Encore

by Monique Raphel High

When the master sergeant had retreated, Natalia sat down in

  one of the armchairs and clasped her hands in her lap. What if he had her interned at once? She had rehearsed their conversation time and time again, and she felt panic, but also relief that the lieutenant had not already departed for the battlefront. She knew exactly what she would say. Now she needed the strength to carry it off.

  All at once, she was drawn from her self-absorption by the sound of heels clicking on the parquet floor. She rose, blushing. Lieutenant Püder stood before her, with his ribbons, his broad chest, his flaxen hair and his eyes of periwinkle blue. He seemed a parody of Boris—a bleached version. He was not an ugly man, but simply a man, whereas Boris was a Machiavellian deity lifted from the Renaissance and ancient Greece. This was a man of today, facing her with surprise, raising his eyebrows.

  “I know it was presumptuous of me to think you might remember,” she said quickly. “It was in Exerzierplatz—”

  A smile spread over his features, and he bowed from the waist, a quick Teutonic bow. “Yes, of course. The pretty lady who was nearly trampled to death. I am surprised, however: I thought that surely you would not wish to see me or my men again.”

  “I was rude to you,” she said, gasping. “I’m sorry.” Suddenly she didn’t think she could continue this charade, and she waited for the blow to fall from somewhere. But Lieutenant Heinrich Püder motioned for her to sit down, and gratefully she sank into the armchair.

  He took a seat facing her on a couch. “I am flattered,” he said, “that you recall my name. How is your son? A handsome boy. His father must be proud of him.” There was the question, brought into the open but tactfully stated.

  She fought back a desire to burst into tears, and, looking at his boots while pressing back the weeping, she whispered: “There is no father. I am a widow. And my son is not at all well. I’m afraid he’s going to die, and that’s why I came here, bothering you, disturbing the sergeant. I hoped you might help me.”

  Heinrich Püder said: “I’m sorry about your husband, and about the boy. What can I do?” Clearly, he seemed bewildered that a strange woman from out of nowhere was suddenly appealing to him, and he regarded her with curiosity. “Have I seen you before, gnädige Frau?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

  She had built her life around dancing, carving an identity from it, making it her banner. She thought quickly: What can I lose? Perhaps this will help. She cleared her throat and said: “It’s possible, if you live in Munich or Berlin and go to the ballet. I am a dancer.”

  He started to laugh. “But not a German dancer. I would not have remembered you then.”

  They sat staring at each other, and his smile faded. She said: “A Russian.”

  “Ah. Your German is good, gnädige Frau. I saw the Ballets Russes at the Theater des Westens, in Charlottenburg, in ‘11. The next year, too. Now since you are not Nijinsky, who are you? Russian names are complicated for us Teutons, especially the female versions.”

  Behind his easy words she sensed a calculating coldness. She said: “I am Natalia Oblonova. I never expected to be dealing with a balletomane.”

  “We Germans are not all boors and rustics,” he demurred. “But what can I do for you, Frau Oblonova? Why are you in Darmstadt?”

  “My son was ill.” Aiming her beautiful eyes at him with sudden intensity, she added quickly: “He was born here. I am a Russian—but I suppose he has an option, doesn’t he? I mean, later at his majority, he will be able to choose which nationality he wants—won’t he? So it’s only I who am an enemy alien.”

  Lieutenant Püder nodded carefully. “Indeed. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I need to take him to see a doctor in Switzerland—in Lausanne. We must get out, for if we don’t he’ll die without care. Dr. Combes could save him. We don’t have a visa, and besides the trains are no longer at the disposal of civilians, are they? I don’t know what to do. Will you help me?” She licked her lips and looked away. “I have money,” she added in a whisper.

  “Oh? A ballerina’s salary?” He seemed amused.

  “My husband was a wealthy man.” Already she knew what he

  was thinking: There had been no husband. The Berliners had treated the dancers like circus acrobats, skilled and beautiful but below them on the social scale. One chose one’s mistresses from among the dancers but not one’s wife. Suddenly Natalia did not care what Püder thought. The point was that there was money.

