The Russian Tapestry

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The Russian Tapestry Page 11

by Banafsheh Serov


  ‘It’s the most horrendous situation. With the thawing of the ice, the whole place has turned into a marshland. Our boots sink right up to our knees. It is almost impossible to transport heavy artillery as everything gets bogged.’ He took a sip of his wine. Everyone waited for him to continue. ‘Men are just as likely to leave the front because of trench foot or typhus as they are due to a bullet or shrapnel wound.’

  Marie had seen the effects of trench foot at the hospital. Doctors regularly amputated soldiers’ black, gangrenous toes, throwing them in buckets placed beside surgery beds.

  ‘With the Germans transporting troops from the western front to the east,’ a diplomat with a bushy moustache added, ‘Russia faces a dire situation unless we quickly get more supplies to the front.’

  ‘I’ve heard the Tsar is planning on replacing his uncle as the Supreme Commander,’ Karsavina said.

  ‘Why in the heavens would he do that?’ the grand duchess said irritably.

  Karsavina leant forward. ‘Apparently the Tsarina is not pleased with the grand duke. Rumour has it that the priest of hers, Rasputin, has been advising her as to the course the Emperor needs to take to win the war.’

  A murmur rippled among the guests as they absorbed this new piece of gossip.

  ‘Surely even the Empress would not go so far as to allow that … holy man of hers to dictate military decisions,’ the grand duchess said, her tone horrified.

  Before anyone could respond, Darya rang a bell at her elbow and the dinner plates were replaced with crystal goblets of brandied dried fruits. The mood at the table changed at the arrival of this favourite dessert and the conversation turned to theatre and ballet.

  Using the pretext of early classes, Marie excused herself before coffee was served.

  ‘Remember what I said about coming down to Warsaw station,’ the grand duchess reminded her. ‘You are exactly the type of girl we need.’

  As Marie approached her room the door swung open. Anna stood shivering in her nightgown, her hair braided loosely for bed.

  ‘Anna, what is it?’ Marie asked. Her gaze fell to the yellow envelope Anna clutched in her hand and she felt a tremor of apprehension at the sight of the telegram.

  Anna handed the envelope to Marie. ‘It’s from the front.’

  Marie’s knees were weak as she tore open the envelope and scanned its contents.

  ‘It’s Nikolai.’ She covered her mouth to prevent the laugh from becoming a sob. ‘He’s coming home on leave.’

  17

  Galicia, Poland, May 1915

  Alexei blinked in the gaslight and looked around at the unfamiliar dugout. Still dressed in his breeches, he seemed to have spent the night on a thin mattress with no sheets.

  He wondered how he had ended up here rather than in his own bed in the officers’ quarters. Swinging his legs off the cot, he tried to sit up, but immediately his head swam and he fell back on the bed. Rolling over, he closed his eyes and waited for the nausea to pass.

  With the war at a stalemate on the western front, the Germans had started to move their troops to the east to fortify the Austrian lines. The Russians, in turn, had received orders to pull back from their positions.

  Last night, following dinner, the officers had passed around bottles of vodka to drink over card games. Within hours there were several empty bottles lining the table.

  Sitting up more slowly this time, Alexei rubbed at his stiff neck. His head, hazy with details of the previous night’s events, throbbed relentlessly.

  Looking around the room, he found his boots and his holster under the bed. When he pulled out the holster, though, he saw it did not hold his revolver. He thought maybe Grigory had taken it to be cleaned and oiled, but when he reached for his boots, something heavy and shiny fell on the floor. He picked it up and gaped at it.

  In his hand, he held a German Luger he had never seen before. He stared at the gun with growing uneasiness, then started as the flaps of the dugout pulled back and a captain’s frame filled the entrance. On seeing Alexei, the man saluted and removed his cap.

  Alexei stared at the captain, recognition dawning.

  ‘Bogoleev!’ He got to his feet and they shook hands. ‘When did you get here? I see they have made you a captain at last.’

  ‘I arrived late last night from the front.’

  ‘And what news do you bring?’ Alexei asked, returning to his seat on the bed.

