The Four Winds of Heaven

by Monique Raphel High

  She shook the dust out of her hair, and entered the room behind this. More bookcases heaved their burdens to the very ceiling, but in the center of the open space at the core of the room, a cot had been placed, and a small table. A young woman in a brown dress sat on the cot, her hair pulled into a simple knot. Cradled in her arms was an infant not more than four months old. “Good morning, Ekaterina Yakovlievna,” Sonia said in a low voice. At once the woman started to her feet. Sonia held out a hand to restrain her. “We must be very silent, for this noon we are having a visitor who will come every day from now on. Were he to see you here today, he might take you for a new servant, but your children would shock him, and children can say things that are not for certain ears. If this were to be his only visit, we could explain your presence adequately, I’m sure. But soon he will know the ways of this house—who runs it, who visits at noontime. He is only a young boy, and will probably not pay the slightest bit of attention. But his father is a dangerous man, and if the son let slip the wrong description to his parents, we would all be in great trouble, and Papa would not be able to continue to harbor the widows. So I shall have to lock you in while he is here, and you will have to make certain that the baby, and the boys in the other room, do not utter a single cry. Then I shall unlock you, and all will be well.”

  The woman seemed frightened. She nodded several times, her face pale and her eyes wide. Sonia smiled. “Do not worry,” she murmured. Then she went into a third room where, among more books, stood two smaller cots upon which two boys, one five and the other perhaps three years old, were playing. “Good morning, Shura and Mishka,” Sonia said softly. The boys’ clear faces looked up at her, and quickly, deftly, she placed each of her index fingers upon their parted lips. “We are going to play a game, with your Mama and the baby,” she said. “We are going to see if all four of you can be absolutely silent for one entire hour. If you cannot stand it, then… well... we shall allow you to whisper. What do you say? Or rather—don’t say it. Simply nod your heads. I shall bring you honey cakes from the kitchen when the hour is over. But not one crumb to anyone who utters a gasp. All right?”

  They both nodded, bewildered, and she ruffled the top of each of their heads. Then, on tiptoe, she made her way back to the mother, gently touched her shoulder and squeezed it once, and came out through the third, book-filled storeroom. She closed the big door and locked it with a key which had been in the pocket of her pinafore. Resolutely, she returned to her own room.

  Anna was not there. Sonia slid the pinafore from her shoulders and folded it neatly on her bed. She selected a simple woolen blouse, off-white with long sleeves that were cuffed with ivory lace, and a skirt of tan camel’s hair. Thoughtfully, she pinned a single pearl flower to her breast, and combed her fine long hair. She took the two side panels up into a high, partial ponytail which she tied with a simple ribbon of ivory velvet. The tall mirror reflected back a small, slim person with large gray eyes and a straight firm nose, pink lips and white cheeks. Making a grimace, she pinched her cheeks for color, and thought: Tania and Juanita are right; I am a dim, pale thing, with no flair. Anna, despite her plainness, was thought by all to have flair. Sonia despaired. Volodia Tagantsev would not even want to talk to her—and then what would she do?

  It was ten minutes past twelve when Sonia left the bedroom and walked quietly into the dining room. Stepan was the only person present and his dark eyes gleamed at her. “I was told that you would join the young men for luncheon, Sofia Davidovna,” he said. “I took the liberty of placing a rose by your water goblet.”

  She blushed. “Oh, Stepan…” But her words were interrupted by the ringing doorbell and the maître d’hôtel strode off to open the front door. Gay voices of young men boomed through the paneling. Sonia stood very still and straight, wondering suddenly with a burning curiosity what this Tagantsev would be like, what he would say, how he would look. And then, side by side, Ossip and the stranger entered the dining room, and he, the intruder, the trouble causer, was before her.

