Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

‘Tonia!’ The sudden effort was too much for Lenka. Coughing all but choked her.

  The child was beside her in a moment, arm about her waist. ‘Mama, Mama! You mustn’t cough! Come – come and sit down.’

  Lenka allowed herself to be pushed into a patched armchair, its horsehair stuffing bulging through its threadbare covering. She was struggling to contain the fit of coughing.

  Anna and Volodya followed them into the room. Watched as Tonia, competent and gentle as a woman three times her age, fetched a tin cup of water from the table, helped her mother guide it to her lips. Then she straightened, her arm across her mother’s shoulders, and faced the intruders defiantly. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘And we don’t want you here. Go away.’

  Lenka’s silence was every bit as eloquent as her daughter’s impassioned words.

  ‘She’s right, Anna,’ she said at last, with a slow and difficult dignity that brought the sudden burning of tears to Anna’s eyes. ‘It’s too late. Go away.’

  Anna came to kneel beside her sister. Steadfastly she ignored the child’s eyes, so like her own and yet fiercely and openly hostile as, like a distrustful animal’s, they followed her every movement. ‘All right. I’ll go. But Lenka – you aren’t well. Let me help you. You need food, medicines?’

  ‘No!’ the child snapped, loathing in her face and in her voice.

  ‘Quiet, Tonia!’ The effort of raising her voice brought on another bout of coughing. Lenka doubled up.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Tonia was there again, with a supporting arm, her fingers tender in her mother’s tangled hair, glaring at Anna above the bent head.

  Lenka wiped her mouth, reached out to take her daughter’s hand in a firm grip. ‘Just a few roubles,’ she said to Anna, ‘for the children, you understand. Be still, Antonia!’

  The child subsided, glowering.

  ‘Here.’ Anna pulled out her purse, pressed it into Lenka’s hand. ‘And there’s more –’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well. But remember, Lenka, if you need anything – anything at all! – send for me and I’ll come. I promise you.’

  Lenka lifted a haggard face. ‘You promised me something very like that once before,’ she said, very softly.

  Once in the dingy streets, which not even the light from the soft May sky could beautify, Anna walked briskly, blindly and in silence for a full five minutes before her companion caught at her hand and stopped her. ‘Anna.’

  She turned to him. Tears reddened her eyes, slicked her cheeks, dripped from the sharp line of her jaw. ‘Don’t say anything, Volodya,’ she said. ‘Just don’t say anything at all.’ And she turned and hurried on through the dreary, embattled streets and the long, pearly dusk of the summer’s evening.

  * * *

  What came to be known as Petrograd’s June Days brought crisis once more to the streets of the city. As always the origins of the trouble were confused; there were demonstrations and counter-demonstrations and the confrontations were fierce. Forbidden by the Government to march, the Bolsheviks at first conceded defeat, then with savage enterprise and no mean organization proceeded to take over the Government’s own demonstrations, turning out in massive force, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind as to who was winning this battle for the heart and mind of the working man. The simple slogan of the Soviets, ‘Peace, Land and Bread!’, appealed directly and forcefully to a population tired of the war, tired of oppression and all but exhausted by hunger. When it became clear that the Government was withstanding this fresh surge of pressure, tempers again rose to explosion point; there were strikes and demonstrations; workers’ delegations from seventy-four factories met to demand the immediate transfer of power from the Provisional Government to the Petrograd Soviet. Thirty-five thousand men downed tools to march in support of their Bolshevik leaders. The First Machine Gun Regiment, ordered by a nervous Government to quit the city and transfer itself to the Front, obliged by sending ten units to fight the Germans whilst keeping twenty in Petrograd for more pressing battles. Other regiments ignored their orders altogether. The soldiers, and their arms, once again began to join the workers on the streets.

  By early July it was obvious that events had moved too fast; the mass of the people had run all but beyond the control of those who had sought to manipulate them. The Bolshevik leadership tried to stop the increasingly violent protests and were themselves ignored and vilified. Workers poured into the capital, and twenty thousand sailors from Kronstadt prepared to sail upriver and into the city. For two days the Tauride Palace was besieged by demonstrators calling for the resignation of Prince Lvov’s Government and the handing of power to the Soviet Executive Committee. Yet still the people themselves were divided and there were bitter clashes between rival factions.

