‘Socialist ideology has been betrayed. We have been betrayed. And now we find ourselves at war, although we wanted peace. Now we find ourselves in the state of slavery we wanted to fight; we find ourselves in a dictatorship, my boy, although we longed for freedom. Our ideals have been violated.’
The man nodded meaningfully, as if to lend his words greater significance. Andro said nothing and looked at the floor: he felt pathetic and stupid, and didn’t wish to appear inexperienced and clueless. By remaining silent, he could at least convey the impression that he was thinking very carefully about what the gentleman was telling him.
‘But there is still hope,’ the man continued, and this time he sounded like someone giving a lecture before a large crowd. He rose to his feet and came to stand at Andro’s side. ‘There is a way to overcome these forces and establish a free Georgia, from which it would be no problem for people to travel to Paris or Vienna, as they used to do. For that, though, we need good men. You want to go to Europe, don’t you?’ The warming brandy was generously topped up. ‘We need men who know what’s important, and it seems to me, my boy, that you’re one of them. If we win this war, all our hopes are buried, all ideals are dead, all borders closed. You understand what I’m saying?’
Andro, befuddled by alcohol, nodded seriously. He looked up again and returned his host’s wide smile.
The apartment was spartan, not at all in keeping with this David person’s suave charisma. Perhaps that was a sort of disguise, Andro thought to himself. He felt he was being called upon to do something important, and even if he didn’t know exactly what his assignment was, it was certainly exciting. Something inside him told him he should not disappoint this man.
The man himself held forth about freedom and values, about borders and oppression. He spoke of Europe; again and again he mentioned names and places that were sheer magic to Andro’s ears, so unattainably remote, and so romantic. Places he had always wanted to visit; places he had so often rhapsodised about to Kitty; but in this man’s mouth they sounded familiar, not at all remote, no longer unattainable. As if he had just that moment returned from a stroll around Montmartre and was asking Andro if, next time, he would care to accompany him.
With this man it was so easy to imagine the casino tables in Baden-Baden, the dance clubs in Paris, the Viennese coffee houses. This man, in his fine clothes, kept talking to Andro, feeding his imagination with marvellous images that promised him the world and guaranteed him Vienna, freedom, wonderful prospects. He could develop his talent and aspire to a career as a sculptor. He could study in Europe.
‘The Germans are striving for freedom for Georgia. They know very well that the cradle of our race and our civilisation lies in the Caucasus.’ The man was whispering now. He had sat down opposite Andro again and was looking him straight in the eye. ‘Have you heard of the Georgian Legion, my boy?’ Andro shook his head. ‘These are men who are fighting from abroad, mainly from Berlin, for a free Georgia. In the past few years there’ve been secret discussions with the Germans; they’ve assured us that as soon as the Soviet Union is defeated we will be free again. That we will form an autonomous state as part of the Greater German Reich, and that we will be given our due, if you understand me.’
Andro nodded cautiously, although actually he wasn’t sure he really had understood what the man was saying.
‘You can help us, Andro. You can help us win this war. You can help us shape the future of our country. You can be free, my boy. You’ve been called up, haven’t you?
Again Andro wondered how it was that the man knew so much about him. This time he nodded firmly.
‘You’ll soon be sent to Crimea by the Soviets. Someone will contact you there and give you the details of your assignment. You have no military experience, so you’ll probably be trained in radio communications. A very important job, my boy. In a few months’ time we’ll fetch you and take you to Europe. You’ll be able to operate with us from there. We have cells everywhere. All over western Europe, and soon all over the world. And when all of this is over you’ll be able to go anywhere — wherever you like.’
Andro, now flushed and slightly drunk, leaned further forward and downed the last of his brandy.
‘Uff, that’s strong,’ he said with a smile. ‘And what about my wife?’
‘You have a wife?’ asked the gentleman in surprise.
‘Yes, soon she’ll be my wife.’
