The Little Russian

by Susan Sherman

  “Madame is not pleased?” asked Vera.

  “Uh?” She looked up briefly. “Oh no, it’s lovely. Perfect.”

  “More roses perhaps?”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s done, Vera. You’ve done a wonderful job. Thank you.”

  They paused to listen when they heard the first guests arriving downstairs. “Well, that’s it then,” Berta said. She rose with a sigh of resignation and checked her reflection in the full-length mirror. Not even the yards of chiffon and the girdle of beading at her waist could lift her spirits now.

  On the way down the stairs she reminded herself that it did no good to be angry. It only got in the way of her duties as a hostess and made her party a miserable chore. And besides, she had no right to object. They had made their bargain a long time ago. In exchange for her lovely life Hershel had the freedom to come and go without question. He never stayed away for more than a few weeks at a time and he always came home greedy for her company. She never begrudged him his good works in the shtetlekh, until now, when he had begun to miss her parties. No one said anything of course, but she knew his recent absences were beginning to stir interest.

  Downstairs, she pushed open the double doors leading to the parlor and fixed what she hoped was an optimistic smile on her face. Inside she found her first guests, the Tretiakovs, struggling to their feet to greet her. “My two early birds,” Berta said, meeting them halfway among the palms and ferns and heavily fringed furniture.

  Aleksandra Dmitrievna kissed her first on one cheek and then on the other. “That’s just it. Who wants to be the first? Just for once I’d like to be a little late.” She looked pointedly at her husband, Aleksei Sergeevich.

  “What difference does it make?” he grumbled, taking Berta’s hand. He had no patience for his silly wife. He was a short man with a moustache resembling a furry creature that had stretched out under his nose and died. He looked directly into Berta’s face and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Madame Alshonsky.” She liked Lenya and he liked her. It was an odd sort of friendship because they rarely spoke, at least not directly, but there were often moments like this.

  “Doesn’t she look lovely, Lenya.”

  Without taking his eyes off her, he said, “Of course she looks lovely. She always looks lovely.”This was not a compliment. Aleksei Sergeevich did not give compliments, as he saw no use for them. It was merely the truth as he saw it.

  Aleksandra Dmitrievna and Berta had become friends since that day they met on the train to Mosny. Berta hadn’t lost Alix’s card but kept it as a memento and looked her up when she arrived in Cherkast. She thought their friendship would be an entrée into Alix’s world, but Berta soon found that the society in Cherkast was even more closed to Jews than the one in Moscow. In fact it was something of a mystery to Alix’s friends why the Tretiakovs socialized with the Alshonskys. They were Jews and, worse, Jews of an indeterminate origin. Hardly the social equals of the Tretiakovs.

  When Berta realized that she wouldn’t be included in Alix’s set, she made up one of her own. In contrast, her circle was made up almost entirely of mongrels. Her guests were castoffs of the prominent families : disinherited black sheep, progressive thinkers, radicals, and artists. There was a Jewish textile mill owner and a few Jewish wheat merchants, but mostly their set was young, smart, and chic. This was the draw for Alix. While she was not young, she thought of herself as spirited and every bit as modern as Berta and her crowd.

  Soon after the parlor began to fill up, Olga Nikolaevna, the painter, arrived with a new lover in tow. She was small with a pixie’s face and the first in their circle to wear her hair in a bob, which she secured by a satin headband and an ostrich feather. Her new lover was older than his predecessors and acted as if he were used to better company. Olga introduced him only as Valya and added in a loud conspiratorial whisper that he was extremely rich and had a wife and a whole herd of children.

  Poor Pavla arrived next, looking grim and out of place. Everyone called her poor Pavla because her husband had been sent to Verkhoyansk, a remote outpost in eastern Siberia, for hiding a few SRs, social revolutionaries, at his summer estate. Now, in order to survive, Pavla had to sell off everything. Everyone pitied her, but no one wanted to spend much time with her.

