“I wish I could understand, I truly do,” said Anna.
Sergei could not speak because of another bout of coughing. When they came to a bench at a deserted trolley stop, they all sat down. After a few moments of rest Sergei was able to speak.
“Perhaps it was a mistake to come here, Anna,” he said. “I don’t think I am as ready as I thought to return to the home of my youth.” He sighed, more from frustration than from shortness of breath. “I was once a man of distinction here, an honored member of the Imperial Guard, a prince who could walk among the scions of the highest society with his head high. When you knew me then, would I have ever made you walk because I couldn’t find a cheap drosky? Anna, the Fedorcenkos were always better than the Remizovs—richer, more important, leaders of society. They clung to our coattails. Yet, tonight, they managed to make me feel like dirt. The way Eugenia looked at me! The way Dmitri shook my hand as if it were contaminated. We used to be friends; I used to lend him money and get him out of scrapes. I know it’s wrong of me, and prideful, but I simply could not take that treatment. And I doubt I will be able to do so in the future. I only wish you and the children did not have to suffer because of me—and my stubbornness.”
Anna scooted closer to him and put her arm around him. “Thank you for giving me a chance to understand, my love. And I must say this, though it may not help much: To me, and to those who know and love you, Sergei, you have never ceased being a man of distinction. You are at this moment a far better man than Dmitri ever was, even more so than when you were a wealthy prince.”
“You will forgive me for refusing a warm, comfortable bed for the night?”
“One was never offered, but I forgive you without question.”
“Ah, my wife, my princess, whose value is beyond all the treasure on earth!” He kissed her cheek, then with a carefree shrug, ignoring the fact that they were on a public street, gave her a passionate kiss full on her lips. Yuri and Andrei giggled and looked away. Sergei chuckled with them. “Boys, count yourselves blessed if you find a woman half as good as your mother—because there are none better! Now, we must think of our immediate future. I might be able to muster up enough humility to return—”
“No, Sergei! We can manage without Dmitri. And to be completely honest, I would not wish to stoop to having to ask them for a favor. If our position becomes dire enough, perhaps, but we are hardly at that point yet. If only Misha were here, he’d have some ideas to offer. But there is still Oleg.”
“Then, for now you don’t mind looking him up? It’s not a nice neighborhood where he lives. We have enough money for a couple of nights in an inexpensive hotel. But without knowing what the future holds, I don’t like using so much of our cash so soon.”
“Oleg’s will be fine.”
They were all feeling better when they left the bench and resumed their trek, and the warmth of activity took away the late night cold, even though it didn’t help their aching, tired feet. Within ten minutes they found a cab and, after haggling over the price, as was expected of them, they were on their way. The driver, however, refused to go into the neighborhood Sergei indicated, especially since it was so late, and dropped them about two blocks from their destination. After another ten-minute walk they found where Oleg Chavkin lived.
It was as dark and dingy a tenement as any Anna had ever seen. She tried to tell herself that it would look better in the daylight, but that was a small comfort. She thought about how proudly Oleg’s father had spoken of his son, who was supposed to be a successful weaver in the city.
The steep flight of stairs was unlighted and the wood on several steps was rotten. Yuri stumbled once on the way, and would surely have fallen and broken some bones had Sergei not been behind him to break his fall. The smells of dampness, rotting food, and human waste were nearly overwhelming. Anna sensed that the stench would be even worse behind the closed doors along the trash-strewn corridor. It was about ten o’clock in the evening and the building was fairly quiet, with only the occasional sounds of crying infants pervading the dismal scene. Anna worried that this was a poor time to call on someone, for it was apparent that most of the residents had already gone to bed. But they had no choice. They had come too far.
Sergei found the number of Oleg’s room and knocked on the door. An infant cry penetrated the closed door, and for a moment it seemed as if there would be no other greeting. Then a scraping sound approached the door.
“Who is it?” came a young feminine voice.
“I am a friend of Oleg Chavkin, from Katyk. My name is Sergei Christinin.”
Several moments passed, broken only by quiet whispers from inside the apartment. Anna could not make out what was said, but soon the door opened and the familiar face of Oleg greeted them. Much to their relief, he gave Sergei a big bear hug.
“A face from home! A true vision from God!” Tears stood in the man’s eyes.
“We feel the same way seeing you, Oleg Levovich!”
“Come in, come in!”
“We do not want to impose. We gave you no warning.”
“Ha! Imagine that! Do you need an engraved invitation like as if you were going to the tsar’s house? I am honored to have you. We are both from Katyk, are we not?”
Nothing else needed to be said. In this big city, being from the same village practically made two men brothers. Sergei and Anna and their children were welcome to stay as long as they wanted. It was a generous offer, especially considering that besides Oleg and his wife and four children, there were twenty others—men, women and children—occupying the small two-room flat.
After news from home was exchanged, Oleg designated a cramped corner in the back room for Sergei and his family to sleep. There were no beds, either for the guests or for most of the residents. It was hard, cold floor or nothing. Anna was thankful she’d had the foresight to squeeze two blankets into their travel cases before leaving home. She laid one of the blankets under them. It was a paltry padding, but it was something. The other, she wrapped around the children. She and Sergei clung to each other for warmth. Even summer nights could be chilly; Anna wondered what it would be like in winter.
