The Russian Tapestry
Page 8
Beside him, Marie stiffened. ‘I will let the doctor know I have changed your bandages, Excellency.’ And she turned away from his bed without meeting his eyes.
‘You have wasted little time in charming the nurses,’ Natalya said once Marie had gone.
‘You are mistaken, Natalya,’ he said impatiently, suddenly wishing to be rid of her.
Snatching up her stole, she fastened it around her shoulders. ‘I am not blind, Alyosha.’ She picked up her silk bag and made to leave. ‘Any fool can see you are very much taken by her.’
Feeling mortified, Marie walked quickly to the end of the hall, and from there escaped into the garden. Once outside, she drew in large gulps of air. Finding a secluded bench, she sat down. Clutching the small cross she wore around her neck, she attempted to calm herself.
It was her fault, of course. She should have known better. Having felt an initial attraction, she should have extinguished it. Instead, she had behaved like a foolish schoolgirl, smiling openly into his face.
When he leant into her, a furnace had flared in the pit of her stomach, cutting the air in her lungs.
Closing her eyes, she let out a slow, deliberate breath. He would be leaving tomorrow, she thought, and she would forget her silly behaviour. After all, she was an engaged woman, she chastised herself.
‘Marie.’
She looked up and seeing the colonel, immediately straightened in her seat.
‘I’m sorry if I upset you,’ he said.
She felt his eyes on her, heard the pleading in his voice, but still didn’t dare to return his look.
‘I behaved inappropriately. Forgive me. May I join you?’
She shifted, making room for him to sit beside her. They sat side by side for a long while, neither one speaking.
He broke the silence. ‘I understand my action was rash and unexpected.’
She opened her mouth to interrupt him but he stopped her. ‘Please, let me continue. You have every right to feel insulted. I …’ he faltered, ‘I meant no dishonour.’
She stared out into the distance.
‘I wish I could take back my actions,’ he continued. ‘I know you are engaged.’
‘And you are a married man,’ she snapped, putting emphasis on the word married.
‘Yes, of course.’ His chin dropped to his chest. ‘Will you forgive me?’
She turned to face him. ‘What is it exactly you want from me?’
He hesitated. ‘I’ve never met a woman like you. I think I’m …’
‘No, please stop.’ She held out a hand. ‘I don’t think I want to know.’
He was about to speak again when a voice called, ‘Marie!’ It was Anna, waving an envelope.
Marie jumped to her feet as Anna ran towards her.
‘What is it, Anna? What’s happened?’
Anna was breathing hard. ‘I came as soon as this arrived.’ She handed Marie the envelope. ‘It’s from Pyotr’s mother.’
Marie tore open the letter. ‘Maybe they’ve received news from the front.’
But as she scanned the letter, Marie felt her body grow cold. ‘It’s Pyotr! He’s … he’s …’ Suddenly the trees around her began to spin. She put out a hand to steady herself but the strength in her had weakened. Her vision went blank at the same time as her body collapsed to the ground.
The train jolted and knocked, and every once in a while let out a long mournful whistle. Slumped against the window, Marie stared at the fields. Outside, women in colourful scarves toiled on small plots and carried water from the river. Children ran barefoot alongside the train. The only thing missing from the picturesque setting was the absence of men working beside the women.
Marie unfolded the letter from Princess Sonya which she held in her hand and read it again, as if somehow this time the words would carry a different meaning. But every time it was the same: Pyotr was missing, presumed dead.
Valentin met Marie and Anna at the station. Pale and tall with a dusting of hair above his lip, he no longer resembled the little boy who used to follow his big sister everywhere.
Marie embraced him, holding him tight against her. When they pulled apart, her eyes were moist.
‘You are growing into such a handsome young man,’ she said, smiling through her tears.
Valentin blushed, but didn’t respond. When they reached their carriage, he helped first Marie then Anna into the cab. He made sure the porter had secured the trunks at the back and, after tipping him, climbed in too.
‘How’s Mama?’ Marie asked.
‘She’s devastated. So many of our friends’ sons who went off to war have been killed or are missing. We have lost many, many men.’ Valentin’s voice was grave. ‘Any news of Pyotr?’
Marie bit down on her lips and handed him the letter from Princess Sonya. ‘There’s been no further news.’
They passed the rest of the ride in silence.
Marie’s parents met her at the top of the front steps. She flew into her mother’s embrace, burying her face in the crook of Madame Kulbas’s neck.
‘Child, the Lord has His ways of testing our faith. Be strong.’ She kissed Marie’s face. ‘You must be tired from the trip. Go upstairs. I’ve had Zoya prepare your room.’
The footman carried Marie’s trunk to her room, where Anna started to unpack the clothes.
‘I wonder if you can do that later, Anna?’ Marie suggested. ‘I’d like to lie down for a while.’
Once Anna had left, Marie went to her trunk. Between folds of silk dresses and woollen shawls, she found the small diary which had been returned by the army along with Pyotr’s other possessions. Before leaving for Narva, Marie had visited her fiancé’s mother. The princess had pressed the diary into Marie’s hands.
‘He wrote about you.’