  “I am desperate,” she said. “Otherwise I would not have come to a person I did not know. You struck me as a kind man, Lieutenant. I shall pay whatever you deem necessary for the privilege of space on a train—and a visa. I would give my own life so that my son could reach the doctor, but that would be rather silly, as I need to be alive in order to help him. So I have come to you. If you turn me in to the police, I shall understand.”

  He stood up and inclined his head. “You are an interesting woman, Frau Oblonova. I don’t know how I could do what you ask, but I shan’t turn you in. There are men of honor here, too, gnädige Frau. Perhaps you would permit me to take you to dinner tomorrow? Our regiment leaves in one week.”

  She rose then also and felt his eyes appraising her slender figure encased in the expensive furs. She had worn them on purpose, to leave no doubt as to her finances. Now she raised her eyes to his and smiled. “Of course,” she replied, extending her hand to him. “I shall be glad to dine with you. I am staying at the inn in Zwingenberg.”

  Heinrich Püder took the proffered hand and brought it to his lips—another parody of the gallant Boris, this one stiff and formal, whereas the real Boris was graceful and ironic. “Kemmel will escort you out, gnädige Frau,” he said. “I shall call on you tomorrow, then. Auf Wiedersehen.”

  Turning to leave, she thought: It’s done. Even if they come to arrest me tomorrow, I had to risk it.

  If Frau and Herr Walter were surprised that, for the first time since Boris’s departure, Natalia was going out to dinner—and if their surprise was compounded by the fact that her escort was a German officer—they did not embarrass her with questions. Frau Walter merely came to the small sitting room with her knitting, and sat down near the cot where Arkady slept. She raised her eyes doubtfully to her young friend, as if to say: But you are an illegal alien! But When Natalia pressed her hand and smiled at her, the innkeeper kept quiet.

  Lieutenant Heinrich Püder seemed impressed with the loveliness of his companion. He found her waiting for him in a pink hobble skirt revealing dainty ankles and patent leather slippers, and a jacket trimmed with white ermine. Her small hat was tilted to the right and adorned with osprey feathers. At her throat gleamed rubies and diamonds. She took his arm and followed him to the sleek black car in which an enlisted man served as chauffeur, and he drove them to a restaurant on top of the Ludwigshöhe, one of the hills overlooking Darmstadt. “The food is delicious here,” he said to her, and she thought, her heart twisting viciously: I’ve been here with Boris! It was here that he began to hate me, thinking that I wouldn’t leave this place because of Pierre—when all along it was because of Arkady. She was miserable, remembering.

  Then, abruptly, a new thought jarred her: What if the management remembered her coming with Boris? Who could have forgotten Boris, elegant and distinguished? But perhaps no one would think to remember her. Unlike her husband, she was not striking on first notice. It was only the third or fourth time that people became aware of her subtle beauty.

  But the waiters said nothing to distress her. In his stiff style Lieutenant Püder was rather charming. He spoke to her about himself; his uncle had been a career officer, General von Wedekind, and Heinrich had followed in his footsteps. Now this uncle was deceased; still, the family honored his memory. They were well-to-do Prussian burghers, and his mother had been a baroness, a Freiherrin. They lived in Berlin in a large gilded mansion on Unter den Linden, the majestic tree-bordered avenue leading to the Brandenburg Gate and the Tiergarten beyond it. He admired Strauss and
loved Wagner. He had enjoyed the Ballets Russes of Serge Diaghilev.

  He did not tell her about the slim, dark girl called Grethe whom he had loved, and about the time he had taken her to the lodge in the mountains and made love to her. Grethe, who had been a waitress, had run away when she had learned that she was pregnant with his child. He said nothing of his guilt to

  Natalia, this cool, sophisticated woman facing him, whose delicate shapeliness, in some small way, reminded him of his lost love. He’d been so young—a student still, and irresponsible. A Püder could sleep with Grethe, but never take her home to the baroness. And Natalia Oblonova? Her child was gravely ill. Where was Grethe’s child—his child? He looked at Natalia and felt an ache inside, an ache that had slumbered for nearly two decades. If she offered herself to him later on, he would certainly not reject her—such a beautiful woman!—but it was the idea of the child that pushed to the forefront of his mind now, blotting out the other consideration.

