‘Second Lieutenant Kulbas, Third Hussar Regiment,’ Nikolai said when it was his turn.
‘Next of kin?’
Nikolai named his parents.
‘Where were you stationed?’
‘I have been working behind the lines, close to Warsaw.’
The clerk looked up. ‘Why?’
‘I was a translator.’
‘Are you a spy?’
Nikolai shook his head. ‘No.’
The clerk studied Nikolai then, as if satisfied he was telling the truth, informed him, ‘You will be transferred to the officers’ camp, Lieutenant. There you will have a better class of accommodation.’ Raising a stamp, the clerk was about to bring it down on Nikolai’s card when Nikolai interrupted.
‘I have a friend. You processed him just before me. Will we be together?’
The clerk placed the stamp on the table and picked up the previous card. ‘Your friend is not an officer,’ he noted.
Over the past nine months, Nikolai had grown close to Ivanov; he admired his strength of character. Although they came from vastly different worlds, Nikolai found himself seeking Ivanov’s company and advice in preference to most of the officers who shared his quarters. ‘I’d prefer not to be separated from Corporal Ivanov,’ he said.
The clerk laughed. ‘You’re in no position to make demands.’
‘If Corporal Ivanov cannot join me at the officers’ camp,’ Nikolai persisted, ‘then I will go wherever he is sent.’
Surprised, the clerk leant back in his chair.
‘Unlike your allies, your government does not send any provisions for its POWs,’ he said frankly. ‘Conditions in the officers’ camp are far more pleasant than those you would experience with –’ the clerk checked Ivanov’s card again ‘– Corporal Ivanov.’
Nikolai kept his face expressionless. ‘I understand.’
‘As you wish.’ The clerk shrugged. Reaching for a different stamp, he brought it down hard on Nikolai’s card.
Marienburg POW Camp, Poland, September
Nikolai watched as the rim of the sun appeared over the horizon and lit the neat blocks of huts. The Belgian and English soldiers stood at their windows and doorways, watching as the Russian POWs filed towards the gates. It had become apparent from his months at the camp that the Germans reserved the worst treatment for the Russians.
At sunrise each day, Nikolai joined his fellow prisoners in a march to the outskirts of the town, where they worked ten-hour days, digging quarries for iron ore. Toiling in the sun, the prisoners demolished houses, churches and cemeteries to get to the iron-rich soil. Removing corpses was particularly gruesome, and with each resting place disturbed, the men murmured prayers and crossed themselves. This morning, as the gates opened and they filed out, Nikolai was disappointed to find that they were headed for a cemetery once more.
Beside him, Ivanov scratched at a blister that had burst and hardened into a callus. Since arriving at the camp two months ago, Ivanov had grown increasingly quiet, staring out into the woods beyond the barbed wire with distant eyes.
Standing at the gates of the cemetery, Nikolai rubbed his arms to warm himself as he waited for his name to be called.
‘Kulbas!’
He stepped forward.
Consulting his list, the German soldier handed him a shovel. ‘You lot will be clearing out the graves from the children’s section,’ he said.
Ivanov blanched when Nikolai translated the orders, muttering under his breath as they were led to a corner of the graveyard and shown where to dig.
‘They are animals,’ Ivanov muttered angrily as he pushed his shovel hard into the packed dirt. ‘It’s bad enough that we are forced to dig up old people’s graves, but the children …’ Ivanov shook his head. ‘No, these men are worse than animals.’ He spat at the ground. ‘Even animals would not act like them.’
Throwing down his shovel, Ivanov climbed out of his hole.
‘What are you doing?’ Nikolai whispered, shooting a nervous glance at the soldiers.
‘I will not defile a child’s grave,’ Ivanov hissed defiantly.
‘You two, get back to work,’ came a barked command.
Nikolai resumed shovelling the earth, imploring Ivanov with his eyes to do the same. Ivanov, though, stood where he was, glaring at the soldiers who were now running towards him.
‘Work!’ one of the soldiers shouted at Ivanov. He pointed to the hole next to Nikolai. ‘Schnelle!’
Ivanov threw down his shovel. ‘Niyet.’
