“Tell me now!” he insisted jovially, “before I have heart failure and never know what it was all for.”
“We’re going home, Pavushka!” laughed Mathilde. “Our exile is over!”
Stunned, Paul clasped his hand to his mouth and could only gape, speechless, at his wife.
“My father’s brother has been working on this for years,” Mathilde went on, “but I haven’t wanted to say anything to you only to raise false hopes.”
“How . . . how can this be?” said Paul.
“It’s a miracle, my dear son,” answered Gennadii, “a true miracle! Someone has been praying for you besides me, I’ll warrant.”
A soft smile of remembered affection fluttered across Paul’s face. He thought of his mama and papa. Were they still alive? And dear Anna. When Mathilde had said they were going home, she had meant Russia in general, or perhaps St. Petersburg in particular. But Paul suddenly realized that, even though he might never visit there again, home to him would always be Katyk, and the poor old izba of his parents.
“You may well be right, Gennadii,” Paul said. “At least, I shall not argue the point. When do we go, Mathilde? I hope it is soon so we don’t have to face travel in winter—” Suddenly he paused as he thought of Gennadii and what this would mean for him, for his fragile health. He glanced at his father-in-law, unable to hide his concern.
Gennadii laughed, perceiving his son-in-law’s thoughts. “By rights I should have died years ago,” he said. “I suppose I am tougher than I appear. At any rate, now that the opportunity presents itself, I am determined to die in Russia.”
“You are sure?” asked Paul.
“I have never been more certain of anything.”
“Then let’s start packing! I don’t want to have to stay here a moment longer than necessary.”
Unfortunately the trudging machinery of Russian government took its dear time about delivering the important traveling papers. It was three long, tense weeks before they arrived. But the three exiles were ready to depart the very next day. And, thanks to Gennadii’s brother, who had sent them some money, they were able to make the trip by train, avoiding the most arduous elements of the trip, which even in summer could be harrowing.
However, the second-class train they traveled in was hot and poorly ventilated, damp when it rained, and most uncomfortable. Both Paul and Gennadii were ill before they reached the Urals. Paul recovered faster than the older man, seeming to take his cure directly from the beloved Russian soil they now traversed. Gennadii only worsened, as if his prophecy of dying in Russia were self-fulfilling.
When they reached Tver, two days’ journey by rail from St. Petersburg, Gennadii had to be removed from the train and taken to a hospital. The doctors could not relieve the pneumonia that racked his frail body. Paul and Mathilde sat by his bed day and night for a week. Finally, perhaps sensing the end was near, he imparted to them what would be his last real words.
“My dear Mathilde, you are the finest woman I have ever known; I think you have surpassed even your mother. Because of your love and your loyalty, I have lived well beyond what I could have normally expected in our exile. You have done well, my child. Serve your husband as you have served me, and you both shall know only happiness.” He gave his daughter a weak grin, and squeezed her hand with the little strength he had left. Weeping, Mathilde bent over and hugged her father’s thin shoulders.
Then the older man reached a trembling hand out for Paul. “My son—and you have been that and more to me, dear Paul—thank you for the joy you have brought into not only my daughter’s life but into mine as well. If I could ask one thing of you, Paul, it would be that you remember that yours is a noble cause and should be fought nobly. I could not live to see a new Russia, but I pray you will. You have my blessing.”
The old man died in his sleep that night, content and ready, a look of peace on his face.
Paul and his wife then set their own faces toward St. Petersburg. Some of the joy of their triumphant return was robbed by Gennadii’s death, but his passing seemed to add a depth of feeling that might not have been present otherwise. It made Paul more acutely aware of the sense of tragedy that had persisted in stalking his life. It also made him more deeply cognizant of the injustices of life. Gennadii should have spent the last ten years of his life in comfort in Kiev, producing pleasant stories of his dear Motherland, instead of dying by degrees in a miserable Siberian izba. Yet Paul could not deny the contentment Gennadii had always displayed, no matter what his lot. He had never been bitter or hateful, even toward those who had caused his suffering.
