The Ice Swan

by J'nell Ciesielski

  Svetlana saw her mother truly then. Not as a selfish creature but a creature of circumstance. Unquestionable privilege had molded her for nearly five decades to place her own desires first, with every need being met before she asked. It was a life Svetlana was well acquainted with, yet a revolution had forced her to alter her outlook. Perhaps it was the advantage of youth where the grasp of changeability was more mobile. Advancing years tightened its grip on the unchanging past.

  Knock. Knock.

  Svetlana averted her glare from her mother and took a fortifying breath. “Enter.”

  The door opened and Sheremetev pushed in belly first. “What are these raised voices?”

  Mama was off the settee in a flash and gripping Svetlana’s shoulders. “We were merely talking costumes and how I think this one could use gemstones to make it come alive.”

  Svetlana neatly shrugged her off with the appearance of adjusting the shoulder flounces of her dress. “I think gemstones would be hypocritical as this is traditional peasant garb.”

  “How fortunate I should come by at this time for I have just the thing.” Sheremetev snapped his fingers, creating more of a thick meaty sound than a crisp snap. “Leonid!”

  Leonid bustled into the dressing room holding a black box. He placed it on the vanity counter in front of Svetlana. “For you, Angel.”

  With apprehension, Svetlana untied the white ribbon and lifted the lid. Nestled within tissue paper was a ballerina costume of white gossamer tulle, feathers, and pearls.

  Sheremetev moved closer, eyes glowing as he gazed at the delicate piece. “I had it created based on Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. You will be my Odette. Perfect. Innocent. And beautiful above all others.”

  Svetlana’s stomach roiled at the thought of being that man’s anything. She gently pushed the box to the edge of the vanity. “Once more, you are too generous. I cannot accept this gift and am sorry for the effort you went to since I will not be dancing for much longer.”

  The glow in his eyes flickered like a shadow crossing the moon. “As you say. At least will you not try it on?” Sheremetev’s gaze slid to Mama, then back to her. “While we are waiting, Leonid, go to my office and fetch my accounts ledger.”

  Leonid hesitated, knowing as well as Svetlana it was a threat to force her to do his bidding. Powerful men loved nothing more than dangling their power for all to see. Svetlana was no fool. While every fiber of her being protested, she obediently slipped behind the privacy screen and wriggled into the costume. It fit like a glove. She stepped out to a collective gasp.

  Sheremetev beamed like a proud owner. “Prekrasnaya.”

  “Da, beautiful, Angel,” said Leonid.

  Tears filled Mama’s eyes as she clasped her hands together. “You remind me of the night you first stepped out into society. Dripping in white and pearls for innocence. It was the night you captured Sergey’s heart for good.”

  “Angel, are betrothed you?” Leonid’s anxious face reflected in the mirror.

  “No. Sergey is a dear friend.” Svetlana smoothed a feather as memories tumbled one over another. Sergey’s face wreathed in fire. The train station. The Reds dragging him back. “He was taken by the Bolsheviks as we escaped Petrograd. He promised to meet us here in Paris.”

  “And so he will,” Mama said as she dabbed at a stray tear.

  “Leonid, take Princess Ana to my table for a glass of sherry. On the house. It will comfort your spirits.” Before a protest could be offered, Sheremetev ushered Leonid and Mama from the room, then offered his arm to Svetlana. “Come with me.”

  “I should change.”

  “The costume maker informed me you’ll need to walk in it to ensure all the stitches and boning are correct. I do not understand her meaning, but I assume it is all important to the comfort of its wearer.” He adjusted his dinner jacket. The cheque book flashed from where it rested in his inner pocket. It taunted her with power, manipulating her into obedience. She hated it.

  He guided her down the hall. This time the waiters cast their eyes down in respectful deference. On the other side of the curtain, a woman sang a sad love song. A catalyst, she’d learned, for the ordering of more vodka. There was only one thing Russians loved more than sadness and that was vodka to drown said sorrows in.

  “The band is playing Tchaikovsky next. In honor of you.”

  “I have danced already this evening.”

