‘Fight, goddammit.’
A hand squeezed Ivanov’s shoulder. He turned to see another prisoner.
‘That won’t help,’ the man told him.
Shrugging the hand away, Ivanov stood gazing at the limp body.
‘There’s nothing anyone can do for him now,’ the other prisoner said, shaking his head.
Something snapped in Ivanov’s brain. Turning, he grabbed the other man by the collar. ‘If you want to live to see another day, comrade, you’ll keep your opinions to yourself,’ he snarled. Ivanov loosened his grip and the man stumbled away. Ignoring the astonished stares of the other prisoners, Ivanov sank to his knees beside Nikolai’s cot.
‘You cannot die here. You must fight.’ Ivanov’s lips trembled. Bringing his hands together, he prayed. He sat like that for a long time, begging all the saints for the life of his friend.
When he looked down again at Nikolai, his face was calm. His head had rolled to one side and his eyes stared blankly at the corner of the hut. Ivanov touched Nikolai’s hand and immediately recoiled at its coldness.
‘Brother, if I survive this hell, I will go to your parents and let them know their son was an exceptional man.’ Ivanov lowered the lids over the glassy eyes. ‘That’s my promise to you.’
30
Narva, February 1916
The carriage stopped before the large iron gates and the stable boy, Ivan, ran to open them. The carriage then moved slowly up the path to the main house.
Herman Kulbas was waiting at the top of the stairs, looking older and stooped. Valentin, looking sombre, stood beside him. Marie jumped from the carriage, ran up the stairs and threw her arms around her father.
‘My child, the Lord has seen fit to test us.’ Herman Kulbas’s voice was thick with anguish. ‘My son, your brother, is gone.’ A sob escaped him and his body went limp.
‘Papa! … Valentin, quick, help me.’
Together brother and sister escorted their father inside and eased him into a chair. Dropping his head into his hands, Herman Kulbas sobbed like a child.
‘My boy … my Nikolai.’ He turned his wet eyes to the ceiling. ‘Dear God, why did you have to take away my boy, my firstborn? Oh Nikolai.’ He dropped his head in his hands again. ‘We can’t even give him a proper burial.’
Marie’s heart lurched. ‘What are you saying, Papa? We will surely have a church service.’
Monsieur Kulbas shook his head. ‘He is buried in some godforsaken field.’
Marie moved to put her arms around her father but he motioned her upstairs to her mother’s room. ‘Go … go to her. She’s been asking for you.’
Removing her hat and coat, Marie threw them on a sofa and hurried to her mother’s bedroom.
The curtains were drawn tight and except for a dim pool of light around the bedside lamp the room was dark. Marie’s mother lay on her bed, clutching a photo of Nikolai.
Sitting on the bed, Marie took her mother’s hand. Pauline Kulbas slowly turned her head and, seeing her daughter, smiled feebly.
‘Marie, you came.’
‘Of course, Mama. I came as soon as I received the telegram.’
Pauline Kulbas bit down on her lower lip and shut her eyes. Tears streamed down her fleshy face.
‘It is no use. My Nikolai has been taken from me. He was just a boy, at the beginning of his life. Why must mothers send their children to war? Why did he go? Why, Marie? Tell me.’
‘Dearest Mama.’ Forgetting her own pain, Marie struggled to comfort her. ‘Please, you must calm yourself. Would you like me to send for some tea?’
Her mother shook her head. ‘He’s never coming back, Marie. I will not see him marry or hold his children.’ She turned her face away. ‘A mother should never have to go through the pain of outliving her children.’
For the rest of the day Marie sat close by her mother, leaving her side only to eat a small supper with her father and Valentin. Still dressed in the mourning clothes she had travelled in, Marie fell asleep in a chair beside her mother’s bed.
Anna woke her with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder.
‘You should get some rest.’
Marie followed Anna to her bedroom, where she was helped out of her dress and into her nightdress. Exhausted, she fell instantly to sleep.
