The Summer Day is Done

by Mary Jane Staples

  Not for the first time she asked him how his head was. It was no wonder, she said, that he’d been captured by the Turks when he always went into action with his head empty. He, for the first time, told her to shut up.

  She flushed with anger.

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is the voice of a very empty head. I know what will happen to you, you’ll reach the Imperial family without any head at all. But what will it matter? You don’t use it, anyway.’

  His eyes glittered. He wore an old coat over a patchwork of garments that had comprised a reasonable uniform when he left Kars. His trousers were tucked into black boots. He looked intense, impatient.

  ‘What are you complaining about?’ he said. ‘I don’t complain about you. If I lose my head, that’s my worry. If you turn into a savage, that’s yours.’

  ‘Savage? Who is a savage?’ she cried.

  ‘You are. You gloat over the agonies of men.’

  Kubans leading horses down the village street grinned to see Karita Katerinova in fury at her Englishman.

  ‘Men! They aren’t men!’ She was loudly scathing. ‘They’re animals. Do you know what they’re doing to our people? Hanging them, shooting them, burying them alive! You wish me to laugh about this? You wish me to be kind to them? You want them to die so that they don’t feel anything? They are animals who demand that we betray our own mothers, who have brought hatred to the whole of Russia and say it’s for the good of Russia. What is good about that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘but shut up.’

  ‘I’m to say nothing when you call me a savage?’ Karita could have wept with fury, with unhappiness. ‘What a fine thing that is, coming from someone who is supposed to be related to the King of England!’

  ‘And who is supposed to be that?’

  ‘Well, do you think I could tell the Kubans you were nobody?’ she said, angrily scornful. ‘They would probably have murdered you long ago if you had been. It would have made me look a nobody too, they’d have cooked me for supper. I’m disgusted with you. Never would I have let you take me away from my parents if I’d known you would call me names – oh, a fine father and mother you are to me!’

  His irritation vanished. He gave a shout of laughter. Watching Kubans grinned happily to see him kiss her on the nose and slap her bottom. But it did not mollify Karita. She was bitterly disappointed in him. She knew he was suffering because of the Imperial family, but so was she. And what with so many other things her nerves were constantly at breaking point. He was always trying to get himself killed. That would be fine for him, he would be peacefully dead, but what about her? She would have to go back to her parents and either be a servant to some village headman now that all the aristocrats had been murdered, or marry some Crimean wine-treader who never wore clean clothes except on Sundays. The thought made her shudder. It had only been by the merest accident and her own intuition that she hadn’t married that infamous Oravio.

  And now Ivan Ivanovich thought her a savage. She looked at him with hot and angry brown eyes, turned on her heels with a swirl of her skirted coat and went to saddle her own horse.

  ‘Kill yourself, then!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Get your head blown off!’

  ‘Karita! Come back!’

  She heard the insistence of the command. She would have gone on with angry strides but suddenly thought of her mother. Her mother would be horrified. She was bound in service to Ivan Ivanovich. Under no circumstances would her mother have permitted her to defy him. She stopped. She heard his footsteps behind her. The unit of cavalry was beginning to mill up and down the dirt surface of the village street. Villagers were coming out, some offering the men what food they could spare. The Cossacks grinned and asked for wine.

  ‘Karita.’ His voice was kind. His hands on her shoulders turned her round. His face was burned by the wind, his eyes tender. ‘Forgive me, Karita. Everything I said was unkind. Everything is my own fault. I think too much of other things and not enough of you. It would be a sorry day if you and I came to blows. There’s too much of it going on all over Russia now without my bad temper inciting more of it. There, I’m sorry. Am I forgiven?’

  Karita was mortified. She had been ungenerous. She looked at the fur hat she held. It had been glossy once. In an excess of unusual embarrassment she spent the next few moments tugging it on over her head. Then she said, ‘Ivan Ivanovich, it’s only that I don’t want you to get yourself killed. Oh, as if we would fight each other, you and I. But it’ll be better when all this is over and we can go to England again. You don’t shout at me there.’