  Anna had become almost used to it by now; the massed marches, the waving banners, the inevitable violence, the fires, the barricades, and the forums that formed on almost every street corner, arguing and shouting, debating furiously, never so far as she could see coming to any conclusion. Life had to go on. Food must be found, contact maintained with the family, arrangements made with the bank for more funds. Plainly dressed and using common sense in her choice of routes she walked the streets unmolested. Like many others her only choice seemed to be to live from day to day, until some sort of order came out of the chaos; then she would make her decision. She spent a great deal of time with Natalia and the children; her sister-in-law was only too pleased to have her care for and entertain the two older children, whom she sometimes took back to the Bourlov apartment for days at a time, whilst Natalia devoted herself to the frail Dimochka. Anna had not attempted to visit Lenka again, though Volodya had taken supplies and money – both of which Lenka had flatly refused to accept. Margarita no-one had seen since the beginning of the disturbances two or three weeks before.

  ‘I might try to pop in on her after I’ve been to see Mr Lawson at the bank,’ Anna said to Volodya on the day that he had come in with a precious chicken, a bag of even more precious onions and the news that the Bolshevik leadership were, with the exception of Lenin and a few close associates who had fled the city, under arrest.

  Volodya swung Nikki, who was perched astride his shoulders, to the floor. ‘I wish you’d wait until I could come with you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. There’s no real risk.’ She laughed as the agile little boy launched himself again at Volodya.

  ‘Another ride, Uncle ’Lodya! Another ride!’

  ‘You’re in more danger here from the look of it.’ She settled a small straw hat upon the wiry mass of her hair. ‘Goodness, if there’s one thing I truly miss it’s a decent hairdresser! Just look at me! I look like a hedgehog!’

  ‘A hedgehog! A hedgehog!’ Nikki crowed, elevated once more to the heights.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Aunt Anna.’ ’Tasha was loyally indignant. ‘Of course you don’t!’

  ‘Anna? Anna, are you there?’ At the sound of Varya’s voice all four of them stilled, almost guiltily.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go,’ Volodya said.

  ‘Thanks.’ She kissed his cheek lightly, beneath the bright, interested eyes of the two children. ‘I won’t be long. It’s a formality, I think.’ She grimaced a little. ‘I want formally to ask for some more of my own money and Mr Lawson wants formally to lecture me on the advisability of returning to England.’

  ‘He’s right.’

  ‘That’s as may be.’ She waved from the door. ‘Be good, you two.’

  ‘What about Uncle ’Lodya?’ ’Tasha asked.

  ‘Yes. Him too. You’ll look after him for me, won’t you? Don’t let him misbehave?’

  ’Tasha giggled.

  ‘Anna!’ Varya shrieked.

  ‘Go,’ Volodya said.

  * * *

  The interview with Mr Lawson of the Anglo-Russian Bank went much as she had foreseen.

  ‘Mrs de Fontenay, in view of the unrest, and given the quite terrifying scale of inflation in the country at present –
’

  Anna, taking just enough time to register with some amusement that it was the rate at which she was spending money that was concerning the man just as much as any personal danger she might be in, stopped listening. At the end of the lecture she smiled, at her most charming. ‘Thank you, Mr Lawson. I shall of course consider what you’ve told me very carefully. Very carefully indeed. Now, if I may collect my money?’

  The news of the arrests of the Bolshevik leaders had fired much excited discussion and a fair amount of disquiet in the streets. The inevitable noisy meeting was taking place in the Liteini. Anna squeezed through the animated participants. Soldiers, workers and students of both sexes, and a few sailors from the Kronstadt fleet that had anchored in the river, shouted each other down with a fine disregard for sense or courtesy. Almost all of them carried arms of one kind or another, and many wore the red armbands of revolution. Anna picked her way through the remains of a barricade, skirted about the burned-out remains of a tramcar – sometimes she thought it a wonder that there was a tram left in working order in the whole of the city – and turned the corner into Margarita’s street.

