Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  Occasionally an optimistic report would be passed along. Erdeli had won a major battle; he was holding the Reds back; there was even talk of a counterattack.

  One evening in February after a long, tiring day at the infirmary, Kitty ate two bites of supper and immediately had to dash upstairs to throw up. She had been feeling strangely languid in the morning, not inclined to touch food until near midday, but had dismissed the odd new symptoms as the result of her heavy schedule at the refugee barracks.

  Minutes later, lying pale and exhausted on her bed, a memory spread poignantly along the corridors of her mind, and with hope and apprehension she knew. It wasn’t hard work and long hours that accounted for the absence of her monthly cycles. She was going to have a child.

  Kitty tried to conjure up some feelings of shame and remorse as she lay curled in the pillows, but inexplicably she couldn’t. With a curious sense of elation she now knew quite conclusively that she was carrying Apollo’s child. Placing her hands on her flat stomach, she visualized the new life growing inside her, imagined the young child who had sprung from the joyous passion of those three days in December, and she whispered softly, “I will love you … as I love your father.”

  It was the worst of times in the eye of a hurricane devastating her only known world, but for a brief moment it was the best of times for her, and nothing mattered but the love child she carried.

  Two days later the stream of refugees diminished to a trickle, then abruptly ceased. Pavel, sent into the nearby town with a note to Kitty’s grain dealer, had returned with no reply. Eschlov and Sons was closed. They had left for Constantinople.

  Kitty should have realized then that the Red troops were near, and in the back of her mind she did know. But if she acknowledged that fact she would have to leave, and that meant coming face to face with the very real possibility of never seeing Apollo again. It was unsafe to stay, but she was ruled by her heart and by the life growing within her. It was a silly romantic dream, but she desperately hoped it would come true, hoped that Apollo would return to her and to his child. Just a few more days, she told herself, holding on to a scrap of a dream in the face of logic, only a few more days … then she’d leave.

  In retrospect, it was a very foolish thing to do, and after years of being practical, dutiful, and reasonable, it was a very bad time to become foolish.

  Late that night Kitty’s frantic maid wakened her. Anna was hysterical and Kitty felt a flash of panic at the first stir of disaster. In the space of a heartbeat Kitty knew the worst had finally befallen them.

  “The Bolotokov and Nikitin estates are afire!!!”

  Kitty ran to the window, hoping the young girl was somehow mistaken. No mistake. The flames of both properties blazed blood red on the horizon.

  “Mistress, what will we do? Everyone has fled!”

  Kitty’s mind was rapidly gauging the time and distance from the Bolotokov estate, which was nearest, as she threw off her nightgown and tossed a woolen gown over her head. “Anna, don’t panic,” she said as calmly as her own frantically pulsing heart would allow. “We’ve still about fifteen minutes at least. Put on your coat and boots and run home to your grandmother. The Bolsheviks are friends of the peasants. They shouldn’t hurt you.” Kitty knew the Reds were no champions of any person or class who stood in their way, but it wouldn’t serve to alarm the girl further. “Now, run. Go! And God go with you.”

  The young maid hesitated for a fraction of a second, but fear overcame her sense of loyalty even as Kitty said, “Don’t die because of me, Anna. Think of your grandmother. She needs you.”

  The girl stuffed her fist into her mouth to stifle a sob, then turned abruptly and vanished down the long hallway. Kitty followed closely behind, only taking time to gather her jewels into a leather vanity case and pull a warm fur from the armoire. Running down the long curved stairway, she dashed into Peotr’s study. With trembling fingers she unlocked the safe, snatched his directions from the strongbox, and—hear ing rifle shots terrifyingly close—fled through the ominously empty house out the terrace door to the stable.

  The first armored cars were screaming up the long driveway when Kitty exited Aladino for the last time.

  With only moments to spare, the young groom who had always cared personally for Peotr’s mount tossed Kitty up onto her favorite mare and whipped her on her way. She rocketed out the wide wooden doorway, her horse breaking across the frozen fields behind the stable just as the first members of the Red patrol broke down the front door of Aladino.