In the end, that final impression of Gennadii remained closest to Paul as the train roared into Nicholas Station in St. Petersburg. It was an image of a man of peace and conciliation and wisdom. A man very much like Paul’s own father.
54
Vlasenko pounded his flabby fist on the varnished surface of his desk. How could this be? Was Viktor Fedorcenko always to maintain the upper hand over him?
He looked again at the tax report. The man always managed to squeak by, even when he was hundreds of miles away and not even in his right mind. Cyril had paid over three thousand rubles in bribes and payoffs to manipulate the tax bureau into auditing Viktor’s finances. Then he had paid a man another thousand rubles to break into that Jew’s, Woyinsky, office to steal payment vouchers. The thief had done a splendid job, too—cleaned up after himself so that no one would ever notice that the place had been burglarized, or if they suspected, they would have no possible proof.
The whole scheme, in fact, had gone flawlessly. The vouchers would never surface because Cyril himself had burned them. And a very well-placed bribe had paid a clerk to doctor the records so it would look as if the taxes had never been paid.
And it had worked!
A bill was sent to Viktor, via Woyinsky, charging him with twenty-two thousand rubles plus interest in back taxes. Cyril had been certain this would be the setback that would force Viktor to part with the St. Petersburg property. Cyril had even been able to scrape together enough cash to buy the property when it went up for auction—at a bargain price, of course!
Where would Viktor have possibly come up with that kind of money? He had to be a magician. No one in St. Petersburg had that kind of money. Cyril had used his old contacts in the police to investigate, but they had come up with nothing incriminating. Woyinsky had sold the last of the investments to get the money. That proved, at least, that Viktor had lost whatever financial cushion he had been using all these years. There was nothing left now except the St. Petersburg and Crimean properties. Nothing!
Cyril had heard all the servants had quit and Viktor was practically living on bread and water down there on the Black Sea. Another blow and the man would go under. By all the saints, he had to!
And experience had shown Cyril that at moments like this there was only one thing a man could do—go for the throat! He didn’t care what it took; he wasn’t going to let up until he had that property. He had not yet run out of schemes.
He pressed a lever of the new intercom box on his desk. A crackle of static met his ears. He shouted into the box, so loudly that his secretary heard him without the help of the modern convenience.
“Send a message immediately to Alexsie Kozin—”
“The banker?”
“Yes, you fool, the banker! Tell him to meet me for lunch today. It’s urgent and imperative. At the Preobrazenskij Club, one o’clock sharp!”
He flipped the lever to the “off” position, and the static stopped. Cyril glared at the box. “I am through fooling around,” he breathed. “This is the end for you, Viktor.”
Cyril knew for a fact that Viktor’s property was mortgaged to the hilt. If he could get Kozin to call in the loans—
What do I mean, if? mused Cyril. He hadn’t been chief of the Third Section for nothing. That secret file he had been collecting over the years was finally going to do him some real good. Even if he had nothing useful on Viktor, he had p
lenty of scandalous tidbits against dozens of other public figures, including bankers, Kozin in particular. Cyril knew that Alexsie Kozin was not the man’s real name, and that he was not Russian at all. He was, in fact, Siberian by birth, and half Siberian by blood. His father had been an exiled Decemberist, and his mother, not the father’s wife, was a Siberian peasant. Kozin had for years been passing himself off as an aristocratic Austrian, and under that pretense had married a wealthy countess. He would not be a happy man should his wife learn he was only a Siberian peasant.
Cyril was going to make very certain Viktor did not slip through his fingers this time.
55
Mariana was expecting Sergei and Anna, but she was no less elated when she greeted her parents at the door. She flung her arms around both of them, smothering them with kisses, and only let go to hug and kiss her little brothers.
