He could not touch her, so he gazed upon her, and she met his eyes. “I think of you when I go to sleep, Ossip Davidovitch,” she said.
“And I do not sleep at all, thinking of you.” He moistened his lips. “Natalia Nicolaievna—you wouldn’t tease me, would you?”
Mutely, she shook her head. And then, surreptitiously, he seized her elegant tapered fingers and brought them to his lips. No one saw the gesture, for Sonia and Volodia were playing the piano, their music speaking for them. From the drawing room behind, the low laughter of the Countess with Mathilde and Johanna trickled through the halls.
Then, tentatively, Volodia spoke. “Your brother likes my sister,” he declared; his words had a cadence in rhythm with the music.
“You would know more than I,” Sonia said.
“Is Ossip afraid of your disapproval?”
Sonia blushed. She looked sideways at her companion. “It is the way of the world to like other people,” she said.
“But Sofia Davidovna, liking is not the same as... loving.”
She started, visibly. “We are all very young,” she said, her voice high and strong. “Love is something too exalted for us to grasp.”
His eyebrows rose. “We were speaking of them, not us,” he said softly.
“Naturally,” Sonia retorted angrily. Her fingers pranced over the keys, avoiding his. “I was merely explaining that Ossip and your sister cannot be taken seriously… and … ”
“You are your brother’s keeper?”
Sonia stopped playing. “Vladimir Nicolaievitch,” she whispered furiously, “you know as well as I that they will only hurt each other! Do you wish to encourage what cannot be?”
His brown eyes bored into her level gray ones. “No,” he said sadly, “I do not encourage them, though I wish I could. I know of no finer individuals than Natasha and Ossip. I respect their feelings, though you do not. That is because you have not learned to love my sister. But no, I do not encourage them. I don’t, however, discourage them too much. It would be cruel to throw water upon their fire. Life will do it in time.”
“And our fathers,” she stated.
“It will never go that far,” Volodia countered. Then he gazed at her, and his mournful expression surprised her. “This is a cruel life,” he said with bitterness.
Her young profile shone like an etching next to him, and all at once his hand moved upward as if to touch her cheek. She felt rather than saw his intention, and turned to face him. Her gray eyes opened wide, like those of a frightened doe, and her bloodless lips were parted, aghast, yet yearning. “No!” she said, but she could not move, and so his fingers reached out and rested for a second upon the softness of her cheek. They sat in numbed, shocked silence, his fingertips upon her cheek, her lips parted, her eyes afraid. And then his hand fell away, and she watched it fall, entranced, electrified. “I envy Ossip his facility with words,” Volodia murmured, and once again he began to play. But this time there was no fire to his music, only a restless imprecision.
“It is time to return home, my children,” the Countess was calling.
Although the First Duma, composed of officials elected by the Russian people, had opened in early March 1906, the Tzar’s Council, or Senate, still acted as the upper house of this effort at parliamentarianism. The elite, selected by the Tzar himself, and those chosen by the aristocracy, belonged to the Senate. Count Nicolai Tagantsev was a distinguished member.
On the evening following the Countess’s visit to the Gunzburg home, David faced his family and announced gravely: “I have been asked to accomplish a tremendous task, for which I have prepared, it seems, all my life. Our attorneys, my father, and I have drawn up a proposal which comes before the Council tomorrow, and I must argue for its adoption. If I win, then the law that now banishes widows and orphans of Jewish artisans and members of the Second Guild to the Pale of Settlement within twenty-four hours of the death of their provider, will finally be abolished. But if I fail in convincing the Council members, then I am afraid that the law will be here to stay…”
Mathilde said: “And who will support you, David?”
Her husband sighed. “Since Witte’s dismissal from office before the opening of the Duma, we have lost our staunchest supporter. Pobedonòstsev will oppose us with all his might, as will Count Tagantsev, who can sway others with his eloquence. I am afraid, my love.”
