by CW Hawes
I walked to her and took it from her. We sat by the fire. “What about the soldiers at the depot?”
“What about them?”
“They were killed in violation of the Geneva Convention.”
“Dru, war is dirty. And we are in war. You think the Communists would treat us any differently?”
“Probably not.”
“Not ‘probably.’ They wouldn’t. We’d be put on trial to show the world we are guilty and then we’d be executed. Probably publicly to show the good Russian people why they are best off accepting things as they are.”
I said nothing. What could I say? War is messy. Whoever wins does so standing on the blood of the innocent.
Dunyasha put her teacup down and took mine from me. She put her arms around me. “I love you, Drusilla. More than anything I wish you and I were back in New York and doing all the things rich women do. Instead we are here in this beautiful yet god forsaken land, fighting a fight which is not ours. And why? Because we fell in love with a man who cannot accept what happened to his world. That is the truth, Dru.”
Her dark eyes searched mine. The air felt charged with some manner of expectation. She touched my cheek, then abruptly stood, and walked to the window.
“Dru, would you light a cigarette for me?”
I looked at the back of the Baroness Bobrinsky and there seemed to be a weight on her shoulders.
What is she not telling me? I asked myself.
FIFTEEN
Leave Me
The Soviet airship came out of the east just before sunrise. Mikhail had done his best to camouflage the defensive installations and to make the dacha look as though the place were an abandoned ruin. But the place was inhabited and there were signs of people visible. The question was, were they visible from the air. The airship came in low. A mere three hundred feet above the grounds. We could see the crew in the gondola. We could also see the machine guns and small cannons. What defenses the dacha had I didn’t know. On some things I was kept in the dark. I watched the airship disappear over the mansion.
Out my window, I noticed a group of shrubbery in the yard moving. I looked more closely and saw the end of a gun barrel protruding above the greenery. The airship again became visible and I saw it was making a turn to pass over the dacha. The gun flashed into life and began pumping rounds into the airship. In four seconds there were two explosions in the airship and it began turning away from the dacha. In another two seconds two more explosions rocked the airship, one of the rounds hitting an engine car. The ship had completed its turn and was flying away. The gun continued firing, scored four more hits, and a fuel tank exploded. In two seconds the airship was a mass of flames and plummeting to the ground.
People began pouring out of the dacha to view the wreck. I put on my coat and joined the throng. Suddenly the sound of machine guns tore through the air. I stopped, closed my eyes for a moment, opened them and turned around. I no longer desired to go to the wreck. Slowly I started walking back to my rooms. Then I started running.
For some time I sat staring at the fire. There was a knock on my door but I did not respond. Whoever it was tried opening the door but I had locked it. Eventually he or she gave up and went away. Sometime after the attempt to enter my room failed, I stood and went to the window. I looked out on the trees. I spoke to them.
“I cannot do this anymore,” I said. “It is wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. The Russian people deserve better than a choice between two autocratic regimes. I will not help an autocrat. Even if I love him.”
I had to talk to Mikhail. It was as simple as that. Even if he became furious. This killing was no longer tolerable and I was not going to be party to it. I rang for Klopov and soon there was a knock on my door.
“Who’s there?”
“Klara Klopov, my lady.”
I unlocked the door and let her in, relocking after I closed it.
“Is Mikhail in the house, Klopov?”
“I don’t know, my lady. Do you wish for me to find out?”
“Yes. And if he is, tell him I wish to speak to him.”
“Yes, my lady. Anything else?”
“No, Klopov. That is all for now.” She unlocked the door and departed. I went to the window, looked out on the estate lands, focusing on the anti-aircraft gun emplacement in the trees, and waited.
I waited all day. It was not until we were served dessert at supper Mikhail and I talked. We took our tea and cake to a library.
“What is it you wish to see me about?” he asked.
“Mikhail, do you love me?”
“My sweetest kitten, I love you heart and soul. You do not know this? You do not believe this?”