‘Oh — I see. Nothing should ever stand in the way of love. I can assure you that as soon as you’ve arrived in Europe and assumed your duties, we will send her to you. But all that takes time. We’re right in the thick of things. There’s still a great deal to do, and helping hands are important, Andro. We’ll arrange false papers for your wife and get her out of the country — with the highest level of protection, of course, that goes without saying.’
‘Are you spies or something?’ asked Andro, and laughed uncertainly. His head ached. He tried to interpret the man’s words. He tried to weigh up the offer. The gentleman slapped Andro on the back.
‘We’re just doing our work — working for a free Georgia.’
‘But … doesn’t that mean you’re working with the fascists? Why would the fascists particularly want Georgia to be a free country?’
‘Listen to me, Andro, listen to me very carefully.’ The man sat on the arm of Andro’s chair again, and this time his voice was rather sterner. ‘Perhaps you’ll have heard the name Shalva Maglakelidze. One of the original Georgian democrats, and a first-rate commander. Before the revolution he was governor general of Tbilisi. After the occupation of Georgia he left the country and emigrated to Europe, where he founded the Tetri Giorgi resistance organisation in 1924. The purpose of this organisation was to liberate Georgia from the hands of the Soviet occupiers. When war broke out, he founded the Georgian Legion in Berlin and made an agreement with the Germans, according to which Georgia was to become a free state within the Greater German Reich. Maglakelidze has gathered together the best Georgian soldiers in exile, and has allied himself with the Wehrmacht. The Georgian Legion will soon number thirteen thousand soldiers, Andro, divided into twelve different battalions. Every day, more and more Red Army deserters and prisoners of war are joining the Legion. And Maglakelidze has already been promoted to major general.’
‘I think I should probably be going now …’
Andro stood up and started looking for his hat. The man remained seated, motionless, his eyes fixed on Andro.
‘Your mother is dead, Andro. Shot, like a cheap whore. I can put the details in writing for you, if you’re interested. Even the exact price of the bullets they used to kill her. Shot because she wanted to remain free, in a free country.’
Andro, already at the door, slowly turned and looked the man in the eye. The transformation of conjecture into certainty changed him, and his future, forever.
*
A few days before the year’s end, Andro, along with other soldiers, left Tbilisi for Crimea. Kharkov was in German hands, and rumours were spreading that it was only a question of time before the Wehrmacht reached the Caucasus as well.
The night before his departure, Andro crept into Kitty’s room, woke her, and confided his plans. Kitty became virtually hysterical; she insisted that he shouldn’t take this risk, it was too dangerous and he was too inexperienced, the Reds could find out at any time and arrest him, and then nobody would be able to save him. There was no way Kitty wanted the fascists to win the war; she didn’t want an autonomous state within the Greater German Reich. The idea that a fascist victory would mean freedom for Georgia was an illusion. He shouldn’t be so naive, he should come to his senses. He was putting himself and the whole family in grave danger.
It would all be all right, Andro insisted. After all, it was in the gentleman’s interest that his cover should not be blown. But when Kitty still refused to agree he shouted at her, grabbed her by the elbows, sho
ok her violently, and insisted that she had to believe him, she had to trust him. He had no future in a country where they had shot his mother like a sick animal, a country with a system like this. He preferred to stake his life on a hope than perish in this cesspit.
Kitty stared at him, wide-eyed. She had never seen him so beside himself. Finally she pressed his head against her breast as if he were a little child. Her attempts to comfort him turned into passionate kisses and they ended up in her bed.
‘As soon as it’s possible they’ll make contact with you, and then you’ll follow me,’ said Andro quietly — naked, curled up in a ball, lying like an embryo at Kitty’s side. ‘You will come, won’t you? Won’t you? Promise me!’
He gazed at her expectantly.
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll follow you,’ she said, placing her forefinger on his lips. For the first time in their life, his dreams frightened her.