That miserable evening, if Anna thought once or twice of the fact that she was married to a prince of Russia and could have had a dozen blankets and a feather bed had they chosen, she couldn’t help herself. Sergei was thinking the same.
“I just thought of my father’s house,” he whispered in her ear. “That huge place that now sits empty could house a hundred people in luxurious comfort.”
“No doubt,” said Anna, “they’d try to squeeze three hundred into it!”
They chuckled quietly.
Suddenly Anna realized that she was content where she was—with her husband and children close to her, and her daughter only a versta away, instead of a few hundred. She might not like the stench, the cold, the discomfort. She might grumble and complain a bit, but these externals were not the sum total of her existence. She fell asleep that night knowing she possessed more at that moment than Dmitri and Eugenia would ever have in their gilded palace.
57
Paul and Mathilde found a far different caliber of lodgings upon their arrival in St. Petersburg. Had Paul known of Anna’s situation, he might have pondered the irony of how their fortunes had so reversed since the last time they had seen each other.
Mathilde had inherited a bit of money from her father’s estate, which her uncle had set aside for Gennadii during his exile. It was enough to allow Paul and his wife to rent a small flat near the waterfront on Vassily Island, in a district populated by minor civil servants and others of that general class. It was already furnished and had a carpet on the floor, and though everything was old and hardly stylish, the couple was as pleased with it as anyone could be who had for the last fifteen years known only the poverty of a coarse Siberian izba. Soon there was a steady flow of guests through the modest flat, for Paul and Mathilde lost no time in making contact with the radical community in the Russian capital.
Once they were surprised to welcome as a guest Vladimir Ulyanov—now known as Lenin.
“Ah, Vladimir! This is a true pleasure.” Paul embraced his old Siberian comrade warmly.
“No less for me. Imagine my surprise to learn you have escaped the frozen wastes.”
“Not exactly escaped,” Paul corrected, then followed a wry grin. “You might say I was welcomed back by the tsar himself!”
Lenin chuckled. “And, from what I hear, he will one day regret that decision. At least, we can only hope!”
“He will regret many things,” Paul replied, a note of earnestness infusing his tone. “But what brings you here, Vladimir? I thought—”
“I had to come here on business, and I hope to be gone before the Okhrana, the tsar’s dirty henchmen, discover me. I have been in Pskov organizing and planning.”
“I envy you that. Pskov is not far from my home village.”
One of the students who had accompanied Lenin to Paul’s apartment spoke up.
“What village is that?”
The others were a little surprised at his innocent query, because the unspoken rule among the radicals was to speak as little as possible of their personal lives. The young man reddened with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—that is, my own village is near Pskov and I . . .” He fumbled to a stop, fearing he had already said too much.
Paul gave a reassuring grin to the brawny youth. “I know what a comfort it can be to meet a neighbor. How about if we have a little talk later?” Paul would have had no qualms talking about Katyk in front of Lenin, but the students were total strangers. Yet he didn’t want to discourage this young man entirely, for if he was from any place close to Katyk, he might have news of Paul’s family.
The young man deferred to his elder and remained quiet as Lenin, somewhat perturbed by the interruption and anxious to discuss his business, resumed his conversation with Paul. Apparently the students were only along to listen; no one else made any notable remarks.
While Mathilde served them tea, Lenin confronted Paul with an offer to write for Iskra. “Or are you still clinging to your insipid ideas of democracy?” His narrow eyes studied Paul incisively.
“I have always felt that populism in many ways more truly reflected the mind of Russia. I suppose the foreignness of Marxism has tended to put me off, though I have to admit it embodies many facets that have definite merit,” Paul answered. He wasn’t about to blast Marxism before Lenin, a fiery advocate of the system. In truth, he could see some of its merits, even if he saw many of its faults also.
“Populism is dead, Paul,” said Lenin with no regret in his tone.
Paul knew the truth in Lenin’s words. And he had been waiting so long to be in the thick of the action once more that he had no desire to become part of a dying movement. Lenin’s Social Democratic Party was one of the most viable and active approaches to real change in Russia. The Social Revolutionary Party was the only other group that came near it in scope, and although the S.R.’s had at their foundation the tenets of populism, they also fully espoused terrorism. Paul wanted no more of that. The Social Democrats seemed his best choice if he desired to remain active in the movement.
Paul looked Lenin in the eye. “What would you have me do?”
“I fear that before long I may be forced once more into exile—this time, I hope, only to Europe. We need loyal workers here in Russia to continue to organize and spread Social Democracy. From what my student friends say, you would be a perfect liaison between party leaders in European exile and university students.”
“I have no connection to the university. I have met a few students through meetings in my home, that’s all.”
“There would be no problem with you hiring yourself out as a tutor. Then no one would suspect students frequently coming and going from here. This house could become a meeting place, a rallying place, a focal point from which news and information could be disseminated among the students.”