  The cold stinging her face, her body trembling in nervous reaction to the narrowness of her escape, Kitty bent low over the mare’s neck, alternately shivering and inhaling long, calming breaths. She had to remain sensible. The countryside was alive with marauding Bolsheviks. How to find the safest way south to Batum, Sochi, Novorossiisk? Lord, give her courage! Angling west through the fields, staying well away from the manor house and buildings, Kitty reached the concealing shadows of the willows lining the river. She clung to the dim anonymity of the gray murkiness, following the river’s course for several versts, heading in a rough southwesterly direction toward Stavropol. If she could reach the city, perhaps it would be possible to purchase a rail ticket south. Moving slowly through the snow-covered landscape, careful not to leave the protective darkness of the drooping willows, Kitty gained a minor byway which eventually widened into one of the country roads to Stavropol. She was several versts from Aladino and the fires glowing well east of her were now only a minor radiance on the horizon. She allowed herself a brief prayer of thanksgiving, profound relief coursing through her ravaged nerves as she gazed at the distant fires. Striking out for Stavropol, she congratulated herself on her hairbreadth escape.

  Riding down the deserted road, Kitty straightened her shoulders, drew in a deep draught of the frosty night air, and crooned encouragement to her mare. With a bit of good fortune, she speculated optimistically, she’d be in Stavropol tomorrow.

  As it was, her current streak of luck was scheduled to run out.

  Scarcely ten minutes later, just as Kitty’s mount settled into a comfortable canter, the tranquil darkness of the star-strewn sky was broken by twin beams of vivid yellow light. Seemingly out of nowhere, double streaks from incandescent mercury lamps shone heavenward, ahead of the rider on the empty road. A startling second later a large touring car followed, hurtling out of one of the ravines that cut through the steppe and roared down the road directly toward Kitty.

  The mare reared in terror at the sudden light and noise. Kitty lost the stirrups and felt herself falling. There was only time to breathe one soft, exasperated curse, before Lady Luck deserted Countess Radachek and her head struck the ground.

  The Russo-Baltic motor car, flying the fanion of the Sixth Division, quietly slid to a halt. From the backseat, a strongly built, well-preserved officer stepped out. Dressed by the best Petrograd tailor, his greatcoat thrown over his shoulders in a manner copied from the old imperial generals, the officer walked slowly over to the crumpled form in the middle of the snow-packed road. With the toe of one splendid riding boot, he rolled the unconscious female over. Snapping his fingers, he barked, “A torch!” A beam of light immediately shone on Kitty’s body. A slow smile creased the general’s9 tanned, leathery face. “Put the, ah …”—he glanced at Kitty’s rich sable and expensive gown—“lady into the backseat.” Aristocratic ladies were much to his taste, and such a pretty piece, he decided, should amuse him for quite some time. To the victor, et cetera … The Revolution had pleasantly expanded the circle of women available to the son of a poor Siberian peasant.

  Surveying the newest plunder of his pillaging troops would wait until later. Reversing his previous order, General Beriozov instructed his driver to return to Stavropol.

  Several times on the return journey, the general switched on the interior lights and examined, with the eye of a connoisseur, the very latest—and to date, the most beautiful—of his acquisitions.

  • • •r />
  Kitty woke the following morning in an unfamiliar feather bed in an unfamiliar room, albeit an opulent one. Her dark green eyes scanned the brocaded walls, the gilt-embellished sculpted ceiling, the heavily swagged windows and Second Empire furniture. The sweep of her gaze returning to the bed, Kitty was startled to see an old woman seated directly beside her.

  “Where am I?” Kitty asked, wincing slightly. The back of her head was tender and her neck felt stiff as she struggled into a seated position.

  “Stavropol, Excellency.” Evidently the elderly nursemaid left to watch over Kitty had not completely embraced the new egalitarian form of address in which no classes existed and everyone was “comrade.”

  “Where in Stavropol?”

  “The Hotel Russia, Excellency.”

  “Who brought me here?” Kitty now recalled the car bearing down on her.

  “General Beriozov, mistress.”

  “How kind of him.”

  The last Kitty had heard, Stavropol was still in the hands of the Whites. How fortunate that her savior was with the White Army.

