They had organised to spend the second half of Nikolai’s leave in Narva. Entering the first-class carriage, Marie chose a seat close to the window and Nikolai sat opposite her. Removing their hats and gloves, Anna and Marie talked softly between themselves. Travelling in the same carriage was a factory owner who complained bitterly to Nikolai about the lack of coal to run his machinery.
Their driver met them at the station and, taking their luggage, led them to the waiting motorcar.
Nikolai ran his hand along the smooth curves.
‘So Mama relented and let Papa buy a car?’
‘She refuses to drive in it, says the noise upsets her nerves. She still gets them to bring the carriage for her whenever she travels into town.’
Pauline Kulbas, dressed in a simple navy-blue dress, which made her appear unnaturally gaunt and grey, greeted her children at the front stairs, Herman and Valentin by her side.
‘My boy … my darling Kolya,’ she said, her voice breaking with emotion. Holding out her arms, she embraced him warmly. ‘Oh, my son.’ She raised her face and arms to the sky. ‘Thank the Lord for giving me this moment.’ Taking Nikolai’s face in her fleshy hands, she kissed him four times, before her husband demanded his turn. Taking his son’s hand between his, he shook it heartily and then drew him into his embrace and kissed him.
‘I’m so very, very happy.’ He looked at his son through wet eyes. ‘Never mind me,’ he said, clearly embarrassed by his tears. ‘I’m just a silly old fool. Come in to the drawing room, we must celebrate the safe arrival of our son.’
In the drawing room, Pauline Kulbas sat in her usual chair close to her husband, while Marie sat by her mother, holding her hand. Nikolai and Valentin shared a sofa. Marie noted Valentin stole admiring glances at her brother in his uniform.
‘Tell me, son,’ Monsieur Kulbas was first to speak. ‘What news do you bring from the front?’
‘Please, Herman,’ Madame Kulbas protested. ‘The boy has barely had time to catch his breath and you’re already bombarding him with talk of the war.’
‘I don’t mind, Mama,’ Nikolai assured her. Leaning forward, he reached for one of the freshly baked pastries. ‘As you know, I have not been in the trenches since the beginning of the year. In Warsaw there is a lot of discontent over allegations the English are shipping to their own troops munitions that were intended for the Russian army.’
‘I always knew the English could not be trusted.’
‘Papa,’ Marie berated him. ‘That is surely just a rumour.’
‘I’m not sure if I agree with you, Marie,’ Nikolai said. ‘There is a massive shortage of guns and ammunition. Our supply lines are continuously compromised and the reserves have to wait for someone to be killed before they are given their guns.’
‘Oh dear.’ Pauline Kulbas leant back in her seat, breathing heavily.
‘Mama!’ Marie rang the bell. ‘Let’s leave talk of war till later. Mama is in no condition to hear it.’
The door opened and a maid in a white apron and matching cap entered.
‘Zoya, help me take my mother to her bedroom,’ Marie requested. ‘And bring me her smelling salts.’
Alone, father and son sat in silence staring alternately at their hands and at the fields beyond the bay windows. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity, Herman Kulbas asked, ‘Is it true what the papers say about Warsaw being in danger of falling to the Germans?’
Nikolai’s face, already pale, contorted and an uneasy look crossed his features. ‘The Allied offensive is at a standstill in France, and the Germans are taking the opportunity to send troops to strengthen their lines on the eastern front. If Warsaw falls –’ Nikolai lifted his palms ‘– then there is every possibility Russia could lose the war.’
Monsieur Kulbas dragged a hand through his hair. ‘And where does that leave Estonia?’
‘I’m not sure, Papa, but the situation is not good. If the Germans break through our defences in Poland and East Prussia – and there is every indication that they could – there is nothing to stop them taking the Baltic states. Narva could fall into German hands.’
Monsieur Kulbas sighed and pulled out his cigarette case. Nikolai too took a cigarette from a box on the table. Smelling it, he smoothed it with his fingers and placed it between his lips. Taking the lighter, he cupped a hand over the flame and lit his father’s cigarette and then his own.
