“Your mind is still a little sleepy,” she said confidently. “It will all come back to you.”
“I feel as if a cloud is clinging to my brain.”
“Oh, Ivan, you always did have a way with words! Now, do you feel like you could eat something?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Perhaps . . .”
“A little soup to start with. Some chicken broth. You always did like Mama’s broth. But there is not as much meat as usual, and only a few pieces of potato. The War, you know . . .”
At least he could remember the War, but not whether Russia was winning or losing. If there were such food shortages, then it must not be going well for Russia. He wanted to ask the woman—his mother?—but she had already turned back to the kitchen area and was stoking up a fire in the cookstove.
“I am sorry there is so little heat,” she said as she worked. “There is not enough fuel for the main stove, and I must keep the fire in this stove as low as possible to conserve. I borrowed blankets from friends for you. But don’t worry, I have not told any except those I could trust that you are here. Rudy said you might be a deserter and could get in trouble if the police found out. He said the fewer people who knew about you the better. I do not believe you are a deserter—” She paused and turned a plaintive look upon him. “You’re not, Ivan, are you—? But it doesn’t matter. If you are, I know you would have had good reason. The world is so confusing these days . . . to some, deserters are heroes—and soldiers are . . . who knows? I am just glad you are home. That’s all I care about.”
In a few minutes she brought a bowl of broth to Andrei. It was lukewarm and watery, but Andrei let her feed it to him because she seemed to enjoy doing so. She propped a folded blanket behind him, and he tried to work his way into a better position, but the effort produced little effect except to exhaust him. When he finished the broth, she set aside the bowl and began fussing with his covers.
“Rudy says I must check your wound frequently,” she said. “You bled so much at first we thought we’d lose you. It still bleeds if you move about too much, but I know it will heal. Rudy says there is a bit of an infection and I must keep it clean, too. Oh, but even when you were unconscious, it pained you so for me to tend it.”
She pushed the covers away and lifted his nightshirt. Andrei raised his head so as to view his wound. The bandage, which appeared to be nothing more than rags torn in strips, was splotched with red. Suddenly his head began to swim, and he felt the blood drain from his face as clammy perspiration beaded on his brow. Groaning he let his head fall back.
“What is it, dear?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know. I felt dizzy and sick.”
“But I was not even touching you.”
“The blood . . .”
“I will ask Rudy about it later.” She replaced the nightshirt and the covers.
To distract himself from his nausea he asked, “Who is Rudy? My father? My brother?”
“Heaven’s, no! He is our neighbor, but a good friend. Your brother and father are still in the War.” She looked at him with concern. “You really can remember nothing?”
He shook his head. The cloud persisted.
“We will ask Rudy about that, also.”
A few hours later Andrei had a chance to meet Rudy. He was a man of medium height, about twenty-four or five. He was thin, lanky, and rather gawky in his movements, like one who has never quite come to terms with his body. He had a head of thick, black, curly hair that was allowed to have its own way. His thin face sported a bushy beard and a large nose on which was propped wire-rimmed spectacles. His eyes were black like his hair, sharp and sad, yet oddly warm, too.
After knocking on the door, he strode into the room casually as if quite at home here.
“He’s awake,” the woman announced.
“Good news!” Rudy replied in a soft yet intense voice. He turned toward Andrei’s bed. “You really awake?”
“Yes,” said Andrei.
“How do you feel?”
“All right, I suppose. Alive, at least. There’s some pain . . . my head is . . . rather foggy.”
“Foggy?”
“He can’t remember things,” put in the woman. “But that’s normal after such an illness, isn’t it, Rudy?” She paused then added, “Ivan, Rudy is a medical student—”
“Was a medical student,” interjected Rudy with some rancor in his soft tone. “My surname, which by the way is Gruenwald, was too German-sounding for those bourgeois masters at the university, and so they put me out of the school. I was in my last year, too. I was born in Russia, as were my parents, but that doesn’t matter in these times.”
