White Ice

by Celia Brayfield

  The desperate group in the park were a mere hundred yards away and dashing in all directions in their confusion. A group of cavalry wheeled into view and bore down upon them, their swords raised. She saw one man throw up his arms and pitch forward, shot by the officer who was urging his men forward. Then the horsemen overtook the rest, and she saw blood spout across the snow as they were cut down.

  Her skirts untangled at last, Lydia grabbed their weight in her arms and ran towards the gate with all the strength in her legs. The sounds of fighting were all around her. Another group of strikers were running down the street outside her family‘s home. She tore towards the church; the nearest door was locked but in the porches surely she would be safe.

  She made her way around the wall to the next door, fighting for breath. Many more figures were running down the far bank of the canal, away from the Nevsky Prospekt. She could see them clearly, young men in students’caps, granddads who struggled to keep the pace, a hatless priest with his long hair flying dragging a boy by his collar. As they came closer she saw that among the marchers were ordinary citizens swept along by the mob. Two young women in stylish fur-edged coats were floundering at the rear, hobbled as Lydia herself had been by their skirts and desperately manhandling a screaming child who was too big to carry and too small to run.

  A group of workers bolted up a side street only to reappear in a few seconds with terror on their faces; after them rode more troops, fifty at least, and they ploughed into the panic-stricken crowd from the side. The rear of the group turned and ran back, and she saw a massive young man with a farrier’s apron over his coat seize the child from the arms of the stylish young women and charge onwards. From the mêlée the body of a man was pushed over the railings and fell on to the ice of the canal; his tongue tumbled hideously through his severed throat, trailing with it a skein of guts.

  The next door was also locked. The priests had prudently barricaded themselves inside. Lydia squeezed herself into the porch and hammered on the wood, hurting her fist. The Prospekt was too far away to see, but she guessed from the volume of people pouring down the embankments that there was worse fighting there. More soldiers had crossed the park; they passed her without noticing and sped down the street to attack another group of rioters.

  The park itself, so peaceful a few minutes ago, was an apocalyptic scene. Everywhere the snow was stained with blood. Hundreds of men fled crazily in every direction, stumbling over the bodies of their comrades. The soldiers, uniforms bright even in the failing light, pursued in tight groups. As she watched one hussar rode into the basin of an ornamental pool, his horse struggling on the ice while he hacked at the legs of two boys who had climbed the fountain.

  Some men, old and exhausted, got down on their knees by the corpses, shouting, ‘Death to the Tsar, Death to the Murderers!’ and waiting with rolling martyrs’eyes for the cavalry to dispatch them. A man had fallen back on a park bench as he died and lay sprawled there like a sunbather in summer. One arm hung low, the shoulder almost sliced away. There seemed to be more soldiers at every moment, galloping from the direction of the Field of Mars.

  ‘Let me in, for God’s sake, let me in! Aren’t you men of God? People are being killed here, help me!’ Lydia hardly knew she was shouting, but her whole arm was bruised from battering uselessly at the closed church door. At least if she turned her face away from the bloodshed she would be spared the sight of men cut up like carcasses in an abattoir.

  There were horses behind her, very close. She shut her eyes and prayed to die quickly, not be trampled under boots and smothered in the snow. Hands pulled her bodily away from the doorway. She screamed as she was lifted in the air. Something bruised her legs, something grazed her face.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mademoiselle, don’t worry, you’re all right now, you are safe, I’ve got you.’ Her whole body was shaken with a horrible jostling motion. Her waist was being crushed. The voice was a man’s and he was speaking in French. ‘Don’t scream, please, I beg you, this horse can’t bear to hear a woman scream. Here, catch hold around my neck …’ Her left arm was pulled upwards. She felt the speaker’s chest, his shoulder and collar, buckles and straps, and by her right hand the coarse hair of the horse’s mane. Her frenzied fingers seized whatever was beneath them.

  ‘That’s good, hold tight now. For God’s sake don’t scream. We’re setting off now, you’ll soon be home.’ The horse jolted into motion, tossing her around so violently that she needed all her strength to keep hold of her rescuer. Around them she heard other riders. The smell of the sweating animal was reassuring, and the man gave off an aroma of a fine cologne, an absurd drawing-room perfume in such a moment of horror.

