reaching Petrograd was immensely difficult, and painful. Memories of her escape from Irkutsk kept rising up and threatening to overwhelm her with despair. She could only take comfort from the fact that now she was surrounded by people, angry but yet good-humoured, swearing they would hang every Romanov or Tsarist they could lay hands on yet solicitiously helping Sonia back to her feet when she slipped and fell. Soon after that she found a place on a cart filled with loot from the palace, and travelled in comparative comfort.

  Going where? Regaining Petrograd was instinctive. But what would she find there? She had a house which she had not visited for over a year. She had a bank account with enough money in it to take her round the world in luxury, but she did not suppose any bank would be doing business today. And at the moment she had no money. But getting back to her house, and some warm clothing, remained her first priority.

  The cart rumbled into the city, and she looked around herself with a growing sensation of horror. People lay dead on the streets, attracting no attention at all, save from the children who were kicking them or pulling at them with an almost maniacal glee. Then she saw a man hanging from a lamppost. From his tunic she could tell that he had been a policeman, but he was naked from the waist down, and he had been castrated before death. And the children were poking at his body, too. I have sought refuge in hell, she thought. Over all there was a pall of smoke from the burning public buildings. Yet the private dwellings seemed, remarkably, untouched.

  She recognised the street they were on, and when the cart was slowed by a group of men armed with rifles, shouting and asking questions, she slipped from the tailgate. Someone called after her, but she ignored him and hurried round the corner. She was only a few blocks from her own house. And here there were less people, and no corpses, either lying or hanging. Here the revolution might never have been. She wondered if Michaelin had been dragged from his office and stretched on the snow to have his breeches torn off and his genitals cut away? She wondered why she did not go and find out, and do it herself if he still lived? But she was too exhausted, emotionally and physically. She wanted rest, and safety.

  She stumbled up the steps to her front door, and banged on it. She had to do this several times before she elicited a reply. “Who is there?” asked a voice.

  “Korsakov!” she shouted, too bewildered to do more than pronounce the name. “For God’s sake let me in.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then the bolts were released. Sonia had been leaning against the panels and fell on to her hands and knees as they swung inwards. With very little ceremony she was dragged into the hall and the door shut and bolted behind her. Only then did Korsakov kneel beside her. Standing behind him was a terrified Antonina. “Sonia? Is it really you?”

  Sonia rose to her knees. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came looking for you. But Antonina did not know where you were. She said you had been arrested by the Okhrana...”

  Sonia stood up. “I need something hot to drink. Tea. And vodka. And I need a bath. Do those things, Antonina.” The maid looked at Korsakov, and received a quick nod. She hurried off. “So, you are the master here,” Sonia remarked. “How long have you been here?”

  “Since last summer.”

  “Last...are you wounded?”

  He was not wearing uniform, but rather a collection of odd garments. “A few scratches.”

  “You mean you deserted? You?”

  Korsakov sat down, hands dangling between his knees. “You were not there. You cannot criticise, unless you were there. You know nothing of the filth and the lice. You have never heard the sound of the guns, constant, always coming closer. You do not know what it feels like to know there is an enemy, not a hundred yards away, and when you go to load your revolver, you find you have no bullets left, and there are none to be had. You have not lived with the smell of death, the screams of the dying. You cannot know.”

  Sonia stood above him. While she understood what he was trying to convey, she felt no pity for him, s
imply because there were millions of men who had not run away. “You were with Samsanov,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”

  He raised his head. “That was more than two years ago.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  He shrugged. “We walked into a trap. We were surrounded and butchered. Those who survived, surrendered.”

  “But you were neither butchered nor surrendered.”

  “I cut my way out. With what was left of my regiment. I commanded men, then. Under Brusilov I was expected to command boys. Frightened boys.”

  So you became frightened yourself, Sonia thought. “Did you see Alexei at Tannenburg?”

  “We rode together for a while. We talked about you.”

  “What about me?”

  “I told him we were to be married.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He did not wish to discuss it.”

  “Did he get out, with you?”