  Yuvelir arrived after that with a few of his friends and introduced them around as the new wave in poetry. Yuvelir was a poet, a vegetarian, and a hypochondriac and often complained about his cruel childhood to anybody who would listen. His family owned several mills in the region; he was poor because he refused to come into the business. He considered himself an artist and above the concerns of the material world, that is, until he had to pay the rent. Then he would go to his mother, who had money of her own and no qualms about supplying her son with all the material comforts he so proudly eschewed.

  Mademoiselle Zuckerkandl and her brother, the writer David Zuckerkandl, arrived with Valentin Guseva, the son of the textile manufacturer. Valentin was pretty like a girl with a full feminine mouth, long lashes over dark eyes, and delicate fingers. They called him Her Majesty in school and he never got over it. Although it nearly destroyed his academic career, it also drove him to shooting, which is why he became a crack shot and famous all over Cherkast.

  After that, a whole crowd of odds and ends arrived: a sculptor, a doctor and his wife, a minor composer, and the Rosensteins. When Berta saw the Rosensteins her hand flew to her mouth and she gave a little gasp. She had forgotten to tell them of the change in program. They had lost their daughter to consumption some years back and she thought they might not be comfortable with a séance. But Madame Rosenstein assured her that it would be all right. “We don’t believe in such things, my dear,” she said in her breathy voice. She was one of those hectic little women who spent their life seeing to the needs of others. “We’ve been invited to three this year already.”

  Petr came in with a calling card on a silver tray. Since nobody in Berta’s set bothered with such formality, she picked it up with interest. It belonged to Marfa Gorbunova and she had written a message on the back: I must see you out in the foyer. Υour evening depends on it.

  Madame Gorbunova had very definite ideas on how Berta could best secure the success of her evening. They all had to do with making sure that Madame Gorbunova was comfortable and her needs were met. After she introduced herself and her assistant, a correct little man named Monsieur Fevrier, she launched right into the list.

  “First, I never see the guests before I perform a communion. Next, I’ll need a small table with a tablecloth and two candles. I’ll need two whiskeys, no water, no ice, and a linen napkin. In addition, I’ll need a comfortable chair and a small footrest that will fit under the table. A lap blanket of pure wool is essential and a little pillow for my back is preferable. Monsieur Fevrier will see to everything, but we will need to be shown to the communion room as soon as possible and provided with all my necessities.”

  At first Berta was a little put off by this speech. She thought that since she had hired Madame Gorbunova for the evening, the medium would treat her with a certain amount of deference. Now she could see that she had been wrong. Since she didn’t want to jeopardize her party over a question of pride, she agreed to everything on the list and even showed them into the breakfast room herself.

  On the way, Madame Gorbunova took her time to look around. She stopped to finger a pair of brightly colored majolica parrots on a perch. “You have a lovely home here, Madame Alshonsky. I have never been in a Jewish home before. I didn’t think they were so nice and clean.” Berta did what she always did when faced with comments like that: She kept her expression neutral and said nothing.

  Later, after everyone had filed into the room and found a seat, Monsieur Fevrier turned off the lights. The only remaining light, apart from the firelight that escaped through the cracks around the grate and door of the tile stove, came from two ruby red globes that stood on either side of the little table at the front of the room. They glowed and threw blood re
d patterns on the walls and on the ceiling.

  Madame Gorbunova waited for a few minutes to let the tension build. Then she entered the room, walked over to the little table, and greeted her audience. Her gestures were a little too large and her words a little too deliberate. Berta guessed that she finished off the two whiskeys and hadn’t bothered to share with Monsieur Fevrier. In a prepared speech Madame Gorbunova requested that the audience remain quiet throughout the communion. She said that while she could not promise anything, her spirit guide, Prince Pietro Cribari, had told her there were spirits asking to be heard. She explained that she could not be responsible for anything that was said during the communion, that she was just a vessel, a human telephone, if you like, and nothing more.

  Then she took her seat behind the table and closed her eyes. Slowly she relaxed; her chin slumped forward until it came to rest just above her large bosom. After a while her breathing became deep and regular and her hands fell out of her lap and hung by her sides. She appeared to be in a deep trance.