  In a few moments she grew accustomed to the animal’s stride and dared to squeeze open her eyes. The horse was black, and they were crossing a small square. She recognized the statue of Pushkin. There were guardsmen riding on each side. They were turning towards the palace in the corner. The noises of fighting had diminished.

  ‘We’re making for the Fontanka river.’ The man was speaking close to her ear and she felt his moustache scratch her cheek. ‘We came that way, it was quiet, we can get you to Theatre Street the back way if we’re lucky.’

  The horse swerved to avoid the body of a man which lay alone in the centre of the street. Lydia almost lost her grip and gasped in fear. ‘Don’t worry, I’m always lucky,’ he went on in a pleasant voice, for all the world as if making conversation to a dancing partner. ‘At poker, at life – maybe even in love, huh? What do you think, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘For God’s sake don’t joke – they’re killing people everywhere. How can you talk like that?’

  ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle, I didn’t mean to distress you. This is a mess, it’s a tragedy, but still it’s not the Manchurian front, you know.’ He spoke so lightly that she could not judge whether he was an experienced soldier or a posturing cynic. ‘Anyway – don’t you want to know how I know where you live?’

  ‘I thought …’ She was so shaken that reasoning was impossible. ‘Well, our uniform, everyone knows the Theatre School coat.’

  ‘Indeed, although, if you’ll pardon a compliment in these circumstances, it is rarely so elegantly worn. But the uniform isn’t everything – and come to that, you don’t recognize ours either, do you?’

  Since he was clutching her firmly to his chest and she was holding on for dear life it was hard to see the details of his dress. The coarse khaki battledress scraped her cheek, and from the corner of her eye she could see the collar, with a crown and a dusty blue flash edged with gold, regimental badges which meant nothing to her. ‘Well, surely at least you recognize my ensign? Who escorted you across the road this morning?’

  The youth was riding almost at their horse’s shoulder and saluted as he was named. ‘Oh my goodness, you were outside the theatre when I left.’

  As they reached the edge of the Fontanka two men were ordered ahead to survey the embankment, and called ‘All clear!’ at once. The officer’s horse halted at the junction and began sidestepping in agitation.

  ‘Excuse me just a moment.’ He reached around Lydia’s waist to change the reins from one hand to the other, turned the animal’s head and sent it on with a jab from his spurs. ‘Yes, absolutely correct. I’m the man whose heart you broke when you stuck your nose in the air and refused to give me a civil good morning.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly.’

  ‘I was inconsolable.’

  ‘You were bored.’ She was beginning to feel annoyance, not only at her rescuer and his world-weary pose but also at herself, and beyond that at fate itself. This was not the style of scintillating badinage she had imagined herself adopting with a guards officer, nor the circumstances ideal for such a meeting. She was in pain, too, from being battered by the pommel of the saddle and the rest of its hard protuberances as the restive horse carried on in broken strides.

  ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. But when I saw that rabble running back down the Prospekt I knew f
or the sake of that lady who wore her coat so elegantly I had to get to the Gribojedeva bridge before them. I’m only sorry we frightened you so much.’

  ‘Oh – but – you did save my life. I am grateful, really I am …’ Lydia had never been so profoundly thankful for anything; the Alexandrinsky Theatre was almost in sight and she was almost fainting with relief but her words sounded perfunctory. ‘Oh, no! I mean that! I do! Why can’t I say it properly?’

  ‘Quiet, now, remember my poor horse. Let’s see if we’re clear to cross.’

  Three or four young men were running across the bridge ahead as fast as their powerful legs could carry them. Again two guardsmen rode ahead to reconnoitre, and one turned and rode back immediately.

  ‘There’re quite a few coming down the Prospekt, Sir, but we’ll have no trouble if we keep together.’