  “No, he did not. He told me to get out if I could, then he returned to be with Samsanov. I am afraid he was killed. Or killed himself. Oh, very gallant.”

  “Alexei would never kill himself,” Sonia snapped. Although she could not be sure about that. Alexei was so bound up in notions of honour that the defeat of an army in which he held a command might well have been too great a humiliation for him to bear.

  Antonina produced the tea. “I will draw your bath, madame,” she said. But she was again exchanging glances with Korsakov.

  “Thank you, Antonina,” Sonia said. She waited until the maid had left the room, then said, “So, having deserted, you came here, and took up with my maid.”

  “Well...I came looking for you, Sonia, my dearest Sonia.”

  “You had better not let Antonina hear you calling me that,” Sonia suggested.

  “But you were not here. And I needed some place to hide. If they had caught me...”

  “They would have shot you. Which is what you would have deserved. What you still deserve.”

  “You were not here,” he said again. “Antonina gave me shelter. And, well, we were two lonely people together.”

  “And one thing led to another. I know. I do not imagine you made too great an effort to find out where I was.”

  “You were in the hands of the Okhrana. If they had caught me...”

  “They would have shot you. Well, I am here, now. What are your plans?”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I am going down to Bolugayen. How much money do you have?”

  “I have nothing. We have nothing. Antonina went to the bank yesterday to draw money, but the bank was shut.”

  “And is likely to stay shut.” Sonia chewed her lip. She actually didn’t even know if there were any trains running. But she had to get out of Petrograd, with or without Korsakov. She did not care whether he came or not. However could she ever have contemplated marrying such an ignoble creature? “I am going to have my bath.”

  There was not enough fuel to spare for more than a lukewarm bath — the entire house was like an ice-box — so it was a quick in and out for Sonia, while Antonina hovered, and chattered, aimlessly. Antonina was in a highly agitated state, but Sonia could tell that she was also waiting for a lead from her lover, and with that understanding she also realised that she might be in some personal danger. As Sonia lacked a friend in the world, now, she needed to tread with caution. “I intend to leave Petrograd,” she said, as she stepped out of the tub and was wrapped in a towel-robe. “And go down to Bolugayen. I think it will be much safer there. Would you like to accompany me, Antonina?” Antonina did not reply for a few seconds, and as she was standing behind Sonia, massaging her through the towel, Sonia could not see her face. “Major Korsakov would be welcome to accompany us, of course,” she added.

  “How would we travel?” Antonina asked.

  “Well, if I can raise some money, we would go by train.”

  “I meant, would I continue to be your servant?”

  “Well, of course, Antonina.” Sonia stepped out of the towel. “I am not going to sack you.”

  “The people on the streets are saying that there will be no more mistress and servant, in the new Russia,” Antonina remarked.

  Sonia had opened her wardrobe, looking for the clothes she had left here, a year ago. She wanted a warm nightdress, and then a warm bed. She wanted to sleep for a week. But now she turned, frowning. “If you do not wish to work for me Antonina, then you may leave.”

  “Leave! Ha! Madame, it is time we understood certain things. Paul is my lover, not yours. This is my house, not yours.”

  I must not lose my temper, Sonia thought. But she could not carry on such an argument standing naked and goose pimpled before this woman. She selected a nightdress, dropped it over her head, settled it around her hips while she did some rapid thinking. But anger still predominated. “You may find that difficult to prove in a court of law,” she remarked.

  “Court of law,” Antonina sneered. “Those courts of law no longer exist. They have been burned down. You are an aristocrat. In the streets they are saying, death to all aristocrats.”

  Sonia lost her temper. “Then why do you not get out there and shout it with them?” she snapped. “Go on. Get out. You are dismissed.”

  “You cannot dismiss me,” Antonina asserted.

  “I have just done so,” Sonia told her.

  “I am here by right of occupation,” Antonina said. “You are a wanted felon.” Sonia picked up her largest hairbrush, backed with heavy silver. “Paul!” Antonina bawled. “Come up here!” She certainly had taken on a lot of airs, Sonia thought. Korsakov hurried up the stairs. “She thinks she can throw us out,” Antonina said.

