The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  ‘I can’t stand this, Petya,’ she said at last. ‘You are leaving tomorrow and I may not see you for a long time. In your letter you said that you loved me, yet you have hardly spoken a word to me since you arrived.’

  ‘Don’t reproach me.’ Pyotr took Marie’s face in his hands. ‘I’d rather die than be the cause of your unhappiness.’

  His hands were smooth and warm against her skin, making it tingle. They had stopped in front of the rose bushes at the far end of the garden and the air was alive with the scent of blossoms. Marie could not be sure whether it was their perfume or Pyotr’s touch that had made her suddenly dizzy. Her disorientation must have shown on her face, for Pyotr dropped his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Petya.’ Marie took both his hands in her own. Dressed in his uniform, he looked different from the bookish young man who had visited her every Sunday in St Petersburg. ‘Please tell me why you are being so distant.’

  ‘The truth is,’ he began uncertainly, ‘I came to Narva with the intention of asking for your hand in marriage. I am in … in love with you,’ he stammered. ‘But I’m afraid I will not be a worthy husband.’

  ‘No, Petya, you are wrong.’ Marie suddenly felt breathless. She looked into his eyes, desperate to assure him of her love. ‘You are so, so very wrong.’

  Pyotr pulled her tight against him and pressed his lips to hers. She moved deeper into his arms, wishing they could be joined like this forever.

  After the kiss neither could speak for a time. Holding hands, they stole glances at one another and then laughed and dropped their heads self-consciously when their eyes met.

  ‘There is something I need to tell you,’ Pyotr said finally, ‘and I’m not sure if you’re going to like it.’

  ‘Shhh.’ Marie placed a finger on his lips. ‘If you are about to confess to previous affairs, I am happy for them all to remain buried in the past.’

  ‘No, it is not that.’ He kissed her hand. ‘I cannot believe my good fortune to find someone as wonderful as you.’

  Marie smiled at the words and the modesty with which Pyotr had spoken them. ‘What is it, my darling?’ Then, struck by a new thought, she asked with alarm, ‘Did Papa refuse to give his consent?’

  Pyotr shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that either.’ He gently pulled her into his arms again. ‘Your father has given his consent on the condition that I make you fully aware of my circumstances before you accept my hand in marriage.’

  Leading her to a nearby bench, he took a deep breath, then began to tell her of his father’s gambling, his mistresses and the shame of having to sell their assets and his mother’s jewels to pay for his father’s debts.

  ‘Marie, I have my mother’s good name but little else. My grandfather, aware of my father’s weaknesses, established a trust fund that pays me seven hundred rubles a year. It is not a large sum compared to what other men can provide, but over the past few years, I’ve managed to save enough to buy myself a small parcel of land and hope to buy another after the war. In time, I am confident I can provide you with a lifestyle similar to the one you’ve been accustomed to.’

  Marie listened, kissing his face when he told of his humiliation and imagined herself sharing his dreams. After he finished speaking they continued to sit, the light slowly growing dim around them. Finally she said, ‘I love you. I will always love you. Money and land mean nothing to me as long as you continue to love me. I promise to wait for you, Petya, and you must promise to return to me.’

  Then, for the second time that sultry evening, they kissed with the intensity of lovers who, having recently declared their feelings, must again be forced apart.

  4

  The German Front, 27 August 1914

  The thick smell of tobacco greeted Alexei as he entered the windowless room. General Alexander Samsonov, the commander of the Russian Second Army, had called a meeting at the officers’ hut to discuss strategy. A large military map spread across the mahogany table marked the positions of the Russian and German armies.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Samsonov’s deep voice bounced off the bare walls, ‘we have just been informed that the Russian First Army has defeated the Germans in Gumbinnen.’ He pointed to a spot in the top right-hand corner of the map, close to the Russian border. ‘They are scurrying like rats into the surrounding forests.’

  The men let out a loud cheer.

  ‘It looks like we’ll be home before winter,’ a colonel said, twisting the end of his moustache.