  ‘Last time, Mademoiselle, hold tight.’ The officer gave the order to go forward and all eight horses sprang away together, reaching a gallop in a few strides. Lydia caught a brief impression of ragged crowds behind her. Then the horse bounded away at a diagonal, again to avoid a fallen man, and she lost her grip, but the officer’s arm was like rock around her waist and she found herself safe. On the ground lay the obstacle, a powerful body in a patched grey coat, still alive, legs moving weakly in the ploughed snow.

  It seemed that the horses had hardly slowed to a trot before they turned into the haven of Theatre Street and halted at the school gateway. Half the troop was already waiting there, guarding the entrance. Lydia gave a last scream as she was lowered to the ground and discovered that her hair had fallen down and become tangled in her rescuer’s buttons. He swiftly caught the ends and pulled them free, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile, then dismounted and walked with her to the door. It opened as they approached to reveal the Director with Varvara Ivanova at his side.

  ‘Kusminskaya! Thank God you’re safe!’ The directress’s long, cold hands reached out in an awkward gesture.

  ‘You are the one we should thank, Captain …’ An awesome figure in the school, the Director suddenly seemed ineffectual, almost ridiculous, beside this fine tall man in uniform.

  ‘Captain Orlov; at your service. Frankly we are fortunate to be protecting His Imperial Majesty’s artists rather than hounding those miserable misguided cattle. Are any more of your students missing?’

  ‘Three now. Nijinsky’s back with his head split open, but not Bourman and Babitch, or his sister who was with them.’ The directress hugged Lydia to her side, making her feel like a helpless child. ‘What’s going on, Captain? What happened up there?’

  ‘I know they tried to advance beyond the barricades at the Palace Square; there was some firing then, and a charge, but they dispersed and we thought it was all over. I was waiting for orders to go home when the mob came pouring down the Prospekt. We’ll know tomorrow. But there’s fighting all over the city and hundreds dead, if not thousands. Mademoiselle Kusminskaya has endured some dreadful scenes today, with great courage, I may say. But those people who are still unaccounted for – well, we’ll do our best, but I fear for them. Which direction did they take?’

  Before he left, Lydia was bidden to thank Orlov again, an order so humiliating that she could hardly speak for annoyance. A deadly tiredness was taking hold of her, and a few minutes later when the senior tutor came to fetch her she found she could barely move.

  The next day she was as stiff as a plank and covered with black bruises. For weeks afterwards the scenes of the day recurred in her dreams. Night after night she woke, chilled with sweat, seeing the dead man fall into the canal, or the young blacksmith with the child in his arms decapitated by a sabre stroke and the screaming infant bathed in blood.

  The two missing students returned safely, but Babitch’s sister had been torn out of his arms in the crowd and lost for ever; the commander of the guards ordered that all the dead should be buried before daybreak, lest more riots should break out when the bodies were counted, and no trace of the pretty young woman was ever found.

  Despite Orlov’s guard, the rioters broke into the Alexandrinsky Theatre at the end of the street, but at the Maryinsky, across town, the ballet performance continued without interruption.

  Vaslav Fomitch, a Polish boy a couple of years below Lydia, had also been trapped in the riot, hit by a cossack and his forehead split open. They were both allowed two days of rest to recover from their injuries, and given extra tuition while their colleagues were at class. It was not a success. Vaslav was notoriously stupid, and Lydia was possessed by raging terrors which tore her mind to shreds.

  In the dark corners of the school’s many corridors she imagined indefinite bloody horrors lurking. Everyday noises, a rattling music stand or plates clattering in the kitchen, startled her out of her skin. One day she left a classroom on the top floor and froze at the head of the stairs, imagining herself falling to the bottom.

  In a few days all her fearful imaginings devolved upon her home and family. ‘They’re cursed,’ she told herself, ‘they must be. Nothing but tragedy around them, always. Someone sinned, someone put a jinx on them. It’s abnormal, so much bad luck.’

  By day she fretted and at night she lay awake, fearful of sleep and dreaming. ‘I can’t go back home, I can’t,’ she confessed one night in a whisper to Marie. ‘I’ll never be able to walk down that street again without seeing those horrible things. And my wretched family – if you’d seen how they were living. I can’t bear it, I can’t even think of them. What can I do? Where can I go?’