  Bogoleev shook his head. ‘None good I’m afraid. I lost over half my men.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Alexei said, then, struck by a new thought, he asked, ‘How did you know to find me here?’

  ‘I saw Grigory bring you here last night.’ Bogoleev added hesitantly, ‘You looked … unwell.’

  Alexei looked down at the Luger. That solved the mystery of how he had got here, but it didn’t explain the gun.

  ‘That’s a beautiful pistol,’ said Bogoleev. ‘May I?’

  Alexei handed him the gun. Bogoleev weighed it in one hand, then stroked his fingers over the carvings on the handle. ‘It’s well crafted.’ He handed it back.

  ‘Yes, except it’s not mine. I found it under the bed.’

  Just then, Grigory appeared carrying a freshly laundered uniform for Alexei.

  ‘Maybe your aide could shed some light on the mystery,’ Bogoleev suggested.

  ‘What mystery, Captain?’ Grigory hung the uniform on a nail before turning to Bogoleev.

  ‘Do you know who this gun belongs to?’

  Grigory glanced at the gun Alexei held out. ‘I’m not sure, Excellency.’

  ‘I shall leave you to solve the origin of the gun, Major General.’ Clicking his heels, Bogoleev saluted. ‘I am to leave today to join the forces defending Warsaw.’

  ‘I wish you every success. Warsaw is the last line of defence between the advancing armies and Petrograd. We must defend it at all costs.’

  Bogoleev’s eyes flashed with something close to fury. ‘At all costs?’ A shadow crossed his pale eyes. ‘Our men are already hungry and exhausted. They are stretched to their limits. Many are worried about their families.’ Then, as if remembering he was speaking to a superior officer, Bogoleev’s expression changed and his tone softened. ‘They have little will to fight.’

  ‘You must make them. The army needs a victory against the Germans to strengthen the morale of the Russian people.’

  ‘How can I make them? By turning my gun on them?’

  ‘Warsaw must be defended with every last drop of blood!’

  Bogoleev’s eyes fixed on Alexei’s. ‘Is this what you believe, Major General?’

  ‘It’s of no consequence what I believe. It is the will of the Tsar.’

  ‘Then he has condemned us to death,’ Bogoleev said hotly. Replacing his cap, he saluted Alexei once again and, making an about-turn, marched out.

  Alexei stared after him. ‘A strange character.’

  ‘If I may speak freely, Your Excellency,’ Grigory said, ‘this is what happens when the middle classes are permitted to join the rank of officers.’

  Alexei shook his head. ‘The captain is a good soldier.’

  ‘And yet he speaks like one of those rebels … those Bolsheviks who speak against the war.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Alexei said absently. His gaze fell on the pistol he still carried. ‘I wish someone could shed some light on how I came to be in possession of such a gun.’ He turned it in his hand. ‘A silver Luger is not the type of weapon one simply discards. It must have an owner.’

  ‘It certainly is very puzzling. When Your Excellency failed to return from the outhouse last night, I became worried. In your condition … well … it would have been easy to take a wrong turn and end up arrested by an enemy patrol.’

  ‘Did you come after me?’

  ‘I intended to, but the enemy started shelling the trenches. When it stopped I saw you stumbling out of the woods. There were dark stains on your shirtsleeve and jacket, which I first mistook as mud. It was only when I took them t
o be laundered that I discovered their origin.’

  ‘And? What was it?’

  ‘Blood, Your Excellency.’ Taking the clean jacket from its hook, Grigory carefully laid it across the cot.

  ‘Blood?’ Alexei repeated, mystified.

  ‘Your face was ghostly white, Excellency, and I feared you may be ill,’ Grigory continued. ‘You refused to let me take you to your quarters so I brought you here.’ Scanning the room, he added, ‘I apologise for the accommodation.’

  ‘Where’s my revolver?’ Alexei asked.

  Grigory hesitated. ‘Your holster was empty.’ He pointed to the silver Luger. ‘And you were carrying that. Your revolver has since been found, Excellency. I took the liberty of having it cleaned and oiled for you.’

  Alexei sat up straight on the bed. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘It was found beside the body of an Austrian soldier.’