“I believe you. I wanted to hear you say it.”
“I have said it and will say it again, my precious little plum. I love you. I want you for my wife.”
He said it again. He wanted to marry me. Oh, God, how was I going to tell him? I wanted a lover. I wanted a husband to keep me warm at night when I was old. Why all these complications? I turned and faced the fire.
“Little Dru, is something the matter?” He came up behind me and put his arms around me.
Maybe I could simply change how I wrote about the revolution. Maybe refocus on the plight of the peasants and ignore the fighting, the killing. The sight of the burning airship flashed before my eyes when I looked at the fire. The sound of machine guns after the ship crashed. There was no doubt in my mind. No one survived the crash. Even if I only wrote about the peasants, I’d be giving tacit approval to Czarist autocracy. To Mikhail’s autocracy. To my autocracy as his wife.
The tears welled up in my eyes. No. This was not me. I turned around in his arms, lightly kissed his lips, and said, “I love you, Mikhail. But I can’t do this anymore. I want to go home.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t give my approval to what you are doing.”
“I’m not asking for your approval. Only that you write and tell the world we are better than the Communists.”
“But that’s the point, Mikhail. I don’t think this movement is any better.”
He pulled away from me. “What did you say?”
“There is killing and torture. Innocent people have died. How is this any different from what the Communists do? Tell me.”
“Drusilla, this is war. A war I did not start. They did. But I will finish it or die trying. They are evil. I and this cause are good. We are the knights in shining armor, as you say.”
“The armor is stained red, Mikhail. I can’t do this anymore. This isn’t me.”
His face darkened. His tone was harsh. “You will write. If you love me, you will write for my cause. You will give it exposure and legitimacy. You will write until the Germans, or the French, or the British, or the Americans intervene on our behalf.”
Quietly I said, “Even loving you, I cannot. I will not.”
He was quiet. I touched his arm. “Leave me,” he said.
“Mikhail –”
He roared, “Leave me!”
I took one look at the rage contorted face of the man I’d given myself to and ran for the door.
SIXTEEN
Sod’s Law
I cried myself to sleep last night and when the sun rose behind grey clouds I woke alone. I got out of bed and rang for Klopov. The fire had burned down to coals and I added a few small logs. They started to smoke and then burst into flames. There was a knock at the door and Klopov entered.
“I brought your breakfast, my lady.”
“Thank you, Klopov. You’ve eaten?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I want you to pack your things, Klopov.”
“My lady?”
“We’re leaving.”
“We are?”
“Yes. I want you to send Gregor to me.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“When you are done packing, bring your bag here.”
“Yes, my lady. Anything else, my lady?”
“No. Not now.
Pack, get Gregor, and return as quickly as possible.”
“Yes. my lady.” She departed, closing the door after her.
I ate my breakfast and was drinking tea when Gregor arrived.
I know French and German, but I'm not fluent in either. Of the two, I'm probably better with French than German. In French I told Gregor, "Klopov and I are leaving. We will need a motor to take us to Moscow.”
“You are leaving, my lady?”
“Yes, Gregor, I’m leaving. There is nothing more I can do here. We’ll need a driver and someone to carry our luggage down to the motorcar.”
“Yes, my lady. Anything else, my lady?”
“Not now, Gregor. Thank you.”
The butler left and I finished my tea. Klopov arrived with one suitcase.
“Get me hot water, Klopov, please. I wish to wash.”
“Yes, my lady.”
While Klopov was getting my water, I packed my typewriter and paper. When she returned, I washed and she laid out a dress and undergarments for me. I dressed and Klopov packed my suitcases. When all was ready, I rang for Gregor. He appeared with a footman.
“Klopov and I are ready. Do you have a driver for us?”
“Yes, my lady. He doesn’t speak English, but your maid will be able to interpret for you.”
“Very good, then,” I said. “Let us depart.”