  ‘We’ll send the Germans packing with their tails between their legs,’ called a voice from the back. ‘There is no way any army could match the might and gallantry of the Imperial Russian Army.’

  ‘What do you think of that, my friend?’ A boisterous major general clapped Alexei on the shoulder. ‘We’ll show those Germans a thing or two by the time we’re through with them.’

  ‘Long live, Tsar Nicholas!’ came the cry.

  Alexei said nothing. Moving closer to the map, he studied the layout of the two armies’ positions.

  Samsonov raised a hand to quieten the room. ‘Gumbinnen is a decisive victory for our country. Our regiment also needs a decisive victory to prove our gallantry.’ Around the room, heads nodded in agreement. ‘We move from here and here –’ Samsonov pointed to positions on the map ‘– towards the German army to cut off its retreat.’

  Alexei leant in. The Germans would have the advantage of fighting on their own land, he noted.

  ‘How big is the army we will be facing?’ Alexei asked.

  ‘The German army has lost a large number of men and a great deal of artillery. They will not pose a threat.’

  ‘Then our men should be given a day of rest.’

  Samsonov looked around. ‘Who said that?’

  All heads turned towards a young lieutenant with an angular face and pale blue eyes, who had risen from his seat.

  ‘Many of them have been fighting for days,’ the officer explained nervously as Samsonov’s eyes bored into him. ‘Our supply lines are stretched and the men hardly have enough bread or soup to sustain them. We need at least a day to rest the men and allow for fresh supplies to reach us.’

  ‘The men can rest after they beat the Germans,’ Samsonov said dismissively. ‘As for food, I’m told there is an adequate amount for each division.’

  The lieutenant registered the reproof and gave a clipped bow. ‘Of course, General.’

  And with that the meeting drew to a close.

  Following supper, a group of the officers gathered for a game of cards. In the thin yellow light, the lieutenant’s eyes blazed in anger. ‘It is madness to insist on sending wave after wave of men to be slaughtered,’ he declared. ‘We must pull back, regroup and draw up a new plan.’

  Alexei agreed with the young man’s objections, however his suggestion that the army retreat like cowards was unthinkable.

  ‘We’ve had numerous victories over the past few days,’ he said in a measured tone. ‘I am confident that if the cavalry has a chance to show its skills, the Germans can be pushed further back into their territory. What we need is for the infantry to make headway into enemy territory, and then the cavalry will be able to finish the job properly.’

  The lieutenant snorted. ‘With all due respect, the cavalry puts on a great show of handling horses and swordsmanship, which is all very romantic and idealistic, but I am yet to see a horse that can stop a bullet and not be killed in the process.’

  Grigory rose abruptly. ‘Sir, need I remind you that you are addressing a superior officer?’

  The lieutenant lowered his head in apology. ‘I have caused you offence,’ he said to Alexei politely. ‘It was unintentional. I merely wanted to illustrate the folly of using horses against German guns.’

  Alexei raised a hand to acknowledge the apology. ‘I assure you, we are all just as eager to defeat the Kaiser as you are. However, it is unthinkable for General Samsonov to concede at this stage, just as his old rival in the First Army has had a victor
y. To place himself in favour with the Russian people, the general needs a victory.’

  ‘But at what cost? Our men are hungry and exhausted.’

  ‘We are told our reinforcements are a day’s march away. The increase in the first line of men will help protect our flanks and allow us to press forward in the centre.’ Alexei scanned the faces to make sure all were in agreement with him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he motioned for Grigory to grab his coat, ‘it’s been a long day. I suggest we retire for the evening.’

  Lieutenant Sergei Bogoleev stepped out into the cool night air, angry with himself. Speaking out against his superiors could jeopardise his career.

  The son of a schoolteacher, Bogoleev had risen through the infantry ranks hoping to escape his humble beginnings and join the inner circle of men with power. Ambitious, he had his sights set on a great deal more than what his wealthy colleagues were willing to concede. Since volunteering, he had more than once been overlooked for promotion while less capable men from the upper classes advanced.