  Alexei felt a chill pass through him. He moved a hand to steady himself as he got up from the mattress. ‘Take me to him.’

  Emerging from the dugout, details from the previous night’s events came rushing back. He had stepped out to relieve himself, but had failed to find the outhouse in his drunken state, and decided to empty his bladder behind some bushes. The icy wind carried the rumbling sound of the shells exploding on the frontline. Above him, the full moon coloured the landscape in a metallic blue–grey. He was buttoning his trousers when he sensed a movement to his right. Alert now, he drew out his gun and released the safety catch.

  Standing still, he listened.

  There it was again: the sound of mud slurping and sticking to boots. Blood rushed to his head, clearing the fog left by the vodka. The boots were half dragging, as if their owner was too tired to lift his feet. Crouching low, Alexei saw a shadow pass, a lone soldier perhaps, moving between the stumps of burnt trees. Not sure if the soldier was Russian or an enemy spy, Alexei kept close to the shadows and followed him. The soldier’s steps were unsteady, careless of where his feet landed. Aiming his revolver, Alexei straightened and yelled in Russian, ‘Who goes there?’

  The figure spun and Alexei caught the flash of something metallic in his hand. Taking no chances, he fired two shots. The figure twisted, hitting the ground hard as it fell. Alexei circled it, ready to fire again. Moving closer, he turned the body over with his boot and recognised the Austrian second lieutenant stripes on the shoulder. Clutching his chest, the officer stared up at the sky with frightened eyes, taking sharp, shallow breaths. Blood oozed from between his fingers.

  Realising the Austrian might have been leading a group of men on a mission, Alexei dropped to the ground, looking for signs of other movements in the shadows. But all was still.

  Along the road, stretcher-bearers raced back and forth to the front carrying away the wounded. Kneeling beside the Austrian, Alexei checked his pulse.

  ‘Man down!’ he yelled.

  Two men carrying a stretcher heard his cry and ran towards him.

  ‘He must have got separated from his regiment,’ Alexei told the men.

  One of them lifted the Austrian’s hand to look at his chest wound. He shook his head. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him.’

  Picking up their stretcher, they ran back in the direction of the trenches.

  The Austrian moved his mouth, and then pointed to his chest. Searching the pockets, Alexei found a letter, one corner splattered with blood. Folded between the pages was a family photo. Standing behind a grave-looking man and plump woman, the Austrian soldier smiled at the camera.

  He’s only a boy, thought Alexei, and suddenly felt light-headed. Alcohol and adrenalin mixed and swirled in his head, making him nauseous. Rising to his feet, he tripped and fell, his vision and memory going blank.

  A simple wooden cross marked the final resting place of the Austrian soldier.

  Alexei crossed himself. Remembering the silver Luger in his pocket, he pulled it out. Turning it in his hands, he admired the fine craftsmanship. The gun was most likely a parting gift from the soldier’s parents. Engraved on the handle were the initials A.S. The boy’s background might not have been so different from his own, Alexei thought, noting that they even shared the same initials.

  Opening the gun’s barrel, he saw that it was empty. Something hard turned and sank deep inside him.

  His fingers traced over the initials.

  He returned the gun to his pocket and turned towards the camp.

  Behind him, the sun hovered briefly over the grave, then settled into the horizon like a molten ball.

  18

  Petrograd, May 1915

  The train belched gusts of steam, swathing the platform in clouds of vapour.

  ‘Nikolai!’ Marie’s voice was lost in the noise of the station. ‘Kolya!’ She ran towards her brother, pushing through crowds in her haste to meet him. She threw her arms around his neck.

  ‘Masha!’ Nikolai swung her in an arc then put her down and held her at arm’s length. ‘Let me take a good look at you.’ He ran a critical eye over her and frowned. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  ‘Enough of me.’ Marie waved a dismissive hand. Smiling broadly, she linked one arm through his and led him to the gates. ‘Is this all you carry?’ she asked pointing to the small pack.

  ‘Yes.’ He held out his pack to a porter, who hurried over to take it.