Klopov and I went downstairs, with Gregor and the footman following. We were almost to the front door when it opened and revealed Count Neratoff.
“Good morning, Lady Hurley-Drummond. You are leaving us?”
“Good morning, Count Neratoff. Yes, I’ve decided to return to Moscow.”
“Our mission is not finished. We are not through with your services.”
“I’m not writing any more on Russian affairs. I shall be requesting a new assignment. Now if you’ll please excuse us.”
Neratoff spoke Russian, then said in English, “You are not leaving, Lady Hurley-Drummond. No one leaves our cause. Except by means of death. And you are part of our cause.” He drew a small pistol from a pocket. “You will return to your room and continue your typing.”
“So I’m now a prisoner. Is that it?”
“Lady Hurley-Drummond.” He smiled a thin and cold smile. “You are our guest. A most honored guest. Invited by our leader Captain Turbanev, himself. Please return to your rooms.”
“You will not shoot me. Get out of my way.”
“No. You are right. I won’t shoot you. I’ll shoot your maid.” He shifted the pistol. “Return to your rooms. Now. Unless you wish to see her die. Right before your eyes.”
“Very well. Captain Turbanev will hear of this.”
Neratoff’s lips curled into a smile, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “Go ahead and inform the Captain. Keep in mind, when you do, I only follow orders. His orders to be specific.”
I turned around and walked back to my rooms.
When the gong rang summoning everyone to lunch, I remained in my rooms and asked Klopov to bring me a tray. I ate, sitting by the fire, wondering what my next step should be. Now it was clear, to me at least, I was a prisoner. I’d threatened to tell Mikhail, but the situation was likely Neratoff spoke the truth. He was only acting on Mikhail’s orders. In which case there was no reason to talk to him. Yesterday clearly revealed the truth of what Dunyasha told me: Mikhail was married to the cause. And he would not betray his first love. Maybe his only love.
After I’d eaten, I hid the Sauer pistol and ammunition and the ammunition for my Colt revolver. In case they searched my rooms I wanted to minimize the opportunity for confiscation. I put the revolver in the pocket of my dress.
“Okay, Dru, now what brilliant idea are you going to come up with to leave here?” But the walls weren’t in the mood to share their thoughts and the tapestries hung mutely. Despite their intransigence, I continued talking to the walls and tapestries. “Neratoff said I am a guest. A most honored guest. Which means I’m, at least at this moment, not confined to my rooms.”
I donned my coat, made my way downstairs, and walked out the front door. I looked around and realized I hadn’t spent much time on the grounds. I walked around the house until I found the garage and stables. I could ride a horse, but I’d rather not. Especially all the way to Moscow. No, for my grand escape a motor would suit me much better. I made my way to the garage. Nestor was there with two other men. He smiled at me and I smiled back. One of the other young men asked, “Comment puis-je vous aider, ma dame?”
“Je suis venu pour voir les voitures,” I replied.
He was all smiles and volunteered to show me the automobiles housed in the garage. There were four lorries of various sizes; three Moskvitches; two GAZ Pobedas, one belonging to Mikhail; a Mercedes Benz Autobannkurier; a Daimler DE 36, which was Count Neratoff’s motor; and Dunyasha’s Talbot Lago. The chauffeur, Nicolai, by name, showed me as well the desk, log book, and board where the keys for the vehicles were hung. I thanked him for the tour and hurried back to my rooms where I quickly sketched the garage’s layout while it was still fresh in my memory.
I would need a torch or candle at the least. I wonder if Klara would be able to get a torch or candle for me? Replaying Neratoff’s threat in my mind, I decided against asking her for help. I’d do this on my own. There seemed to be candles a plenty. I’d use a candle if I didn’t find a torch.
