The soldier turned his head slightly and looked directly at her. His eyes were full of gratitude. ‘Marie.’
Katya hesitated a moment then leant forward. ‘I’m here. I’m with you now.’
‘Masha … You came.’
Katya gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Yes, I came and I will never leave you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ His breath wheezed and struggled.
‘You have nothing to be sorry for.’ Overcome with grief and helplessness, Katya dropped her head into her hands. When she looked at him again, a faint smile played beneath his matted moustache. He took a breath and, as he exhaled, the eyes became lifeless.
Katya felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Fyodor.
‘He’s gone,’ she said simply. ‘He’s no longer suffering.’
She wrapped the soldier’s body in a sheet she had taken from her grandmother’s hut in preparation for his death, then they carried him outside. Using their hands and breaking up the soil with some strong sticks, they dug a shallow grave, placed the ragged body in it and covered it with earth and rocks. At the head of the grave, Fyodor planted a wooden cross he had made from fallen branches. Covered in sweat, Katya said a prayer. Stumbling over the words, she ended the prayer with a few words of her own.
‘Dear Lord, here lies a soldier, his body buried far from his family and homeland. We entrust him to your arms.’
They both stood for a moment, looking down at the grave.
‘He was smiling.’
It took a moment for Katya to register the boy had spoken. She turned and looked at him in disbelief.
‘The soldier,’ he said again. ‘He was smiling at you when I came in.’
At the sound of his voice, the wall Katya had built inside to protect herself collapsed and she held the boy tight against her. Releasing him, she said, ‘I don’t understand. How is it you are speaking?’
He shrugged and dropped his gaze.
‘What happened to you, Fedya? Why did you stop talking?’
He looked up shyly. Tears filled his eyes. ‘When the Germans attacked, I remember holding my mother’s hand. She screamed at me to hold on tight. I was scared. There was so much smoke and people ran everywhere. I fell and lost my grip. I could hear my mother screaming my name, but I could not see her.’ Tears finally streamed down his face. He wiped at them with the back of his sleeve. ‘I screamed and screamed till I had no voice left.’
‘Oh, Fedya.’ She pressed him against her. ‘Do you remember where I found you?’ She rubbed his shoulders. ‘You looked so frightened, it broke my heart to see you.’
‘I thought she would come.’
‘Your mother?’
He nodded. ‘I thought she would come back for me.’
‘Didn’t anyone stop for you?’
Fyodor shook his head. ‘You were the first.’ Fresh tears began to flow. ‘I wanted to tell you I had a mother, a family, that I was lost. But nothing would come out.’
‘What made you come with me?’
‘Your eyes reminded me of her. They made me feel safe.’
She touched his face. ‘We are orphans, you and I. But as long as we have each other, we will never be alone.’
21
The Carpathian Mountains, Austrian Front, May 1915
As the light faded, orders came to mount a fresh assault. With the aid of spotlights, the German machine guns shredded the attacking lines, littering the fields with bodies. At dawn, with the sun hanging like a ball of fire, stretcher-bearers crawled among the prone figures, searching for survivors.
Alexei, unable to stand for long, watched as the wounded men arrived at the field hospital. Grigory worked tirelessly alongside the nurses, applying iodine to wounds and bandaging them with quick, efficient hands. His lips, stained brown from biting the caps off the iodine bottles, pursed tightly over his teeth, and he wiped continuously at his brow.
The men, too weak to swat at the flies hovering around their wounds, lay motionless on the grass. A priest in a black cassock threaded between them, waving incense and giving Communion.
Those with minor wounds squatted in tight circles, watching the scene with detached looks that told of defeated spirits. Doctors moving among the men gave urgent instructions to the nurses who followed closely behind. Those they could save they operated on immediately; those beyond saving, they left for the priest.
As Alexei watched, a wounded man in a delirious state mistook a nurse for his beloved and grabbed at her skirt. ‘Anushka, don’t you recognise your Shura?’