  “Please, one more. The costume is already on.” He motioned for her to turn around. When she did so, he slipped a mask over her eyes and tied the ribbons behind her head, then gently pushed her in front of the mirror hung for performers to check their appearance before taking the stage.

  Svetlana’s fingers curled into her feathered skirt as anger poured molten through her veins. It was a delicate mask made of stiffened Venetian black lace. Black diamonds studded the winged tips.

  “They will come from all over Paris to see the Russian swan dance on my stage.” His face hovered in the mirror over her shoulder. “You will dazzle them.”

  “I danced on the stages of Petersburg, not before drunken ex-aristocrats.”

  “Think of it as staying in practice. For when I introduce you to Sergei Diaghilev and his Ballets Russes, the epitome of Russian culture here in Paris.”

  A gasp sprang to her lips. The impresario Diaghilev was known for his groundbreaking artistry and collaboration with masters in choreography, composition, and dance. To dance for the Ballets Russes was to achieve the highest honor for a Russian artist outside of their homeland. Perhaps if she were to gain the approval of Diaghilev she could earn a wage to repay the debt owed Sheremetev and no longer rely on their dwindling jewels for basic survival.

  “If I dance tonight, you will introduce me to Diaghilev tomorrow.”

  “I see this delights you. Proper introductions will be made at the earliest convenience.” The corners of Sheremetev’s mouth turned up, dimples in the dough. He turned to leave. “I’ll inform the band you’re on next.”

  The stage spotlight bled through the curtain, washing Svetlana in muted red as she waited. No more being coerced into dancing for others. After tonight she would secure a respectable way to settle their account at the White Bear and be done with the horrid place for good. One more dance. That was all.

  A woman sat on a stool a few feet away, neatly tucked between a stack of chairs and crates of wine. Cigarette smoke curled from her lip. Her slouched posture and brightly rouged cheeks looked familiar.

  “Hello again, Duchess. I see land on feet.” The working woman she’d met on the street. From the looks of things, work had not been kind of late.

  “Tatya, was it? A surprise to see you here.”

  “Not surprise when this where all Russians come for good time.”

  Svetlana searched for something appropriate to say, but what did one say to a girl of her station? How does the night fare?

  “I don’t believe the guests are allowed backstage. You’ll enjoy the show more from the tables.”

  “I no guest.”

  “You work here?”

  “Da. He ready in minute.” Tatya took a drag of her cigarette and sank farther into the smoke. “You?”

  Svetlana shook her head. Never did she wish to claim working here. “I’m doing a favor for Mr. Sheremetev.”

  Tatya barked with laughter that stuttered into a cough. “We all favors for Mr. Sheremetev. You prettiest yet.”

  One of the locked doors along the hallway opened and a jacketless man with the front of his shirt unbuttoned motioned at Tatya. The woman jumped off the stool and ground her cigarette under her heel. She sauntered by Svetlana, tweaking one of her feathers.

  “Showtime, Duchess.”

  * * *

  “Is it done?” Marina asked sleepily from her pallet on the cold floor as Svetlana and Mama slipped into their makeshift quarters.

  Svetlana groped for their single candle and a match. A tiny light sprang to life, producing a halo of orange that didn’t quite reach the en
tirety of the space. “Nearly, kotyonok.”

  Marina yawned and stretched, mimicking her nickname of little kitten. “I’ll be glad when you don’t go there anymore. It’s lonely without you.”

  Guilt swelled in Svetlana’s chest. There was only one way to alleviate it, but it came at the price of her pride. One look at her little sister’s pale face and she moved past her spat with Mama. Svetlana would paint herself and twirl like a bawd as many times as it took to remove her sister from this place.

  “You should have seen her tonight. Dressed like a swan in pearls and feathers. I’ve never heard such rapturous applause.” Mama shimmied out of her gown and placed it in the trunk with all the others. “She has an introduction to Monsieur Diaghilev of the Ballets Russes. Think of the prestige of performing on a Parisian stage.”