‘Germans or Russians …’ Herman Kulbas exhaled smoke, ‘what I dearly want is to live long enough to see Estonia independent from foreign powers.’
19
The Carpathian Mountains, May 1915
The lonely light of dawn crept over the land, gradually bringing into view a group of men kneeling around a priest holding an icon. Quiet and reflective, the men accepted their blessings with bowed heads, then crossed themselves and rose to their feet, adjusting the weight of their ammunition packs across their shoulders.
Behind the lines, soldiers with tense backs waited for the order that would send them into battle. When the order finally sounded, no great cheer went up. As the marching band struck a military tune, weary bodies, heads hung slightly with lingering thoughts of loved ones, filed away, keeping in step with the boots of the men in front of them.
Ahead of them, the rumble of guns waking in the distance signalled the first wave of the attack.
Standing at the head of the line, Alexei drew his sword. Trickles of sweat rolled down his arms.
At the sharp wail of the bugle sounding the start of the attack, his muscles, tense with anticipation, released with a collective sigh.
Everywhere, men climbed over parapets and ran across no-man’s-land. Shouts came from all directions, mixing with the tearing screams of shells. His men, having won an enemy trench, frantically secured it against a counterattack, shovelling and packing dirt against the damaged trench walls.
‘Your Excellency.’ The infantry soldier saluted. ‘We have secured the trench with five prisoners and two machine guns.’
‘Escort the prisoners to the camp,’ Alexei instructed, ‘then send a runner to ask for further orders.’
‘Yes, Your Excellency.’
Alexei, followed closely by Grigory, headed to the far end of the trench where men were inspecting damaged machine guns. The body of a soldier cut almost in half was slumped at the foot of a gun.
‘That was our machine-gunner,’ Grigory shouted above the gunfire.
Alexei beckoned to a young soldier. ‘You there, get behind the gun.’
‘Y-yes, Excellency.’ Scrambling to his feet, the soldier ran to the machine gun and started shooting into the trees. Each burst of gunfire slammed the machine against his body, bouncing him backwards.
Click. Click.
The gun coughed, jumped and fell silent.
‘I think it’s jammed.’ The soldier shook the handles.
A mortar shell screeched low over their heads. Frightened, the soldier threw himself on the ground, covering his head with his hands.
Without thinking, Alexei ran to drag him to safety. The whistling sound of a second mortar sliced the air and exploded close by. Bright yellow light warmed one side of Alexei’s body as he was lifted off the ground and flung hard onto his back. Sharp pain shot through his neck and leg as fountains of dirt rained down on him. He heard muffled screams before everything around him turned dark.
When Alexei next opened his eyes, his vision was flooded by brilliant white light. His first thought was that he had entered heaven.
In the distance he could hear the faint echo of artillery fire and, closer, the flapping of canvas in the wind. As his surroundings came into focus, he realised the bright light was the sun streaming through the white canvas walls of the field hospital. Brushing a hand over his head, he felt bandages. He patted them tentatively, then his probing fingers moved down his neck to where a dull ache pulsed. Touching the spot, he swiftly withdrew as agonising pain seared the base of his throat.
‘Water, General?’ A soldier w
ith a weathered face and kind eyes held out a wooden cup to him and helped him lift his head.
‘You have been asleep for some time.’ The soldier spoke with a strong Ural accent. ‘Your aide will be pleased to see you awake. He carried you to the infirmary on his back.’ Cradling Alexei’s head in the crook of one arm, he tilted the cup, wetting Alexei’s lips.
Alexei coughed, spluttering water over the sheets. The water, though cool on his lips, did little to put out the fire in his throat. Adding to his discomfort, the tightness in his lungs made every breath wheeze inside his bruised ribcage.
‘I’m such an old fool. Your injuries must make it difficult for you to drink.’
Alexei opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, a garbled sound escaped him.
‘You rest, Major General.’ The soldier eased Alexei’s head back onto the pillow. ‘I’ll go find your aide.’