  “You may sit up now,” Monsieur Fevrier said quietly.

  Madame Gorbunova sat up and opened her eyes. She stared straight ahead, seemingly blind to the twenty or so people who sat in their chairs leaning forward, holding their breath.

  Nothing happened.

  The audience sat waiting, growing bored, whispering among themselves, and fidgeting in their seats. Berta was beginning to worry. But soon Madame Gorbunova’s eyes began to flutter liked moth wings and she started to speak in a husky man’s voice. It was the voice of Prince Cribari, an Italian who always spoke Russian, a fact that nobody bothered to question.

  “There are three of us here tonight,” the Prince said through Madame Gorbunova. She shifted her position in the chair, crossing one arm over her stomach and using it to brace her other arm. She held an invisible cigarette between her fingers and occasionally took a puff.

  “Can you describe them?” asked Monsieur Fevrier.

  A long pause. “A soldier with medals on his chest. He is angry because he wasn’t supposed to be shot. He says it was a mistake. It was supposed to be the other fellow who ducked to light his cigarette. He is looking for his wife. He sees that she is not here tonight, so he has agreed to step aside.”

  Another long pause. “A foundry worker from Moscow. He is upset because he says he is late for work and they will fine him if he doesn’t hurry. He cannot understand why he is so cold, since he works in front of a furnace all day long. He doesn’t know he is dead. The others have been trying to explain it to him, but he refuses to listen.”

  She sat up and craned her neck as if trying to see something at the back of the room. “I see a little girl over there with brown curls. She is coming over. A sweet little thing. She has something to say.”

  “What is her name?”

  Madame Gorbunova took a long puff on her invisible cigarette and blew out invisible smoke. “Eva.”

  There was urgent whispering in the room. The Rosensteins huddled together, speaking in low intense voices.

  “May we speak to her now?” the assistant said, quietly.

  Madame Gorbunova’s head slumped down on her chest. Then, after a moment or two, she slowly raised it again. This time she uncrossed her legs and twirled a finger around an imaginary curl. Even though she was well over forty with baggy cheeks and thinning dark hair, she had transformed herself into a little girl.

  “Mameh, I didn’t hide Bobbeh’s teeth.”

  “Oh my God.” Madame Rosenstein rose from her seat.

  Monsieur Rosenstein grabbed her arm and pulled her back down again. “Sit down,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re making a spectacle out of yourself. It’s only a trick.”

  “It wasn’t me, Mameh.”

  “It’s Eva!” Madame Rosenstein cried out in a hoarse sob.

  Her husband said, “It’s not Eva. She is dead and in the Garden of Paradise.”

  “I was just looking at them. I wasn’t going to hide them.”

  “I know, darling. She’s not angry with you.”

  “They fell, Mameh.”

  “I know. We found them. They were behind the bed.”

  “Bobbeh is angry with me.”

  “No, she’s not angry, my precious. She loves you.” Her voice broke and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “Bobbeh is angry because she can’t find her teeth.”

  A mist began to form over Madame Gorbunova’s head. A shock rippled through the audience followed by a cry from Madame Rosenstein. Monsieur Rosenstein’s hand shook as he took hold of his wife’s arm. “We’re leaving,” he said firmly. But when he tried to get up, his legs buckled out from under him and he sat down.

  A hand reached out for Berta’s shoulder. “Madame . . .”

  She jumped, turned, and found Vera standing behind her. “What is it?” she hissed.

  “A telegram.”

  “Not now, Vera.”

  “It’s from His Honor.”

  “For God’s sakes, we’re right in the middle of—”

  As she said these words the mist evaporated. After a moment of darkness, Monsieur Rosenstein led his sobbing wife from the room. Madame Gorbunova opened her eyes and watched them leave. Then she looked around at the crowd and asked Monsieur Fevrier what had happened.