Which motorcar should I take? Do I opt for speed or do I go for blending in? Each has its advantages. If I took the GAZ or a Moskvitch, I’d be less conspicuous than if I made my escape in the Daimler or the Mercedes or Dunyasha’s Talbot Lago, which I wouldn’t take anyway. The car was like a child to her and god forbid if I even so much as scratched the paint. Being less conspicuous should make trying to follow me more difficult. With that in mind, I decided to take a Moskvitch. I’d travel light, taking only my typewriter and handguns. Having settled on a motorcar, I went looking for a torch or candle.
I left the house at two in the morning. I’d made my bed look as though I was sleeping in it. Hopefully the ruse would fool people long enough for me to get a good head start. I made my way through the corridors by the light of my candle. I reached the front door without mishap, unlocked it, and pushed it open. There was a wind blowing which promptly blew out my candle. The sky was clear and the moon, even though low in the sky, was two days past first quarter and provided enough light for me to make my way to the garage.
When I turned the doorknob, the door opened. I lit the candle and entered. I held it up high to illuminate the greatest area. The chauffeur’s desk was before me. Behind it the board on which the keys were hung. I’d learned enough Russian to be able to make out the names. I picked the keys off the board for the Moskvitch 400 in stall eight. I made my way across the repair bays and was about to open the door leading into the car stalls when I heard a noise. I blew out the candle and slowly turned around, my hand on my revolver.
In the office area was a man with a kerosene lantern. I slowly opened the door behind me and slipped through. The man was studying the board and I could tell he noticed the one set of keys missing. He checked the log book and found no car had been checked out. He raised his lantern and pulled a pistol out of a pocket. Across the repair bays he slowly walked. I flattened myself against the wall. He slowly opened the door. He held the lantern high and had the pistol extended. I swung my typewriter up and down on his hand. He cried out in Russian and dropped the pistol and lantern. The globe broke but the flame didn’t go out. I had my revolver at his neck. Then I saw his face.
“Nestor!”
In a heavy Russian accent, he said, “Hello, Lady Hurley-Drummond.”
“Do you know English?”
“Nyet.”
I found his pistol, picked it up, and put it in my pocket.
“I’m sorry, Nestor. Down.” I motioned with the revolver.
He got down on his knees and I indicated he needed to lie down, which he did. I lit my candle from the lantern flame and ran down to sta
ll eight using my typewriter to protect the flame. I poured some wax on the bonnet and stuck the candle in it. The door was heavy but I managed to get it up. I got into the car, started it, and drove out into the darkness of the early morning.
I had no idea where I was going. I had no map and a quick rummage in the glove box failed to produce one. The best plan seemed to be drive west. Where the dacha was in relation to Moscow, I did not know. But no matter where it was, if I drove west I’d reach Moscow or the Russian border. In either case, I’d be free.
The Moskvitch was anything but fast. I managed to get it up to ninety kilometers per hour, but backed off to sixty to try and maximize the distance my fuel would take me. The gauge told me the petrol tank was full, but I had no idea of the car’s range on one tank of fuel. By sunrise, I’d driven about one hundred eighty kilometers and had a little over half a tank of petrol left and still had no idea where I was. The sun was rising behind me, which was a good sign. At least I was driving in the right direction. I drove on.
Finally I found a road sign. I looked at the Cyrillic letters trying to recognize a name. Suddenly a group looked familiar. The letters spelled Moscow. The arrow pointed north and the number 200 was next to Moscow. I figured that meant I had two hundred kilometers to go to reach my goal. Given my current rate of fuel consumption, I felt confident I could at least make the outskirts of the city. I made a right turn and drove north. Moscow in a little over three hours.
Sod’s law is ever operative and a constant source of humor, frustration, pleasure, and sadness. For me, one hundred eighty kilometers from Moscow, the vagaries of life which gave rise to the formulation of the law struck, causing me intense frustration. I got a puncture. I pulled over, all the while muttering, “Damn, damn, damn,” and, when the car stopped, got out and looked at my right front tyre. The thing was completely flat, the rim resting on the ground.