  Every rejection was fuel for the fire in his belly. And Bogoleev had plenty of fire to sustain him. He seethed at the arrogance of his commanders. The army had enough men and artillery to overpower the Germans yet the commanders doggedly kept to outdated strategies. Stationed safely behind the lines, Samsonov and his fellow commanders held countless meetings, sent out coded messages no one understood and argued over whose fault it was when things went badly.

  Patience, Bogoleev reminded himself. He had to remain patient and bide his time. One day, his chance would come and he would be in the position of power. One day he would gain the respect he deserved.

  Bogoleev walked quickly past grey tents lit in hues of rose and bronze by the setting sun. The soldiers resting from fighting in the trenches sat outside their tents. Everywhere he looked he saw the tense expressions of men strained to the limit. It frustrated Bogoleev to see the exhausted faces, the deadened eyes. How did Samsonov expect these men to win battles when they barely had enough energy to keep themselves upright?

  He made his way to a group of soldiers gathered around a campfire. Men carrying buckets of water filled canteens, sometimes placing a consoling hand on the shoulder of a man who had lost a brother or a close friend.

  ‘May the devil take them.’ The soldier sitting beside Bogoleev spat into the fire. He saw Bogoleev watching and apologised. ‘Forgive me, Lieutenant. I forgot myself.’

  ‘You can speak freely,’ Bogoleev assured him.

  ‘I am a simple man. I know little as to tactics of war. All I know is that all day German cannons fire at us, sending bodies flying in every direction. And yet our commanders order more men to charge against them. They bunch us together, making us an easy target for German machine guns.’ He shook his head. ‘It just seems hopeless.’

  Bogoleev nodded in agreement. His eyes moved to where the wounded lay on rows of stretchers, their uniforms, soaked in blood, stuck to their limbs. Grimy faces grimaced in pain.

  Rising to his feet, Bogoleev knew he must say something to boost the men’s spirits. ‘I understand your anguish and share your frustration,’ he began, then paused. ‘We must fight to protect our women and children. To protect Mother Russia. It is our duty to keep those tyrants away from our borders.’

  Looking at the faces around the fire, Bogoleev knew his speech was not having the desired effect; while some nodded as he spoke, most stared into the fire with fixed gazes and clenched jaws. But for the life of him he could not summon the words to inspire them. He knew that most of the men under his command faced the battlefield with fear, not gallantry.

  The next morning he woke to a thick fog. The two hundred men he commanded stood to attention, their stares hollow. Inspecting the troops it surprised him that, only a month into the war, they already resembled an army of old men.

  The Germans did not wait for the fog to lift before unleashing their first wave of fury. The Russian guns responded, filling the air with silver trails of smoke. Shells whistled, screamed and burst, drowning out the shouting.

  As Bogoleev entered the battle, he thought little of heroism. He simply prayed he would survive the fighting long enough to see the end of war.

  5

  Tannenberg, 28 August 1914

  Alexei watched the battle unfolding through his binoculars. The shadowy figures of Russian soldiers ran across cratered earth only to be mown down by machine-gun fire that came from the heavily wooded terrain.

  The horses, unable to move through the crush of bodies and fallen trees, stamped and reared. A group of cavalrymen with their sabres drawn charged from the left. A German machine gun cut down three. One man, his foot still in his horse’s stirrup, was dragged along the ground for several hundred metres before he fell, hit by shrapnel.

  Alexei’s horse neighed and shook its head. Leaning forward in the saddle, Alexei patted its neck.

  After an hour of continuous bombardments, an uneasy silence settled over the battlefield. Guns fell quiet, allowing the breeze to disperse the mix of smoke and dust.

  At the sound of approaching hooves, Alexei turned to find Grigory galloping towards him.

  ‘Any news?’ The words had barely left Alexei’s lips when he heard shouts from the men: ‘It’s an aeroplane!’

  The guttural rumble of the engine was faint but unmistakable.

  ‘Your Excellency, look there, above the treeline.’

  Alexei followed Grigory’s finger to the dark shape of a German reconnaissance plane.