Marie ran her fingers along the smooth leather cover. Some of the pages, singed at the corners, fell apart at her touch. Opening it to the first entry, she read of weekend hunting parties in the country and picnics by the lake. He wrote candidly of his shame at having to borrow money to satisfy his father’s creditors and gambling losses.
He wrote, too, of meeting Marie, the instant attraction he had felt and, later, his growing love for her. He shared her excitement at the announcement of their engagement and dreamt of marrying her after the war and raising a family.
Later, he had written of his experiences at the front, his growing dissatisfaction with the endless bloodshed. In the corner of his last entry, there was a smudged print of Pyotr’s left thumb, where he had pressed the page to keep it from closing. Marie traced the edges of the print with her own thumb. A tear rolled down her face and landed on the page, mixing with the ink.
The small thrill of victory at downing an enemy soldier is followed immediately by the realisation that I have taken a man’s life. We live and breathe alongside corpses. Indifferent to death, we step over the fallen to get to their guns, wiping the blood-speckled rifles against our breeches.
There is nothing magnificent or gallant in war. Everyone around me wears the same face of defeat I feel in my heart. I do not look into my brothers’ eyes for the fear I might find the souls behind them already dead.
I feel no pain other than the pain of being away from Marie.
I have no fear other than the fear of never seeing her sweet face again.
I have no desire other than to spend a single moment with my arms wrapped around her.
Dear Lord, another order has come to retreat. I am to leave immediately. Will there ever be an end to this madness?
There were no more entries. Hidden between the pages, she found a letter addressed to her, but never sent. Unfolding it with trembling fingers, she read the few short lines.
My beloved heart,
As I write, an eerie silence descends over the fields after the day’s battle. I watch a flock of birds fly in a V-shaped formation across a blood red sky. And I can’t help but feel jealous of their freedom to fly in any direction they choose. If I had that freedom, I wou
ld not waste it on exploring faraway places. Instead, I would fly straight to you. Upon reaching you, I would perch on your balcony and sing tirelessly until you finally came to me.
Together again, we would never part. I beg you to wait for me.
Forever yours,
Petya
How the diary and the letter survived the fire, no one could explain. It seemed someone hoping to find food had pulled Pyotr’s pack out of the rubble and among the charred blankets and tins of food inside had came across the diary. She wondered if they had looked through the pages, read his entries and then pitied him enough to hand the diary to authorities. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for this small act, this kindness that returned part of Pyotr to her.
The following Sunday, Marie joined her family at a special service held at the Lutheran church at Narva. Sitting in the pews, she looked at the familiar walls she had known ever since she was a little girl. A pair of stained-glass windows and a simple painting of mother and son, their faces lit by a halo of light, were the sole adornments in the otherwise austere stone church. The Lutheran pastor, standing before the congregation, reminded the patrons of the necessity of sacrifice during the war.
‘O God, listen to my prayer,’ the pastor read from the Book of Psalms. ‘From the ends of the earth I call to you, I call as my heart grows faint.’
Pressure built in Marie’s heart as she listened to the words. Had God forsaken her, deserted her in her hour of need? Why did He not answer her prayers and send Pyotr home?
‘Lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe. I long to dwell in your tent forever and take refuge in the shelter of your wings.’
Following the reading, the pastor led the congregation in prayer for the departed. He then asked God for the safe return of those still fighting.
At the conclusion of the service, the Kulbas family stood with the pastor outside the church, exchanging condolences with other families who had lost loved ones.
‘Thank you for including Pyotr in your prayers,’ Marie said, her voice hoarse from crying.
Patting Marie’s hand, the pastor’s smile was sad. ‘Put your faith in the Lord, my child. At such difficult times, our faith in God is the only anchor we have to hold on to.’
11
East Prussia, October 1914
At five in the morning, it was still dark. Nikolai stood up and stretched. The muscles in his back and shoulders ached from the heavy pack he carried. Despite his exhaustion, he had not slept well. He decided to step outside in search of a warm fire.
Millions of stars studded the sky. Not far from him, the last embers of an old campfire glowed red. Men gathering firewood fed broken branches to the dying flames. As the fire gathered momentum and its warmth reached them, the men relaxed and started to talk among themselves.
Seeing Nikolai approach, the enlisted men stood and saluted.
‘At ease.’
The soldiers returned to their seats, but they were clearly made wary by the presence of an officer among them.
Pulling out his silver case, Nikolai removed a cigarette. Striking a match, he inhaled deeply then exhaled, the plumes of smoke dissolving into the darkness. Sensing the watchful eyes of the other men on him, he offered his cigarettes to those sitting around him.
‘Take one,’ he urged when they shook their heads. ‘We are all brothers here.’
‘It’s not right for us to be taking an officer’s cigarettes,’ a heavyset Cossack replied.
‘But I insist.’ Nikolai still held out his open case. For a long moment no one moved, then the Cossack stood and, stepping forward, took one.
Lighting the cigarette with a stick from the fire, he nodded at Nikolai.
‘May I speak freely, Your Honour?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘You don’t act like the other officers. Most of them –’ the Cossack motioned with his chin towards the officers’ hut ‘– don’t even look at us.’