Pauline Kulbas stayed in bed for over two weeks, refusing all visitors. Throughout, Marie sat by her mother’s side.
On the morning of the church service, Anna laid out Marie’s mourning outfit. Numb and empty, Marie stared at it dry-eyed.
‘The carriages will be arriving shortly.’ Anna held out a hand to her. ‘You need to get ready.’
Marie took Anna’s hand and allowed her to help her off the bed and into her dress.
Later, as the family waited for the carriages, the room was heavy with silence. Sitting on the couch, Marie held tight to Pauline Kulbas’s hand, which was cold and limp.
Across the room, Monsieur Kulbas sat ashen-faced, smoking a pipe. A sickly yellow pallor had replaced his usual healthy glow. Valentin stood behind him, holding on to the back of his father’s chair, his knuckles white.
The double doors opened and they turned at once to the butler.
‘The carriages are here,’ he murmured.
Emptying his pipe in the ashtray, Monsieur Kulbas was the first to rise. Marie helped her mother to her feet, holding on to her elbow to steady her. Together with Anna, she guided Madame Kulbas into her coat and pinned her hat.
‘Are you ready, Mama?’ Marie asked gently, dabbing away her mother’s fresh tears.
Unable to speak, Madame Kulbas nodded and took her husband’s arm, and the pair walked slowly out the door. Behind them, Marie and Valentin, followed by Anna and the remaining staff, filed out the front door and descended the stairs to the waiting carriages.
In the church, dark-clad mourners filled the pews. Marie paid little attention to the service. The pastor’s words, the murmuring of condolences and sympathies, did not come even close to soothing the burning ache in her chest. Closing her eyes, she conjured memories of her brother as he was before he left for the front. Nikolai at ten, teasing her mercilessly, and then as the dashing young man in a dinner suit, escorting her to the theatre.
Pauline Kulbas’s broken cry brought Marie back from her reverie.
All around, members of the congregation turned and looked at them with soft eyes. Oblivious, Pauline Kulbas rocked back and forth, beating her chest, her mouth set in a frozen scream. Stepping down from behind the altar, the pastor took her hand.
‘Nikolai is in the arms of Lord Jesus,’ he said, speaking directly into her ear, his face close. ‘God, in his infinite wisdom, has taken him into his embrace.’
Aside from her lips, which continued to quiver, Madame Kulbas’s body became still, and she looked back at the pastor with round, liquid eyes.
Patting her hand, he gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Your son is in a better place, enjoying eternal life.’
‘Thank you,’ Marie said, her voice dry and brittle.
The pastor gave them both a sympathetic smile. ‘I will pray for you,’ he said, letting go of Pauline Kulbas’s hand.
Following the service, the mourners filed out and moved slowly towards waiting coaches. Walking behind her parents, Marie watched them leaning into one another, her father’s strong, reassuring arms folding around her mother, stroking her hair. Something broke inside her and, ducking behind an elm tree, she cried bitterly into her hands.
31
Marienburg POW Camp, Poland, June 1916
The camp guards moved through the huts, turning on lights and kicking the prisoners out of bed. Ivanov propped himself on his elbows, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Moving to the window, he looked through the grimy glass at the steel-grey sky of the predawn hour and cursed softly under his breath.
All over the camp, men filed outside like ghosts.
Grabbing his tin, Ivanov joined the queue for soup. It saddened him to watch the men waiting in line
like schoolchildren. Hands meant for ploughing, fruit picking or harvesting cupped around tins, held out meekly for rations barely enough to prevent them from starving. Once boisterous and full of life, the men now appeared numb and indifferent to their fates. For them the war was as good as finished. Living behind barbed wire, with little contact from the country they had fought for, they felt abandoned by their emperor.
At night, raiding rubbish bins outside the kitchen, they looked for turnips or potato peelings, or crusts of bread left over from the Germans’ supper. If they had anything to trade, they crossed the barracks to the fence that separated them from the outside and traded it for food from the locals. Ivanov had managed to trade Nikolai’s boots for a loaf of bread and some butter.