“But you needn’t be, about the Count!” Mathilde exclaimed. “The Countess was telling me that he is ill with influenza, and has had a raging fever. It is a stroke of pure luck, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Papa, you shall win!” Sonia cried. She raised bright eyes to her father. “Please, Papa, I should like to hear you plead. Would Grandfather take me?”
But Johanna replied at once: “Young ladies do not belong in politics. Have you not sufficiently learned from Anna’s mistakes? Do you wish to cause your family renewed embarrassment?”
David’s mild blue eyes went from the governess to his daughter. Coolly he declared: “Sonia is a lady, Johanna. In my father’s presence not one tongue would wag. In fact, I should be proud to know that she is there, in the gallery. And no one,” he added, gently regarding his wife, “looks to the gallery during speeches. Do not be concerned, Mathilde.”
“I think that you are embroiling the children in matters that should not involve them,” she replied coldly.
“Papa is old. The presence of his young granddaughter would do him infinite good. I would think of your approval as a blessing, Mathilde.”
“But what an outrage…!” Johanna murmured, rolling her eyes in their sockets. “A little girl—”
Mathilde closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples. Her husband insisted, softly: “This is the most important task of my life as a Russian Jew. Would you deprive me of my children? Ossip will be in school, and Gino is too young. That leaves me Sonitchka.”
No one spoke for several minutes. Then Gino, who had perked up at the mention of his name, looked brightly at his mother. He was a tousle-haired boy of eleven, with apple cheeks and glowing eyes. Now he asked: “Mama, when will the Countess invite you to her home? Do you want to see it?”
Mathilde opened her eyes and said evenly, “But I shall never visit Maria Efimovna. It would not be proper. She paid us a great compliment by coming here, but she made me understand that it would be impossible for her to receive me. Her husband would never allow it. Ossip is a young boy, and for him an exception can be made. But our socializing has ended with the Countess’s visit.”
Johanna de Mey lifted a corner of her mouth in disdain, and looked at David with unconcealed dislike. Only Sonia saw her, and for a few minutes blazing hatred filled the young girl’s heart. “Oh, Mama, please!” she cried. “I promise never again to mingle where I do not belong! You know that I am not the least concerned with politics—”
Mathilde stood up, shaking. She brought her linen napkin to her lips, and steadied herself by holding onto the table with her other hand. “I cannot bear this chaotic discussion,” she whispered, and pushed back her chair. She began to walk away, and was caught by Johanna, who placed her thin arm strongly about Mathilde’s body. The two women left the room, leaning upon each other.
“Do not worry, Papa,” Sonia said, and her pure young voice was fresh with confidence. “We shall win this battle.”
Sonia sat beside her grandfather, frail and petite in this grandiose gallery where, below her, the most important personages of the nation were assembled. She wore a bonnet trimmed with white ermine and a matching woolen suit and kept her tiny hands encased within her fur muff. Baron Horace, more somber than ever, breathed heavily next to her, following the reactions on the faces of the Senators as his own son pleaded in the arena.
Sonia’s cheeks were bright, and she thought: Papa has never spoken such moving, passionate words! How can one remain dry-eyed before him? She listened to the closing message, which David’s voice conveyed with strength and urgency. He walked slowly before the m
embers, clothed in his most elegant black suit with tiny white pinstripes, and Sonia’s heart swelled with pride that he was hers.