‘Of course.’ The nurse gently disentangled herself from the man’s grip. ‘You must rest,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I finish my rounds.’
‘Don’t leave me, Anushka.’
‘I’ll be back, Shura.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I promise.’
Reassured by this, the soldier rested his head back on the ground.
One of the nurses said something and Alexei turned stiffly to face her.
‘I brought you a nice mug of tea.’ She placed the steaming cup by his elbow. ‘Lunch will be served in an hour in the officers’ tent.’
Alexei thanked her with a small nod. He tried smiling but it was hard to move his face with the bandages covering it. Bringing the mug to his lips, he took a sip and felt satisfied by its strong brew. Returning his gaze to the soldier, Alexei discovered him staring unblinkingly at the sky, his life having slipped away before the nurse could return.
The old Ural soldier was also present, threading his way carefully among the wounded men with a bucket of water. Cradling each man’s head as a father would cradle his son, he offered water to their parched lips. When he reached Shura, he set down his bucket and, bending over the lifeless body, closed the lids and crossed the arms. Then, after crossing himself, he picked up his bucket and resumed his work.
‘This is what our army is reduced to.’
Alexei had to turn his body to see who was speaking to him. The staff captain stood by his elbow, smoking a cigarette, his handsome face contorted by a scowl and the hard glare he fixed on the wounded men. ‘Our army is powerless under the German onslaught.’ He pulled hard on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out with a sharp exhalation.
His inability to communicate embarrassed Alexei and added to his frustrations.
Having finished his cigarette, the staff captain immediately lit another. He was quiet for a while, deep in his own thoughts. Over the weeks, Alexei had become accustomed to the young officer’s visits and felt comfortable when, on some occasions, he turned silent and reflective.
‘The Germans are breaking through our lines on a wide front,’ he said eventually. ‘We don’t have good soldiers.’ Sweeping his arm at the mass of men, he said, ‘Most are peasants. They have no breeding, no gallantry and are stubborn as mules. It is almost impossible to get them to follow instructions.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Russia was doomed from the very beginning.’
Moving closer, he lowered his voice. ‘I feel the army is betrayed by Stavka. Shortages have reached a critical stage. Each day, a new order comes to send men to attack the lines. And each day our attacks are rebuffed and our men end up here.’ He made another sweeping motion at the rows of dead and wounded.
Alexei’s gaze swept over them and beyond, to the plumes of smoke wafting over the battlefield. He nodded his head in agreement and, not for the first time, found himself questioning the army’s outdated methods.
The staff captain checked his watch. ‘It’s getting late and I have already taken up too much of your time.’ Saluting, he hesitated a moment. ‘Thank you, Excellency, for granting me an audience. It’s a relief to be able to voice my thoughts with a commander.’
Alexei turned to watch the staff captain’s receding figure, the younger man’s words echoing in his ears.
In the dining tent that evening, the mood was solemn. The attack had not gone well and the Russians had been forced to abandon several trenches. Even the local girls brought in to entertain the
officers could not lift their moods.
‘If Warsaw falls, there is nothing to stop the Germans advancing to Petrograd and Moscow,’ a general exclaimed. ‘I’ve already sent my wife and children to live with my parents in the Urals.’
Alexei too had sent a telegram to Emily, urging her to move to their estate in Uglich on the bank of the River Volga.
‘Gentlemen, let us not be downhearted.’ A young major rose to his feet. Clapping his hands loudly, he turned to the girl next to him. ‘Grab us a few bottles of vodka and enough glasses for us all.’ As the young woman turned to leave, the officer slapped her on the buttocks. ‘Quickly now,’ he urged. ‘We must give our brave officers on the hospital train tomorrow a proper send-off before they leave.’
The woman hurried away, returning shortly with several bottles of apple vodka.
‘To your health.’ The men raised their glasses and threw back their drinks. The local women, their cheeks flushed from alcohol, shrilled and clapped. Alexei winced as the sting of alcohol hit his damaged throat. Sipping vodka was considered poor form. Pointing to his throat, Alexei waved the glass away.
