Uncle Paul often pointed out that this dominance of the working class was at the expense of the peasantry, which Marxism absurdly disregarded. How could the peasants be so coldly brushed aside when they comprised eighty percent of the population? Marxism promoted a classless society. What was wrong with that? Paul’s answer was that such a society risked the dehumanization of the individual.
Andrei didn’t want to be bothered with all the theoretical debates. All he wanted was freedom for Russia, and Lenin seemed to offer the best hope of realizing that dream. True, Uncle Paul had felt the same way once, but eventually he had to come to terms with the basic differences between his instinctual regard for the people and the Bolshevik line.
Andrei wondered if he would reach a similar turning point. But his dilemma didn’t seem as straightforward as his uncle’s. His choice wasn’t between two sets of doctrines but rather, it seemed, between the cause he believed in and the work he loved. Even if he chose to follow some other doctrine besides Bolshevism, Andrei knew Stephan was right in demanding commitment. But Andrei also knew he would never be as fulfilled by politics as he was by his art. Only when he worked at his art did he feel truly alive and free.
How could he give it up for his beliefs? Why should he have to?
All at once Andrei realized his footsteps were heading toward his mother’s flat. Talia had mentioned she would be there today. As he approached, much to his delight, he saw her sitting on the front steps reading a book and enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. This was the first time today that Andrei was even aware of the bright, warm sun.
He sat down next to her and immediately poured out all the experiences and debates of the day. They had never needed small talk between them.
“I can imagine,” she said when he finished, “that you are quite worn out with all this.”
“If I hadn’t run into Kaminsky, I could have gone on forever contentedly on the fringes.”
“Forever?”
“I don’t know—no, probably not. He only forced an issue that was bound to surface sooner or later. But, Talia, why do I have to be torn like this? It’s just like my uncle. Why? I see people like Kaminsky who are fervent in their beliefs—whether they’re Marxists or Narodniki, or of some other party—and I wonder why I can’t get fervent over a party doctrine. But it’s more than that, Talia. It’s like the things I was zealous about as a boy have faded a little. Other things have become more important, I guess. I still want freedom for Russia. I despise the ruling class and the monarchy and will rejoice when they crumble. But that’s not enough these days. There’s so much conflict and backbiting between parties and debate over the most minor of details that one is almost forced to take a side. Why can’t I?”
“Andrushka, I see that what you’re expressing is complex. You won’t be offended if I give you a simplistic answer?”
“That’s what I want more than anything. I want things to be simple!”
“This just came to me as you were talking,” she answered. “I was thinking of your father. He achieved the very thing you seek, Andrushka. But he never joined any political parties. I don’t think he was even a member of Father Gapon’s Worker’s Assembly. He certainly never told me why he didn’t join them, but knowing your father I think I can guess why. You see, Andrei, your father didn’t die for liberation or for the overthrow of the tsar—he died because of love and compassion. He supported the workers because he loved them and cared about them. And I’ll wager if your father were here now, he’d tell us he also loved the Marxists and S.D.s and S.R.s—and even the monarchists!”
Andrei felt his throat tighten with emotion as he heard Talia speak about his father. “That was my father,” he said. He blinked back tears.
“Don’t you see, Andrushka! One of the very foundations of compassion is tolerance.”
“Something of which the likes of Lenin and Kaminsky know little,” Andrei added.
“But you were raised with it. You breathed it like sweet air from your father. Is it any wonder you can’t throw yourself wholeheartedly into those narrow-minded parties? And, from what I know of your grandfather Yevno, it’s probably the same for your uncle Paul. Compassion, tolerance, and love are too much a part of you. Does Marx teach about these things?”
“I don’t think so,” said Andrei. “To tell the truth I tried reading Das Kapital, but it was too boring and I quit after ten pages. Talia, are you saying Lenin isn’t a compassionate man because he believes in these things? His fervent single-mindedness is what I admired most about him.”
“I can’t answer that.”
“And here’s something else. My father wasn’t a vacillating, wishy-washy sort. He was a man of strong convictions. Yet, tolerance suggests a kind of double-mindedness, doesn’t it?”
“Not the kind your father had.”
“What kind was that?”
“If I knew the answer to that, I’d write a book about it and probably become rich and famous for solving the world’s problems. He never gave you a lesson on it. He lived it. And you lived with it during the most influential part of your life.”
“I wish he were still here,” Andrei said quietly. A tear escaped from the corner of his eye.
Talia reached up and tenderly wiped it away.
It embarrassed him that she was seeing him cry, yet he didn’t try to hide it. He offered her his emotion, his grief . . . even as he wanted to offer his love.
19
Yuri had a hard time keeping his mind on his work. His thoughts kept wandering back to that glorious week on the Black Sea. In the drab surroundings of the hospital, he had to remind himself frequently that the time in the Crimea with Katya had been real. Nearly a month had passed since he had returned to St. Petersburg, but he still remembered every detail as if it had only just happened. The fact that he’d heard Katya had returned to the Capital only heightened the sweet memories in his anticipation of seeing her once again.
