The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “What? This is a one-sided affair you are having?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t given up hope yet.”

  She gently brushed her hand across Andrei’s cheek. “Ah, you are a boy, aren’t you? A sweet, naive little boy. But—” She shrugged casually and winked. “I am enough of a romantic to understand true love. Still, I hope you don’t waste away your youthful good looks on unrequited love. There must come a point when you say, ‘enough is enough.’”

  “Maybe . . . but I don’t know when . . .”

  He thought about that for quite a while—and never arrived at an answer. Maybe he would never see Talia again. With a war on, anything could happen.

  “Tell me, cher, who is this girl who has imprisoned your heart?” asked Inessa. “And what has it to do with your stopping the cab so suddenly?”

  Andrei nodded toward the poster. “She is a dancer with the Ballets Russes. Seeing that poster brought me back to my senses.”

  All at once, Inessa jumped out of the car and ran up to the wall where the poster was tacked. Then, to Andrei’s astonishment, she pulled it cleanly from the wall and brought it back to the cab. “Here, mon chéri.” She grinned. “Keep this in case you should forget yourself again.”

  Andrei laughed. “You know, it was rather fortuitous that this appeared when it did.”

  “Quite a coincidence, eh? Fate, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps more.”

  “Well, Andrei, it may well be that fate, or perhaps even God, is looking out for you.”

  “Because of the poster?”

  “Not entirely. I read an article recently that Diaghilev has begun an artistic colony in Switzerland.”

  “What does that have to—” Suddenly awareness dawned on Andrei. Diaghilev, of course, was the director of the Ballets Russes. “In Switzerland, you say?”

  Inessa nodded, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “Where you happen to reside these days when you are not traipsing about in other countries on Ilyich’s business.”

  “But I don’t know what good it will do—”

  “Just like a man!” she thumped her head. “Such a thick skull.”

  What if Talia were in Switzerland? Just to see her would be wonderful. Yet it might also be excruciating. Could he bear further rejection from her? Could he stand looking at her, even talking to her, knowing she was thinking of Yuri, aching after Yuri, longing for Yuri—as Andrei longed for her?

  No . . . this was one decision he could not make impulsively. He had to think about it. It might, after all, be better just to keep things as they were.

  47

  “One, two, three, four—that’s terrible extension! Come, girls! You are professionals—act like it!”

  Talia brushed a bead of sweat from her brow. The dancers had been practicing for two hours without a break. She was getting a cramp in her leg. She didn’t think driving the dancers like serfs was going to make them any more professional, but she certainly didn’t have the nerve to say as much to the coach. One of the other dancers finally protested.

  “Vera,” the bold girl said to the coach, “I am ready to drop. We must have a break.”

  “If that is all the stamina you have, then perhaps you should stay behind when the rest of us go to America, eh?”

  “We can only take so much.”

  “Is that how the rest of you feel?”

  Emboldened now, the other dancers readily agreed.

  The coach threw up her hands. “With that kind of attitude, we will be a monumental flop on our tour.” Then she shrugged. “All right, take a five-minute break.”

  Talia limped to a table where a pitcher of water and glasses were laid. She poured herself a drink and a second for another girl who approached.

  “I’m so excited about going to America,” said the girl. “I suppose it’s worth the extra practice.”

  “I suppose,” said Talia without matching enthusiasm.

  “Surely, Talia, you want to go to America?”

  “It’s so far . . .” Talia sipped her water.

  “I think it is just as well to get away from Europe while the war is on.”

  Talia had joined the company of the Ballets Russes last season. It had been a difficult decision because the company did not perform in Russia and probably never would. But the chance to work with the great Diaghilev had been too marvelous for her to pass up. When she rejoined the company after her summer sabbatical, it had been far easier. During that summer, her life had been turned upside down with Yuri’s whirlwind declaration of love and just as stunning rejection. After learning of Andrei’s love and his subsequent disappearance, Talia had found some relief in distancing herself from Russia for a while. The grueling discipline of her work had been quite welcome. But it hadn’t prevented her from thinking about Andrei. And the more she thought about their friendship, the more she realized how much Andrei meant to her. This separation from him also made her acutely aware of the truth of Yuri’s words: “If that’s not love, what is?”

  She wondered constantly what would happen if she saw Andrei again. And often she would actually ache with yearning for him. But he seemed determined to stay away from his loved ones. Her mama wrote that Andrei had sent his mama one letter shortly after the war started asking her to understand and forgive his need to leave. There had been no word since from him. But there was a rumor that he had joined the Bolsheviks in European exile.

  At least he was out of the war, or so she hoped.

  During her performances she always fantasized that she would gaze out into the audience and see his face. But she was to depart for America in two days. Hope of seeing him again soon was dwindling to nothing.

  Still, if she did see him . . .

  She certainly wouldn’t let him go away again. And she would love him—yes, love him! She’d not let him go another minute with his love for her unfulfilled. Since Yuri opened her eyes to Andrei’s feelings, Talia’s feelings for Yuri had simply faded away. She had been clinging to a childhood dream for too long. Now she thanked God for Yuri’s rejection, for only when the flimsy bubble had been burst had she been able to truly see how insubstantial it really was.