  Svetlana slipped her aching feet out of her shoes and rubbed the dull ache in her shin. She tried forgetting about the earlier spat for Marina’s sake, but Mama gave a valiant effort for resurrecting it.

  “Your tune about my dancing is oddly different than a few hours ago.”

  “Think of those attending Ballets Russes. Nobility, gentlemen and ladies. Diamonds and evening gloves. One step closer to the world in which we belong.”

  “I’m sure it will be wonderful, Mama.” Marina met Svetlana’s eye. She had learned the patience of placating their mother long before Svetlana could even attempt it. “Only because Svetka’s grace will outshine them all.” She coughed and fell back on her pillow.

  “That doesn’t sound good.” Svetlana knelt beside her and touched a hand to her sister’s brow. “You’re warm.”

  “No, it’s cold in here. The nights are turning cooler, and this floor is like an ice block come morning.”

  Taking the blanket from her own pallet and a fur-lined cloak of Sheremetev’s offering, Svetlana stuffed it under her sister. It wasn’t much, but it might muffle out some of the chill. “Try to sleep. In the morning we’ll help Mrs. Varjenksy make a large batch of hot soup.”

  “You’re a terrible cook.”

  “I can stir, can’t I?”

  “Only when you remember to and half the potatoes are already stuck to the bottom of the pot.”

  Svetlana pulled the thin blanket up to Marina’s chin, cutting off further remarks on her lack of culinary skills. “Good night.”

  A few hours later, when the sun was no more than a lingering consideration on the gray horizon, Svetlana awoke to a violent shuddering. She rolled over to find Marina shaking next to her. Drenched in sweat, her entire body convulsed hard enough to rattle her teeth.

  “Marina! Wake up.” Svetlana shook her sister. A shocking heat scorched through her nightdress. “Wake up.”

  Marina’s eyes barely fluttered as a wheeze escaped her throat.

  “Mama!” Svetlana flung the wet blanket off her sister and quickly covered her with her own dry one. “Marina is burning up. Get Mrs. Varjensky.”

  Mama flew out of their quarters and was back in a matter of seconds with a groggy Mrs. Varjensky in tow. The old woman took in the situation in a glance and knelt beside Marina. She touched the girl’s forehead, throat, arms, and opened her eyelids to reveal a solid white.

  Mrs. Varjensky’s face wrinkled. “Herbs no help this. Need something more.”

  Panic bolted through every inch of Svetlana. The old woman was a wise healer. If she couldn’t help . . . Svetlana jumped to her feet and pulled her clothes on, her decision immediate. “I know precisely the person.”

  Chapter 11

  Sleep was the only thing on Wynn’s mind as he made out the last of the Blighty tickets. Slips worth more than gold to send the wounded home to England for recovery or for good. He printed Harkin’s name on the last ticket, which boldly stated “rest and release from formal duties.” Harkin had done his bit. He was free at last. Wynn signed the bottom and added the document to the stack to be given to the patients in the morning. This time next week those lucky devils would be crossing the Channel, leaving the stench of war far behind. If only all his patients were so lucky.

  Stretching out of the stiff chair, he left his office and made a final round of the post-op ward. Rumors abounded of faltering Austria-Hungary lines and Germany doubting continued victories on the battlefield. The words armistice and peace negotiations floated on prayers that were battered remnants of hope after four dragging years of war.

  As Wynn made his way back downstairs and crossed the vestibule, the front doors banged open. An echo thudded down the length of his body, not from the disturbing sound but rather the sight.

  Svetlana. Wide-eyed. Clothes haphazard and breathing hard.

  And she was staring straight at him. “I need you.”

  * * *

  There is a sense of pride when a physician is able to diagnosis a patient correctly—not in a sense of gloating righteousness, but that his skills could be used for the betterment of his patient. Too often skills are not enough and must concede to bitter failure. It was with this knowledge Wynn grappled when Svetlana told him of Marina’s symptoms. He could be wrong, but he doubted it.

