Kerensky hurried away and Botkin shook his head. “Well, it was worth a try.”
“Is Kerensky really as concerned for the tsar’s safety as he says?” asked Yuri.
“I believe so. And I will tell you another thing. The man has changed markedly in his assessment of the tsar since his first visit here a few weeks ago. He, like everyone who comes face-to-face with Nicholas, has seen the man’s humanity and his genteel nature. Kerensky, in fact, has dropped his judicial investigation into the tsar and tsaritsa’s activities before the revolution.”
“Perhaps he might be willing to assist our little venture,” said Yuri wryly.
Botkin chuckled. “An interesting thought. But I’m afraid Kerensky has too much to lose by collaborating. He will free the tsar through proper, legal channels, or not at all.”
After examining the royal children, Yuri departed the Alexander Palace. He rode the train back to Petrograd in deep thought. He had no idea what he could accomplish. And, unfortunately, if health broke out among the tsar’s family, he might not be able to accomplish anything. He hated to wish ill health upon them, but at this juncture, it might be in their best interests. For once, Yuri made a concerted effort to be more optimistic. He had taken on this task in order to have a positive purpose—and there was absolutely nothing about his visit that proved otherwise.
11
The snow and ice had melted before Andrei was well enough to venture from the haven of Sonja Morozovna’s poor flat. At first it was all he could do to negotiate the three flights of stairs down to the street. It took, with Sonja’s help, a quarter of an hour down and a half hour back up with a lengthy rest in between. A walk partly around the block was his next feat. It was quite a sight, the tiny Sonja, who looked as if she might crumble like a dry leaf at a mere touch, bracing the man who was at least a foot taller than she. Andrei had lost weight, and because of the shortage of food, he might never return to his former size that Sonja had described to him as well over two hundred pounds when they found him in the alley. Yet he was still a towering figure, and no skeleton at about one hundred and eighty pounds.
He took his recovery slowly, having no problem obeying Sonja’s admonitions not to overdo. He told himself he didn’t want to risk a relapse, but down deep he wondered if he was, as Rudy had pointed out, running away. But would anyone blame him? If his real life were not terrible, why would his mind have blacked it out? Why not accept a loving mother who cared for him so tenderly?
Besides, from all Rudy said, the world was not a very inviting place these days. The war and civil unrest had brought about miserable living conditions in Russia, and especially in Petrograd. The prospects for the future did not look promising. April had brought yet another crisis to the new government, and it was no coincidence that this came shortly after Lenin’s arrival. There had been renewed disorders in the streets and demonstrations sparked, according to Rudy, by a series of newspaper articles by Lenin, called his “April Theses.” The main area of contention was Russia’s continued support of the war—in Lenin’s words, an “unconditionally predatory imperialist war.”
Rudy said he knew some Bolsheviks who were shocked by Lenin’s stand, yet his nearly superhuman force of will was influencing even the most recalcitrant. Eventually the workers took to the streets, declaring, “Down with Miliukov!”; “Down with the war!”; “All power to the Soviet!”
On May first, traditionally an international Socialist holiday, Miliukov, Prime Minister of the Provisional Government, blundered by sending a wire—the contents of which were subsequently leaked to the press—to the Allies assuring them that Russia intended to fight the war to its end. This brought a furor of protests from the people and forced the Provisional Government into an untenable position.
“Many believed Lenin would use this moment to seize power,” Rudy told Andrei. “I’m not sure why he didn’t.”
“Lenin is many things, but he is definitely not impulsive—” Andrei, hearing his own words, stopped abruptly, mouth still hanging open.
“What is this, Ivan?” Rudy grinned. “A memory?”
“I don’t know where that came from. But it’s true, I know that.”
“Maybe you did know Lenin.”
“And so, should I just walk up to him and ask him who I am?”
“Why not?”