‘Have a drink with us, Major General,’ the men insisted. ‘The vodka will soon restore you to full health.’
All eyes rested on Alexei, waiting to see if he would take the drink. Not wishing to lose face, he lifted the glass to his lips and emptied it in a single gulp. His throat burnt as if set on fire.
‘Does Your Excellency wish to retire?’ Grigory whispered in his ear.
Alexei nodded that he did.
‘I’m afraid the major general needs his rest,’ Grigory announced to the group. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us in the morning.’
Around the table, officers rose to their feet. Stepping forward, the staff captain saluted Alexei. ‘On behalf of the men, Your Excellency, we wish you a safe journey and a speedy recovery.’ Dropping his hand, he continued, ‘It’s been an honour and a privilege to serve with you.’
Moved by the words, Alexei motioned for Grigory to help him out of his chair. Standing to his full height, he saluted the men.
Back in his quarters, the doctor stopped by Alexei’s bed on his evening rounds. ‘The wounds are healing well.’ He shined a torch in Alexei’s eyes. ‘I hear the Empress has opened Feodorovsky Gorodok at Tsarskoe Selo to accommodate new hospital beds.’ He switched off the torch. ‘It should make for a far more comfortable stay than what we offer you here.’
As the doctor moved to the next patient, Alexei’s thoughts turned to Petrograd. As disappointed as he was to be leaving his men, he longed to return to the city in the hope of seeing Marie. He had not had a response to the letter he had written before leaving for the front and yet thoughts of her were rarely far from his mind. He saw her everywhere: in the kind gazes of nurses and in the smiling eyes of the local girls. Returning to Petrograd meant the opportunity of seeing her again.
He fell asleep then and, for the first time since returning to the front, his sleep was free from the despair that usually stirred his soul and weighed painfully upon his heart.
Eastern Front, June
Tsar Nicholas sat behind his desk in his private carriage and stared out at the scenery. Despite being shelled, scorched and trampled, new shoots sprouted from the thawing land. Budding green leaves pressed through charred stumps with a resilience Nicholas found impressive. Earlier, on his walk, he had made a point of drawing attention to the shoots to the English and French diplomats who had accompanied him to the front.
‘These shoots are symbolic of the grand Russian spirit,’ he had told them.
‘Your Highness is quite correct in his assessment,’ the Englishman had said tentatively. ‘But I fear that despite the size of the Russian army, it has suffered from more setbacks than victories.’
‘Since the beginning of the war, our second line of troops is greater and our entire armies are much stronger,’ Nicholas retorted. Increasing his pace, he forced the diplomats to keep up with him. ‘Our men are hardened and physically and morally ready. Necessity has shown the strength and resourcefulness of the Russians. Our factories are working effectively to produce guns and munitions.’ He stopped and turned abruptly to face the Englishman. ‘The war, my dear sir, has not only strengthened our country’s resolve but has added vigour to our ranks.’
The diplomats exchanged a look but remained silent, smiling politely. Irritated, Nicholas walked ahead of them. He had tried his best. The Duma had been ineffective in curbing inflation and the black market. Shortages in bread and butter had led to accusations of profiteering. To make up for the shortages in munitions from their own factories, the war ministry had placed vast orders from neutral and Allied countries. However, supplies had been slow to arrive.
Nicholas decided to write a letter to his wife. Her continued support and advice was the one bright light that lifted his mood. Russia was lucky to have an empress as warm, loving and dedicated as her, he thought. Talk of her and their good friend Rasputin meddling in the country’s affairs infuriated him.
My own dear heart,
It is exactly a week today since I left. I am so sorry that I have not written to you since then. It happens that I am just as busy here as at home with endless meetings and lengthy reports to read.
I arrived to depression and despondency among the generals. Talk of retreat had naturally soured the mood and affected morale. Such talk, combined with German attacks and our terrible losses, has led to much distress. Our troops have evacuated Przemysl, the fortress we so proudly won only two months ago. How quickly the fortunes of war change!