  Ordering an ambulance to find them at the church, Wynn grabbed his medical bag and raced with Svetlana to Marina as dawn cracked the sky. Running was faster than waiting for the ambulance to twist through the narrow streets. Even so, by the time they arrived, blood had begun to trickle from the young girl’s nose. Wynn kept the diagnosis to himself as they loaded her into the ambulance and drove back to hospital with masks covering their noses and mouths. Once there, he had to block the entrance to the quarantine ward as Svetlana and her mother tried to push past him.

  “This is a restricted area,” he said in his calmest doctor voice, bracing his arms across the door. “Medical staff only.”

  “Restricted for what?” Ana shrieked, wringing her hands and fluttering about like a caged bird.

  “Influenza.”

  With a gasp, she wilted against the wall.

  Svetlana didn’t flinch. “What will happen?”

  It had been a long while since he’d seen her. She was thinner, with a weary countenance that had become more pronounced. Awkwardness from their ill-parting lingered in the tension between them.

  “She’ll be kept as comfortable as possible in a temperature-even room with other afflicted patients. She’ll be sponged down and have her sheets changed as needed, and kept hydrated in hopes of staving off pneumonia. That’s all we can do.”

  “What about medicine?”

  He shook his head. “This strain is like nothing we’ve encountered. It defies every preconceived notion we have of the virus. There’s nothing we can do but wait it out.” To see if they live or die. It was the worst, most powerless situation.

  “Then I will wait with my sister.” Ducking, Svetlana slipped under his arm.

  He caught her elbow and pulled her away as her fingers brushed the door. At times of family consultations when he had to give heartbreaking news, he relied on a reserve of professional calm and detachment. Many outside the medical field called it coldly impersonal, but it was necessary lest emotion destroy the order he was trying to keep.

  All detached order shattered the moment he touched her. It was as if a live wire had been routed under his skin to his heart, jolting it alive. He’d tried to put her out of his mind and thought he was having a rather decent go at it, but that involuntary reaction told him he’d failed miserably.

  “Your desire to help is admirable, but I’m short staffed and there aren’t enough nurses as it is. The last thing I need is for you to come down sick, too, adding to our increasing list.”

  She glanced down at his hand still holding her elbow but didn’t move to dislodge him. “With not enough nurses to see to proper care, you have no argument to be selective. I will nurse my sister.”

  He did have an argument, a very good one, but her twist of semantics wasn’t the most important one at the moment. “You don’t have proper training.”

  “Then I will learn. Quickly.�
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  Nestor would gleefully have Wynn’s head on a platter if he discovered this break in protocol, but if the Duchess of Westminster could tend the wounded in a casino turned hospital, why not a Russian princess?

  Reluctantly, Wynn released her arm as nurses bustled by, their head coverings flapping behind them. This could be the best decision he ever made or the worst. Odd, how those two were often separated by a precariously thin line.

  “You must do precisely as the nurses instruct without question. No privileges will be given. At the first whimper of insubordination, you’re gone. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, loose hair slipping from her plait. “Yes.”

  “You’ll need a sterilized uniform before you can enter the ward. One of the VADs should do, and your regular clothing will need to be boiled and scrubbed with lye.”

  Ana roused herself from where she still leaned against the wall. Her face had paled by two shades. “I’m going too. My daughter needs me.”

  The last thing her daughter needed was a nervous mother hovering about and causing more harm than good. She’d only serve to cause upset. To everyone.

  Wynn shook his head. “Your maternal feelings are commendable but will be put to greater use from a distance. You must remain strong to care for her once she is released. In the meantime, boil all of your clothing and bed materials in the hottest water you can manage. We need to stop the sickness from spreading to the other émigrés.”

  “You are right, of course, Doctor, but I’m not sure . . . I can’t think properly.” Ana clutched the golden cross necklace around her throat. “What’s going to happen to my little girl? She’s so young.”

  Svetlana slipped an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Mama, I believe Dr. MacCallan is correct. Marina will rest much easier knowing you’re far from here and praying for her. Come, I’ll take you back to the church.” She eased the woman toward the stairs before looking back to Wynn. “I’ll return shortly.”