“Leave him alone, Rudy,” Sonja scolded. “He wants nothing to do with the likes of this Lenin.” Sonja turned toward an icon of St. Nicholas, kissed it, and crossed herself. “It is said he disdains faith in God.”
“Well, I’m not sure about Lenin myself, however not on grounds of faith, since I am an atheistic Jew,” said Rudy. “But if I thought he could help me, I’d lower myself to seek him out.”
“Men like that don’t give without expecting something in return,” said Sonja with a finality that seemed to put that part of the conversation to rest.
“So,” Andrei asked, anxious to put the topic to rest also, “what happened next? That was less than a week ago.”
“I’ll tell you!” said Rudy. “The Provisional Government and the Soviet have formed a coalition government. Miliukov is out, and Prince Lvov is again the Prime Minister. Kerensky is the Minister of War, but if you ask me, he is really running things. The people will listen to him long before they listen to some prince.”
“And Lenin?”
“He’ll have nothing to do with it.”
“Of course. No compromise for him.”
Rudy gave Andrei an incisive glance but ignored Andrei’s comment. However he did say, “I think it is time you had a little outing, Ivan.”
“No, no,” said Sonja quickly, fear in her small eyes. “It is much too soon. He can barely make it around the block.”
“Sonja may be right,” said Andrei. “I’m still so weak.”
“You’ll never get strong if you stay cooped up. I am the doctor, you know—well, almost a doctor. And I prescribe an outing, an evening of entertainment.”
“I’ll think about it. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Rudy left, obviously disappointed. Andrei gave thought to their conversation about Lenin and wondered how he knew such things about the man. He tried to tell himself that he had probably picked them up reading the newspapers Rudy often brought him, but he knew that wasn’t it. What he knew about Lenin went far deeper than that. Then, as Rudy suggested, why not go to the man and see if he could identify him? Yes, he would. Perhaps tomorrow . . .
Andrei was seated in his bed a few days later, exhausted after a particularly grueling walk. He had gone out alone, lost track of distance, and ended up walking almost three blocks before he realized he would have to walk the same distance back. When he finally reached Sonja’s building, he had nearly collapsed on the bottom step, and it had taken him an hour to work up the strength to climb the three flights to the flat.
Once back in his bed he began sorting through his possessions, as he often did, hoping that looking at them, touching them, would spark a note of recognition in his numb brain. But as usual there was nothing. He picked up one of the chunks of charcoal, wondering once again why he had them. This time, however, he thought he’d do more than wonder. He rose from the bed and looked about the room until he found some plain paper—actually all he could find was a blank leaf in one of the few books Sonja had. He sat at the old deal table and put the tip of the charcoal to the paper, almost as if he thought some magic would propel it along. In fact, it was a bit like magic as he began to make a sketch, astounding himself as a recognizable image appeared on the page.
First, he drew Sonja’s “beautiful corner.” It was a simple drawing, with the icons on the wall vague and only the pretty brass candle holder in focus, with as much detail as the charcoal would allow. He wished there was ink for the fountain pen, which would allow him to capture the engravings on the holder. Sonja would like the drawing because she had told him the candle holder, her most valuable possession, had been a wedding gift years ago.
Thinking of Sonja
, he attempted a new sketch on another blank page in the book. This one he did from memory—what there was left of his memory. It was of Sonja. She had a fascinating face with deep laugh lines and crow’s-feet, sadly off-set by hollow eyes ringed with dark smudges. According to Rudy, she had once been a cheerful, laughing woman. But years of pain, grief, and hardship had left her bereft of not only her loved ones but of her joy as well. Even Andrei’s presence had not brought back the laughter, as if, down deep, she knew he was but a substitute for her beloved son—a poor substitute at that who could not even remember her love and devotion.
Somehow Andrei captured all these things in the drawing—it utterly amazed him as the work unfolded before him. He knew it was good—very good—though he had no idea how he knew. He was so absorbed in his work he did not realize it when two hours passed. Only the opening of the front door made him pause and glance up.
