The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  To his home.

  To his family.

  To Marina.

  12

  Petrograd, October 1914

  Entering his study after breakfast, Alexei rang the bell for Grigory to bring him the day’s correspondence.

  ‘Good morning, Your Excellency,’ Grigory greeted him upon entering the room.

  ‘Good morning. What do you have for me today?’

  ‘The regular invitations to suppers and card games, and one from the countess to join her in her box at the theatre.’ Grigory handed Alexei the pile of envelopes. ‘There is also a telegram from the war ministry,’ he added, pointing to a large envelope. ‘It was delivered to the door a few minutes ago.’

  Ripping the seal, Alexei read the contents.

  ‘I’m being promoted to the rank of major general,’ he told his aide. ‘I will be commanding a regiment at the Austro-Hungarian Front.’

  ‘Congratulations, Your Excellency,’ said Grigory. ‘What a great honour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Alexei said. For a moment, he wondered if Marie would be impressed by his promotion. He stole a glance at his reflection in the glass cabinet and tried to imagine himself through her eyes, dressed in his uniform, the medals across his chest. He sat a little straighter, pushing back his shoulders. What was it about her that preoccupied him so? She had smiled at him. A smile that had travelled all the way to her warm grey eyes and, through them, straight to his heart.

  Looking at the telegram again, he cast it on top of his papers. Part of him was glad to be leaving Petrograd. He was tired of the endless pastimes; the frivolous card games, suppers and visits to the theatre. What he wanted was to return to his regiment, to be among soldiers, where he belonged. He needed to be back at the front; back fighting for his motherland.

  Emily’s physician, a bespectacled man of around sixty, bent over Alexei’s leg to examine the wound. His young assistant stood behind him holding the medical bag with an impassive face.

  ‘To your good health, sir, your leg is healing well.’ The doctor straightened and smiled, revealing several gold teeth. ‘You will be back on your horse in no time. Now let’s take a look at your shoulder.’ He shuffled around to the other side of the bed.

  Sitting poised and stiff on a chair at the end of the bed, Emily was watching the examination closely, too eager, in Alexei’s opinion, to jump in with a comment or to answer the doctor’s queries regarding his health.

  ‘Has he been exercising?’ the doctor asked her.

  ‘He walks every day. I tell him he shouldn’t exert himself too much but he doesn’t listen to me.’

  ‘To your good health, Madame.’ The doctor chuckled. ‘As far back as Adam and Eve, men and women have never listened to one another. What do you think, Ivan?’

  The young assistant snapped to attention. ‘I … I’m afraid I’ve had too little experience in this field to offer an opinion,’ he stammered.

  The old doctor chuckled again. ‘To your good health, young man. There will come a time when you look back on your early days of inexperience with a great deal of nostalgic affection.’

  Alexei rolled his eyes and saw Emily give him a sharp look.

  The doctor manipulated Alexei’s arm, observing his reaction with every movement. Alexei gritted his teeth and pretended to feel no pain, but the doctor wasn’t fooled.

  ‘I’m afraid your shoulder is not doing quite as well as your leg, Excellency.’

  ‘Both wounds are healing well,’ Alexei insisted, rising from the bed and pulling his shirt over his shoulder. ‘I plan to rejoin my regiment in the next few weeks.’

  ‘Please tell him he will not pass the medical,’ Emily begged of the physician.

  ‘My dear wife, your concern is very touching.’ Alexei reached for Emily’s hand. ‘But I’m afraid our motherland needs me and it’s my duty as a commander to return to the front.’

  ‘To your good health, Major General.’ The doctor moved towards the door, followed by his assistant. ‘In my opinion, if not left to heal properly, your shoulder will continue to ail you for quite some time. Having said that, we are at war and our motherland needs every one of her brave sons to help protect her borders.’

  Emily went to see the two men out then returned to Alexei’s bedroom. ‘I would like a private word with my husband,’ she told Grigory.

  ‘Of course, Madame.’ Grigory gave a low bow and left the room.

  When the door had closed behind him she turned to Alexei.

  ‘I don’t think you should be in such a hurry to return to the front.’