  He questioned her about St. Petersburg, and she spoke freely of the people she had met: the Grand-Duke Vladimir; the British ambassador, Buchanan; the Tzarina and the dowager empress; Chaliapin and Kchessinskaya. He was duly impressed. “All this as a soloist of the first degree?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied. “I told you I was married. My husband was a member of the court and also a patron of the arts. But I prefer not to speak of him; like your beloved uncle von Wedekind, he is gone.”

  Her words did not brook further questioning: They had clinched the matter. If he had thought her a wanton woman, her statement had the effect of dispelling that assumption. But he had behaved impeccably, and she felt in control. Over dessert she leaned forward and said in a low voice: “Have you thought about how you might help me, Herr Püder? My son is very ill indeed.”

  “There could be a way,” he answered, touching his mustache. Boris’s mustache was graceful and golden; Püder’s was as stiff as he was. He looked away and continued: “My uncle was a well-respected man, gnädige Frau. He had a daughter. Perhaps I could obtain false papers in her name—and you would be my cousin, Hildegard Mannteuffel. In certain cases relations of officers are allowed to travel in trains normally reserved for the military. I am the second in command of my company and am rather junior. But my family connection would help. My colonel might let you and your son on board if I presented him with an emergency.”

  She closed her eyes, relief flooding over her. Then, slowly, she reached behind her neck and unfastened the clasp of her necklace. Without a word, she placed it before Püder. Rubies and diamonds sparkled in the soft yellow glow of the candles adorning the table. “Will this be sufficient for the false papers?” she asked. “I would prefer to keep my cash reserve intact, for when I reach Switzerland.”

  Püder smiled. He picked up the jewels and examined them curiously. “Tour husband must have loved you very much,” he commented softly.

  She winced and looked away. “Yes,” she replied. “I think so.”

  Calmly, he pocketed the necklace and called for the waiter. “I am not money-hungry, gnädige Frau” he told her. “But I shall need these to bribe a good printer of identification cards and passports. We—our regiment—are going to the front in eastern France, and there I shall have to make further arrangements for you and the child to reach Switzerland. We will part company, but I shall attempt to find you a car of some sort and a trustworthy driver.” He touched his pocket. “These will be most useful then, too. I am going to sell them, if you don’t mind. Let me handle the details concerning payments and papers.”

  “I am most grateful to you,” she murmured, tears springing to her eyes. She stood up to leave with him and felt dizzy. Outside the air felt good.

  When she entered her sitting room at the inn, she said to Frau Walter: “Everything will be all right. Could you get my money together? Arkasha and I shall be leaving Germany within a week. We’ll miss you, dear friend—but when this is all over, we will come here again, for a vacation: my husband, my son, and I.”

  Natalia said to Pierre: “So I have come to say goodbye. All the arrangements have been completed, thanks to Heinrich Püder. I am to travel on the same train as the regiment, in the compartment reserved for family members. I am to be Frau Hildegard Mannteuffel, daughter of the deceased General von Wedekind and the good lieutenant’s cousin. His colonel didn’t object, and my papers and Arkasha’s are in order.”

  “You’ve taken so much on yourself,” Pierre commented, his brow furrowed.

  “I have no choice,” she said dryly. They were sitting in his drawing room, on the dark chairs. Looking at him carefully, she added: “And you? Are you going to last the war hiding out in Darmstadt?”

  His nostrils quivered slightly, and color rose to his cheeks. “You were going to do the same,” he retorted.

  He got up and began to pace the room, a panther on the prowl. She saw his strong thighs bristling beneath the broadcloth. Once she had loved him. Now she could hardly remember a life before Arkady, before this wretched war and his growing illness. She had no time for feelings or recriminations. Not even time to think of Boris, to consider him while making her plans.

  Pierre stopped abruptly. “I’m glad you’re leaving, Natalia,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have to go as well. The Baroness von Baylen is not happy with me. I—” He stopped. His stupidity was not worth revealing; she would only despise him all the more. Instead, he came to her and took her hand. “When do you leave?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  She did not withdraw her hand, and he began to caress it rhythmically. Such a small hand, such a small woman. Yet not a helpless one. Nonetheless…“Good luck, Pierre,” she said. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Think of us?”