“Honored Senators, I lay before you the plight of these impoverished women and children, most of whom were born in this capital, most of whom have never left it for a day in their lives. I place before you this image: torn with grief, bewildered and lost, a young woman and her babies arrive in the Pale, without means of livelihood, without knowing a single soul to whom to turn. Would you banish this woman, for the mere reason that she lights Sabbath candles instead of crossing herself before the Icon of Jesus? I think that your hearts would not allow you to continue this immorality, for you are good men, one and all, and each of you knows the true meaning of compassion. Justice, gentlemen. Justice to these unfortunates, to these insignificant women who can hurt no one, who are burdens to no one. I beg of you—”
All at once a commotion interrupted David’s words, and Sonia squirmed in her seat to see where the noise had come from. Two men and a young boy were entering the hall, bearing a stretcher upon which lay a fourth man. They laid the stretcher down and helped the ailing one to a seat. There was something disquietingly familiar in this picture, Sonia thought. She stared below, fear gripping her. Her father had stopped speaking, and now the sick man rose, steadying himself upon the shoulder of the boy, and his voice, enormous and infuriated, filled the chamber:
“Fellow Senators! Will you be harangued by Baron Gunzburg, whose golden tongue buys him our top officials, whose honeyed images fall like a veil between you and reality? I heard about this proposal, and although I am weak and ill, I could not let you down. I came, disobeying the orders of my physician. I risk my life, dear friends, to oppose this man’s folly: he seeks to fill this holy capital with Jews, who bring their pestilence and their meanness to our cities, who envelop us with disease, who foment trouble between our peasants and the government. Would we fall like other empires to the hands of the Jews? Would we be Prussians? Or French? Would we succumb to the rule of these Disraelis? No, for we are members of Holy Russia, and Jesus Christ protects us from the scum of the earth who seek to destroy us with their wiles and their hypocrisies! Let not the Baron take this first step into your souls— for with him come the hordes of Antichrist, to swallow us!”
Sonia sat immobile, her mouth white, her eyes wide with horror. She saw her father, tall and spare, and before him the massive sick man brandishing his gold-studded cane. She was so horrified that for a few seconds this face, distorted with red hatred, blotted out everything else in the auditorium. Then she glanced down and saw the young man upon whose shoulder her father’s attacker leaned. She froze, and shivers passed over and over her spine as she made out the stocky, muscular form of Volodia Tagantsev, his brown hair waving, his brown eyes large and serious. A scream died in her throat, and she remembered the touch of his fingertips upon her cheek. A faintness overpowered her.
She began to breathe in small gasps, to regain her strength, and when at length the room came back into focus she sat still. Then, to her horror, Volodia turned his face toward the gallery, and she saw his glance encounter her and witnessed his momentary trembling at the sight of her. Their eyes held. But in hers was such a complete, unadulterated rage and hatred that he took a half-step back, as though stricken. She rose from her seat and turned quickly upon her heel, her grandfather’s shocked gaze upon her back. Before Baron Horace could utter a word to hold her there, she had run from the gallery, down the stairs, and toward the majestic doors of the Senate. There she halted, breathless, and let her face sink into her hands.
Dry sobs shook her. She heard rapid footsteps approaching but did not look up. Nothing mattered now, her father had lost, and life would never be the same. A male voice said, “Sofia Davidovna! It is not as you think! He is my father, and an ill man. I did not come here to support his views, only to support his body, which is failing. You must believe me—”
Her hands dropped to her side, and she stared into Volodia’s earnest face. Her own features were drawn into a grimace of pure horror. “Don’t ever speak to me again!” she cried at last.
“But I have done nothing!” Volodia replied, his voice strong and defensive.
“You? You have the gall to come to me, after your father has destroyed mine, after he has crushed his heart? You are a worm, Vladimir Nicolaievitch. I hope that Ossip bars you from our home!”
“You are being melodramatic, and childish,” Volodia argued. “This is but a single battle of many. Each of our fathers has won some, lost others. But why should you turn away from me, when I am your avowed friend?”
Hot tears streamed down Sonia’s cheeks. “Go away,” she pleaded, the harshness leaving her. She resembled a very small girl. Her frail body trembled uncontrollably. In desperation and frenzy, Volodia took a step toward her, and waited. She appeared not to notice him anymore, so wracking was her grief, so alone did she feel. She wept, and wrung her hands, and her pathetic face wrinkled and reddened. He took a second step, firmly placed his arms about her shaking form, holding her against him. When she did not protest, his hand reached to her hair, and he smoothed it with calm fingers. “Don’t break your heart, little one,” he whispered, “there must be a solution…”
When she looked up into his face, he nodded, and repeated, his words stronger now, and more determined: “There must be a solution!”