Secretly pleased by the compliment, Nikolai shrugged. ‘I’m aware how many of my class view the working classes,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the fire. ‘The Bible, however, teaches us differently.’ Lifting his eyes, he looked directly at the Cossack. ‘It tells us we are all born equal before God.’
The Cossack held Nikolai’s gaze, a smile lifting his lips.
Around them, the light changed from black to steely grey and the rounded silhouettes of the surrounding hills came into view. A snowflake twirled and landed on Nikolai’s jacket, melting quickly. Soon large flakes were falling steadily and around the campfire, men blew into their hands and moved closer to the flames. Finishing his cigarette, Nikolai threw the butt into the fire.
‘Lieutenant Kulbas.’
Hearing his name, Nikolai snapped to attention. He turned to see the captain, accompanied by a regimental clerk, walking towards him. The men saluted.
‘The treasury needs someone who’s versed in European languages. How many languages can you speak besides Russian?’
‘I am fluent in French, Estonian, Latvian and German, sir,’ Nikolai replied.
The captain looked at the treasury clerk, who nodded.
‘That will do. Fetch your belongings and follow me,’ the captain ordered.
‘Where am I going?’
‘You’ll be leaving for the military headquarters north of Warsaw. There is a station twelve kilometres from here. A train will take you to the fortress.’
Nikolai could hardly believe his ears. A clerical position would not only save him from the front but might also enable him to find out the whereabouts of Pyotr. He saluted his senior officer, resisting the temptation to thank him profusely.
The captain turned to the other men gathered around the campfire. ‘Who among you can read and write?’
Several heads turned to the Cossack.
‘I can, Your Honour.’
The captain regarded the Cossack with suspicion. ‘How many years of schooling?’
‘Six, Your Honour. My father insisted all us children should learn our letters so we could read to him from the Bible.’
‘Grab your pack,’ the captain instructed. ‘We’ll leave in an hour.’
Waiting in line, Nikolai stamped his feet to keep warm. Low clouds continued to shake out their load of snow. Aside from Nikolai and the Cossack, the other men were older soldiers, legs slightly bowed from the weight of their packs. The regimental clerk checked the list he had on his clipboard then, satisfied, led the party on their march away from the front. The snow fell gently, dusting the fur on their papakhi hats with white flakes. If seen from a distance, Nikolai thought, the group might have been mistaken for old men out for a walk in the woods.
‘What great luck to be selected for clerical duties.’ The Cossack smiled broadly.
Nikolai nodded, pulling his fur hat lower against the cold.
‘Do you think they’ll have some kasha for us?’ The man’s dark eyes glinted in the thin daylight.
‘I hope so,’ Nikolai said.
‘I’ve not had anything but dry biscuits and muddy tea for weeks. I could do with a hot meal.’
Nikolai nodded. He felt guilty that his income, supplemented by what his parents sent him, allowed him to buy food from the locals. He had seen other soldiers with little or no money raid villagers’ homes, demanding food at the point of their bayonets.
‘Leo Nicholaevich Ivanov.’ The Cossack held out a large pink hand.
‘Nikolai Hermanovich Kulbas.’ They shook and fell into step.
A man ahead of them started singing an old folk song that recalled long Russian winters. Slowly other men joined in, their steps moving in time with the tune.
Coachman do not whip the horses.
It was all just lies and deceit …
Farewell, and dreams and peace.
And the pain did not close the wounds,
Will remain forever with me.
Coachman, do not whip the horses.
Ivanov glanced sideways at the lieutenant walking just ahead of him. Not big in stature, he carried his pack over slightly rounded shoulders, his frame struggling under its weight.
Ivanov scoffed. Typical officer, he thought. He’s probably never known a hard day’s work in his life. And yet this one seemed different, he admitted. At first he had been suspicious when the lieutenant had joined them by the fire. And when he said We are all brothers here, Ivanov had to restrain himself from laughing aloud. Brothers! Bah!
No other officer would express such a sentiment. They treated the men like cattle. But this lieutenant – what did he say his name was? Nikolai Kulbas – he seemed genuine. His eyes had held no mockery when he declared that they were all equal before God. He had meant what he had said.
Ivanov regarded Nikolai more closely. It seemed to him the rounded shoulders were weighed down by something more than the weight of his pack. Oh well, he thought. What did it matter? Whatever was troubling the lieutenant, it was not his concern. The important thing was that he was being transferred behind the lines. Away from the trenches and the relentless German shelling. It was obvious, despite all the promises, that the war would not end soon. The Russian army was not winning and Ivanov must do everything in his power to save himself.
For Marina.
He had been back once since joining. Meeting him at the station, Marina had looked radiant, as if lit by an internal flame. Seven months’ pregnant, her stomach stood out like a small mountain. When she had first told him she was pregnant, his immediate thoughts were that this time it would be a boy. What he would give to be holding her now, to nuzzle his face into her hair and inhale her scent.
‘Oh, Marina,’ he whispered into the icy air. ‘I will do anything to be back with you.’
At that moment, Ivanov knew with absolute certainty that he would stop at nothing to return.