The soldier’s jaw tensed. He picked up the shovel and pushed it into Ivanov’s chest.
‘Work!’ he repeated.
Ivanov spat at the small patch of dirt between the soldier’s boots.
The soldier stared at the damp stain on the ground then slowly lifted his eyes and fixed them on Ivanov. Ivanov stared back.
As Nikolai watched in horror, the soldier lifted his rifle and slammed it against the side of Ivanov’s face.
Ivanov’s head snapped back. Blood began to trickle from a large gash under his right eye. The soldier then rammed the butt of the rifle into Ivanov’s stomach. Winded, he fell to the ground, pressing one hand to his face and gasping for air. The final blow came down hard on his back.
Breathing heavily, the soldier leant down and grabbed Ivanov by his collar. Dragging him to the edge of the grave, the soldier kicked him in and threw the shovel after him.
‘Now, all of you,’ he said dusting the dirt off his hands and clothes, ‘back to work.’
‘Lyova,’ Nikolai whispered into the grave.
Two hours had passed, but Ivanov had not moved. Frightened to go to him, Nikolai called his name repeatedly, trying to get a response.
‘Ivanov,’ he said, a little louder. He shot a nervous look at the soldier standing nearby. ‘Answer me: are you hurt?’
The soldier walked past, stopping to look down at Ivanov.
‘Your friend is not such a big mouth now, is he?’ he sneered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his tobacco pouch. ‘You know what your problem is?’
Nikolai did not answer.
The soldier rolled a cigarette, smoothing it between his long fingers. Placing it between his lips, he smiled at Nikolai as he lit it.
‘The problem with Russians,’ he said, blowing smoke through his nose, ‘is that you have no discipline.’
Nikolai returned to digging the earth.
‘Take your army, for instance. Your generals spend half their time arguing with one another. Instead of working together to win battles, they bicker and try to save their own arses.’
Nikolai’s back stiffened. How did the soldier know what passed between the Russian generals?
Noticing Nikolai’s reaction, the soldier let out a laugh. ‘We’ve been listening to conversations between your generals for a long time. We know all about your offensives well in advance.’ Bending over, he drew deeply on his cigarette then exhaled in Nikolai’s face. ‘And that’s why Russians will never win against the mighty German army.’
Straightening, the soldier flicked the remainder of his cigarette onto the ground and turned on his heel. Pausing by the grave where Ivanov lay unconscious, the soldier unbuttoned his trousers and urinated.
‘It seems the beating has made him as gentle as a lamb.’ He laughed.
Nikolai kept his head down, staring at the red ember burning at the end of the cigarette. His throat ached with the need to pick it up. Snatching up the cigarette, he sucked at it greedily. With each drag, shame and humiliation washed over him. The tobacco went straight to his head, making him dizzy. He closed his eyes, letting the dizziness travel from his head down his spine. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the soldier staring at him, his mouth twisted in a cruel grin.
At the end of the day, Nikolai, with the help of two other POWs, lifted Ivanov out of the grave. Taking his shirt off, he soaked it in water and dabbed gently at Ivanov’s face. The swelling over the right eye had forced it completely shut but t
he other was open and staring.
‘Lyova.’ Nikolai searched his friend’s face for signs of recognition. ‘Can you hear me?’
Ivanov’s staring eye moved towards the voice. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
‘Help me carry him back to the camp,’ Nikolai said to the others.
They carried Ivanov by his arms and legs on the march back, stopping occasionally to swap men when they grew tired. The sun had dipped behind the hills and stars had filled the sky by the time the POWs reached the gates to the camp.
In their hut, Nikolai sat at the foot of Ivanov’s bed, praying his friend would survive the long night.
‘Lord in heaven, please hear me. Spare Ivanov his life. Let him live.’ His voice cracked. ‘He has a son he has never held. He has a wife and daughters.’
‘Kolya.’
Nikolai opened his eyes and leant over Ivanov’s cot, his heart beaing faster. Had his friend spoken?
‘Water,’ Ivanov croaked through cracked lips.
Cradling his head, Nikolai wet Ivanov’s lips with water from his canteen. ‘I saved you some soup,’ he said.