  ‘You can stop whispering and let the rest of us get some sleep,’ hissed a voice from the far side of the dormitory.

  ‘Oh shut up, Olga! We put up with you tossing and turning like a dervish all night – have some pity for poor Lydia.’ Marie got out of bed and fussed over her friend like a nurse, smoothing out her pillow. ‘Oh, you’ve been crying, you poor thing. But you must sleep, you’ll be worn to a shadow. Here.’ She raised the blind a few inches to give herself some light and searched her night table for a book. ‘Look, here are my maths notes, put them under your pillow and then your head will be filled with algebra and there’ll be no room for bad dreams.’

  ‘You want me to swap one nightmare for another?’ Lydia tried to raise a smile.

  ‘Come on, everyone knows that putting the book under the pillow helps you revise. Don’t worry, dear friend … listen, I’ve been thinking, would you like to come and live with us? I’m sure my sister would agree. Shall I talk to her?’

  ‘Oh! Marie – would you? You’re so kind to me, I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Of course you do, you’re going to be a star. Out of all this bad some good must come. Now shut your eyes and try to sleep.’ And Lydia laid her head on the damp pillow, her turbulent mind becoming quiet at last.

  Her remaining worries miraculously resolved themselves in a few weeks. Marie’s sister readily agreed to lodge her in exchange for a reasonable rent. She was again summoned to the Director’s office, informed that her grandmother had called and given a small package wrapped in newspaper. Inside was an old red morocco box containing the cameo brooch, and a note: ‘Dear child, if I could protect you from our misfortunes I would. You have seen how things are – this is the best I can do, the last treasure I have. The beauty of my youth is long gone, take this to enhance yours.’ The address of a pawn shop followed, and a postscript warning her to say nothing to her mother.

  With a heart now lightened almost to euphoria, Lydia sailed into her examinations, passing with better marks than her most generous tutors had predicted. Shortly afterwards her first morning of shopping came around, a marvellous foretaste of the freedom to come. With Marie, she enlisted the help of Tamara Platonova, who was clever at making every kopeck count. In the pawn shop they haggled half-heartedly over the price for the brooch, well aware that nothing would soften the broker’s heart; he admitted that it was a good piece and gave more than Lydia had expected. Elated, the three of them plunged into the clamour of the Jewish
market.

  Their sleeves and skirts were pulled in every direction as the eager traders tried to entice them to view their wares. The market was housed under a glass dome, which magnified its noise to a deafening volume. Ignoring the dull booths stocked with good plain clothes, Tamara Platonova led them to a little shop in the heart of the bustle, a narrow cave crammed to the ceiling with neatly folded garments. Everything was second hand. The elderly couple who owned the business greeted them like long-lost friends and the wife scrambled again and again up her shaky step-ladder, muttering, ‘I know I’ve just the thing here, just right for your colouring, now where was it? What size did you say? Ah, here it is. Or maybe you’d like something else, a little brighter, now let me see …’

  Lydia chose a dark green tailored suit. The label inside was French, and in no time the old man pinched the shoulders to fit her with his crooked fingers and slipped a line of pins along the seams. Then she asked to see evening dresses, ignoring the disapproval of the older girl, and Marie’s urging to buy a good warm coat. When she tried on a pale pink mousseline with jet beading at the hem there was a sudden silence before her companions reluctantly admitted that she looked gorgeous. The old man shuffled away and came back with an opera cloak of raspberry velvet which he lowered around her shoulders.

  ‘It’s lovely but it’s far too much,’ Lydia said at once when she saw the price on the label tied to a buttonhole.

  The old couple exchanged a few words in Yiddish. ‘Take it,’ the old man ordered, ‘pay when you can. You’ve got a lucky face, one day you’ll have all the beautiful things you want and then you won’t buy from us any more. And anyway, we know where you work, don’t we?’

  Lydia regarded herself in the mirror, turning this way and that to admire the rich fabrics. ‘Thank you, you’re too kind.’ She inclined her head graciously as she had seen Kchessinskaya do when complimented on her dancing.