  If only Andrei had waited a little longer. But patience never was his best quality, she thought with an affectionate smile. She couldn’t be angry at him, though. They had all behaved foolishly and blindly. She just hoped they could soon set everything right. She was tempted not to go to America, but the tickets were bought and all the arrangements were made. Besides, if she stayed here, she’d go crazy hoping for him to appear around any corner or in any crowd. The tour to America would only be for a few months. Perhaps by then Andrei would have come to his senses and returned to Russia.

  Andrei and Inessa planned to take the four o’clock train from Paris to Bern. But before they departed for the station they had a meeting with the French Bolsheviks, whom Inessa had finally contacted. The meeting went on far longer than Andrei’s store of patience. His grasp of French was adequate enough to follow the conversation, but it was so much tedious political debate that at times he wanted to scream. Part of the source of his impatience, of course, was a growing anxiety to return to Switzerland. Since learning that Talia might be there, he could think of little else. He tried logically to debate the positives and negatives of seeing her—just like a hardened Bolshevik! But all the while he knew that no matter what logic told him, he would see her.

  Once he and Inessa got under way, the trip to Bern was maddeningly long. Inessa tried to distract him by reading several essays she had written on free education, one of her pet causes. They arrived in Bern only to learn that Krupskaya’s mother had died. The old woman had been practically a mama to all of the Bolsheviks, and she had been especially kind to Andrei. Andrei could not turn immediately around to go off after a woman. He had to remain at least long enough to attend the funeral.

  Two days later he began his pursuit of Talia.

  Talia took one last backward glance at the villa where she had lived and prac
ticed for several weeks. It was a lovely place, but she wasn’t going to miss it. The only misgivings she had about leaving were lodged in the knowledge that she would soon be farther than ever from Andrei. But it was impractical to stay in one place forever in a futile hope that he would miraculously appear on her doorstep.

  Her career might not be everything to her, but it was important. She loved to dance, and she had made close friends among the other performers. And the opportunity to travel to America was just too much to give up, especially for a romance that might never happen. Besides, Diaghilev had promised her two or three small solo appearances, and to be so honored was no small thing. With Nijinsky and Pavlova no longer with the company, Talia’s chance for larger roles was even greater. Surely Andrei, who had always supported her in the past, would not want her to turn down such an opportunity.

  Still, it was not easy to drive away. It was still harder to board the train that would take her a world away. But the tour would not last forever. By fall she would return to Europe—and maybe by then Andrei would also be in Russia.

  The Villa Belle Rive, overlooking the Rhone River, was in a beautiful setting, especially with spring blossoming all around. Andrei thought it a perfect locale for a reunion with the woman he loved. He had procured a ride to the isolated colony from a farmer who was returning from town after selling a wagonload of hay. Andrei offered the man a coin to pay for the ride, but the farmer would not take it, so Andrei thanked him and jumped from the back of the wagon.

  Bits of hay clung to his wool jacket and trousers, and he spent a moment brushing them away before he strode up the dirt path that led to the villa. He emerged from a thick stand of trees that fronted the villa, and the view left him breathless. How quiet and peaceful the place was! Almost too quiet. There had to be a large entourage connected with the Ballets Russes, from dancers to stagehands. But there was not a soul to be seen about the grounds. It was late afternoon; perhaps they were napping or something. But all of them?

  He walked up to the door and knocked loudly. A minute or two passed before he heard footsteps approach inside. A woman in a plain dress and apron answered the door.

  “May I help you?” she said in French.

  “Yes,” said Andrei, aware of his heavily accented and rough French. “I’m looking for one of the performers in the ballet company.”

  “The company left yesterday on tour.”

  “Yesterday?” Andrei quickly deflated, then just as quickly he thought of something and hope sparked him again. “Where did they go?” Perhaps he could catch up with them on the road.

  “They’re off for America.”

  Now he was truly deflated. “America . . .”

  She must have perceived his disappointment because she added brightly, “But they will return in the fall.”

  “Did they all go?”

  “Yes. There’s just my husband and myself left. We’re the caretakers.”

  “Did you know any of the dancers?”

  “Some I did. But others were a bit snooty, you know.”

  “There was one dancer—sweet as a spring blossom, and delicate as a bird. She hasn’t a snooty bone in her. Perhaps . . .”

  “What was her name?”

  “Talia Sorokin—”

  “Oh yes, I spoke to her several times. A very kindly girl. I’m sorry to tell you, but she also left with the American tour.”

  So that was it, then. She was gone. Perhaps she would return in the fall, but who could say where he’d be? With shoulders slumped and hopes dashed, he walked away. The five-mile walk to town didn’t improve his spirits.

  Maybe there was no such thing as fate, after all. Worse still, if there was, it appeared as if it was stacked against him ever being with Talia.

  And God?

  He tried to think what his mama would say about God in such a situation as this. That God’s timing was perfect. That He was the giver of good things. That they who wait on the Lord would be blessed.