  The quaint absurdity of this nearly had him laughing again. But Karita was in such obvious seriousness that he knew she would not take kindly to any lack of it in himself at this moment.

  ‘England is a long way off in more ways than one, Karita.’

  ‘But when we take Tobolsk,’ said Karita, ‘that will bring it a great deal nearer.’

  ‘Yes, it will,’ he said, ‘for us and for them, I hope.’

  He put his arm around her, squeezed her.

  Tobolsk fell to the Czechs and the Whites two days later. They made wide, sweeping thrusts that pincered the town. Pounded and pulverized, the defending Reds broke and fled in panic, knowing only too well how the Whites dealt with prisoners they suspected of being active Bolsheviks. The cavalry burst upon the fleeing Reds. Karita lost Kirby in the smoke and confusion. She found him later. The Czechs were pouring into the town and the Cossacks were playing murderous tag with Bolsheviks around the streets and houses. Amid all the wild movement Kirby, dismounted, stood with two other officers in the centre of the town. They were talking to a frightened civilian.

  Kirby’s face was grey. The Imperial family were no longer in Tobolsk. They had been removed some time ago to Ekaterinburg in the Urals.

  The advance westward continued. The Czechs and the Whites did not intend to stop until they had taken Moscow and Petrograd. The Bolsheviks had transferred the seat of government to Moscow.

  They entered the Urals and approached Ekaterinburg. It looked like a fortress in its position on the hills that rose before them. It was a grey, industrial place. It could take time to capture. The Czechs began sizing up the most economical means, the Whites were for a direct, impatient assault. Kirby himself was not interested in anything but getting to the Tsar and his family before the Reds cheated him again.

  At dawn one morning he left the White lines, Karita with him. She was sure he was making a noose for his own neck and she would prevent that if she could. Kirby was driven by a hammering urgency. He could not remember the last time when he had slept well. Even when his mind and body were exhausted he awoke night after night as nightmarish visions jerked him into sweating consciousness. He knew enough about Bolsheviks now to suspect they would never let the Romanovs go.

  It was July. It was hot. The dawn itself was a brooding stillness, awaiting the advent of the fiery sun. Kirby and Karita rode until they reached the foothills, and then Kirby indicated they should ride openly into Ekaterinburg by the road.

  ‘Are you mad?’ asked Karita. Her rifle was slung, her skin damp. She was bareheaded and wore blouse and trousers. Kirby wore shirt, trousers, cartridge belt and pistol.

  ‘We’ll just ride in,’ he said, ‘it will be less suspicious than creeping in. If we’re stopped we’re deserters carrying information on the Whites.’

  That was not too unreasonable. People were constantly changing sides all over the areas of combat. It was the only way for some people to keep their lives.

  Surprisingly, as the sun rose to tip the hills and the wooded slopes with morning gold, there was an atmosphere of utter quietness. There were no manned defences, no outposts, no guns, no bullets, no Reds. There was nothing to be seen on the road, nothing to be seen on either side of them except the silent slopes. They entered the town, riding their horses leisurely. Ekaterinburg itself was quiet too. Or so it seemed. Karita stiffened as a woman’s voice suddenly pierced the early morning air. Kirby s
miled humourlessly. It was a woman shouting at a lazy husband.

  ‘I think we’re very noticeable,’ said Karita.

  ‘Crowds feel safe, individuals feel isolated. There’ll be people soon, Karita.’

  ‘How will we find the family?’ she said.

  ‘We shall probably have to ask.’

  ‘Madness,’ she gasped.

  They turned a corner and found themselves riding towards an oncoming platoon of Red soldiers. The platoon was marching quickly, the men still had sleep in their eyes. Karita and Kirby drew aside, the soldiers marched by, taking no notice of them. The town began to wake up. Then they heard the sound of horsemen behind them. They looked round. A band of Reds came up, their purpose as clear now as the risen sun. One silent house had had eyes.

  Kirby put his hands up, Karita followed suit but with a look of disgust.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked one of the horsemen.

  ‘Friends,’ said Kirby, ‘we’ve come over from the Whites. We have information.’