So Grigory had rescued him, had carried him on his back according to the old soldier. Alexei had a faint memory of seeing the earth rush beneath him but he could not be sure if it was a real memory or just a trick of his feverish mind. The effort of trying to piece together his last moments exhausted him. He closed his eyes and drifted into a troubled sleep.
When he awoke the brightness of the sun had faded into the grey light of the afternoon. Feeling stiff, he shifted his weight but at once regretted it as his muscles screamed in protest. Turning his head carefully he saw Grigory asleep on a chair. His normally meticulously presented uniform was dishevelled and his hair, uncombed, stood at odd angles. Grigory looked up and, seeing Alexei awake, fell to his knees beside the bed.
‘Your Excellency.’ He kissed Alexei’s hand. ‘It is a relief to see you awake.’
Alexei wanted to say something but was again halted by harsh primitive sounds that escaped from his throat.
A nurse appeared carrying fresh bandages. Grigory jumped to his feet and, stepping aside, made room for her to tend to Alexei. Stout, with deep-set brown eyes, the nurse worked with great efficiency and few words.
‘You’ve suffered partial suffocation, broken ribs and a shrapnel wound to your neck,’ she said, straightening the sheets. She tucked them firmly under the mattress, then stood back to inspect her work. ‘The doctor will call on you on his rounds,’ she stated matter-of-factly.
After the nurse had left, Grigory helped Alexei take a sip of water. Alexei coughed, his chest burning as if branded with hot coals. Though his throat was still dry, he refused another sip. Running his tongue across his dry lips, he eased his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.
In the days that followed, Grigory rarely left Alexei’s side. Alexei often woke to find him sleeping on a wooden chair by his bed and in the mornings Grigory woke early to serve Alexei soup and lukewarm tea, refusing the nurse’s help to serve breakfast.
Each night, the doctors made their rounds, checking on patients, dismissing some back to the front and organising for the transfer of others to Petrograd or Moscow hospitals. Long hours of work without sleep or proper nourishment showed in the dark circles around their eyes.
With three broken ribs, Alexei’s chest felt as if it were wrapped in a tight coil. His breath wheezed in short, sharp bursts. Blinking in the darkness, he heard the doctors moving about in the late hours of the night. Thinking their patients were all asleep, they talked candidly among themselves. The endless stream of wounded and lack of resources gnawed at their resolve and sapped their energy, as Alexei learnt.
Occasionally other officers, some on crutches, others in wheelchairs, came to sit by Alexei’s bed during the day. It didn’t seem to bother them that he couldn’t talk. On the contrary, his silence encouraged many to speak openly, finding in him a patient and sympathetic listener. One officer, a very young staff captain with fine aristocratic features and an easy smile, visited Alexei daily with news and reports he’d learnt from other officers. He’d been shot in the shoulder and had his arm in a sling.
‘I have heard that the Emperor will be visiting the hospital next week,’ that staff captain informed him. ‘It is rumoured you and your aide are to receive the Order of St George for heroism during battle.’
Alexei smiled. The Order of St George was the highest honour of the Russian army.
The Emperor is very generous, he wrote on the chalkboard he used to communicate.
A week later, the Tsar visited the hospital with the young Tsarevich.
‘For gallantry in battle.’ Tsar Nicholas looked genuinely pleased to be awarding the medal. ‘You have done well, General.’ He draped the sash across Alexei’s shoulder and, as Alexei stood to attention, pinned the medal to his chest.
Alexei winced only slightly from pain when he saluted, his chest swelling with pride.
Moving on, the Tsar removed a medal from the box handed to him by his assistant and pinned it to Grigory’s chest.
‘Take a good look at these brave men,’ he told his son. ‘They do our country proud.’
20
Poland, May 1915
Foraging at dusk in the ruins of a nearby village, Katya came across a cellar beneath a collapsed wall. Using her kerosene lamp, she searched through the debris for something they could eat. It was only by chance she found the handful of potatoes. Rubbing the soot and dirt from them, she saw that they were old and shrivelled but still edible. Putting them in her hessian bag, she scrounged for more. She had left Fyodor asleep in a nearby barn and was anxious to get back before he woke and found her missing. Turning over the bricks, she hastened her search but when she found nothing more and was about to crawl out of the cellar she heard voices. Realising they were headed towards her, she quickly put out the lamp.