Two diplomats with us at the front accompanied me on my walk today. I was greatly vexed by one of their remarks on the spirit of the Russian people. Meeting our troops this morning to bless them before battle, I was impressed by their resolve. The trouble now, as always, remains with the shortage of munitions – which, as I pointed out to the diplomats, is being dealt with through increased effort in our manufacturing. I take heart from the reports we receive from the German prisoners that their own efforts are also stymied by the same problems we face.
I tenderly embrace you and our children.
Nicky
P.S. I am still undecided on the question of my uncle.
22
Galicia, June 1915
Nikolai sank almost to his knees in the mud caused by the heavy rain. He had returned from his leave to find the Russian Front south of the Vistula in full retreat. Forced to evacuate, Nikolai and Ivanov received orders to return to their regiments stationed at Lemberg.
Heading in the opposite direction, new recruits, sent to slow the advance of Austro-German armies, marched to the front, singing patriotic songs. The crowd parted reluctantly to let them through.
‘Poor devils,’ said a soldier standing beside Nikolai. ‘They don’t have a hope in hell against the Germans. The army barely has enough ammunition to last us a few days.’ He shook his head. ‘Thirty from my village joined a year ago.’ He stabbed a finger at his chest. ‘And I’m the only one left.’
Once the recruits had passed, soldiers and civilians again reclaimed the road. Nikolai looked around for Ivanov and found him helping a family whose wagon was stuck in the mud. His hair, damp with sweat, stuck to his face and his skin was flushed red from pushing the heavy load. At the head of the wagon, a woman held the horse’s reins.
‘Tso.’ She slapped the horse’s rump. ‘Tso.’ The muscles on the horse’s back strained and tightened but, exhausted, it failed to shift the wagon.
Dropping his pack, Nikolai rushed to help. Pressing his shoulder against the wagon, he pushed. His boots slipped in the thick mud and he nearly lost his balance, but together he and Ivanov managed to get the wagon back on the road.
‘Thank you.’ The woman pressed half a loaf of stale bread into Ivanov’s hands.
Ivanov shook his head, ‘No,’ he said, gesturing to the other occupants of the wagon. ‘You should keep that for your children.’
Watching Ivan
ov refuse the bread, Nikolai was conscious of a stabbing pain in his stomach. For a week, they had survived only on dry biscuits the army issued.
Picking up their mud-stained packs, they joined the throng along the road.
‘Why did you do that?’ Nikolai asked after a while, the rain streaming down his face, soaking through his clothes.
‘Do what?’
‘We’ve had nothing but hard biscuits for days. Why did you refuse the bread?’
At first Nikolai thought Ivanov wasn’t going to answer him.
‘Did you see the eyes of those children?’ Ivanov said eventually. ‘They were hungry and that bread was most likely a day’s meal for them. I thought about how my wife and children are getting along without me and I hope someone will show them the same generosity.’
The rain had started to ease. Nikolai looked up to find the heavy clouds had lifted and separated, allowing rays of sunlight to shine through. They had been marching for thirty hours with very little rest and the warmth came as a welcome relief after a night of tramping through the rain.
‘That’s more like it,’ Nikolai began, before he heard a noise like the turning of a motor. Ivanov heard it too and they both searched the sky for the source of the sound. A biplane broke through a knot of clouds, spitting bullets at the road.
Everywhere, people scrambled for shelter. Ivanov pushed Nikolai towards the birch trees lining the road.
‘Run!’ Ivanov shouted, pushing Nikolai into the cover of the woods. ‘Keep running!’
Nikolai stumbled. The adrenalin pumping through his veins made him forget his tiredness and he ran as fast as he could. He glanced back at the road. Dead bodies lay everywhere, tangled with crushed carts.
Ivanov and Nikolai kept running. When they could no longer hear the drone of the plane and the screams of the wounded, they stopped.
The Russian Tapestry Page 13