If Anna had any lingering doubts about returning to the city, they were dispelled at first sight of her daughter’s glowing, appreciative eyes. Even though they knew they were making the right move, it had not been an easy decision. They had come to St. Petersburg with full intention of taking up residence there if Mariana needed their support in this way. They had worried that perhaps they might be pampering her and not giving her a chance to grow into an independent young woman. After all, Anna could not deny that her own experience of setting out on her own as a young girl had been instrumental in the growth of her maturity and confidence.
But Yevno had offered this bit of wisdom: “You and Mariana are two different people. You needed to be nudged out of the nest, although I admit I wish I could have been with you in the city. Mariana perhaps needed a little nudge, too, but unlike you, my little Anna, she has no doubts of her own abilities. She needs guidance to keep her from bumbling down paths she is not yet ready to pursue. You, Anna, were always cautious and level-headed. Mariana is . . . well, sometimes a bit too impulsive for her own good. You will know if you are pampering her and preventing her from growing up. But what of it, eh? We all need a little pampering now and then!”
Everything fell together perfectly to permit Anna and Sergei the freedom to leave. They had to believe they had God’s blessing, as well as Yevno’s. Ilya and his little family, who had been living with Yevno, would move into Anna and Sergei’s cottage and work their plot along with Yevno’s. Sergei had offered to wait until after harvest before leaving, but Ilya had insisted that the plots were so small that the extra labor would cause no hardship for him.
A villager by the name of Chavkin had a son, Oleg, who had moved to St. Petersburg a couple of years ago. Chavkin gave his son’s address to Sergei, assuring him that Oleg would be thrilled to help Sergei get settled in the city. Perhaps he would even have a place for them to stay temporarily.
Anna hoped they might be able to stay with Mariana. The Remizov home was spacious, with at least twenty rooms, and she saw no reason why they might not stay there. A request to this effect had been made in a letter to Dmitri, but they never received a response. Anna still believed that this was a safe assumption to make, and that Dmitri’s positive reply had merely gotten lost in the mail.
After Mariana’s warm welcome, Dmitri appeared and they were ushered into the parlor. Eugenia had a headache and could not come down to receive them.
“Well, well, well! What a pleasure to see you!” said Dmitri in an airy, less-than-sincere manner. He puffed on his cigarette and blew a stream of choking smoke into Sergei’s face before continuing. “But I hope this does not mean you were worried about my little girl.” His slight emphasis of the word “my” did not go unnoticed.
“Most parents can’t help worrying about their children,” Sergei replied.
“Don’t I know that!” Dmitri laughed, a rather inane titter. “But one look can tell you she is doing splendidly.” He strode to the sofa where Mariana was sitting and perched himself on the arm of the couch, placing an affectionate arm around her. “Is that not so, ma petit belle?”
“Yes, Père,” said Mariana, “but I still missed my mama and papa.”
“Of course.” Dmitri waved his cigarette holder as if dismissing this as a mere childish fancy. “At any rate, you are here, Sergei and Anna, and I welcome you.”
Only after Dmitri excused himself for the afternoon did Sergei and Anna have a good visit with Mariana. But at dinner they were joined not only by Dmitri but also Eugenia. It was an exercise in endurance, especially since Eugenia had not changed a bit in over eighteen years. She received Anna and Sergei with disdain, barely offering them the most perfunctory courtesies. She retreated to her room immediately after dinner without even a polite “good-evening.”
Mealtime was tense, to say the least, and quickly mounted after dinner when the time came for them either to go or to be shown to their rooms. Andrei had dozed off against his mother’s shoulder, and Yuri could hardly hold up his head. With the lengthy train journey, it had been a long, tiring day for all of them.
Anna said, “I must get these little ones off to bed.”
“Let me show you to the spare rooms—” Mariana began enthusiastically.
“Mariana,” Dmitri broke in quickly, “we did not have rooms prepared. I wrote to your aunt and uncle that this might not be a wise move.”
“We received no such letter from you, Dmitri,” said Sergei.
“Are you certain? I thought for sure I had written—ah, but the mails in this country can be so unreliable.”