‘I’m tired,’ Ivanov said weakly. ‘I want to rest.’
Nikolai lowered Ivanov’s head back on the cot. ‘I’ll be right here.’
Ivanov regarded Nikolai through his one good eye. ‘Thank you.’
The next day Nikolai woke early. He had slept badly, his ears alert to the smallest sounds rising from Ivanov. He massaged the spot where his head ached with a dull pain.
‘Lyova, are you awake?’
Ivanov moaned and turned towards his friend’s voice.
Nikolai sucked in a breath. ‘That guard has done a number on your face.’
‘Just wait till I get my hands on that goat fucker!’ Ivanov tried to lift himself on his elbows but Nikolai gently pushed him back.
‘You’re in no condition to talk. Let me take a better look at your face.’
Nikolai tentatively touched the swelling. Ivanov winced.
With no hope of finding bandages, Nikolai tore a strip from the bottom of his shirt. He soaked the cloth with water from his canteen, then placed it over the wound.
‘This will help reduce the swelling. Keep it on your face while I go and get us some food.’
Nikolai moved to leave but Ivanov grabbed his wrist.
‘Why are you doing this, Nikolai? I don’t understand. You stay with me rather than go to the officers’ camp. And you are looking after me now. Why?’
Nikolai shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t you do the same for me?’
Creases deepened around Ivanov’s eye. ‘I was ready to abandon you by the river and make my way alone.’
Nikolai stared at his friend. ‘You don’t mean that.’
Ivanov gave him a hard look that confirmed the truth of his words.
Nikolai’s stomach hollowed. ‘Each of us lives with our own conscience,’ he said in a raw voice. ‘I could not live with myself knowing you were suffering and I did nothing to help.’ After a moment’s silence he added, ‘I once left a friend behind, thinking I was doing the right thing. I should have stayed with him,’ he said, thinking of the night he left Pyotr at the field hospital. He was like a brother to me and I left him. I live with that guilt every day.’ He paused. ‘So you see, we are no different, you and I. Perhaps you are the better man because I did leave Pyotr while you stayed with me.’
26
Tsarskoe Selo, September 1915
Fifteen officers on leave from the front arrived early with their stallions in preparation for the race. All day, workmen rushed about setting up marquees while servants arranged tables, chairs and settings brought from the palace. The pavilion erected for the royal family and dignitaries was decorated with flags and flowers chosen especially by the Empress.
Trains and carriages brought visitors from Petrograd and the estates at Peterhof. Women wearing large hats and carrying parasols mingled with men in suits. The oldest grand duchesses, both dressed in white, sat together surrounded by a group of eager young officers bidding for their attention. Tsarevich Alexei, wearing a Cossack uniform, sat close by his mother between his two servants. The Empress sat beside Rasputin, with her servants and ladies-in-waiting hovering around them.
Alexei arrived in a troika, drawn by three horses harnessed side by side, accompanied by Grigory and several other officers from Tsarskoe Selo. On the way, they had discussed the Tsar’s decision to replace the grand duke as the military’s supreme commander.
‘What is your opinion, Major General?’
Alexei shook his head. ‘It’s not for me to question the Tsar,’ he said diplomatically. ‘But I don’t believe the grand duke deserved the demotion.’
‘What do you think will happen now?’ another asked.
‘The Emperor will have to spend more time at the front.’
‘I don’t think the Empress is going to like that very much,’ an officer with a heavily bandaged arm said with a laugh.
‘I should think she would insist on visiting him at Stavka with her children,’ someone suggested.
‘Will we ever be rid of that nemka and her priest?’ the first officer asked.
‘I should think not. The Emperor is devoted to both of them. Rumour has it, he can’t make a decision without them.’
All talk of politics ceased upon their arrival as the men became distracted by the first group of riders, who were lining up for the race. After much jostling and a few false starts, the starting gun fired and the horses took off. Around the course, spectators rose to their feet for a better view. From his vantage point close to the pavilion, Alexei followed the riders through his binoculars. As the riders turned a corner, Alexei’s attention was drawn to a figure standing close to the gates. His heart nearly stopped as he recognised Marie – not just in his imagination, but right there. Dressed in a simple but elegant summer dress and broad-brimmed hat, she was the epitome of grace. As he watched, she turned and said something to her companion, a slender young blonde woman dressed in the latest fashion.