“You have been caring for me?” asked Andrei.
“I have been helping Sonja here. She has done the lion’s share, even giving up her bed for you.”
“I . . . I didn’t know,” Andrei said apologetically. “There could never be enough thanks—for both of you.”
“And what else do you expect a mother to do for her son?” Sonja clicked her tongue, then smiled. “Now, I will fix tea for us.”
Rudy pulled a chair up to the bed. He felt Andrei’s forehead, then checked his wrist for a pulse. “Your pulse is fast and still a bit weak, and you are warm. I’ve been worried about an infection. If you don’t mind, I will check your wound.”
When Andrei gave his leave, Rudy lifted the covers and Andrei’s nightshirt. Andrei could not help a groan or two when Rudy gently pried away the bandages, and when the bandages were removed, he could not resist raising his head long enough for a glimpse. But one glance at the angry red wound, with blood still seeping from unhealed areas, made Andrei fall back against the bed with nausea and lightheadedness.
“Ooooo,” he moaned. “I’m going to be sick!”
Sonja was at his side in an instant with a small bowl that was put in place just in time to receive the little that was in Andrei’s stomach.
“Rudy,” said Sonja, “this happened before when I tried to look at his wound. What is wrong with him?”
“Perhaps the pain is too much.”
“I had not even touched him before.”
Rudy addressed his next statement to Andrei. “You afraid of blood or something?”
“I don’t know. . . .” said Andrei.
“Never seen any blood before?”
“I . . . I don’t know. . . .”
“You can’t remember?”
Andrei nodded.
“What’s your name?” Rudy asked.
“The woman . . . Sonja . . . says it’s Ivan.”
“What do you say?”
Andrei swallowed and his voice shook as the panic returned. “I . . . I can’t remember.” He gazed at his two caregivers. “I can’t remember anything! But if Sonja says so, I must be Ivan her son. Yet . . .” He finished his helpless statement with a shake of his head.
“Sonja,” Rudy said, “I have a couple chunks of wood in my room. Would you get them to help warm our tea. I want to have a little talk with our patient. You know . . . man to man.”
“Yes, I see,” said Sonja and she hurried from the flat.
When he and Rudy were alone, Andrei asked, “What’s wrong with me that you did not want her to know?”
“I thought it would be easier for me to clarify things without Sonja around. She is a dear, dear woman, and you may not have noticed yet, but she is, ah, not completely right in her head. But I will get to that. Let me first explain a few things and see if we can jog that lazy memory of yours.”
Andrei nodded, but hesitantly. He was wounded. Maybe he didn’t want to remember some things.
Rudy continued, “We found you a month ago—just a day or so after the revolution had begun—”
“Revolution? In Russia?”
“You don’t remember that either? Hmm . . .” Rudy paused thoughtfully. “This may be worse than I thought. There has been a revolution in Russia and the tsar has abdicated. You do remember Russia and the tsar, don’t you?”
“Yes, and the War
. There is a war with Germany.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. You were in an alley, here in Petrograd, with a bullet in your side. You have no idea how you got there?”
Andrei shook his head, and Rudy went on asking Andrei a series of questions about Russia such as the name of the tsar during the Crimean War, the name of the largest Russian province, the name of the longest river. Then he asked questions about math and science, progressing to questions about the world in general. Andrei answered nearly all intelligently. He was uncertain about some of the mathematical questions, and he wasn’t sure who the current President of the United States was. Rudy went on to ask some more personal questions. How old was he? Where was he born? Was he married? Andrei had no answers.
“It appears as if you have selective amnesia. That is, it seems to be confined only to personal memory.” Rudy sighed. “But then that’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”
“Is it temporary?”
“That’s hard to tell. I would say the trauma of your injuries brought it on. And we must hope that it will go away as you become stronger.”
“Is . . . is Sonja my mother?”