“It would involve some danger,” Paul remarked, then added quickly, “not that I fear danger for my sake, but I have a family to consider. I will have to discuss this with my wife—”
Mathilde broke in. “There is nothing to discuss, Paul.” She had seen the flame of eagerness ignite again in his eyes. Minor points of ideology were unimportant if it meant seeing her husband find fulfillment. “You may follow your desires in this, and I will not hesitate in following you.”
Thus Paul suddenly found himself a Social Democrat, if not a confirmed Marxist. Lenin, anyway, believed he had converted Paul and was satisfied with that. And it was a good thing the two had completed their alliance so quickly, for two days later, Lenin was arrested for being in St. Petersburg illegally. He spent a few nights in jail, and when they released him and escorted him from the banned city, he turned his face toward Europe, to join—for a season, at least—the many other political exiles there.
The meeting at Paul’s house droned on late into the night. The young student who had spoken to Paul had to beg his leave, for he had classes early in the morning. Paul walked him to the door.
“Thank you, Pavlikov, for your hospitality. I am sorry we could not talk more,” said the young student.
“I am sorry our lives must be lived in secret. We could have perhaps been a comfort to each other—as neighbors, you know,” Paul replied. They had to speak in hurried whispers because the meeting was still going on in an adjacent room.
“When I was in Katyk,” the student said, “I wanted nothing more than to get away from it. Now I miss it sometimes.”
“Katyk, you say . . .?”
“Oh, there I go! I keep forgetting.”
Once Paul heard the name Katyk, he knew he could not remain totally anonymous. Here was someone from his home, and he could not let the moment pass without at least learning of his parents’ health.
“I, too, am from Katyk,” Paul said.
“This is incredible!”
“Can you tell me of the Burenin clan?”
“Of course I can. I was almost engaged to Mariana—”
“Who is Mariana?” But before Stephan could answer, Paul hurried on to the question that was really on his mind. “What of Yevno and Sophia?”
“They are well, except that Yevno has slowed down a bit because of a weak heart.”
“And their children?”
“Ilya works the land now, and Vera still lives in Katyk. Tanya is in Moscow, and Anna lives here in St. Petersburg.”
“Here?”
“Yes. I don’t know exactly where, but—”
“Thank you, young man. Enough has been said. If you know of Anna, or if you return to Katyk, it would be best not to mention our meeting to them—for our protection, as well as theirs.”
“I understand, Pavlikov.” Stephan sighed. “Sometimes this life of ours is hard.”
“In the end the sacrifices will be worth it,” Paul replied, as much to encourage himself as the student.
The young man departed, and Paul returned to the meeting. But Lenin’s rhetoric and the subsequent debates were lost on Paul for the rest of the evening. His mind was occupied with thoughts of his family. His parents were still alive—nothing less than a miracle for peasants in this country to live to such a ripe old age. And Anna was right here in St. Petersburg! Once again they were so close, but yet must remain far apart. How he had wanted to pump the young student for more details, but he had to show himself strong and stoic. He was a leader now in this movement, and it was his duty to set an example to the young newcomers. But more than that, if he knew how to find Anna, he would not be able to resist seeing her. He had been under police surveillance ever since returning to St. Petersburg. His actions might yet bring danger upon his family.
There was more to it than that, though, and it was futile for Paul to deny it. Even after all these years, he was still haunted by his cruel and selfish behavior toward them. He had no doubt they’d forgive him, but the problem was that he could not find the co
urage to forgive himself.
Yet, in the ensuing days, he could not keep from being acutely aware of the fact that Anna was close at hand. In a city of millions, close was a relative term. But he found himself taking keener note of his surroundings, starting at women who resembled the sister he remembered. He even caught himself walking or driving by the one place in the city where he had once seen her—the old church of St. Andrew’s.
What he would do if he did see her, he did not know.
58
Anna and Sergei’s next visit with Dmitri and Eugenia proved even more disconcerting than the last. They had little chance to be alone with Mariana. It almost seemed as if she were being protected from them.
They had come early in the afternoon in hopes of finding the count and his mother gone or occupied with other obligations. Unfortunately, they were at home and refused to leave. A very uncomfortable luncheon was served, and immediately afterward, Eugenia told Mariana to entertain her little brothers while the grown-ups visited in private. Mariana obeyed, although it was apparent she, too, was disappointed at not having more time with her mama and papa.
The elders left the young people and retired to the parlor. Dmitri barely had a chance to close the door when Eugenia began in her harsh, unfriendly manner.
“I believe it is time we had a little talk.” She sat down. Perhaps it was mere coincidence that the chair she chose, with its high, winged back and rich red velvet upholstery, curiously resembled a throne.
When she made no offer of seats to her guests, Sergei, his eyes gleaming with defiance, moved a smaller, plainer chair in place for Anna. After his wife was seated, he pulled another chair up for himself. Dmitri stood by the carved oak mantel, lighting a cigarette and trying to look detached.
“What is on your mind, Countess Eugenia?” Sergei purposely addressed her as an equal. He could tell by her grimace that the presumption galled her.
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