Book Two
Chapter 9
Dearest Sonitchka [the letter began],
You are nearing your sixteenth birthday, and are able to understand certain matters now as an adult. You write me of your wish to come to see me, to arrange for Mama and you to come to Darmstadt during the summer. Please—it would be a grave error, and would prove disastrous!
What can I say to explain my tremendous reluctance to see any member of our family? “Reluctance” is hardly the word: I would, quite literally, make another escape, this time without leaving a single trace of my whereabouts. I cannot face any of you—no, my love, not even your sweetness, for I have my own pain to bear and I am not prepared to share it with anyone from the past. I love you dearly. You must remember that I think most of you, then of Gino and Papa, for you are all in my heart. But my life these recent years was most important to me, and to see you without dredging up bitter memories would be impossible. And not to discuss what happened would be hypocrisy.
So please, Sonia, tell Mama that I shall not see her this year. I am of age, and shall stand by my feelings. Next year the wounds will have begun to heal, and I will want to be with you all, even Mama. But not now.
You can tell everyone that life in Darmstadt continues to be productive and peacefully charming: in other words, gemütlich, as they say here. I work with Herr Bader on my landscapes, and he is most pleased with my progress in oils. He says that aquarelle is too soft a medium for my stormy nature! I am also taking sculpting lessons from a Herr Habig. I have finished a statuette called “Despair,” which fitted the moods of previous months. But do not be concerned: my next work is to be a profile medallion of you, sweet sister, from memory. You can see how I think of you!
My friend, Dalia Hadjani, is still with me all the time, and a more interesting, compassionate human being could hardly exist. A terrible tragedy recently befell her, which has knocked the breath from me and which has also placed all my own “problems” in perspective. Her husband died in Teheran, quite suddenly. We did not learn of it at once. First, the money he was sending stopped coming. Then news arrived. He had died of an infection, for Dalia tells me that Persia is not quite the hygienic paradise to which we are accustomed in Europe. He did not leave her the fortune she expected, for it seems that business was worse than he had led her to understand. She does not wish to return to Persia. First of all, there is the physician in Lausanne who must deliver her baby. Then, there is the sadness of returning to a country where her beloved is no more—and Dalia cannot bear the idea. Her parents are both deceased.
Therefore, she will remain with me. We ar
e grateful for each other’s company, and we share our passion for our art. She is really quite better than she had thought, and Herr Bader has praised her a good deal. We shall lick our wounds and proceed, and perhaps we shall grow wiser in the process! I do not guarantee it—who can? But we shall try, in our own way. And there will be a baby soon. Babies offer their own opinions on the world. I am looking forward to Dalia’s child.
Take care, Sonitchka. Take care of Papa, and my Gino, and Ossip, who must be quite splendid from the way you described him in your last letter. Give Mama my regards. I hug you to my heart, little one, for I love you tenderly.
Sonia felt a pain in her chest from the scrawled signature, “Anna,” as she put the letter down on her secretary. She stood still, her mind disquieted. Her sister did not want to see her, but was constantly in the company of a stranger, the Persian woman. Anna did not appear to love Mama any longer. Anna was bitter; Anna tried to be funny—Anna’s mood could not be gauged. Yet she had a friend, and was involved in a life that brought her peace. She, Sonia, was selfish to be jealous of this friend, for Annushka had only made one other friend in her life, and that had been Ivan. Now she had a new friend, and this time she seemed to have chosen well. Anna had sent a portrait she had made of Dalia Hadjani, and everybody, even Johanna, had declared that she looked distinguished and well bred. Now this woman had undergone a tragedy, and Anna was helping her. It always felt good to help, Sonia thought.
Yet there was a strange note to this letter, Sonia mused, though she could not explain her anxiety. She put the letter away to be answered later that week, after she had read it to her Papa and spoken to him about Anna’s adamant refusal to see them. She had an odd sensation that Johanna would, for once, take Anna’s side. For with Anna removed, the vocal opposition had been drastically reduced in the Gunzburg household, and the governess appeared much happier.
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