  Squeezing her brother’s arm, Marie said, ‘I can’t tell you how much your telegram cheered us. It was the tonic we needed.’

  They walked arm in arm to a group of cars parked in a long row.

  ‘I borrowed Uncle’s motorcar.’ Marie pointed to a shiny black vehicle. ‘It’s so kind of him to let us use it considering how hard it is to find the fuel. We are to dine with them this evening and afterwards Dasha has invited us to join her at the ballet.’

  ‘It seems you have my stay planned out.’ Nikolai kissed his sister affectionately on the forehead.

  Marie smiled back warmly before her smile slipped. She stopped walking and, after hesitating a moment, asked, ‘Have you any news of Pyotr?’

  Nikolai ran a hand over his face. There was hardness around his eyes and Marie sensed he was thinking of lies he could tell to ease her suffering. In the end, he replied, ‘I’ve heard nothing.’

  A sob escaped Marie’s lips and she bit down on her knuckles before more could follow.

  ‘I wish I had better news for you.’

  ‘I know you have tried your best.’ She took his hand and they walked the last few metres to the car in silence, the initial joy of their reunion overlaid with sadness.

  Marie did her best to keep Nikolai in good cheer but although outwardly he was charming, she sensed a change in him. His boyish looks had been replaced with the careworn visage of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was quiet and pensive through dinner, playing with his food.

  ‘You’ve hardly touched the duckling,’ Darya remarked, pouting.

  Nikolai stared at Darya as if not comprehending what she had said.

  ‘It’s so strange,’ he responded in a faraway voice. ‘I was just thinking I had not seen or tasted such food for a very long time. I’m almost afraid to touch it, for the fear this might all be a dream.’

  ‘The cook has been having such an awful time finding ingredients,’ complained their aunt. ‘There’s a shortage of everything.’

  ‘Tell us about the front,’ Darya interrupted. ‘What’s it like to fire a gun at a man?’

  ‘Darya!’ her father interjected sternly. ‘Please excuse her, Nikolai. At times my daughter takes leave of her senses.’

  Marie regarded her brother, noting how his jaw tensed and eyes darkened. Nevertheless he smiled obligingly to show he had taken no offence. His hand moved to his breast pocket and he pulled out his cigarettes.

  Marie cleared her throat. ‘There are still ladies at the table,’ she whispered from behind her serviette.

  He looked at her distractedly, and she motioned to his cigarette case.

  ‘I apologise,�
�� he mumbled, putting the case back in his pocket.

  ‘Perhaps you are tired,’ Marie said, concern for her brother rising. ‘Would you like to skip the ballet tonight?’

  ‘Skip the ballet?’ Darya protested. ‘But everything is already arranged.’

  Nikolai gave a defeated smile. ‘I would not dream of disappointing you, my dear cousin.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Darya smiled triumphantly.

  The brass bell was rung, the last of the dinner plates were cleared and the guests were treated to ramekins of crème brûlée.

  ‘Are you sure you want to go to the ballet, Kolya?’ Marie murmured to Nikolai following dinner. ‘It’s not too late to excuse yourself.’

  ‘What are you whispering about, Marie?’ Darya asked suspiciously. ‘I hope you are not encouraging him to stay behind.’

  The servants helped Nikolai and Marie into their coats. Smiling, Nikolai offered an arm to his sister. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured her, and together they descended the stairs to the waiting carriages.

  Later that night, Marie woke to the sound of feet pacing outside her bedroom. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. Throwing a woollen shawl over her shoulders she opened the door leading to her living room.

  ‘What are you doing up at this hour?’

  Nikolai turned. A cigarette burnt between his fingers. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Kolya?’

  Nikolai’s lips tightened. ‘It’s not something you would understand.’

  Not wishing to provoke him, Marie did not insist. ‘I am here if you need me.’

  Nikolai stared at her for a long moment, then dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

  ‘Forgive me, Masha,’ he wept. ‘I failed you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I did not save Petya. I did not find him.’

  Marie knelt and took his hands in her own. ‘It’s not your fault, Kolya,’ she said, feeling the tears welling in her own eyes. ‘I know you would have done your best.’

 

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