Marie’s face was animated, glowing with excitement.
A horse stumbled, throwing its rider to the ground. A loud gasp rose from the crowd and they pressed forward, obscuring Alexei’s view. Lowering the binoculars, he looked for her but there were too many people blocking his eyeline.
‘Is there something the matter, Excellency?’ Grigory stood at his side. ‘If Excellency is worried about the rider, I can find out whether he’s been injured.’
‘No. No need,’ Alexei said, scanning the crowd again for Marie. At last he spotted her close to the accident scene. Craning her neck, she was looking in the direction of the rider. The crowd reluctantly parted to allow the doctor and his assistant to reach the injured man. Marie attempted to follow them but was stopped by her companion, who pulled her away to a less crowded area.
‘Hand me my cane please, Grigory,’ Alexei said, without taking his eyes off Marie. ‘There’s no need for you to come too.’ He passed Grigory his binoculars. ‘I won’t be long.’
He found Marie and her companion at a small table near the pavilion. It was the first time he had seen her without her nurse’s habit and he thought that she had never looked lovelier. His pulse quickened and a certain uneasiness crept into his mind. Had she received his last letter? And if so, how would she react when meeting him again? He had almost decided to turn back when she saw him, and her eyes brightened with an astonished joy that lit up her face.
‘Mademoiselle.’ He bowed formally. ‘What an unexpected surprise.’
‘Excellency.’ Marie offered him her hand.
Bending low to kiss it, he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, noticing that she blushed and pursed her lips to restrain a smile.
‘May I present my cousin, Mademoiselle Darya Mostovsky.’
Darya held out a gloved hand. ‘Won’t you join us?’
Alexei moved a chair close to Marie’s. ‘Are you enjoying the races?’ he asked.
‘I was unti
l one of the riders had a fall. Dasha stopped me from going over to help.’
‘And rightly so,’ her cousin interjected. ‘After all, you are not on duty and your dress would have been ruined in the mud, not to mention how inappropriate it would have looked. Don’t you agree, General?’
‘Not wishing to contradict you, Mademoiselle, but I can vouch for Mademoiselle Kulbas’s skill from first-hand experience. The rider would have only benefited from her attention.’ Alexei’s throat burnt with the effort of speaking and he coughed delicately into his fist. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Shrapnel wound.’ He pointed to the purple scar snaking down his neck.
A worried expression crossed Marie’s face. ‘Were you badly hurt?’
‘I was lucky. Another man took most of the impact.’ Seeing the sad expressions on the women’s faces, Alexei said, ‘We should not dampen the mood with talk of war. Ah, there’s a waiter. Let us have some champagne.’
As the drinks were served, Alexei observed Marie more closely. She was as beautiful as he remembered her. Her boots, her long fitted dress, the fur on her collar, her hat, and the light makeup was youthful and in keeping with the latest fashion. Yet, in contrast to so many of Petrograd’s women, she was modest and reserved, and did not draw unnecessary attention to herself. Alexei found it hard to take his eyes off the heart-shaped face. He noticed a new sadness in her that showed in the strain at the corners of her grey eyes. He felt an overwhelming urge to soothe her pain, to stroke her hair and feel the smooth warmth of her skin.
She looked up and their eyes met and held for a long moment. She was the first to break contact, dropping her gaze to her lap.
‘And how is your family?’ Alexei asked her. ‘Last time I saw you, you had received a message which greatly distressed you.’
A shadow passed over Marie’s face. She stared down at the glass in her hand. ‘My parents and younger brother are in Narva and are fine. As for my brother Nikolai –’ her voice caught but she quickly regained her composure ‘– I have not heard from him in a while.’ Placing her glass on the table, she absent-mindedly twisted the engagement ring on her finger. ‘My fiancé is still missing. I’ve sent letters and telegrams to Stavka but there has been no news. It’s as if he has vanished from the face of the earth.’
The Russian Tapestry Page 15