His eyes moved to the far end of the camp, where Nikolai was buried. Close by, men were digging a new grave and beside them, the body of a man lay stretched on the ground. Someone had already removed his boots and jacket. Summer had brought with it fresh bouts of dysentery. It spread quickly through the camp, claiming victims with little effort.
Having dug a deep hole, the men lifted the dead man by his arms and feet and lowered him into the grave. As they shovelled the earth over the body, they started their mournful chorus. In the queue, men turned towards the melancholy voices. Slowly, tentatively, they raised their faces to the wind, and sang along. The wind blowing from the west lifted their voices and carried them like a long-forgotten memory across the plains to their families.
Ivanov drove the pickaxe through the soft earth. It was back-breaking work but he did not register the discomfort. For weeks, his mind had been preoccupied with devising a plan. Worried he would not survive the camp long enough to hold his son in his arms, he had resolved to escape. The warmer weather had made the guards lethargic, and as the days grew longer and hotter, they became ever more careless.
Stopping to mop his brow, Ivanov studied the dense forest surrounding the quarry. The thick foliage made flight hazardous but at the same time would provide ample cover. Over the weeks, the seeds of an idea had germinated and gradually solidified into a plan.
Dropping his axe, Ivanov waved one arm while clutching his belly with the other.
‘Comrade!’ he called. ‘Comrade!’
The two closest guards looked up.
‘What is it?’ one of the soldiers barked irritably.
‘Toilet … toilet, comrade,’ he said in broken German. ‘It’s urgent.’
‘You know the rules. You have to wait till lunchtime.’
‘Please, comrade. I can’t hold it.’
‘Then soil your pants.’
Ivanov creased his brow as if he had not understood what the soldier said.
‘Please, comrade. I am not well.’ He saw the soldier hesitate and look to where the other guards stood under a shady tree. They were turned away and not paying them any attention.
‘Alright then,’ the soldier said. ‘But be quick about it.’
‘Danke,’ Ivanov bowed his head. ‘I will be very quick.’
Walking ahead of the soldier, Ivanov took a quick survey of his surroundings. As soon as he stepped into the brush, he slowed down his pace. The soldier pushed him in the back with his rifle.
‘Hurry and do your business quickly.’
Ivanov stopped moving and stood still.
‘What is the matter with you?’ the soldier barked. ‘Have you gone deaf?’ He shoved Ivanov’s shoulder. ‘Can’t you hear me? I said –’
In a swift move, Ivanov grabbed the rifle and slammed it into the soldier’s face, breaking his nose. The soldier’s hand flew to the injury. Before he had a chance to react, Ivanov wrestled him to the ground, strangling his breath with a hard elbow in the diaphragm.
Gasping, the man rolled on the ground, holding his stomach. Ivanov knew the soldiers all carried daggers strapped to their ankles and, pressing his large hand over the soldier’s mouth and nose, he grabbed the dagger and plunged it deep into the man’s jugular. The soldier’s eyes grew wide with surprise. His body twitched, liquid filling his lungs, then went limp. A low gurgling sound rose from the lips and Ivanov pressed down harder to suppress it. Under his gaze, the light in the soldier’s eyes dimmed and extinguished. Slowly lifting his hand he let the head drop to one side. Knowing he only had a short time, Ivanov grabbed the rifle and dagger, and ran into the woods.
He kept running for hours without stopping, determined to put as much distance between himself and the guards as possible. Panting, he eventually paused to rest his head against the trunk of a tree. His heart hammering, he took deep breaths. Standing motionless, he listened, but all he could hear was his blood pounding loudly in his ears.
Looking down at his hands, he saw his bloodied fingers and suddenly felt sick. Grabbing a fistful of dirt, he rubbed it into his palms and felt a little comforted that, with his hands dirty, he no longer could see the blood.
As his breathing calmed, his thoughts turned to Marina. He had received a postcard from her with a picture of his family. His boy, with round cheeks and a soft tuft of curls, sat upright on his wife’s lap, his sisters on either side. Ivanov carried the photo in his pocket and each night, before drifting off to sleep, he kissed their faces.