  He was fairly tall and rather stolid, and in his brown suit, she thought, he resembled a smooth brown nut. His hair was dark brown with glints of mahogany, and beneath thick brown brows were large brown eyes. Even his complexion was a creamy tan with ruddy cheekbones. He was not handsome, but he was pleasant looking enough, she told herself. And then he smiled, and she saw even, large teeth of a pure white, and she found herself making efforts not to stare at him. She had never liked pretty boys, she thought, only Ossip, and even in Ossip the prettiness denoted a weakness. This boy was strong, and looked older than fourteen. Suddenly, she was thinking how nice it would be to dance with him. And then she was ashamed. Never in a million years would she, Sonia de Gunzburg, accept even a single waltz with this…Tagantsev! Besides, there were still at least three years before her debut…

  “Sofia Davidovna, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he was saying.

  “Vladimir Nicolaievitch,” she replied, extending her hand quite primly. Ossip stood by, amused. Sonia seemed very lady like in her camel’s hair skirt, all thirteen years of her, and damned if Volodia was not turning red, like a schoolboy.

  “I’m hungry,” Ossip declared. “If you two aren’t, all the better. I shall eat your portions.”

  “Please sit down, Vladimir Nicolaievitch,” Sonia said. She motioned to the place next to Ossip, who was already seated. But Volodia came over to the opposite side of the table and pulled out her chair. “Allow me,” he said. She sat down, and only then did he take his own place. Sonia was trying not to blush, but the red was burning her cheeks and she wished that Ossip would stop his idiotic smiling. “We are having sherried consommé,” she announced, her voice clear.

  “That will be delicious, I am certain,” Volodia said.

  “Our cook will be glad to hear it. Do you and Ossip share all the same courses at the gymnasium?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Ossip replied, and his friend laughed.

  “Yes, we are partners in crime,” Volodia added. His brown eyes twinkled. But the words “partners” and “crime” made a sudden chill creep up Sonia’s backbone, and she thought of Ekaterina Yakovlievna hidden behind the door with the baby and her two sons. She shivered, the corner of her upper lip curling in spite of herself, in anger at the presence of this boy today. How dare he banter with her when matters of life and death were transpiring in this very house, and because of him?

  “Ossip tells me that you play the piano exquisitely. I should like to hear you, Sofia Davidovna. The piano is my forte, too. Well—‘forte’ is an immodest word. I meant it is my greatest pleasure. We could try to do a piece for four hands some time.”

  Sonia allowed the servant girl to remove the empty dishes, and Stepan entered with a veal roast surrounded by new potatoes and baby peas. Then her clear gray eyes met the brown, frank gaze of their young guest. “I hardly think that we could accomplish much during the space of fifty minutes, Vladimir Nicolaievitch,” she remarked with a note of irony. “And besides, I do not customarily take luncheon with my brother. Today was just… a special occasion.”

  “Ossip speaks most highly of you,” Volodia said. He was serving himself a healthy helping of meat and vegetables.

  “You, too, have a sister, don’t you?” Sonia asked.

  “My twin, Natalia. Natasha. We are not at all alike, actually. She is bright, and funny, and gay, and very beautiful, with thick black hair and bright blue eyes. In fact, she resembles Ossip here far more than she does me. I am the ordinary member of the family.”

  The word “family” reverberated through Sonia’s mind, which momentarily froze. Volodia was looking at her across the table, and she thought: I hate him, but I also like him. He has a sense of humor, he is obviously kind and well mannered… but I hate him. He is the cause of Ekaterina’s and Shura’s and Mishka’s discomfort, and because of him they must keep still as mice…

  She said, “I know what you mean. I think the same myself. Ossip is brilliant, and our sister Anna i
s an artist, and our little brother, Gino, has the sweetest disposition I have ever encountered. It is only I who do not shine. But perhaps the world needs us to balance out the geniuses!” Her own eyes sparkled, and met those of her brother, and together they laughed. It felt so good to laugh. The young guest joined the merriment.

  When the servant girl removed the main course and Stepan had presented the platter of fruit, Sonia had all but forgotten the widow, and was enjoying the occasion, this meal with the two boys, without the hampering presence of Johanna. Perhaps she would never again be allowed to sit alone at a table with a strange young man and her favorite brother, but even Cinderella had enjoyed the Prince’s ball. She said, “I see now why Ossip speaks about you each and every day, Vladimir Nicolaievitch. You are a good friend to him.”

