They meant well in trying to make her face reality and accept her loss. To do otherwise might easily drive her insane. She ought to just accept the fact that her dear Andrei was gone. But acceptance did not fill the huge abyss in her heart resulting from the loss, not only of the man she now realized she loved, but also her best and dearest friend. It did not keep her from seeing his face in every crowd or hearing his voice. How many times had she stopped in the street, certain her name had been called, or that she had caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders disappearing into a building or around a corner? How many times had she chased after these phantoms, only to be miserably disappointed?
Talia looked in the mirror before the dressing table where she sat. The face that stared back at her was thin and pale—more so than usual. Even the theatrical touches of rouge and eye makeup did little to help. Her thick, dark brown hair, pinned up on top of her head with wispy tendrils framing her face, only emphasized the pallor, and her long neck made her seem even thinner than she was. What a fitting look for the “White Swan” of Swan Lake, the part she would dance tonight at the Narodny Dom.
It was said that she danced the part nearly as well as Pavlova, with artistry and passion. She knew this had nothing to do with her abilities as a dancer but rather because she had found a part she could truly relate to—Odette, the princess consigned to the body of a swan because of an evil spell that can only be broken by love. Robbed of that love by the deception of the cruel sorcerer who thus imprisoned her, Odette’s only escape seemed to be death. It hardly mattered that Odette and her prince were finally united in death by the power of their love.
Even in her most optimistic moments, Talia did not expect such a bittersweet ending in her own life. She died a little every day, knowing that her love was never coming back to her.
It started raining just before Andrei and Rudy left for their evening of entertainment. Sonja tried to get them to call off the outing, but when Andrei insisted on going ahead, she thrust an umbrella into his hands instead. When he and Rudy were out in the street, Andrei glanced up just before opening up the umbrella. Sonja’s face was pressed against the windowpane watching her “Ivan” fly from the nest. He waved up at her and she waved back, but even through the stained, dirty pane, he saw that she did not smile.
The walk that evening was tiring for Andrei. He could not remember a time when he had been fit and robust, but he knew there must have been such a time, and for more reasons than one, he wished for its return. Since his coming to terms with his fear a few days previously, and the accompanying increase in his desire to learn his identity, he had been consciously, and sometimes strenuously, working at accelerating his recovery. When Sonja was gone, which was often since marketing consumed so much time, he exercised on the apartment stairs, walking up and down, sometimes even trying to run. His wound still caused him pain, but it was healing steadily since the infection had been stanched by powders Rudy had somehow obtained from a hospital. Andrei’s main problem now was loss of stamina, a problem he was determined to surmount.
When Rudy suggested they pause in their journey for a rest, Andrei gritted his teeth and shook his head. He knew the quest for his identity would be no task for an invalid. He had to get his strength back.
“By the way,” Andrei asked, trying to get his mind off his shaking legs, “when are you going to tell me our destination?”
“I wanted to make sure we’d come far enough so you wouldn’t want to turn back.”
“I thought this was going to be entertainment, something I’d enjoy. . . .”
“I hope so.” Rudy paused to run a finger across his glasses to clear the mist caused by the dampness the umbrella could not prevent. “Of course we have no idea what ‘Ivan’ would enjoy, do we?”
“No, but I’ll bet you have something interesting up your sleeve.”
Rudy smiled and they walked on. Crossing a bridge to the north side of the Neva, they eventually came to a large building of dull gray stone that had a vague Grecian look, except it was more severe than classical. Lettering on the front of the building identified it as Narodny Dom, the People’s House. Andrei knew the building, just as he knew other public places in Petrograd. He even knew what it would look like inside. He had been there before, but that was no great revelation, for this building was a theater and many Russians came here. As always, it was perplexing to Andrei how some things were so clear when other things—the very personal things—were so very blank.
“I’m surprised the place is still operating,” Andrei said casually.
“Well, people still want to be entertained. But it is not functioning in all its past glory, to be sure.”