Rudy smiled, obviously with affection for Sonja. “No, I am sorry to say she is not. You are not Ivan, though she believes you are. Poor Sonja has not been right in the head since the war began. You see, her husband and oldest son were killed early on. Her youngest son, Ivan, did not go to war because the law permitted him to remain home to provide for his mother. But when his father and brother were killed, Ivan enlisted. By then Sonja was already losing touch with reality, unable to accept her losses. But six months ago, when word came of Ivan’s death, she lost whatever sanity she had left. You are about Ivan’s age, so is it any wonder that when she found you, she decided that you were her dear son returned at last to her?”
“I’m almost sorry that I am not.”
“She is a wonderful woman. Before the war she was a happy person with such a cheery nature. She made all who knew her happy. When I came here to live several years ago, estranged from my own family, she took me in practically as another son. Her husband was a weaver and brought home a good income. And Sonja made sure no one she knew went without. She was always baking for her neighbors—a loaf of bread to this one, a sweet cake to that one. She found joy in giving others joy. She still bakes for her neighbors—imaginary loaves and cakes. And everyone takes her empty baskets and they thank her, hoping in that way to return to her some of the happiness she once gave them. Sonja simply could not survive in the world Russia has become, so she made her own world. And now ‘Ivan,’ you are part of that world.”
“I owe my life to her.”
“Will you be her son, then?”
“I suppose I have a real mother somewhere who might be grieving over me.”
“Perhaps. Maybe you are an orphan.”
“Do you think I should be Ivan—for Sonja?”
“Don’t you want to find out who you really are?”
“Yes, of course. But how do I begin?”
Rudy smiled benignly. He was only a year or so older than Andrei, but he now wore an indulgent, fatherly expression. “We must work with what we know. For instance, your answers to my questions indicated you are an educated man. I can put this knowledge together with a few items we found in your pockets and come up with some answers. You interested?”
“My pockets, of course! I must have papers.” Andrei started to sit up, then wincing, he fell back again.
“Relax, Ivan. I suppose that will have to stand in for a name, if you don’t mind. Let me help you.”
Rudy did most of the work, frequently telling Andrei not to fight it, but to relax. Eventually Andrei was propped up in bed, and though he was breathing heavily from the exertion and the pain, it was not nearly as bad as it would have been if he had done the task alone. Nevertheless, if he knew nothing else about himself, he did know he did not like being helpless. He wondered how long it would take him to get on his feet again.
But Rudy was now going to a dresser in the room. “What we found are only pieces to the puzzle.” Opening a drawer, he removed a handful of things, brought them to the bed, and spread them out on the blanket in front of Andrei.
It was an odd assortment. Several newspapers, all of the same issue and only a few pages each; a few chunks of charcoal, the kind that would be used for drawing; a fountain pen; some coins, mostly Swiss but also a few French and Polish; and a folded paper that, upon opening, appeared to be a handbill for “The Ballet Russe.”
Rudy picked up a newspaper. “These were tucked into your belt under your coat. They are all copies of Pravda. Interesting, don’t you think?”
Andrei frowned, having no idea what Rudy was implying.
“Pravda means nothing to you?” But Rudy didn’t have to wait for a response to know the answer. “This is the official organ of the Bolshevik Party. Had you but one copy, we might conclude that you had merely picked it up, perhaps casually, or been handed it innocently. But there are ten copies here. It appears as if you were distributing them. Quite significant, yes?”
“Are you saying I might be one of these Bolsheviks?”
“You know what a Bolshevik is?”
“A Social Democrat—one of two splinter groups, the other being Mensheviks.” Andrei smiled, but he didn’t know why. Perhaps it just felt good to know something, anything.
“Very good. Are you one?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t strike any chord in me.”
“Well, put it together with the foreign money, eh? And the fact that you have no identity papers. Perhaps you are a returning exile. Many have returned since the revolution. Lenin himself returned a few weeks ago—after we found you, of course—but if you were an exile, and a Bolshevik—”
“Lenin . . . ?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Yes . . .”