  ‘Very original.’ The man smiled cynically. ‘We’ve had that kind of pleasure a thousand times and they were nearly all liars. We’ll see whether the District Commissar thinks the same about you. That way.’ He jerked his head.

  They were taken to a deserted kindergarten school. Their weapons were confiscated, with their ammunition, and they were searched for other arms. Karita minded very much about the loss of her Lee–Enfield and she minded just as much about the way she was searched.

  ‘Pigs,’ she said, but she spoke in English.

  They were taken down a flight of stone steps from the ground floor and flung into a cellar. It had the smell of other human beings about it, wretched human beings. The door was locked on them. There was no furniture, nothing. They sat on the floor. They had been in worse places. Karita made what cheerful conversation she could and Kirby maintained an attitude of hope. It was only a question of convincing some locally elected commissar that they loved Lenin. And it was from him that they might find out where the Imperial family were.

  An hour passed before anyone came. Then the door was unlocked. Two men stood there. They wore civilian clothes but carried rifles. Members of the local soviet, thought Kirby. Bolsheviks on the whole were easily recognizable. Like Cromwell’s Roundheads they looked like men who found joy in self-denial.

  ‘You. You. This way.’

  They were taken up to the ground floor. The school seemed lonely, empty. There were hollow echoes. A door was pushed open and they were prodded into a large room whose only furniture consisted of two desks and several chairs. A man sat at one desk, his capped head bent over a sheet of paper. He was writing. He did not look up as Kirby and Karita were brought before him. He continued writing. The two men retired to the door and stayed there. There was a slight nervousness about them and they seemed to be listening for something they would rather not hear.

  The moving hand stopped. The commissar lifted his head. He had a round, white face and in the darkness of any night it would have looked like a pale, glimmering moon. There was mutual recognition. Inwardly Kirby heaved a deep sigh. The cold expressionless eyes of Peter Prolofski flickered and a smile like a white cheese splitting parted his mouth.

  ‘Ah,’ he said very softly to Kirby, ‘there’s always some light on a dark day. I’m surprised to see you, my friend, but very happy.’ He said to Karita, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘She’s with me,’ said Kirby, ‘we left the White Army together.’

  ‘She has her own tongue, I suppose?’ said Prolofski. ‘Let her use it. Who are you, woman?’

  ‘A deserter, like he is,’ said Karita.

  ‘Oh?’ Prolofski leaned back, his fingertips drummed the desk lightly. ‘I could not be sure if I remembered your face but I know your voice. So, you’re both here. Extraordinary. It was very uncomfortable for me for a long time. But you have your friends, I imagine. I have mine. It was dark in that hole. But it was only a question of waiting. One year, two years, ten.’ He shrugged. ‘It made no difference as long as we stayed alive.’

  ‘That was necessary at the time,’ said Kirby, ‘things are different now.’

  ‘Very different.’ The moon face looked unhealthy but complacent. ‘And so you’ve deserted and come to me. It could not have been better arranged by Satan himself. He at least has proved his existence. It’s amusing, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not to us,’ said Kirby. ‘And you could be wasting time. Do your people want information on the Whites, where they are, what—’

  ‘We know where they are.’ Prolofski interrupted flatly. ‘They’re knocking on the door. They want Ekaterinburg. They shall have it. We’ll take it back later. Your information is useless. It would have been useless, in any case. I know you, my friend. I’ll give you some real facts. Our comrades of the Red Army have already pulled out. I have a few more things to see to and then I shall be gone too. I shall leave you and your hellcat last on my list. I shall think about you, both of you. You shall think about me. I hope—’

  The door behind him opened. Two people came in, a man and a woman. The man was Oravio, the woman Princess Aleka Petrovna. Oravio was gaunt, his earnestness a hungry glitter. Aleka was thinner, her pale skin a stretched tautness over her cheekbones. She wore the blouse, skirt and boots of a female commissar. She stared at Kirby, at Karita, her body stiffening, her black eyes ringed by shadows. Oravio stared too, then looked as if the fates had brought him his most satisfying day.

  ‘I think,’ said Prolofski, ‘that you all know each other.’