“And what are they showing?”
“Swan Lake.”
“The ballet . . .”
Rudy smiled sheepishly. “You disapprove?”
“No, I think it is a good idea. The man I was probably liked the ballet. But I don’t see how coming here will help.”
“Don’t worry about that. Let’s just enjoy it. If it sparks something, fine. If not—well, nothing lost.”
Andrei wondered if it could be that simple. At least it was something tangible, the only real link that he had to his lost past—besides the Bolsheviks. But he was still a bit nervous about taking that route, although he knew he would, sooner or later.
With a shrug, he entered the building, closed the umbrella, and shook off the excess rain. There were quite a few people milling about the lobby, but only a short line at the ticket window where he and Rudy purchased tickets for a couple of kopecks, much less than the pre-revolution prices, a fact that was tucked in Andrei’s patchy memory.
Though there were two or three hundred in the audience, the theater was hardly full, and Rudy steered them to excellent seats ten rows from the front, in the center section. They sat down and had a fifteen-minute wait before the musicians filed into the orchestra’s box. There were only a half dozen of them, but they were dressed in evening attire, though a close look revealed that their cuffs were frayed and the knees and seats of their trousers were shiny and worn. Rather than being saddened by the rather pathetic showing, Andrei felt a strange pride in this display of the indomitable spirit of the Russian people. Perhaps he was indeed a revolutionary, if not a Bolshevik.
But politics aside, he was inspired on another level as well. He took out a sketchbook Sonja had found for him—he was afraid to ask how she had come by it or how much it had cost her—which he now carried with him always, along with the bits of charcoal that had been in his pockets. Before the stage lights were dimmed, he was able to make a drawing of the “orchestra.” Then the lights lowered and he was forced to tuck the sketchbook back into his inside coat pocket.
The opening scenes were hardly mesmerizing. The costumes were quite simple and the scenery was mediocre at best. Andrei reminded himself that the ballet had no doubt been hit as hard as anything by the revolution. The dancing was good, but it was not until the second act that he truly became caught up in the performance. That was when the White Swan came on the stage. He understood how the Prince Siegfried could fall so completely in love with her. The grace and beauty she emanated was only part of it. As the story progressed, one could tell this dancer somehow truly identified with Odette. Doomed to be lost forever in an evil spell, unable to grasp at love—the one thing that could save her.
In the end, as the swan was swallowed up in the lake formed by her mother’s tears, fated to die with her prince, Andrei watched transfixed. He leaned forward in his seat, his breath held, as if the scene were trying to pull him to it, as if the dancer herself were a magnet, a force powerful in its frailty and delicacy. Yet, seeming to mock the death scene, his heart was pounding so hard he felt the throbs echo in his ears. The dancer’s every movement only made it beat faster. He thought the sound of it could be heard all over the theater, like a drum. It seemed a sound such that could wake the dead.
But it did nothing to wake his dead memory. Andrei was left with only a d
isturbing sense that his reaction had been due to more than the quality of the performance. Yet the void in his mind had changed almost imperceptibly. It was no longer just an empty void. Now it was like a large empty room, with a light in it, and a hollow echo, but nothing else. It was waiting, expectantly, to be filled.
13
Anna had searched the house over several times but could not find what she had been looking for. She was distressed not only because the journals were important, irreplaceable actually, but also because she had such high hopes that they would be the thing to lift Yuri from his melancholy.
“Dear Lord, what could have happened to them?” she murmured as she shut the lid of the old trunk.
They were Sergei’s journals. In them were his account of his experiences in the Siberian labor camp, his escape, and his eventual journey to China where his true spiritual journey had begun. Of course, Sergei had recounted these things to Yuri and Andrei many times before his death. The boys had listened respectfully, but they had been young then and, as young people will be, rather cocky and disinterested in “ancient history” as they had perceived it. Anna was certain it would be different now. She was also certain it would have a far greater impact for Yuri to read these things in Sergei’s own words rather than hear Anna’s verbal rehash of things that were coming to be rather sketchy in her own mind.