  The old woman’s eyes slid away from Kitty’s. “Yes, Excellency. Would you like a glass of tea and a headache powder?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. That would be marvelous. My head’s pounding dreadfully.”

  From a samovar bubbling in the corner, atop a monstrous inlaid table, the woman brought Kitty tea, a packet of powder, and a plate of beautifully decorated cakes.

  Kitty swallowed the medicine with her tea and was nibbling on a delicious brioche when the door opened and a large man in the uniform of a general of the Red Army entered. He gave one curt nod, and the old nurse scurried out. Drawing a comfortable armchair near the bed, he dropped into the down-cushioned seat, crossed a leg clothed in superbly tailored wool twill, and lounged casually against the embroidered back of the chair. His thick neck was strapped with muscle, his eyes like sea pebbles, unreadable. He gave the impression of brute force overlaid by years of merciless experience, but he was handsome in a cold, ruthless way.

  From the moment he had appeared in the doorway, Kitty’s heart had begun to hammer so loudly she was certain it was audible. The brilliant, blood red epaulets gracing the general’s shoulders were terrifying to behold. She sat white-faced and unbreathing, sensing the final closing of a trap, horror beating at her paralyzed senses. A tiny shiver traveled over her skin, responding to the danger in the general’s cold-eyed appraisal.

  What to do? What to do! Whispers of reason attempted to catch at the panic numbing her mind. He apparently didn’t plan to kill her immediately, the tiny, reasonable voice hinted, or she wouldn’t be ensconced in this flamboyant room. As soon as that thought crossed her mind, the obvious alternative presented itself, and Kitty silently cursed herself for waiting so long—waiting too long—to flee Aladino. Useless, romantic hopes had kept her there. Ridiculous, irrational hopes of seeing Apollo again—and for that idiocy she might very well now die, caught in the Red trap. She had had some news to impart to Apollo. How quaint. It appeared now as if that information would never be transmitted. Briefly, Kitty wondered how Apollo would have reacted to the announcement that he was about to become a father.

  Never to know now, in any event—and if the tales of cruelties perpetrated by the Red Army were indeed true, perhaps the child would never be born. At that staggering thought, some maternal instinct flamed deep inside and Kitty instantly resolved—as many had before her throughout this war-ravaged land—to survive, whatever the cost. She wanted Apollo’s child, her child, to know the glory of life.

  While these tumultuous thoughts raced and tumbled through Kitty’s fearful brain, the general calmly steepled his fingers under his chin and surveyed the most striking woman he had ever seen: slender, fair, with a precious beauty that shocked the senses—translucent white skin like pearls in moonlight; luxurious tangles of sun-kissed hair; finely sculpted aristocratic bones; a classic nose any goddess on Olympus would envy; enormous, heavily lashed eyes the color of an Irish landscape on a misty morning; and, most tantalizing, full, sensuous lips, unmistakably ripe cherry in hue. It was an overall effect no man would ever forget, and a far cry from the coarse peasant women previously available to him in his former station, who’d been modeled more like pack animals than females.

  The general’s eyes silently took in the full scope of Kitty’s extraordinary lushness. He still hadn’t spoken. In no hurry, he was rather relishing the hunted terror in her expression and was contemplating with delectable fondness the ultimate capitulation of this gorgeous woman.

  Kitty’s nerves were stretched taut. The general’s eyes continued their slow perusal. Finally, no longer able to withstand the oppressive silence, she said in a deliberately calm voice, white-lipped but composed, “What do you want of me, General Beriozov?”

  There was something new in her manner—a decisiveness and resolve that hadn’t been there before. The panic-stricken fear had been quelled, but with what? Aristocratic backbone, fortitude? That self-reliant confidence that centuries of wealth nurtured? In addition to the heavenly gift of her looks, apparently she had character. It should prove amusing, the general thought, to toy with such a strong-minded woman.

  General Beriozov carefully recrossed his muscular legs and tapped his fingertips together gently before answering pleasantly, “Whatever you care to offer me, Countess Radachek.” He’d become familiar with her name after perusing her single piece of luggage.

  “And if I choose not to offer you anything, General?” The question was couched in a mild, courteous tone as if she had queried, “One lump or two?”