  Chapter Eight

  December 1913

  HERSHEL stepped off the train and screwed up his face against the cold. Behind him the train was belching and spewing out a curtain of steam that evaporated in the cold air. The snow blew in sideways under the platform roof and blanketed the worn boards, piling up against the benches and hurrying the passengers inside. Clutching his hat with one hand and his suitcase with the other, Hershel ran for the station door, slipping on a patch of ice and catching himself on the back of a nearby bench.

  The station was stifling and smelled of burned butter and pickled vegetables. There was a railway restaurant on one side of the terminal with its display of blue mineral water bottles stacked in a pyramid. He caught his reflection in the glass partition that separated it from the rest of the station. Flakes of snow still clung to his beard and he brushed them off, reminding himself that it needed trimming.

  Hershel strode to the ticket counter where he called over the stationmaster and gave him his suitcase to watch and a ten-kopeck coin. On his way out through the big glass doors he checked his pocket watch and found that it was half past seven. He had left instructions in Kherson that morning that he wanted a telegram delivered to Berta at this time so she would think he was still there. He knew she wouldn’t be happy with him when she read it and that he would have to make it up to her when he got home. He pictured her in the foyer, dressed for her salon, tearing open the telegram, reading it, crumpling it, and handing it back to Vera. He knew after that she’d take a moment to compose herself before returning to her guests, adopting that strained half smile that she reserved for public disappointments. He didn’t like disappointing her, but there was nothing to be done about it. His presence in Poltava was unavoidable.

  Out on the sidewalk his eyes teared from the cold, but he didn’t mind. It woke him up. He’d been on the train since early morning, traveling up from Kherson, following the Dnieper past Elisavetgrad and finally on to his destination. He couldn’t tell Berta that he was in Poltava, because it was only about fifty versts southeast of Cherkast and she would expect him home for her party. So in the telegram he wrote that he was still in Kherson meeting a buyer for supper.

  A young couple ran past him, holding hands and skipping around the slower-moving pedestrians. They ran over to a tram that sat waiting on the tracks. Hershel walked over to the same tram and followed the couple up the steps. He paid the conductor and sat at a window seat looking at his reflection in the glass. The tram was mostly empty except for a small group of soldiers in the back. They were passing around a bottle. They had probably just started drinking since they weren’t even half drunk.

  The tram started up the hill, passing dimly lit str
eets and shops. All the way along the horses strained against the steep grade, steam rising off their flanks, their hooves crunching on the snow, their breath whitening the air. On Tzarskaya Square the shops were still open and brightly lit. There were Jewish shops of quality: the Dochman Stationery shop, the Aronheim and Cohn Department store, and Albert Baum’s grocery shop. There was a shop that sold baskets and another that sold hats and another for gramophones and English bicycles. On one corner a small band was playing and a few couples were dancing in the street.

  Hershel got off at the corner of Petrovskaya and Ulitza Kotlyarevs-kago in front of the bronze statue of the Little Russian poet I. P. Kot-lyarevsky. He stood on the corner to get his bearings and started down Petrovskaya in the direction of the Jewish district. They were paving the sidewalk on that side of the square and the workman had left piles of wooden blocks along the curb. He had to avoid them and step down into the snow to make his way along, avoiding the slippery ice wherever he could.

  The Yiddish Art Theater was located on the street of bakeries. It was in a converted warehouse, a drafty building with blacked-out windows, a rough stage, a dusty curtain, and row upon row of salvaged theater seats. The house was full that night because a new play, one direct from America, had just opened that weekend and the word in town was that it was a three-handkerchief performance. Hershel sat in the middle of a row in the orchestra section among noisy couples, whining children, and picnickers sitting in their coats eating their supper out of a basket. There was no attempt made to quiet down even after the curtain was raised. Instead they continued to talk loudly, calling to one another across the theater and passing food around as if they were at their kitchen table. Fortunately the plot was simple and the acting was so broad that it was easy to follow. Not that Hershel cared about the performance.

  He looked around at the people sitting next to him. To his right was a prosperous-looking fellow, his wife, and five children; to his left was an elderly couple eating chicken and kasha from covered bowls. A row of yeshiva students sat in front of him and beside them sat several widows wearing black dresses and heavy winter shawls.