  Alexei buttoned his shirt, keeping his back to his wife. He was in no mood for a scene. ‘I am a professional soldier. You knew that when you married me.’

  ‘Have you grown tired of me?’ She asked in a sudden burst. ‘Is that why you are so eager to leave?’

  Alexei let out an exasperated breath. ‘I have a responsibility to my men.’

  ‘Look at me.’

  Alexei stood and turned abruptly to face her. The sudden movement sent a stabbing pain through his leg. He winced and, clutching his thigh, dropped to the bed.

  ‘See?’ Emily cried. ‘You are still not fit enough.’ She began to sob. ‘Why are you so eager to leave?’

  Alexei considered going to her and gathering her in his arms, to comfort her. Lifting himself, he wavered for a moment, undecided whether he should go to Emily, but in the end decided to leave the room without offering a consolatory word.

  Three weeks later, Alexei sat behind his large desk in the library. His leg was almost completely healed and his shoulder, while still painful, was moving more easily. He was ready to take up his new commission, he decided. He had already dictated letters to this effect and they had been sent to the relevant authorities. The final two letters he planned to write in his own hand.

  My dearest Countess,

  I regret I will be leaving immediately to join my regiment in Poland. During our close friendship, I have admired your charm and beauty. I shall forever look back on our time together with great fondness.

  I remain your most humble servant.

  Alexei

  The note, brief and formal, would leave no doubt in Natalya’s mind that the affair was over. Since her visit to the hospital, they had met only twice, and each time Alexei had made excuses to leave early. The high spirits he once found so alluring had grown tiresome. Her charm and beauty, celebrated by all Petrograd society, seemed somehow diminished in his eyes. He reasoned the affair had simply run its course; that the countess, bored by their routines, would soon have sought the attentions of a new admirer. In his heart, however, Alexei knew the truth. A shift had occurred in him. Although not certain as to the implications, he was sure of its source: Marie.

  He recalled her face at the moment before she fainted. She had uttered a name with such longing, such sadness, Alexei had felt his own heart pierced.

  That was the last time he had seen her. A few days after he was discharged, he visited the hospital in the hope of seeing her, only to learn she had returned to Narva to be with her family.

  ‘It was her fiancé,’ the nurse behind the desk informed him. ‘He’s been listed as missing, presumed dead.’

  Taking a fresh piece of paper, Alexei wrote his second letter.

  Dearest Marie,

  I cannot begin to describe the effect of seeing you distraught. It pains me deeply to know you are suffering. How I wish I could comfort you, could fold you in my arms and soothe away your cares, but I know this is an impossible dream, the mere infatuations of a foolish man. You were wise to reject my attentions. I am far too old for you. And you are in love with another man. How I wish I was ten years younger. I would have fought to win your affections.

  Alas, it is not to be. I am leaving for the front to take immediate command of a new regiment. If the Lord sees fit that we should never meet again, I want you to know that you have made a great impression upon my soul.

  A.

  He stared absently out th
e window, wondering how Marie was faring. In his imagination, he saw himself visiting the hospital on leave, perhaps surprising her with a large bouquet of flowers. He imagined them dining at the Donon – not in the private rooms, but out in the main hall where all of Petrograd could see them.

  Alexei sighed. It was all a dream, a foolish, hopeless dream. For a moment, he considered tearing up his letter to Marie. Changing his mind, he reached for the brass bell and rang it.

  ‘See to it these letters are delivered to the post office,’ he told his butler. ‘And have Grigory prepare my trunks. I wish to leave for the front tomorrow morning.’

  13

  Russian Headquarters, Warsaw, December 1914

  ‘Post.’

  A dozen pairs of eyes looked up expectantly. Surrounded by the horrors of war, the men’s salvation came from the sharing of a bottle, a game of cards and the letters that arrived by post.

  ‘Lieutenant Kulbas.’

  Nikolai’s chair scraped loudly against the bare floor. He walked quickly to the soldier, his eyes fixed on the bundle of letters held out to him.