  “I am almost certain, madame,” said the general dryly, “you’ll reconsider in the end.” He stood in one swift movement, phenomenally graceful for a man of his bulk, and, leaning over, took Kitty’s small hand. He stroked the back of it very gently with his powerful tanned fingers, almost as though he were gentling a foal. “I have no intention of hurting you, my dear,” he explained with fine courtesy. “On the contrary.” Kitty attempted to pull away. His fingers tightened their grip. “You will be my hostess tonight at dinner.” The general’s pale gray eyes held no warmth now. The flinty coldness that had allowed his swift climb to the top of the Red Army trapped Kitty’s horrified gaze. His fingers constricted further on Kitty’s hand until she winced. “I suggest you say yes,” he continued with unruffled persistence.

  She paused for half a heartbeat, her hand captured in a viselike grip that could cripple if it chose. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good girl.” He released her hand and the briefest smile passed over his face. Turning on his heel with a sharp military precision indicative of training in the tsar’s army, General Beriozov strode from the bed. Pausing at the door, he lingered, hand on the latch, and added mildly, “Agrafena will bring you gowns. Take any you like. I prefer red or black velvet if it suits you.” Opaque eyes of gunpowder gray rested reflectively on the small woman seated stiffly in the enormous bed, her long golden hair cascading over her satiny shoulders. Receiving no answer, he walked out, the door closing on his blood red epaulets.

  When Kitty entered the drawing room that evening, the general’s brows lifted the merest fraction; otherwise his expression remained unaltered. He crossed the luxuriously carpeted floor with the stride of a cavalryman and bowed smartly to the perfectly groomed, golden-haired woman who stood just inside the room as if contemplating a rapid retreat. If, in fact, Kitty had envisioned any hope of successfully ignoring the general’s command, she would have defied him; as it was, however, compliance seemed the only option, and here she stood. Her spine stiff, her head high, the smallest affordable act of defiance now covered her slender form.

  “Blue silk is most becoming to you, madame. May I offer my compliments on your toilette.” The tone was perfectly modulated, slightly bemused, and Kitty wondered for a moment whether she had imagined the general’s expressed preference for red or black velvet.

  She murmured a commonplace in return, determin
ed to be as unsociable as circumstances permitted. No martyr, though, and youthful enough to desire life above all, Kitty realized that total indifference was out of the question. The short conversation earlier that day in her bedroom left little doubt of the general’s plans for her immediate future, so within reason she would remain aloof until such a time as even that prerogative was denied her.

  The general’s next comment put to rest Kitty’s reservations concerning her hearing. Sliding his arm around Kitty’s bare shoulders, he drew her near, at the same time gently propelling her toward the archway leading into the dining room. “I hope,” he said softly, very near her ear, “that you will attempt to please me better tonight. While I admit you are exquisite in this shade of blue, I must warn you, my dear, I will not tolerate defiance in my bed. Understood?”

  Two steps more and they were in the dining room. Receiving no answer, he stopped and spun Kitty to face him, his arm remaining around her shoulder. “Understood?” he repeated. His cold, gray eyes, short inches from hers, held a distinct hint of menace. General Beriozov, commanding the entire Sixth Division, was unaccustomed to insubordination. Indeed, since the first days of the Revolution, he had been intolerant of refusal. His life of late had been peerlessly, ruthlessly self-indulgent.

  There was a short, tortured silence. Against such an adversary, Kitty’s answer—short of suicide—was predetermined. Dropping her lashes, she nodded mutely, sick with fear and loathing.

  A short bark of laughter broke from the general and a satisfied smile followed. “You well-born ladies know the art of pleasing a man.” His eyes raked Kitty insolently. “What else did you ever have to do? Never any work to dirty your dainty pink hands … plenty of time to primp and perfume yourself for men and to practice accommodation.”

  Kitty’s eyes snapped indignantly at this grossly unfair assessment of her life, which had been almost totally devoted to running the estate. Her all-too-ready temper outweighed any discretionary caution. Pale and trembling, she enunciated in formal tones, “May I inform you, General, that your image of ladies is profoundly mistaken!”