Sonja came in after spending most of the day at the market. Her basket contained only a small loaf of bread and two chunks of dried fish.
“And I had to fight for these,” she said, placing the basket on the sideboard near the basin.
“It is not right that you should be out foraging for our food while I take my leisure,” said Andrei.
“I’ll hear none of that. You have done more than your share, Ivan. You fought for your country and were wounded to boot. It is my pleasure to do for you now.” She turned and smiled and was the image of the woman in Andrei’s sketch. The smile did not bring the laugh lines to life, nor did it dispel the sadness from her eyes. “Let me have this pleasure, son.” She removed the few items from the basket. “I only wish there was more. You are a big boy and must have more sustenance.”
“I get enough.” He knew she often gave him her share, and all the arguing in the world would not stop her.
“What are you up to?” she asked, walking up behind him. “Reading that old book? Your papa takes much pleasure in owning these books, though, of course, he cannot read himself. I think it is frivolous, but it gives him happiness and that’s what matters.”
“I’m not reading,” Andrei replied. “I thought I’d see if I could do anything with that charcoal.”
“You drew this?”
“Yes . . .” Andrei answered, suddenly shy, hoping it would not offend her.
“It is of me. Do I really look like that?” She paused and moved a bit for a better look. “Yes, I do, don’t I? I didn’t think I was that sad.”
“It’s not a good drawing—”
“No, it is a wonderful drawing. Where did you learn to do this, Ivan? In the war?”
“Well . . .”
“Of course, you don’t know.” She winked and gave his shoulder an encouraging pat.
“Do you really like it?” When she nodded, he turned over the page to the sketch of the “beautiful corner.”
Sonja gasped with pleasure. “Oh, Ivan! My candlestick! It is lovely. And you truly made this picture yourself?”
“What’s more, Sonja, I enjoyed doing it. I forgot all about the time. And it seemed so very natural.”
“Did it?” Her tone now contained a hint of wariness.
“Whatever else I might be, Sonja, I am almost certain this is part of who I am. It gave me such pleasure, such a sense of completion. And I realize now that if this was part of my life—the life I have forgotten—then it could not have been an entirely terrible life.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think I am afraid anymore to find out who I am.”
“But we know who you are, son.”
“Oh, Sonja.” He rose from his chair and put his arms around her thin frame. Was there any way to discover his true self without hurting this dear woman? Sighing with frustration, he knew there wasn’t. He would have to bereave one mother in order to restore a son to another mother. Yet it was this mother in his arms now that he cared for. The other woman would be a stranger to him.
Gently he released Sonja. There were tears brimming her eyes. She wiped them roughly away. “What a fool I am to carry on so, and with it far past dinnertime. You must be starved. Sit down and I will bring you your meal.”
Andrei obeyed. It was the best way to diffuse the emotions of the moment. They spoke of trivial matters as they ate the dry fish and black bread. Sonja told of her day at market, waiting hours in various queues, leaving some empty-handed when supplies ran out. She told him how the final hunks of ice had disappeared from the Neva, and that many trees were already sprouting with a new growth of leaves. The Cheremukha trees along Nevsky Prospect were blossoming. For the first time since waking in Sonja’s flat, Andrei wanted to get outside. He thought the signs of spring would be interesting to draw. He visualized just how he would capture a Cheremukha tree with its cherry froth of blossoms, perhaps juxtaposed against a sooty, gray building.
When Andrei finished his meal, he wanted to jump up and leave immediately. But he knew that would never do, for Sonja’s reluctance about his leaving was quite clear. Instead he tried to sound casual. “You know, Sonja, I’ve been thinking that I haven’t seen Rudy since the other night when I turned down his invitation. Perhaps I hurt his feelings.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“I know, but maybe I should accept his offer. He’s done so much for me, it’s the least I can do.”
“I still think it is too soon, son.”
“I will take it easy.”