Pulling out the photograph now, he traced his finger over each family member, pausing a little longer over his son.
‘My son, I hope you never have to experience the terrible guilt of taking another man’s life.’
Replacing the photo, Ivanov pushed himself off the tree and again started to run towards the east and, he hoped, home.
32
Russian Front, June 1916
Embers flew from the flames like tiny fireflies. As a child, Bogoleev could sit for hours staring into the fire while the rest of the world carried on busily around him. It had always helped to clarify his thoughts.
It was almost a year since he had fled Novo-Georgievsk, eventually reaching the reserves.
The Russian armies, led by General Brusilov, had been mounting a campaign to attack the Austrians across a wide front. With morale at an all-time low, the Russians needed this victory, and Bogoleev believed Brusilov was the man to deliver it.
‘Captain!’ An infantryman saluted and stood to attention.
Bogoleev returned the salute. ‘At ease, soldier.’
‘Our men have found a Russian who claims to have escaped a POW camp twenty-four kilometres west of here.’
‘Where did they find him?’
‘He came up to our trenches and called out to our men.’
Bogoleev considered this. ‘Do you think he’s telling the truth?’
The infantryman hesitated. ‘He could be a deserter … or a spy. But I think he’s who he says he is. He’s in a bad way.’
Bogoleev scratched the stubble growing across his chin. He stared into the fire for a few minutes longer before asking, ‘Where is he now?’
‘The orderlies have him in the infirmary. He collapsed as soon as he was pulled into the trenches.’
‘Keep him there. Make sure someone is watching him at all times.’
‘There’s one more thing: he was carrying a German rifle and we found a dagger strapped to his waist. When they undressed him in the infirmary, there were patches of blood on his clothes.’
‘His own?’
‘He has minor scratches and bruises on him.’ The soldier hesitated again. ‘When the doctor examined him, he said the man’s cheekbone had been broken, not recently but some time in the past year. The doctor thinks that the man had not received proper medical attention so the bones have not set correctly.’
‘Has he told us his name?’
‘Yes, Captain.’ The soldier took a small piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Bogoleev. Scratched in pencil in unusually good handwriting was the man’s name, rank and regiment.
‘Whose handwriting is this?’
‘His.’
‘What did he do before the war?’
‘He claims he was a farmer, a Cossack fr
om the River Don. His father taught him his letters.’ Reaching into his pocket again, the soldier pulled out a photograph. ‘We also found this on him.’
Bogoleev studied the picture of the modestly dressed woman with her three children. Flipping it over, he read the other side.
‘It is from Moscow,’ the soldier added.
Bogoleev read the sender’s name: Marina.
‘If he is a spy, then he has certainly gone to a lot of trouble to appear authentic.’ Bogoleev placed the folded paper and the photo in his breast pocket. ‘All the same, we must be cautious. Until we can verify this man’s identity against Stavka’s records, keep a close watch on him. Don’t let him draw anyone into dialogue about the army’s plans.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘Dismissed.’ Bogoleev saluted.
Alone again, Bogoleev turned his gaze back to the flames. He needed time to think. If the man was a spy, he could jeopardise the entire offensive.
Rising to his feet, Bogoleev decided to see the man for himself. Pulling back the flaps of the tent, he walked into the dressing-station. A nurse stepped forward, holding out a hand to stop him.
‘I’m sorry, Captain, but we are very busy at the moment.’
‘I need to speak to the man they brought in a little while ago.’
‘Come back tomorrow morning after we have finished sorting through –’
‘I wish to see him now,’ Bogoleev insisted.
Taken aback, the nurse pointed to a cot at the far end of the tent.
The man was asleep and the soldier stationed to guard him dozed on a chair next to him. Bogoleev woke the soldier with a small kick to the heel of one boot. The soldier’s eyes opened then, seeing the captain, he jumped to his feet.
The Russian Tapestry Page 18