  “And may I be a friend to you, Sofia Davidovna?” Volodia asked earnestly.

  Sonia blushed. It was odd how many times she had blushed in the course of a single meal. “Any friend of Ossip is my friend,” she replied. “Besides, it was through your effort that that dreadful Krinitsky was removed from Ossip’s vicinity. We owe a lot to your loyalty.”

  With these words, she remembered her charges in the rooms behind the kitchen. The color drained from her cheeks. She lifted her young chin firmly, and regarded Ossip with coolness. “Please hurry,” she said evenly. “You will both be late for class, and I shall be blamed.”

  Volodia stood up, and so did the two Gunzburgs. Sonia walked with the boys to the vestibule, where Stepan produced the fur-lined coats in which the two students had arrived. At the door, Ossip kissed his sister and Volodia Tagantsev took her hand and said, warmly, “I had a wonderful luncheon. I shall truly miss you tomorrow, Sofia Davidovna.”

  She remained in the hallway, uncertain, for several minutes. Hot flashes pulsed through her body, and she thought for a moment that she was ill. But the flashes were not unpleasant, and she shook off a sensation of fear and doom. Instead, resolute now, she walked to the kitchen and made up a tray of honey cakes. Then she unlocked the door and went to the widow and her children. “You are all winners,” she announced. “Here is your reward.”

  Sonia saw the grateful expression on the face of the widow, Ekaterina. Something inside her rebelled at this sight: within a week, this woman and her two children would be sent away to the Pale of Settlement, a place where they had never been before, simply because the head of their family had died, and with him, permission to live in the capital. Sonia thought: Papa will make arrangements, will send her to live among kind people he knows. But her life is here, with friends! Would Volodia Tagantsev understand her own pain for these strangers? she wondered. Would he even know that an injustice had been done? But he was not a Jew! There was no earthly, no Godly way for him to understand this absurd situation, nor her own churned-up emotions concerning it.

  When she returned to her room, Anna was there. “Tell me,” the older girl demanded. “What is he like? Ossip’s friend, I mean.”

  But Sonia shook her head. “I’m not sure,” she replied, bewildered at her own words. “I can’t really decide.” She unpinned her brooch and sat down pensively on the edge of her cot. Anna put down her paint brush and looked at her, and flecks of gold shone in her brown eyes.

  “We all meet someone like that,” she commented gently. She herself was thinking of someone blond with green eyes. But her sister did not understand, and merely continued to peer dreamily into space, her small, girlish mouth slightly ajar.

  Chapter 5

  It was a bitter cold winter morning when David announced that Aron Berson, the banker, was sending someone over with papers for him to examine. Ossip had already left for school, and Sonia and Gino were in the lesson room, awaiting Johanna, who was lingering over a final cup of cocoa in her bed. Only Mathilde, huddled in her ermine-lined silk morning gown, saw Anna’s face color deeply at her father’s words. A slight frown appeared between Mathilde’s brows. “That dreadful family,” she said in spite of herself.

  “There is nothing wrong with Ivan Aronovitch,” Anna countered abruptly.

  “He is a pleasant youth, to be sure,” Mathilde said. She felt vaguely disquieted. “But one cannot separate a man from his origins. He resides in that tainted house, with his scatterbrained mother and his wanton sisters. We cannot be certain how this has affected him.”

  Anna merely bit her lip. But after Stepan carried away the remainder of the morning dishes, she did not go to her room. Instead, when her father proceeded to his study and her mother to her boudoir, she went into the drawing room and stood for a while before the long gilt mirror. Her bosom was ample, but her waist was slender, cinched by a belt of copper and rope. She wore a full-length skirt of Latvian design, and a coarse cotton mujik blouse with a multicolored woolen shawl in earth tones to protect her from the chill which penetrated even through the double walls of the house. Her red hair shone, unadorned, coiled over her right ear. But perhaps—no, even surely—Aron Berson would send a messenger from his bank. Ivan was a student, and besides, had he not declared himself uninterested in his father’s work? Anna shuddered, and the pinpoints of her nipples quivered. He would have no reason to come.