“Did you know him?”
“I . . . don’t think so. I couldn’t have.”
“I saw something in you just now.” Rudy studied Andrei’s face as if hoping to discover a truth. “There was a flicker of . . . something.”
“I’m tired, Rudy. I need to rest.”
“Rest? Or run away, Ivan my friend?”
“I can’t remember! Don’t you think I would if I could?” Andrei retorted. “Blast it! I’m not running away. I want to find out who I am! It’s just . . . I’m so very tired.”
Rudy shrugged. “You deserve to rest. You will remember when you are ready. Would you like to lie back again?”
“No, this is good for now. Thank you, Rudy.” As Rudy rose, Andrei grasped his arm. “And, Rudy, I know I owe my life to you also, and I am grateful.”
“Sonja had to practically twist my arm to get me to help. And speaking of Sonja, I had better go see what has become of her.”
Andrei wondered if Rudy had left his belongings on the bed on purpose. These were his things, yet they might as well be refuse from the streets. He leafed through the newspaper, pausing occasionally to browse an article. Mostly political rhetoric. There was an interesting cartoon of a world globe with German soldiers on one side and Allied soldiers on the other, each pushing with all their might against the other. But crushed under the globe were a mass of people and the words, “The proletariat of the world bear the weight of the imperialist war.” The cartoon was signed by a “Malenkiy Soldat”—Little Soldier. Andrei shrugged and laid the paper aside. He decided he was too bored with it all to be a Bolshevik.
Then his eyes wandered to the handbill. He spread it open before him. Besides the words announcing the appearance of the Ballet Russe in Paris in May of 1914, there was an abstract drawing in ink, tinted with pastels, of a dancer. It was quite nice. He picked up the handbill and, as with the mention of Lenin, felt a stirring. Of what, he could not tell. Perhaps he had been a patron of the arts, or simply loved the ballet, not unusual for a Russian. Perhaps . . .
But beyond that final “perhaps” was a complete bl
ank. Nothing but a vague sense that there was something. He folded up the handbill and impulsively tucked it under his pillow. He must have carried it with him for some reason. Maybe if he continued to keep it close, it would stir the dead embers of his memory.
9
Yuri did not often have visitors at the hospital. The last time was when Katya had come to take him ice-skating. Thus when he saw Daniel approach, he was both puzzled and concerned. Katya’s visit had been good, but Yuri was too much of a pessimist to believe he could have two such visits in a row.
“What’s wrong?” he said without preamble.
“I’m sorry, Yuri—”
“Dear Lord! It’s Mama.”
“No, no—please, there is nothing wrong, honestly!” Daniel flashed a smile to punctuate his earnest words.
Yuri gave the chart he was holding to the nurse he had been talking with. “I wonder if I’ll ever become an optimist again?”
“You never were, Yuri,” Daniel said good-naturedly. “Do you have some time to talk?”
“There is something wrong.”
“No. It’s just that I so seldom find you home that the only way to corner you was to come here.”
“All right.” Yuri turned to the nurse. “Keep up the warm compresses for another twenty-four hours. Cleanse the wound three times a day with the iodine solution. I’ll look at it again tomorrow.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The nurse left and Yuri turned back to Daniel. “I have to be in surgery in an hour. Will that be enough time?”
“I’ll make do. Is there some place private we can go?”
Yuri led Daniel to the elevator, which for once was functioning. They rode to the sixth floor, exited, and walked down a corridor to Yuri’s office.
It was a small room packed with a desk, several filing cabinets, and a couple of metal chairs. The furnishings were shabby, and there was no carpet on the floor nor curtains on the single small window that looked out on the wall of the next building. A pungent musty odor pervaded the cramped quarters. It was hardly the kind of appointments one might expect the Chief of Surgery of a large metropolitan hospital to have. Besides this, the room was quite messy with stacks of charts falling all over the desk and books and other miscellany piled on the floor.
The Russians Collection Page 242