Sonja shrugged and sighed wearily. Andrei rose and brushed her cheek with a brief kiss, then put on his coat—the same coat he had been wearing when they found him. Sonja had worked hard to clean it and had removed all but the worst bloodstains, patching the hole left by the bullet that had nearly killed him. He tried to shake away the sadness as he slipped into it. There was no way not to hurt Sonja. He could not prolong his search any longer. He had to discover the identity of the man who could take a piece of broken charcoal and turn it into a moving image.
12
The Imperial Ballet was no more, and with it had gone the financiers who had kept it in business. Many of the wealthy had fled Russia, taking their wealth with them; and those who remained were hoarding their possessions, or hiding them from possible confiscation by the new government. The pampered lives of dancers had thus changed dramatically. A glaring example of this was the ballerina Kshesinskaya’s lovely oriental-style home on Petrograd Side, near the banks of the Neva, which had been taken over by the Bolsheviks and made their headquarters. How awful it had been for her to watch all those crude, dirty men tramping on the expensive carpets, carelessly bumping and jostling her fine things.
Talia Sorokin had not lost nearly as much, materially. In fact, she was still living in her flat near the Marinsky Theater on the Moika Canal that she shared with several other dancers. Her mother and Anna Grigorov had frequently tried to get her to come back to their place. They worried because she was so near the center of town and much of the revolutionary activity. But their place was crowded already. Talia did not want to be yet another mouth to feed. And the dancers Talia lived with needed her to help pay the rent. No more were the days when they could live off the fat of wealthy patrons. The dancers had to scrape and claw to find food just like everyone else. Many, of course, had fled the country because even if they themselves were not part of it, their connections to the nobility were too strong for the new rulers—the Proletariat, as they had come to be called—to ignore. Talia had not reached such a level of notoriety to be forced into such a position. She did not have to flee.
Luckily, the Proletariat were Russians first, and they loved their ballet as much as the aristocrats. The tsar whom they despised and crushed had built for a fine people’s theater, Narodny Dom. There the common man could be entertained at reasonable prices, which the tsar subsidized from his personal purse. Talia had performed there a couple of times before the revolution, prior to joining the Ballet Russe. However, without financial backers such places of entertainment were now struggling terribly or had closed completely.
Many performers had literally taken to the streets, dancing or singing or playing instruments, living off the handful of coins passersby tossed their way. The people still wanted, and perhaps even needed, to be entertained.
Talia had done her share of dancing on street corners, but recently a dozen other dancers, including herself, had formed an informal troupe that traveled around, performing in the various theaters in Petrograd. For music they had but a skeleton orchestra, a mere handful of musicians. There was no scenery except what was left at the theater, and often it did not go with the stories, but it proved to be better than nothing. They also had managed to pilfer a few costumes from the Imperial Ballet closets. They frequently played to large audiences, which did not reflect accordingly on their income. Often, after expenses were deducted and the remainder divided between them, Talia came away with but a ruble or two for a night’s work.
Talia was managing to survive, in body and mind, at least. Her heart was another matter. She still could not believe that Andrei was truly gone. It seemed just as it was when he was in Europe, that he was absent for a while, with hope for a reunion always present. Then she would remember that he was never going to return. He had died in an alley during a blizzard, all alone. Someone had probably carted off his body, and because Andrei had no papers—or so Daniel believed—he was no doubt buried in a common grave. His loved ones could not even have the comfort of a funeral service.
Talia still tried to conjure up hope, because Andrei’s body had never been recovered. Perhaps that was just her nature, but she could not give up hope entirely that he might have survived. She tried to ignore the huge unanswered question this hope produced—a question Daniel and even Yuri would attempt to confront her with. If Andrei had survived, why, after two months, had he stayed away? Daniel said that Andrei had finally come to terms with his anger toward Yuri and his sense of shame. He had come home ready to reconcile with his family. So, if he was alive, there could be no reason for him to stay away.
The Russians Collection Page 244