  The building was quiet, the landing empty.

  Anna rapped sharply at the door.

  Nothing happened.

  She knocked again; and when it became evident that Margarita was not there, disappointed, she turned to leave. Stopped. The smell of cigarette smoke was strong. Strong and fresh. She knocked again, louder. ‘Rita? Rita, are you there?’

  She heard, distinctly, a muffled cough.

  ‘Rita, it’s Anna. Oh, do come on, Margarita – what are you doing?’ She rapped again.

  ‘Go away, Anna.’

  She stared at the door.

  As if she had willed it so, it opened, just a little. ‘Anna, go away,’ Margarita said, tiredly. She leaned against the door jamb, cigarette in hand. The air of the dark little hallway behind her was thick with pungent smoke. Her hair was a tangle, her eyes heavy. She wore a crumpled scarlet satin evening dress, brazenly low-cut, and her feet were bare.

  ‘Rita, darling – whatever is wrong?’

  Margarita turned away, walked back into the apartment, leaving the door swinging open behind her.

  Anna followed, closing the door.

  The pretty little parlour was untidy. A vodka bottle stood upon the table, a half-empty glass beside it. Margarita turned to face her sister as she followed her into the room, defiantly picked up the glass and emptied it at a swallow. ‘Want one?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘Of course not. No. Of course not.’ Margarita turned and wandered to the sideboard. Set amongst the clutter stood the little theatre that Sasha had bought her. It stood neglected now, the tiny characters piled in a heap upon the stage. With careful, over-steady fingers she began idly to sort them, picking them out one by one, standing them in a row along the edge of the sideboard, pushing them into a straight line with the tip of her finger.

  Anna waited for as long as she humanly could. ‘Margarita,’ she said, when she could stand the tense silence no longer. ‘What is it? What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ She stood watching her sister in concern. ‘Is it – Rita, dear – is it Sasha?’ Margarita laughed at that, sudden and shrill. ‘Yes!’ she said, ‘I suppose you could say that! Yes, it’s Sasha!’

  Try as she might she could not stop the trembling.

  How in the name of God had they found out, Vassili and the others? How had they discovered what she had done?

  Almost unaware of her sister’s eyes upon her, she saw again those faces, those distorted and terrifying faces, endured again the disgust, the violent obscenities. How could they have turned against her so? They were her friends. Her only friends. Vassili’s handsome face had been ugly in its rage. ‘Tell me! Tell me! Tell me it’s a lie!’ His hands, that had gentled and loved her, had been savage as he shook her. She had thought, for a moment, that he might kill her. Why? For God’s sake, why? She was Sasha’s wife; yet not one of them had thought twice about cuckolding the man they now declared to be their blood brother. Betrayal? Who were they – any of them – to talk of betrayal? A tear – not the first she had shed in the long hours since she had dragged herself home the night before – ran almost unnoticed down her cheek.

  ‘He’s dead?’ Anna’s voice was gentle.

  She turned. ‘Yes,’ she said, blankly. ‘Of course he’s dead.’ She looked round, vague and distracted, for her cigarettes.

  ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I can’t find – ah, there they are.’ She picked up the packet from the table, struck a match to light it, shook the flame out. Whore, they had called her. Treacherous whore. An easy weapon to reach for, that. And who had made her so? Had she whored alone? Bastards, every one of them; heartless, brutal bastards. She remembered how they had manhandled her, remembered the probing, twisting fingers, and felt sick.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Anna asked, her quiet voice distant through the strange rushing sound in Margarita’s ears. ‘Do you know? Did they tell you?’

  Margarita’s control snapped. She turned on her sister in sudden and mindless fury. ‘For God’s sake, Anna, stop talking to me as if I’m a child who’s heard her favourite toy’s broken! Of course I bloody know! They stood him up against a wall and they shot him!’

  There was a short, appalled silence.

  ‘I told them where to find him,’ Margarita said, perfectly steadily. ‘Him and that bitch on heat that he was sniffing around. And they found them. Found them both. Together. It’s a bloody shame they didn’t shoot them together too. They exiled her. Sent her off to Siberia. I hope she’s dead! I hope she died slowly, and I hope it hurt! I hope –’ She broke off. She was shaking visibly.