But now the papers were missing. Yet she could not have been so careless with Sergei’s things. Something must have been done with them. Perhaps Sergei had done something with them himself and had failed to tell her. But no, Anna remembered reading them after his death, thankful for the comfort they had provided her. She remembered thinking how her sons would appreciate them when they were older. She remembered—
Yes, that was it! Her father-in-law, Prince Viktor, had come upon her once while she had been reading them. He had been quite emotional—after all, he had lost both his children and his wife to tragic, untimely deaths. Although his mental state had remained healthy through that latest tragedy, his grief for Sergei, with whom he was enjoying a wonderful renewed relationship, was deep. Anna had offered him the journals to take back to the Crimea and keep for a while. Viktor must have them still. But in these uncertain times, the Crimea was as far away from Petrograd as the United States. She would not trust such precious items to the Russian mail, nor could she herself travel south just to retrieve Sergei’s journals.
Anna whispered another prayer, believing that God was as concerned for Yuri as she was, and that if the journals might be helpful to him, God would find a way for them to get to Yuri. In the meantime . . . well, Anna would do as she had always done—leave her loved ones in God’s hands.
Nevertheless, when Yuri came home that evening, Anna wavered a bit in her faith. Pale and thin and as woebegone as ever, he practically ignored his little stepdaughter who wanted to snuggle next to him on the sofa. She had stayed awake far past her bedtime just to see him. When Katya tried to intercede for Irina, he snapped at her and finally shooed Irina away. He laid his head against the back of the sofa, rubbing his eyes. He hardly noticed Katya exiting the room, her lips quivering, nearly in tears.
“You look exhausted,” Anna said, venturing into the parlor after she noted Katya’s hasty departure.
“Yes . . .” he grunted in response, not opening his eyes or lifting his head. “I was called away at three this morning for an emergency.”
It was now ten in the evening, and Anna had no doubt he had been working steadily since three.
“I never heard the telephone,” she said just to keep up the conversation.
Yuri and Katya’s room was near the phone, but Anna sensed that was not the only reason he was the only one to hear it. Yuri slept poorly if at all. Nightmares and anxiety haunted him day and night. Anna wanted desperately for him to find peace. She feared for his health, not to mention his soul, if he did not.
“Katya left a plate of food for you warming on the back of the stove.”
“Yes, and for thanks I snapped at her.” He sighed wearily. “Perhaps I should take a room at the hospital and come home only when I am in a more amenable mood.”
“When do you think that will be, Yuri?”
He snorted with self-derision. “A good question, Mama. Maybe I should not come back at all.”
Anna sat beside him and took his hand in hers. He lifted his head and looked at her, moisture brimming his eyes. “Dear Yuri . . . that would not be a good solution for anyone, especially Katya and Irina. They need you even if only part of you is here.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I have this licked. Then everything gets to me and I collapse once more. I feel as if I am one of those tightrope walkers at the circus. I can never seem to keep my spirits up for any length of time. The thin rope I walk on is my sanity. I often wonder if this is what it is like to go crazy. Do you think I am, Mama—insane, that is?”
“Yuri, I am no doctor. But I need no medical training to see that you are as sane as anyone else in this confused world we live in. You are certainly as mentally stable as one can be who has suffered the things you have suffered in the last six months. And it has only been six months! In that time you have been through two very traumatic situations. Not to mention the traumas of society you have been involved in—war and revolution are no small things. And then every day at the hospital you must face the traumas of others.”
“Working at the hospital is both the best thing and the worst thing I can be doing.”
“Yuri, the worst thing you can do is isolate yourself from your family. Let us hold you up when you are weak. Let Irina give you the gift of her joy. And let Katya be the helpmate she so desires to be. Someday you will be able to give to us, but for now accept the gifts we have.”