  But moments later, Stepan admitted someone into the vestibule, and Anna heard a gay, robust burst of young laughter. She could not restrain the impulse that propelled her toward that sound. Stepan, holding Ivan’s astrakhan cape which bristled with particles of ice and snow, saw his young mistress, her cheeks ablaze, stride awkwardly toward the newcomer. Ivan Berson, his blond hair parted in the center, his frock coat of rumpled broadcloth unbuttoned, almost came to attention. “Anna Davidovna,” he murmured.

  She regarded him with a certain irony. “You? On banking business?”

  His cheeks reddened. “I am not as impure as you think,” he stated, and then took the briefcase that Stepan held for him. His green eyes looked eagerly around, and gave him confidence. He advanced a few steps, and at once Anna took the lead and left the vestibule. Near the drawing room, she halted. “My father?” she asked.

  No one was near them. The young man’s hand rose to his cravat, which was loosely tied. He stood over Anna, only barely taller than she. “I came, hoping to see you,” he said. “You see, I am very bold. I hoped that you would be pleased to see me again. I thought—perhaps we could chat, for several minutes. You are not—too busy?”

  She shook her head, motioning him to the sofa. She could not sit, herself, and kept her hands pressed nervously together. “I have made you uncomfortable,” Ivan said gently. “I shall leave now, and bring the papers to your father. I was too abrupt, too presumptuous.”

  “No,” she said. Her voice was rough because her throat was dry. Finally she took a seat. She became very red, and, examining her nails, murmured, “I wanted you to come, Ivan Aronovitch.”

  “I have never paid court to a young lady before,” he told her frankly. “That is not to say I have no women friends. But my friends have all been fellow students, and in our discussion groups the atmosphere is informal, and we are all one, so to speak. So you may find my manners… wanting. I do not wish for you to regard me badly. I felt the need to explain.”

  “You have come to—pay court—to me?” Anna asked, her voice nearly inaudible. Tears seared her eyelids suddenly. “No, surely not.”

  “I am clumsy, but I needed to see you. I know—what people whisper about my sisters. I cannot help the way they are, any more than I can help my own disinclination for formality. You are a lady, and unaccustomed to this sort of familiarity. Have I shocked you, Anna Davidovna?”

  “Yes, you have shocked me,” she replied abruptly. She looked away, her embarrassment overwhelming her. “But not in the way you suppose. I am not a lady, Ivan Aronovitch. Not like my mother, or even my little sister. I was born into the wrong family, and have never felt at ease as a Gunzburg. I always wished that I had been born a peasant, in the heartland of our nation—where no one would notice me, and where I could act as I please. What shocks me is
that you would have any desire to see me again, you who live surrounded by brilliant young University women, and pretty sisters. I am an oddity in this family—haven’t Kazia and Alia told you that?”

  Ivan Berson rose, and began to pace the room. Anna, in her shame, could not bear to look at him. She felt that the entire room had suddenly engulfed her, this room where ladies met for tea and where delicate antiques were placed in tasteful decor, a decor which she detested with all her heart. When the young man stopped, it was in front of her. He said: “Please, allow me to see one of your paintings. Baron David is not in a hurry this morning, for my father told me that he is not expected at the Ministry until later. I shall not depart until you have brought out a canvas, or a sketch—but I must see one.”

  Anna was very surprised. “Very well,” she said. She was grateful for the opportunity to leave the room and this young man who made her chest burn and confused her thoughts. She went into her room and looked about. Her eyes rested upon her latest etching, a free-form rendition of her brother Gino seated on the floor by the piano. She took it in her hand, her mind a blur. She did not even catch sight of Johanna, on her way from the lesson room to her mother’s boudoir. Anna walked, head bent, into the drawing room, and speechlessly deposited the small portrait in the lap of the young man. “This is unfinished,” she stated. “I am going to add color next—blue glints on the piano surface, brown with gold highlights in my brother’s hair, soft shadings of apricot on his cheeks. Gino is very healthy. His eyes will be nutlike, with points of orange and green. I do not know why I chose this one to show you, I’ve really only just started it.”