  ‘Sasha – was executed?’ Anna asked, slowly.

  ‘Yes, Anna. Sasha was executed. He deserted! Brave, beautiful Sasha deserted! He was a coward! He ran away! And he ran not to me but to her – to her! So I told them where he was, and they shot him, and I’m glad! You hear me? I’m glad!’ The tears came in sudden, huge, choking sobs. She cried loudly, her mouth open like a child’s. ‘And now they’ve found out and they hate me – they called me names – they did horrible things to me – the pigs! The stinking pigs!’

  ‘Who did?’ Anna’s voice was remarkably calm. Her eyes were not.

  ‘Sasha’s friends – my friends.’ Margarita stopped at that, suddenly realizing what she had said, and to whom she had said it. The sobbing subsided. She pulled at the tablecloth to wipe at her nose and face. Several small ornaments fell to the floor, clattering and rolling.

  ‘I – I don’t think I have this right, Margarita.’ Anna rubbed at her forehead. ‘You aren’t – you aren’t honestly telling me – you betrayed Sasha? He deserted – and you –’ She stopped. She looked, and felt, genuinely ill.

  Margarita turned away from the look in her sister’s eyes. ‘I’m not sorry,’ she said. ‘You won’t make me feel sorry.’

  ‘When? When did this happen?’

  Margarita shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Months ago. Months and months ago. Now go away, Anna. For God’s sake, go away.’

  ‘How could you do such a thing?’ Shock had robbed Anna of any grace or courtesy. Pure undisguised horror was in the question. She could do nothing to prevent it.

  ‘Go away,’ Margarita repeated.

  ‘Months ago?’ The words were only just sinking in. ‘You said months ago? And all this time you – you’ve been pretending –’ Words finally failed.

  ‘Go away! Get out! I don’t want you here!’

  Anna backed away from her, very slowly. Then, abruptly, she turned and all but ran from the room. Margarita heard the slamming of the front door; it echoed like a pistol shot in her head long after the sound of her sister’s stumbling footsteps had died.

  Left alone, Margarita wandered the room, touching this, handling that, her face vacant. She took a vase from the shelf and dropped it, watching it explode and splinter at her feet. She picked up the
vodka bottle, took a mouthful, choked a little, pulled a face, put the bottle back upon the table. Walked to the sideboard.

  The cardboard figures stood in line, smiling fixedly and inanely into space.

  She picked up the figure of the prince, traced with her finger the tiny, rakish scar upon the cardboard cheek. Then with deliberate movements she reached for the matches, struck one, and set it to the figure’s feet. The bright material flared and curled; began to burn.

  Margarita smiled. With no haste she set the burning figure in the centre of the stage, stood and watched as the flames licked and glowed about it.

  Then she turned, and without bothering to shut the doors behind her walked out of the apartment and down the stairs into the street.

  * * *

  Comrade Sergei Krakovski had had a good day. He’d helped derail a tram and he’d brained a Menshevik. He’d also consumed, along with his fellows, a great deal of vodka kindly donated by the owner of a shop they’d come across in the Nevsky, and he was ready for anything. He was a brute of a man, big as a bear, a man who worked with iron and was proud of it. ‘Ashkenov?’ he said, frowning in disbelief, ‘Kurakin? Do you see what I see?’

  A woman was walking towards them. A vision. She walked with dainty steps, the folds of her scarlet skirt held high above the pavement, disclosing incongruously bare and dirty feet. The golden mass of her uncombed hair fell in tangled curls upon her naked shoulders. The dress was cut so low that it all but exposed her nipples. She smiled, dazzlingly, as she approached. Stopped. ‘Gentlemen? May I pass?’ She lifted her chin, eyes wide and challenging.

  They moved forward, surrounding her with their rank male smell, with the animal sound of their breathing. She did not move, but stood still, straightening her shoulders and arching her back a little, deliberately provocative.

  Krakovski reached a huge hand roughly to fondle the nearly bared breast. ‘And if we say no, little whore?’

  She let him pull the dress down to her waist. Smiled into their faces.