*
The world was dancing in circles. The skeletons beneath the earth beat time. Roses no longer bloomed in any colour but black. All paths felt like rope bridges, swaying, ready to collapse at any moment. Even the snow acquired a bluish tinge. The sky was peppered with holes; you could see bullet holes on the horizon, too, and although the sun shone wearily down it could no longer impart any warmth.
The trees came to a whispered agreement, and hanged themselves on one another’s branches. Birds fell from the sky, because at the sight of the dance they forgot how to fly; children became adults overnight and polished grenades. Tears became rare, expensive things. Only grimaces were free.
Chocolate was now just a memory of another age, and without chocolate people forgot sweetness, and without sweetness they forgot childhood, and without childhood they forgot the beginning, and without the beginning they couldn’t see the end.
And the voice of the Soviet Union, the voice of the Sovinformburo, Yuri Borisovich Levitan, echoed through the ether, inimitable, omnipresent, reporting tirelessly on horrors that, from his mouth, always sounded a little less horrible. His voice — even the Generalissimus believed it — gave the nation confidence. Levitan talked and talked:
‘… The Germans have been pushed back from Rostov. Successes at Lake Ladoga; the Road of Life is passable again. Frost has brought the front to a standstill. The Germans are attacking from the south; they are crossing the Volga. The Germans are approaching Stalingrad. Orders are: do not give an inch. 240,000 German soldiers encircled …’
And the snow fell and splintered into shards, and the ghosts roamed the hills telling rosaries for those who had frozen to death.
In Germany you cannot have a revolution
because you would have to step on the lawns.
VLADIMIR LENIN
Meanwhile, at the end of September, the Red Lieutenant was posted to Kamyshin on the Volga, and Stasia telegraphed her sister in Tbilisi to say that she couldn’t get away from Moscow, the roads were impassable, and besides, Kostya was stationed near Leningrad. She stayed on alone in the Moscow barracks, and gradually began to realise the absurdity of her plan. In retrospect, the desire to make her way to Kostya in Leningrad seemed like utter foolishness. She asked herself how she could have acted so impetuously, leaving her daughter and Andro behind.
Before his departure, Simon had promised that as soon as an opportunity presented itself he would get her out of the city so she could make her way home. However, given the situation, this too seemed to her an impossible undertaking. No one could guarantee her safe passage any more. Once again, she was trapped in a theatre of war, fearing for her family, enduring cold and hunger, and wondering how she could have been so stupid. She asked herself why every attempt she made to unite her family ended in war.
This time, though — unlike before, in Petrograd — Stasia was better prepared. She knew to whom she could turn to get black-market goods; she knew how to deal with the soldiers who had remained, which of the superior officers looked favourably on her husband, and which were in Simon’s debt. She actually succeeded in requisitioning the room at the barracks for herself alone. She made herself useful in the barracks kitchen. She darned and sewed coats, shirts, uniforms. But her main thought was of escaping this dangerous, child-devouring place.
Christine hadn’t told her that Andro had been called up. But Stasia guessed it wouldn’t be long before he was sent to the front — and, unlike Kostya, Andro was no fighter. Stasia thought of Sopio, focused her mind on her friend, and begged her forgiveness for not staying in Tbilisi and taking better care of Andro.
When the first bombs fell, making Stasia’s ears ring; when, for the first time in her life, she found herself in one of the air raid bunkers that had been set up in the metro stations, she finally realised that not only had she failed to save her son and protect her adoptive son, she had also put her own life at risk. And then she really was mortally afraid.
Suddenly, she was no longer an observer: she had become part of this terrible spectacle, and many years lay between her and the ordeals she had survived in Petrograd.
Some half a million citizens, the majority of them women, erected fortifications outside Moscow. Façades were painted over in painstaking detail to camouflage them during German air raids.
And Stasia laughed at herself, a cynical, violent laugh, at how naive she had been to think you could drive war out of a person, when you inevitably ended up becoming part of the war yourself.