  Maybe if he were closer to God, such words would help. But he was too confused to see God clearly, much less trust Him or even wait for Him. He might have thought differently if God had come through for him now—if Talia had been there to affirm his love and devotion. But now there was a void in Andrei’s heart even larger than before.

  48

  At the beginning of the war, Lenin had been disgusted with the large majority of socialists who gave over to patriotism, supporting the defense of their various countries. To Lenin, this was nothing short of treason to the socialist cause. The “imperialist war” of the ruling classes, he believed, should be manipulated into an opportunity to bring about collapse of the present rulers on an international scale—a vision to be achieved not by sabotaging the war, but rather by a massive propaganda attack among soldiers as well as civilians. In short, Lenin was calling for civil war.

  “Guns should not be turned upon our brother socialists and the working classes,” he wrote, “but rather against the Imperialist and bourgeois governments of the world.”

  The defeat of Russia, in Lenin’s estimation, would be a lesser evil than the defeat of Germany. Still, he refused to enter into negotiations with the Imperialist government of the German Kaiser. But as the war progressed, the expediency of some kind of dialogue with Germany became more and more evident.

  The prevailing political intrigue almost helped ease Andrei’s despondency over Talia’s departure. He eagerly accepted any work Lenin offered him. His comrades jokingly referred to him as the “Little Soldier, but the big workhorse,” and his work went a long way in strengthening his Party ties and smoothing over his ideological differences.

  Andrei, however, was especially ambivalent about the talk of dealings with the Germans. Now he more fully understood his uncle Paul’s struggles before he finally broke with the Bolsheviks. Andrei loved Russia, and it grated against his inborn patriotism to be in any kind of collusion with its sworn enemy. On the other hand, the Russia that was at war with Germany was the tsarist regime, which he hated and wanted to see defeated at all costs. He thus convinced himself that peasants and workers, his own people, were being driven like slaves to die for a cause from which they would in no way benefit. The only way to help them would be to scheme against the tsar’s war.

  He still felt odd when Lenin encouraged him and Stephan Kaminsky to meet with German socialist Alexander Helphand, code named Parvus. Parvus had worked closely with Trotsky during the 1905 Russian Revolution and had contributed several articles to Iskra in those days. But he was also a German patriot and in close association with the German government.

  “He is first and foremost a Social Democrat,” explained Stephan in an attempt to allay Andrei’s suspicions. “But he has no qualms against working any side he must in order to obtain his political ends.”

  “I’ve heard he made a fortune profiteering during the Balkan War two years ago. Sounds like a capitalist to me.”

  “An opportunist,” corrected Stephan. “And I am not saying I like the man. Lenin himself won’t even see him. But he is curious to hear what Parvus has to offer. Lenin would be willing to agree to an armistice with Germany should he gain power in Russia. Yet he knows he can’t achieve power without money—”

  “And Parvus has money?”

  “More than you or I will ever see. In addition, he has other resources to draw from.”

  “A German bankroll, perhaps?”

  Stephan shrugged. “We’ll just see what the man has to say.”

  They traveled to Zurich, where Parvus was staying in the fashionable Hotel Baur au Lac. He was in Switzerland ostensibly to organize the Institute of Science, an operation supposedly for the purpose of translating and disseminating socialist literature. It was, in fact, a venture solely dedicated to bringing about the Russian Revolution—and covertly funded by the German government. Parvus was recruiting exiled revolutionaries to work for him.

  Andrei and Stephan met Parvus in a cafe near the hotel. Stephan had described the man to An
drei, saying, “He’s got the body of an elephant and the head of Socrates.” And the part about the body was accurate. A huge man, both ponderous and powerful at the same time, Parvus appeared to be in his mid-forties. Dressed fastidiously and expensively, he was obviously a figure to be reckoned with. Five minutes of conversation with Parvus confirmed the second part of Stephan’s description. He was intelligent, articulate, and quite devious.

  “And how is Ilyich these days?” asked Parvus after signaling for a waiter. “It’s been years since I last saw him.”

  “He is very busy,” said Stephan. He and Andrei had agreed that Stephan would do the talking. Andrei had no argument with that, for he immediately felt out of his league with Parvus. Stephan was also out of his league, but better to let him make a fool of himself than Andrei.

  “We all are, aren’t we? The war consumes everything.” The waiter arrived, and Parvus ordered a meat pie and wine. He nodded toward his companions, “You would like to order, no?” When they hesitated, he added extravagantly, “Please, be my guest . . . or shall I say, the guest of my very generous client.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Come! Food and pleasure first, eh?”

  It took no more prompting than that. Andrei and Stephan, like all the exiles, were very low on funds. Both were big, muscular men with large appetites that had not been fully satisfied in months. Though it was three in the afternoon, they ordered full meals. Parvus laughed, delighted.

  “I see the cause plods along in its usual penury,” he said, “while the ruling classes wallow in luxury.”

  Stephan cocked an eyebrow and appeared on the verge of making a rather undiplomatic comment about Parvus’s hypocrisy. Andrei quickly interjected, “Why don’t you tell us about your new organization?”