  Returning to his desk, Nikolai sifted through the envelopes. Three were from Marie, two from his father and one from Valentin. Anxious for news from home, he ripped open one of Marie’s letters and read it quickly. It was dated three months ago. In it, his sister wrote about her volunteering and the difficulty of juggling study and work. He frowned. She still had no news of Pyotr.

  ‘Good news from home?’

  Nikolai lifted his eyes and saw Ivanov, who tapped an envelope against his fingers. ‘I got one too.’ He was beaming. ‘It’s from my wife.’

  ‘What does she say?’ Nikolai asked.

  ‘I have not read it yet.’ The Cossack folded the envelope and put it in his pocket, giving it a light pat. ‘I’m saving it for later.’

  A warrant officer dropped a pile of folders on Nikolai’s desk with a thump. He gave Ivanov a sharp look. ‘Don’t you have some work to do?’

  Ivanov stepped back and saluted, pushing out his chest in an exaggerated manner. ‘Yes, Your Excellency. On my way.’ Doing an about-face, Ivanov marched back to his desk with stiff legs.

  Around the room, men stifled their laughter. Frowning, the officer left, banging the door behind him.

  Nikolai put Marie’s letter away with the rest in his drawer and turned his attention to the files.

  The hours till the end of his shift seemed interminable. It was dusk when at last he rushed to the barracks, impatient to read his letters. Ignoring the men playing cards in the corner, he flung himself onto his bunk. Pressing each letter to his nose, he inhaled deeply, imagining he could detect a faint scent from home. After rereading Marie’s letter, he opened one from his father. A sharp pain ripped through him upon learning that several of his friends had been killed. Sitting up, he leant closer to the light and read the sad words a second time. Crushing the paper against his chest, he fell back on his mattress with a cry.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’ Ivanov’s voice was full of concern.

  ‘My friends …’ Nikolai held out the letter.

  Ivanov gently prised it from Nikolai’s fingers and read it. Crossing himself, he handed it back. ‘May they rest in peace,’ he said simply.

  Nikolai looked up. ‘Peace, you say? Yes, perhaps you are right. Perhaps the peace of death is preferable to the hell of the living.’

  Picking up his letters, Nikolai pushed past Ivanov and ran out of the barracks. The icy air greeted him with a sharp slap across his body. Small fires were burning in front of tents, with men huddled around them for warmth.

  He headed towards the closest one, and the soldiers gathered around shuffled aside to make room for him.

  He ripped open the remaining letters and read them, each one adding to his grief. The last he read was one of Marie’s, dated just two and a half months earlier. Her handwriting was scratchy and hurried, as if the letter had been written without her usual care.

  My dearest Kolya,

  I have received the most awful news from Princess Sonya: Pyotr has been declared missing in action, presumed dead.

  Please, my darling Kolya, tell me you know where Pyotr is. Tell me he is injured and being looked after until he is well enough to be transported to one of our hospitals. Tell me that you will find him and bring him home.

  Forever yours,

  M.

  A gust of icy air caused him to shiver and he moved closer to the flames. A pair of large hands placed Nikolai’s coat over his shoulders. He did not need to lift his head to know the hands belonged to Ivanov. Wordlessly, he shifted to make room for the Cossack.

  The two men sat side by side in silence. Someone added another log to the fire and the flames stretched around it.

  ‘I have become a father for the third time,’ Ivanov said after a while. ‘My wife wrote to tell me I have my first son. She named him Leo Leonovich.’

  Pulling out his cigarette case, Nikolai offered one to Ivanov. Smoothing the cigarette between his fingers, Ivanov lit it, inhaling the smoke into his lungs.

  Nikolai knew he should congratulate Ivanov, find some vodka and toast his friend, but his throat was tight and he could not speak. I have failed my sister, he thought. I should never have left Pyotr. Dropping his head to his chest, Nikolai covered his face with his hands and wept.

  14

  Petrograd, December 1914

  Marie stared at the wall, rubbing the small gold cross between her thumb and index finger. On her table was the letter from Nikolai, sitting where she had left it. From time to time, she picked it up, read the words then returned it to the same spot. Nikolai described how he had last seen Pyotr.