  ‘What are they doing here?’ asked Aleka. Her husky voice, once a purring pleasure to the ear, was emotionless.

  ‘Comrade Commissar,’ said Prolofski, ‘their investigation is mine. I shall deal with them.’

  ‘Well, you have the appetite,’ said Aleka. She shrugged. ‘It’s his revolution,’ she said to Kirby, ‘and you were very unwise to have finished up here in view of other things. But you always had a stupid streak.’

  ‘One either wins or loses, Princess,’ said Kirby. He felt desperately sorry for Karita, he was drained of everything else now. It was the filthiest bad luck to be hit by this one-in-a-million chance. Prolofski would take more than his pound of flesh.

  ‘Princess?’ Oravio sneered. ‘She could get her throat cut for that.’

  Karita’s heart was like ice but she said very lightly, ‘There’s an awful smell about this place.’

  Oravio took that badly. He cracked her across the face with the back of his hand. Kirby, hardened by every kind of experience and indifferent now to any other, almost broke Oravio’s jaw with a fist that felt like a hammer to Oravio and sounded like one to Aleka. For a moment her tired eyes flashed into glowing life. Oravio crashed to the floor. The two men at the door ran forward, beating Kirby with rifle butts. Karita spat at them. Aleka’s eyes relapsed into indifference.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ said Prolofski, gesturing the men back. ‘But he’s mine, comrades, and I don’t want him spoiled. They’re both mine. Take them away.’

  They were locked in the cellar again. They sat on the floor, their backs against the wall. There was a bruise on Karita’s face.

  ‘Prolofski,’ she said, ‘was very bad luck, Ivan Ivanovich.’

  ‘Very bad luck, Karita. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You aren’t to worry about that,’ she said. ‘But Prolofski, he’s quite a worry. Someone let him out.’

  ‘Yes. The sort of thing that happens in times like these.’ He spoke calmly enough. He did not like the thought of what Prolofski was going to do to him, he liked even less the thought of what the moonfaced ghoul might do to Karita. They would both finish up very dead, that was certain. But it was not going to be swift and clean, that was also certain.

  ‘They’re going to kill us, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled. Karita was able to smile too, then. ‘I don’t know what Aunt Charlotte’s going to say,’ he said.

  ‘She’ll be very upset.’ Karita sighed a
little. ‘Ivan, you’re not blaming yourself too much, are you? I should be happier if you did not do that. I do not regret anything, I’m glad to have been with you and I’m not sorry to be with you now. It’s better together, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said, ‘it’s damned silly. You shouldn’t be here, you’re the last person who should suffer from my stupidity.’

  ‘I’m not looking forward to it,’ said Karita frankly, ‘but, you see, Ivan, it’s been very nice being with you for so long. It wouldn’t be at all nice without you.’

  He looked at her. She was smiling. He felt wholly, completely undeserving of her. He put out a hand and lightly teased her hair, something he had often done.

  ‘Well, together, then, little one,’ he said.

  His eyes seemed so dark.

  ‘You’re still thinking of them, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Of them and of you. I’m praying the Czechs and the Whites move quickly enough.’

  They were both thinking the same thing. If the Reds had pulled out they would probably have taken the Imperial family with them, moved them again. If so, he and she had thrown their lives away for nothing. She became very quiet.

  There was the tiniest sound of the key being carefully and slowly turned in the lock. The door opened and Aleka came in. She closed it with extreme care. She put a finger to her lips. She listened, then she came forward and dropped to her knees close to Kirby to whisper to him.

  ‘We must talk very softly. Oh, you are such fools to have let Prolofski of all people get you. But that’s how it is, life is for you one day, against you the next. It’s against me now. Dear God, the things they have done, the things I have seen. Some had to go to begin with, I even excused them for Andrei. But they go on and on, they’ll drown Russia in the people’s blood in the end. You must listen. If I help you, you must help me. Prolofski means to kill you this afternoon, it will be the last thing he’ll do before we leave this place. There are only a few of us here now. They’re letting the Whites have Ekaterinburg—’