“When I married Katya”—Yuri lifted his head and turned pained eyes upon his mother—“I expected to be the one to care for her. I don’t want to be needy, useless. It is hard to accept gifts when I have nothing to give in return.” He paused, arranging an empty smile on his face. “How does anyone put up with me? I am even growing sick of myself. I whine more than all of the children in this house put together.”
Sighing, Anna nodded her head unconsciously.
“So, you agree, Mama?” Yuri asked with mock affront.
“Well, I—” Anna began but didn’t know how to respond because she did agree, but she didn’t think it would be kind to admit it.
“You need say nothing, Mama. You have done wisely merely listening to me. You knew I’d eventually hear myself and be disgusted.”
“I can’t take credit for that, son.” Anna smiled and said a silent word of thanks. It was a small victory, one that, as even Yuri admitted, might not last. But for the moment, Yuri had made some progress.
“Yuri . . . ?” It was Katya, and on hearing her voice, a hint of a smile bent Yuri’s lips.
“I’m so sorry, Katya,” Yuri said.
“Tut, tut, there will be none of that.” And if Katya’s cheerful tone was manufactured, Anna could tell it was welcomed by Yuri nonetheless. “Now, come and have something to eat before you waste away to nothing. And I would not like that at all.”
Yuri leaned forward then rose. “Where is Irina?”
“She is in bed.”
“I’ll go tuck her in. Then I’ll join you in the kitchen.”
14
Lenin’s increasingly militant stand against the Provisional Government was a surprise even to the Bolsheviks in Russia. Yet Lenin’s influence grew where it mattered most. His promises of peace and bread and the communal sharing of wealth had great appeal among the masses. Thus, it was not long before he crushed Party opposition and became its undisputed leader.
Another “shot in the arm” came to the Party, and to Lenin, with the arrival of Leon Trotsky from America at the end of May. Trotsky had broken with the Party years before and was no longer an official member, yet he was a charismatic and well-known force and quickly rose in the ranks of the Soviet, eventually coming solidl
y in line with Lenin’s philosophy. They made a formidable pair—the driven single-mindedness of Lenin and the tireless man of action who was Trotsky.
Andrei’s patchy memory recalled nothing of Trotsky. But when he and Rudy attended a workers’ rally at the Putilov Steelworks, where Trotsky was the main orator, Andrei was duly impressed. The man could stir a cold pot of borscht to a boil. It mesmerized Andrei even with the stock rhetoric about “power to the Soviets!” It was also more than merely Trotsky’s fiery voice that captivated, for it was difficult to take one’s eyes off his animated visage, the mane of thick, dark hair incongruously offset by narrow, intelligent eyes covered with sedate wire-rimmed glasses. He emanated fire and urbanity all at once. Andrei pressed closer to the front of the crowd.
“So, what do you think?” Rudy asked, elbowing Andrei to get his attention.
“He’s a powerful force.”
“I hear Lenin will speak to a public gathering tomorrow. You can compare them.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“You must do this eventually, Ivan.”
“Yes . . . yes. . . .”
“You may not need to confront Lenin directly,” offered Rudy. “Perhaps one of his lieutenants will recognize you.”
“Perhaps . . .”
Andrei felt pulled in so many different directions. Anxious to learn his identity, yet fearful and uncertain at the same time. But he had attended several political rallies lately in the hope that someone there might recognize him. Still, it felt rather foolish to boldly approach strangers with the question, “Who am I?” or, “Do you know me?” He had tried it a couple of times, only to be faced with blank stares or replies questioning his sanity.
Andrei turned his attention back to Trotsky, who was standing on a makeshift stage bellowing denouncements of the Provisional Government, the War, and anything else that conflicted with the Bolshevik doctrine. It occurred to Andrei that Trotsky had certainly changed his tune. Hadn’t he previously embraced the Menshevik philosophy? Suddenly, Andrei realized he was having a flicker of memory. But the moment he tried to grasp it and squeeze more from it, the illusive flicker was gone. His head spun and he swayed on his feet. He must have bumped Rudy, for his friend turned.
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