  Pyotr and the woman I left him with have both disappeared without a trace. At times I question myself, think I may have the wrong village. Yet no matter which village I go to or who I ask, I am always met with the same shrug of the shoulder and the same blank stare.

  Since receiving Nikolai’s letter, Marie had no will to leave her bed. She spent whole days and most of the night lying on her side staring dry-eyed at the shadows passing on the wall.

  I am in hell, she thought. And I’m being punished for my sins. For she had sinned, she knew, in mind if not in body. And still one name resonated within her, together with a mixture of shame, joy and regret.

  Alexei.

  His attentions had filled her with rapture and longing, had touched a part of her she had thought was Pyotr’s alone. She had received Alexei’s letter upon her return to Petrograd and her body had flushed with pleasure at reading his words. Tormented by guilt, Marie couldn’t help but feel God was punishing her for her weakness. Pyotr’s fate was her fault.

  There was a gentle knock on the door, and Marie heard it open.

  ‘Masha?’ It was Anna. ‘I’ve made tea.’

  Marie, her gaze still fixed on the wall, did not turn.

  ‘Please, Marie. You haven’t had anything to eat or drink for two days.’

  Anna’s dress rustled as she moved to the bed. Marie heard the clink of the tray and smelt the strong brewed tea.

  ‘Marie?’ Anna’s voice faltered. ‘Marie, please, look at me.’

  Marie felt Anna’s weight sink onto the mattress and her soft hand touch her shoulder. Unable to speak, she simply shook her head and buried it deeper into the pillow.

  ‘Darling Masha.’ Anna’s fingers stroked Marie’s tangled locks. ‘I wish I could take away your pain.’

  ‘You can’t.’ Marie’s voice, muffled by the pillow, was strained. ‘No one can.’

  ‘You must keep going, we all must … for Nikolai’s and Pyotr’s sakes.’

  At the mention of Pyotr, Marie’s body shuddered as if hit by a blow. She twisted around to face Anna.

  ‘I know you are worried about Pyotr,’ Anna continued, pouring the tea into a tall crystal estekan. ‘But no one knows for sure what has happened to him. He could still be safe.’ Anna held out the delicate glass on a saucer.


  ‘Why has he not written?’ Marie demanded, ignoring the proffered tea. ‘Why does no one know where he is?’ She could hear her voice growing hysterical.

  ‘Please have some tea,’ Anna urged. ‘It will help to calm you.’

  Marie did not want the tea. She did not want to be calmed. She wanted to scream and kick and howl at the unfairness of it all. Shutting her eyes tight, she let out a scream so shrill with despair and so loud that it burnt the back of her throat. She heard a crash as Anna dropped the estekan, shattering the glass. Pounding the mattress with her fists, Marie screamed and screamed until she had no more breath left.

  ‘Have mercy on my soul, dear Lord,’ she croaked in a hoarse whisper. ‘Let Pyotr live.’

  15

  East Prussia, March 1915

  The roads were choked with throngs of people and wagons piled high with possessions. Every so often, the crowds were forced to move aside to allow trucks and buses to rush reserves to the front.

  Perched on a wagon, a silent child dressed in an oversized jacket sat close to a young woman. His fingers, pink from the cold, were clasped in his lap to stop them from shaking. The woman wore a threadbare coat, patched in several places. Earlier in the day, she had traded her last two apples for a blanket she now had draped over her head and shoulders. In the back of the wagon, also wrapped in a blanket, a third passenger lay hidden among the woman’s few possessions, moaning gently.

  When the army had retreated from the burnt-out village, the woman and boy had slipped away too, carrying the wounded soldier between them in a rug. But the boy was too small to carry such a heavy weight for any distance and the woman, in despair, had looked around for help.

  ‘Please,’ she begged of the men rushing past. ‘Help us.’ She grabbed at their sleeves but they brushed her hand off without even looking at her. Feeling a tug at her skirt she glanced down to see the boy pointing at a wheelbarrow half hidden under the rubble of a fallen wall. ‘Good boy!’ She ran to it and dug through the debris to free it. Grabbing the handles, she wheeled it back to where the boy knelt beside the soldier.