‘I would give anything right now for a bottle of vodka and a hearty meal,’ a voice said in Russian.
‘I’d rather have a night between clean sheets wrapped in the warm limbs of a woman,’ the other replied, and they both laughed.
Katya pressed her body against the wall of the cellar, hardly daring to breathe. For the next few hours, she stayed hidden as the soldiers moved through the village, her senses alert to the sound of their feet as they dragged and lifted rocks to build barricades and hide artillery.
‘Remind me again why we have to do all this digging,’ one complained as they dug a trench a few metres from Katya.
‘If we have to fall back, we’ll use this village as our next line of defence.’
‘And why do we need to do this while it’s dark?’
They had stopped digging. Katya heard a match strike against a hard surface.
‘You’re a fresh recruit, right?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ the first soldier replied testily.
‘Only a fresh recruit or an idiot would ask such a question.’
Metal clanked as a shovel hit a rock. ‘You dare call me an idiot?’
‘Easy, comrade, I meant no disrepect. Anyone who has served at the front knows if the Germans get a whiff of what we’re doing here, they’ll send their planes to pound it into smithereens. Now pick up your shovel and get digging or we’ll never finish this trench before daylight.’
Katya lost track of how much time passed. She suspected she had fallen asleep at one stage because the next thing she knew a thin grey light was shining through the cracks in the wall. Remaining hidden, she listened until she was sure the men had gone, then she cautiously crawled out of the cellar.
The air was crisp and cool. She stretched her back to loosen the stiffness then, sticking to the shadows, hurried back to the barn.
The hinges opened with a reluctant groan. A triangle of sunlight filled the small interior and quickly disappeared again. Katya stood at the doorway and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
‘Fyodor?’
Detecting a stirring in the corner, she turned to see the boy step out of the shadows. When he came closer, she saw his eyes were wet.
‘I’m sorry I took so long.’ She ran her hand tenderly over his face. Lifting her bag,
she said brightly, ‘I found some potatoes.’
Fyodor’s lips lifted into a weak smile.
‘What? You’re not hungry?’ Katya asked jokingly.
Fyodor’s smile stretched and he nodded.
‘Then hurry and fetch some water from the river.’ Katya ruffled his hair.
Fyodor picked up the bucket and ran out of the barn. Katya turned to the figure lying on the ground. It was nothing short of a miracle that the soldier had survived this long. Shot in the arm, the bullet had narrowly missed an artery.
Kneeling beside him, Katya could hardly believe the withered body belonged to a living man. So many times she had considered abandoning him. She and the boy could have made their way much quicker without him. The ox, killed in the crossfire, had been left at the side of the road along with most of their belongings. They had pulled the wagon and the man in it for kilometres before they’d found the abandoned barn. But neither she nor Fyodor had the strength to pull the heavy wagon any further. Even if they had, the soldier would not have survived the trip. The barn offered shelter and a place to rest for a few days.
She looked into the soldier’s face. His eyes, hot and burning with fever, stared straight up. His breath struggled in and out of his lungs in wet rasping gasps.
‘How are you feeling this morning?’ Katya smoothed back his hair. She regretted the words almost as soon as they parted her lips. ‘I have found some potatoes. I can make soup.’
The soldier showed no sign he understood. She took the cold bony fingers between her own. ‘I don’t know how else to help you,’ she said, a lump growing hard in her throat.
The wheezing chest, barely able to hold on to life, expelled air in irregular bursts. His feverish eyes stared confusedly at Katya. She made the sign of the cross on his forehead. Through her own tears, she thought she saw the soldier’s eyes brimming.
‘Go,’ she whispered. ‘Fly to the arms of Lord Jesus.’ Tears rolled down her face. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand. ‘Go now and stop your suffering. You’ll be reunited with Marie when she eventually joins you in the next life.’
The Russian Tapestry Page 12