His trip to the Crimea had been a risk, presuming to show up in the middle of her holiday. At first, it had seemed as if he had ruined his chances with her forever. When he went to her estate that first day, he had done so without telephoning ahead. His grandfather had no phone, and it would have meant a trip to their nearest neighbors, half a mile away, to do so. He debated about whether or not to take the chance, finally deciding that she’d be less likely to turn him away in person than over the phone. When she first laid eyes on him, he thought she would turn him away.
“I know it was rude of me not to call first,” he said in a rather pitiful attempt to apologize.
“This is just such a surprise.” Her voice had been strained.
“I’m not usually given to such impulsive acts, but . . .” He let his words trail away unfinished. He couldn’t come right out with the truth, that he was madly in love with her and couldn’t stay away.
“You came here just to see me?”
“My grandfather lives here, you know. But, yes, I came because of you.” There was an awkward pause, then, gathering all his boldness, he continued, “May I . . . come in?” He had been standing in the foyer where a maid had left him to seek her mistress. Yuri had the feeling uninvited visitors were not common at the Zhenechka Crimean estate.
Katya glanced nervously over her shoulder. “It’s such a lovely day, why don’t we walk in the garden?”
Yuri beamed delightedly. She was throwing him a crumb, but it was all he needed.
She seemed to relax a bit as they walked in the beautiful garden that stretched over an acre south of the house. The roses were in bloom and the sweet scent filled the air. This time of year also saw a riot of many other varieties of shrubs and flowers in full bloom. Mentioning that her grandmother, who apparently was the mistress of the estate, had a penchant for horticulture, Katya pointed out several rare plants. There was even a greenhouse with fabulous orchids that bloomed nearly the year round. Yuri listened attentively, not only because he found her conversation interesting, but because her voice drew hi
m like a magnet, endearing her more to him with every word. He knew in his heart that the rumors about her were untrue.
He left that afternoon with an invitation to return. When he did so the next day, she must have been watching for him, because she met his carriage outside as he came to a stop in front of the house. After that, he saw her every day. Once or twice he went to her estate, though he never again went inside. She always met him in the yard. Usually, however, she met him at his grandfather’s, in her carriage. There was never a chaperon present except for the driver, who kept a discreet distance.
They picnicked by the sea under the warm summer breezes, or they visited the picturesque Tatar villages where the women still dressed in full-flowing Turkish trousers with tight-fitting, ornately embroidered jackets. The men sported astrakhan hats and baggy trousers with brightly colored shirts. Yuri and Katya laughed gaily as they shopped in the markets, trying to bargain with the canny Muslim residents.
Once she did, indeed, drive him on a short excursion in her grandmother’s motorcar. And she spent the afternoon teaching him to drive the contraption also. How they had laughed as they jerked and bounced over the rutted roads of the countryside.
And by the seaside, Yuri tried not to show his shock at Katya’s daring swimming costume with a skirt that rose well above the knee of her shockingly bare legs. He had to admit that she was a modern woman, but that still did not reflect upon her basic character.
“This is the twentieth century,” Katya said, responding to his wide eyes. Her own eyes glinted mischievously.
“I can be a progressive man,” he said, trying not to be defensive.
“Then wipe that leering grin off your face. This outfit is the height of seaside fashion, and before long all truly liberated women will be wearing similar ones.”
“I only hope it won’t cause the sun to taint your lovely skin.”
“Do you worry about everything, Yuri Sergeiovich?” She then bent down and scooped up a handful of water and tossed it playfully at him, drenching his own swimming suit.
Before he could react, she raced off into the gently rolling waves. They played like children, Katya bringing out in Yuri a sense of release and freedom he had thought was long departed from him.
And so their time together went, Yuri feeling more alive, more vital than he’d ever felt in his life. But in addition to the fun and laughter, they also talked—that is, Yuri talked and Katya listened. He told her everything about his family, the smallest detail, the most shocking secrets. But she wasn’t shocked. She said she was greatly impressed, and had she known Sergei Viktorovich, she would have admired him. And she wanted to meet Yuri’s mother—who, she said, sounded like a real princess.
But Katya said very little about herself. She lived part of the year in St. Petersburg with her grandmother and part in Moscow with her father. The summers she usually spent in the Crimea. Her parents were divorced—a bit of information she revealed reluctantly, saying, “You’ll probably find out anyway.” It seemed her mother had, several years ago, left her father for a Cossack. They now lived in a Cossack village on the Don, and Katya’s mother wore peasant clothes, ran barefoot through the fields, and was still producing Cossack babies for her husband.
“She was very young when she married my father,” Katya explained. “She was only seventeen when I was born. My father was twenty years older than she.”
“You defend her, then?”
“She is my mother, though I haven’t seen her in years.”
“It must be very hard on you.”
She shrugged as if it was a minor thing. “We all have our lives to live.”