The mass mobilisation began. Stasia hauled sandbags with the other women, and lent a hand when another barricade needed building, or windows needed covering, as a total blackout had been imposed during the air raids. Some of the Red Army officers’ wives moved into the barracks with their children. The men had been pulled out. On these dark nights, Stasia sat over cabbage or potato stew in the barracks kitchen and couldn’t believe how real the prospect seemed that she might never get out of here again; that she might never see her children, her sister, her husband again.
The great rain stopped, the mud dried out, and the Germans marched on Moscow. Mass panic erupted when the evacuation of the city began. Frantic people burned files in the street. Men ineligible for military service were deployed to lay mines in important buildings. Careful as jugglers, they could be seen walking along the pavements with the explosive in their hands, as if part of a choreography both elegiac and macabre.
Lenin’s body was removed from the mausoleum, the Kremlin painted green. Captive balloons floated up from the arterial roads to deter low-flying aircraft. Documents were burned in the archives. All factories, schools, and institutions were closed, and finally public transport was suspended, too.
The train stations were overcrowded. The trains were heading to Kyrgyzstan, Tatarstan, Kazakhstan, to places one had never heard of before; far, very far away, train journeys of several days, weeks by boat. Lists were compiled of professional groups, and a destination for evacuation was assigned to each. Communist Party members, the Authors’ Association, the Academy of Sciences, doctors, botanists, engineers, chemists, physicists, train drivers, even brass bands were all assigned to specific trains. The privileged were able to jump the queue; those who had little to boast of had to wait, keep pushing; occasionally someone without a seat reservation managed to secure themselves standing room in one of the carriages.
Swept along by other women from the barracks, Stasia vanished in the crowd, got lost, resurfaced; someone pulled her by the hand, let go of her again. The certificate of evacuation to Tatarstan was in her passport in the inside pocket of her coat. At Kazan Station the crowd of people blurred into a single, enormous body with two huge arms and two legs, a formless trunk and a monstrous head. Stasia stood still, fell back from the other women hurrying to the platforms with children and suitcases. A small group of people, unlike all the others, had caught her attention, and she stood there, unable to look away.
These people were boarding the train with almost unnatural slowness and elegance; they were h
elping each other with their luggage, and kept looking around, as if it was hard for them to leave the city. Stasia asked a man which professional group these people belonged to, and the man replied irritably that they were dancers from the Bolshoi Theatre.
Stasia couldn’t tear her eyes away from the dancers. One dainty young woman spotted her and waved. Stasia stepped closer.
‘Which theatre are you from?’ the young woman asked, giving Stasia an empathetic smile. Hearing this question from a Bolshoi ballerina gave Stasia a childish rush of joy, and for a moment her breast was filled with pride. She’d thought she was a dancer, too! Stasia bowed her head, embarrassed, and murmured something about a provincial town.
‘That doesn’t matter. We artists must stick together more than ever in these terrible times, mustn’t we?’ the young ballerina said encouragingly. She beckoned to Stasia. ‘You’ve got your evacuation certificate with you, haven’t you? We’re sure to find you a seat, don’t worry.’
Stasia came within a whisker of accepting the invitation and boarding the train for which she had no authorisation. For a moment, she succumbed so effortlessly to her illusion, picked up so easily where she’d left off years ago, imagining herself seventeen again, with Paris and the Ballets Russes waiting for her, and if she just worked hard enough and took enough ballet classes she was sure to be able to dance Scheherezade at the Théâtre du Châtelet.
Her hand wandered across her breast, and there, inside her vest, she felt something heavy that she carried with her always, that gave her a peculiar sense of calm: Thekla’s gold watch. She stepped back, caught the dancer’s puzzled expression, shook her head with a grateful smile, and disappeared again into the crowd.
An officer’s wife from the barracks had seen her and was waving at her.
‘Hurry, Stasia! The train’s already so full — come on!’
But suddenly Stasia felt a terrible emptiness. An all-encompassing indifference. She kept looking back, trying to catch a glimpse of the dancer, but there were too many people thronging between them.
The Eighth Life Page 25