  “Now, Sonia,” Korsakov said placatingly. “I am sure you do not wish to do that.”

  “I do wish it. Out!”

  “We’ll just tell the people out there who is in here,” Antonina threatened. “Then we’ll see.”

  “Do that, Paul, and you’re a dead duck,” Sonia warned. “Russia is still at war with Germany, and you are a deserter.”

  Korsakov chewed his lip. “Listen,” Antonina said earnestly to Paul. “Why don’t we do her, now. Nobody knows she’s here. And nobody cares. Now’s our chance, Paul. People are being killed all over the place. One more corpse in the streets isn’t going to concern anyone. And then she won’t bother us again.”

  Sonia looked from one to the other in horror; she could not believe they would actually murder her. Korsakov continued to look uncertain, and there came a knock on the street door — a loud authoritative knock. “Oh, my God!” Korsakov said. “The police!”

  The knock was repeated. “We will have to open it,” Sonia said, “or they will break it down. Antonina!”

  She had no idea who it could be, but even the police would be a help. Save that the police were also fugitives, now. Antonina went down and unbolted the door. “Woman, you have not changed at all,” said the man on the step.

  “Leon!” Sonia screamed, and almost threw herself down the stairs, ignoring the fact that she was wearing only a nightdress. She endeavoured to check herself at the foot, if only to take him in. He did not seem to have changed all that much either, physically, but he had lost the furtive air she remembered. He was not in uniform, although he wore the invariable Russian belted tunic and peaked cap, but he looked well-fed as well as confident.

  “I told you I would come back for you, dear girl,” he said, and took her in his arms.

  She kissed him, several times. “But...have your people taken power?”

  “Not yet. But the power is there for the taking.” He was looking over her shoulder, at Korsakov, slowly descending the stairs. “I remember you.”

  Behind him, Antonina closed the door. “Who is this man?” Korsakov demanded.

  Sonia looked at Trotsky. “Lev Bronstein, at your service,” Trotsky said. “But you may call me Trotsky.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I have come to see my mistress,” Trot
sky announced.

  Sonia caught her breath. But Trotsky’s appearance had undoubtedly saved her life, whatever might happen after. “Get them out of here, Leon,” she said. “They were threatening to kill me.”

  “He knows you!” Antonina shouted. “You must kill them both Paul!” Korsakov turned to run back up the stairs; no doubt he had his revolver concealed in the bedroom. But he was not quick enough. Trotsky pushed Sonia to one side, and from beneath his tunic drew his own revolver. A single shot brought Korsakov tumbling back down the stairs. “Aaaagh!” Antonina screamed, and reached for the door. Trotsky turned, and shot her also. The range was so close Antonina’s back seemed to dissolve in blood and bone, and she hit the floor without another sound.

  Sonia could only stare, as Trotsky turned again. Korsakov had fallen right down the stairs, and now lay in a heap at the bottom, moaning. “My God, I’m hit. Sonia...”

  “I am out of practice,” Trotsky complained, and fired again. This bullet hit Korsakov in the head. Again Sonia watched something living explode in a cloud of blood and grey matter. Her stomach rolled, and she sat down heavily on one of the straight chairs in the hallway. “Bourgeois scum,” Trotsky remarked, and emptied the three used cartridge cases on to the floor, carefully reloading his weapon with bullets taken from his pocket. He glanced at Sonia. “You are shaking. Have you never seen a man killed before? Or a woman?”

  “A long time ago. In Siberia.”

  “One thing about life never changes, and that is death. That is good, eh? I must use it in a speech.” He went into the sitting room and poured a glass of brandy, brought it back to her. “Drink.” She obeyed, gulping the burning liquid down her throat. “Now come upstairs,” Trotsky said. “I wish to fuck you. I have looked forward to this moment for so long. My God! It is four years.”

  He held her hand, and she pulled it free. “No. I cannot! Not now. Please, Leon. Not with...”

  “When you’re upstairs, you won’t be able to see them.” He returned to the sitting room for the brandy decanter, and just for good measure brought a bottle of vodka as well. “We will get drunk together.”