“Yes, but—”
She cut him off abruptly. “I’m starved. Where is that picnic lunch?” She jumped up from where they had been sitting in the sand and fetched the basket. Their conversation never again drifted to the topic of her family.
But Yuri felt no need to press her. Although he wanted to know everything about her, every tiny detail about what made her the person she was, he was content enough just to be near her. The last thing he wanted was to do something that might push her away, and he instinctively sensed that to dig deeper into her personal life would do just that.
On his last day, however, he impulsively nearly did that very thing. But he couldn’t restrain himself. He was too full of feeling for her not to express it.
As they walked again on the beach under the warm sun—they had never met in the evenings, only by day—he mustered the boldness to open his heart entirely to her.
“I love you, Katya!” he proclaimed, his joy swelling inside him.
“Yuri, please . . .”
“Don’t think me frivolous. I know it is sudden, but I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
“I’m only your first love, Yuri. You’ll get over this.”
“Don’t you feel the same, Katya?”
“I . . . I don’t know how I feel. This is sudden.”
“I understand. I’m willing to give you time. But I can say with more certainty than I have felt about anything ever before that this is no passing fancy. You have touched something within me, Katya, that I know without a doubt no other woman will ever be able to touch again. At first it was just your beauty, I’ll admit. But it has nothing to do with that now.”
“You hardly know me, Yuri.”
“I know what I need to know.”
“There are things—”
“They wouldn’t matter.”
“How do you know?”
“I know!” He then slipped his arm around her and drew her near. When she didn’t pull back, he bent his lips toward hers and knew the sweetest ecstasy of his life. Her lips responded to his, melted into his, and for a brief moment, a moment that could sustain him for life, she was his.
Then she drew back.
“I must go,” she said, breathless and flushed.
“Have dinner with us tonight, Katya. My grandparents enjoy your company.”
“I can’t.”
“Not even on my last night here?”
“I’ve already spent the whole day with you.”
“What have you to go back to? Why, I would almost think you are hiding a husband back on your estate.”
She laughed, a pointed attempt to diffuse the intensity of the moment. “And I suppose that wouldn’t bother you, either,” she mocked lightly.
“I can be as progressive and outrageous as you.”
“Ha! Down deep, Yuri, you are as old-fashioned and stilted as a peasant.”
He only smiled and kissed her again. “Then, if we are to say good-bye, let it be now and here, where I’ve known my greatest happiness.”
He left her to be driven home by the coachman while he walked the two miles to his grandfather’s estate.
20
Those weeks after returning to St. Petersburg, Yuri had been miserable. He felt as if a sudden famine had come upon his soul after a time of fabulous plenty. But he was tied to the hospital where interns were too low in the pecking order to expect much time off. His next holiday would not be until Christmas, if he was lucky.
When his friend Vladimir had mentioned that he’d seen Katya the previous day in town, Yuri had been surprised. But she had probably only just arrived and had not had a chance to call him yet. Or perhaps she had tried. She would have trouble reaching him because he was so busy at the hospital. So the first thing Yuri did when he stopped for lunch was to call her from a hospital telephone.
“Hello, my love!” he said eagerly when she answered. “Imagine my ecstasy when I learned you were back in town.”
“Yuri . . . hello.”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
“Well, I . . .”
“I know I should give you time to unpack and get settled, but you won’t torture me too long, will you?”
“I have plans for the next two evenings.”
“What?” Then he noticed the distance in her tone, which he had at first attributed to the quality of the phone
connection.
“I have been gone so long and there are people who wish to see me. You must know how that is.”
“I know. I’m one of those people.”
“Of course . . . and I want to see you.”
“Can I come tonight?”
“As I said, I have a previous engagement.”
“I don’t understand.” Was this the same person he had been with in the Crimea? Yuri felt his insides knot up with fear. “How could you have so many engagements already made if you only just returned?”
“Did I say I had just returned?”
“No. That is, I thought—”
“Yuri, I’m just spending the evening with some friends. Why don’t you join us?”
He hesitated. He had often had a vague sense that Katya was giving him crumbs, but this was the first time he truly felt like a dog begging for scraps from the master’s table. He wanted to tell her no, that he had better things to do with his time than spend it with an unfeeling, insensitive woman. But even as his ire was stirred, he found himself answering, “Yes, I’ll do that. What time?”
“Nine o’clock.”
So late in the evening, it couldn’t be a dinner invitation. Would her other friends be coming for dinner? No matter. At precisely nine o’clock that evening he took a horse-driven taxi to the Zhenechka estate, one of the grand estates on the island known as Petersburg Side. The Grand Duchess Zenia, the tsar’s sister, lived near the Zhenechkas. As the cab approached the estate, he thought about the old Fedorcenko palace—far larger and more fabulous than Katya’s home, or even the grand duchess’s, for that matter. He wondered, not for the first time that day, how Katya would have treated him had he grown up in that palace on the hill, heir to all the wealth and power that had once been at the command of the Fedorcenko name.
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