  ‘Men, get the guns!’ he shouted. ‘Where are our gunners? Why is no one firing at the bastard?’ Unlatching his rifle, he fired twice at the black shape.

  Men ran every which way. Some, taking their cue from Alexei, dropped to one knee and fired their rifles. Undeterred, the German plane circled the trenches.

  ‘Shoot them down!’

  Finally, two gunners towed a Russian Pulemyot Maxima gun into position. Precious time was wasted as men rushed to secure the cart and load the ammunition.

  Dismounting, Alexei hastened to join the group.

  ‘Your Excellency?’

  ‘Not now, Grigory.’ He reached the group in a few long strides. ‘You there,’ he called to the gunners, ‘what’s taking you so long?’

  ‘It’s overheated. It hasn’t had time to cool, Excellency.’

  Alexei looked anxiously at the sky. The plane made another turn further into their territory. Sporadic gunfire followed it wherever it went.

  ‘You’re a fool, Leshev,’ a voice called out. ‘You are lazy. You have not been looking after your gun. That’s why it keeps overheating.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, you viper!’ Leshev reached for his knife. ‘Or I’ll cut it off.’

  ‘Enough!’ Alexei yelled. ‘How long before it is ready to be used?’

  Leshev looked to the other gunner, who nodded. ‘It should be cool enough to use now.’

  ‘You’re too late, Leshev. Look, the plane is leaving.’

  Shading his eyes against the sun, Alexei saw the plane fly towards the horizon.

  ‘You imbecile!’ a sub-lieutenant shouted at Leshev. ‘Even with these trees our enemies probably now know our position.’ He turned to Alexei. ‘With Your Excellency’s permission, I will personally see to it that the gunner is punished for his incompetence.’

  ‘Please, it’s not my fault,’ Leshev protested. ‘Your Excellency saw for himself the gun was overheated.’

  ‘Keep your silence, you –’

  ‘Leave him,’ Alexei interrupted.

  ‘But, Excellency, this gunner has clearly neglected to take proper care of his equipment. We need to make an example of him.’

  Alexei shook his head. ‘You know as well as any man that these guns regularly overheat. I have personally witnessed men urinating over the guns in the middle of battle to keep them cool.’

  A ripple of laughter rose from the crowd.

  ‘Your Excellency, I must object.’

  ‘To what? Guns overheating or men urinating ove
r them?’

  There was more laughter from the crowd. The sub-lieutenant’s face turned beet red.

  ‘This is highly unorthodox. The gunner must be punished.’

  ‘You there.’ Alexei pointed to a corporal.

  The man stepped forward. ‘Yes, Excellency?’

  ‘Check the gun to see if it’s well maintained.’

  In the distance, German gunners woke from their temporary slumber to renew their assault.

  The sub-lieutenant seethed beside Alexei as the corporal inspected the gun, then said, ‘Your Excellency, the gun is well maintained.’

  Alexei turned to the sub-lieutenant. ‘It appears that you may have made an error of judgment.’

  Barely able to contain his rage, the sub-lieutenant clicked his heels and gave Alexei a stiff salute. Holding a firm grip over his sword, he did an about-face and shouldered his way through the crowd.

  The men dispersed, falling silently into ranks to prepare for the next wave of battle. As they did, Alexei recognised the young lieutenant from the previous evening. What was his name? Bogoleev? He had a bemused look on his face. Their eyes met and held for a moment. Then, smiling, Bogoleev straightened his shoulders and saluted.

  Tannenberg, 29 August

  ‘The Second Army is being attacked on both flanks.’ Grigory handed Alexei an envelope. ‘This telegram came directly from HQ.’

  Mounted on his horse, Alexei stood at the head of his company of men. He ripped open the envelope. His brows knitted over the coded words.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘I believe it’s a coded message from General Samsonov.’

  ‘It is still coded,’ Alexei said, frustrated. ‘How am I supposed to know in which direction my men are to attack?’

  ‘I’m afraid the telex operator is not familiar with this coding, sir.’