“Père,” said Mariana, “it should be no trouble to prepare rooms.”
“But, my child, there is more to it than that.” Dmitri looked at Sergei as if he expected help from him. “Sergei, it isn’t that we wouldn’t adore having you, but I was certain you would not wish such exposure. Many visitors from the old days come and go from here and are certain to recognize you.”
Sergei had been tense all evening, perhaps even more so than Anna. He had once been a welcome guest in the Remizov home, and he could not prevent those childhood memories from returning to his mind. He had also been concerned that Eugenia would recognize him, and, rather than being relieved that she hadn’t, he simply felt more and more intensely how much things had changed over the years.
This rebuff by Dmitri was even harder to take. On the surface, Dmitri’s reasoning was quite logical; but practically speaking, Sergei saw no reason why he could not easily avoid encounters with people from his past. The stressful evening and the rude treatment by his hosts caused a streak of pride to rear up within him.
“Of course,” Sergei said stiffly. “That’s why I did not plan to stay here in the first place. We have friends in the city we will be visiting until we find our own flat.”
“Then you intend on this . . . visit . . . being long-term?” asked Dmitri.
“It is possible.”
“I shall look forward to seeing more of you then.”
“As you wish, Count Remizov.” Sergei gave Mariana a brief parting hug, then took his sons’ hands and headed for the door without a backward glance.
Before following her husband, Anna embraced her daughter and made hasty arrangements to see her the next day.
56
Although it was late in the evening when Sergei and his family stepped out into the street, the summer white night lingered to light their way. Carrying their travel cases, they walked two or three blocks in search of a poor drosky that would have an inexpensive fare. Their destination was Oleg Chavkin’s home, which was some distance away.
Sergei was silent as they walked, his shoulders hunched and tense as if they supported a heavy burden. Anna held her peace, although she was terribly disappointed in losing the opportunity to stay with Mariana. She knew St. Petersburg well enough to realize that Oleg Chavkin’s address was not in the best part of town. She also knew that if Sergei had pressed his need regarding a place to stay more strongly, and not submitted to his pride, they might now be settling into a soft warm bed and her sleepy children would be able to rest. She felt justified in also being a
little upset.
After walking for fifteen minutes, Andrei began complaining. “Mama, my feet are sore.” He was too young to have any awareness of the tensions in the air. And a few minutes later he repeated, “I’m tired.”
Yuri asked in a voice several octaves higher than normal, “When are we going to stop?”
Sergei halted and turned sharply on the boys. “You two quit whining! We’re all tired!”
“But Papa—” began Andrei.
The boy didn’t finish because Sergei reached down and gave Andrei a firm swat on the seat of his pants. “You know better than to talk back to me, Andrei!”
The boy burst into tears, more from surprise and shame than from any physical pain.
“Sergei!” Anna didn’t know why she spoke to her husband in such a reproachful tone, except that she, too, was tired and disappointed, and she did not often see Sergei strike his children in anger.
Sergei picked up his traveling case and took the two smaller packs the boys had been carrying. He continued walking, increasing his pace and taking such long, determined steps that the others had difficulty keeping up. But that pace, with the added weight of the two packs, was not one easily maintained, especially by a man who had not had healthy lungs for many years. In five minutes he was huffing and puffing and coughing.
Still they could not find a cab. Sergei tried to hail a luxurious cab, but the driver took one look at the poorly outfitted family and drove off. There were simply no poor droskys in this affluent neighborhood.
They walked several more minutes, with Sergei coughing continuously. Finally Anna could stand it no longer.
“Sergei, why do you have to be so stubborn? Would you slow down before we end up having to carry you?”
He stopped. “I’m sorry to have made your evening miserable.”
“I have been more miserable in my life, Sergei.”
After a moment of silence, Sergei blurted out what was eating away at him. “Anna, I could not take another minute of Dmitri’s grudging hospitality. God forgive me for my pride, but a man can only take so much!”
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