  “I won’t promise to pray,” he said, trying to be facetious. “I know you don’t believe in God.”

  “No. Only in myself. I hope that belief isn’t misguided.” She smiled and prepared to depart. She did not know that he had been painting her portrait, a third one since the Sugar Plum nine years before, nor that this one also included her son, Arkady. He did not tell her because he intended to keep this picture himself. Instead, he held her coat out for her and walked her to the buggy. Olga, the mare, was waiting.

  He knew then what he had to do and was unafraid.

  The neat Hessian station was stark in the predawn bleakness. Troops stood about, exhausted from waiting for the train to load, their trim uniforms a sharp contrast to their apprehensive faces. Natalia stood on the platform to the far right of the men, holding Arkady in her arms. She was dressed in a simple woolen coat and a small felt hat. Her furs and jewels had been packed away, and the bags were even now being hoisted onto the train.

  Men all resemble babies before they go to war, she thought ironically. She leaned against a pole and shut her eyes. Within the week this would be over. From Switzerland she would write to Nina and her father-in-law, and they in turn would be able to send a message to Boris, to inform him of where she and the boy had gone. He, too, would be relieved to know they were in neutral territory, near a specialist in children’s diseases.

  She did not see a tall, dark-haired man in a nondescript gabardine coat weaving his way toward the station house. There were so many people on the platform that no one noticed him at all. Unobtrusively he entered the small terminal and looked about him. A small group of engineers, brakemen, and conductors sat drinking coffee and playing cards. He watched them from his position near a rear door by the wall and waited.

  Presently one of the brakemen rose from the table and ambled toward the men’s lavatory. The man in the gabardine coat followed him. In the small antechamber he stopped the brakeman and said to him: “I am a Swiss citizen, but I’ve lost my papers. I need to get on this train without anyone’s finding out. If you can help me—” He withdrew from his pocket a pair of gold cufflinks with ruby studs, a stick pin encrusted with an enormous black pearl, and a wad of bills.

  The brakeman blinked in astonishme
nt. He appraised the man in the gabardine coat: His eyes were black, the pupils merging with the irises. He was swarthy and strongly built, but unquestionably a gentleman. The jewels were magnificent and the wad a thick one. He scratched his head, wondering. If the man were mad, he might kill him with his bare hands; from the look of him he was a veritable bull. But if he were simply a wealthy refugee …Wartime had not yet made the Germans prosperous. He coughed. “Maybe,” he said grudgingly. “Wait here.”

  Pierre was left standing in the antechamber. Perhaps, thought the young painter, I am going to be delivered posthaste to the general in charge of this convoy. But I’ve got to risk it. Besides, la von Baylen could hurtle into hysteria and have me arrested. She’s hated Natalia because she touched Boris, and why shouldn’t she now hate me for in some way touching Natalia’s life? He sank against the wall, anxiety penetrating to his very entrails.

  But the brakeman was returning, carrying a knapsack. “Here is my change of clothing,” he whispered tersely, withdrawing a railroad uniform from the bag. “Change into this, and give me your clothes.”

  There was no choice. Pierre hastily undressed, handing the man his coat, his shirt, his trousers—and the pocket watch. Clearly this was to be part of the bargain. But when the brakeman was about to pack his things away, Pierre put a hand out to stop him. “There’s something I’d like to keep,” he said. He fumbled with the inside pocket of his coat and took out the small miniature of Natalia and Arkady Kussov. Unframed, barely finished, it had fit into the pocket without causing him too much discomfort, for it was only five by seven inches. It had been a stroke of luck to make it such a small painting, a private memento.

  The brakeman shrugged: This was a madman, all right, hanging onto a reproduction in the midst of a crisis. Madmen came in all shapes and sizes, but some of them had means and could be indulged. The danger was not that great. If someone—a soldier—were to find the man in the railroad uniform, he, Geiser, would simply say his knapsack had been stolen. The only problem lay in getting the man aboard. But he had an idea.