The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  Around them, those men who could walk were summoned to the transport that would take them to hospital. Walking beside him, Marina held tight to Ivanov’s hand. When they reached the wagon, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered against his lips, and sealed her words with a second, longer kiss.

  Marie saw the woman holding the child kiss the soldier a second time. Watching them, a spark of jealousy flashed through her. She felt her chest tighten and immediately regretted it, chastising herself for wishing another couple’s happiness for herself.

  She had never felt so alone, needy for someone with whom to share her thoughts. And secrets. And desires. She longed to be held, to feel strong arms around her. To be kissed.

  She wanted Alexei.

  She could not forget him. As God was her witness, she had tried. Riddled with guilt, she tried again and again to push him out of her head. Yet despite her struggles, her thoughts steadfastly held on to him. Throughout the day, she kept up the pretence to herself that he meant little to her. But in the bewitching hour before sleep, when her defences were at their lowest ebb, she couldn’t hold back her thoughts, and the memory of their kiss blazed through her like a firestorm. His scent returned to flood her senses. She felt the touch of his moist lips and grew weak against the pressure of his hand pulling her face towards his.

  While Alexei grew more alive in her mind, images of Pyotr dissolved like snowflakes. It alarmed her how quickly he was fading from her memory. She was already forgetting certain details: the exact colour of his eyes or if his chin dimpled when he smiled. But even as the edges faded, she clung to the final threads, worried he might never return should these last strands be set adrift.

  Having been helped onto the back of the wagon, the Cossack soldier was now sitting in a corner. Marie searched her memory for the soldier’s name. Maybe he had never offered it and she, unsettled by his scrutiny, had never asked. It did not matter now, she thought. They came from different worlds and were unlikely to meet again.

  As the wagon pulled away, Marie saw the woman carrying the little boy step off the kerb and, ignoring the protests and shouts of drivers, stand in the street waving after the wagon until it had vanished from view.

  35

  Petrograd, January 1917

  Katya stood among a crowd lining the bridge, staring down at the frozen Neva River. A handful of policemen hovered over a hole in the ice into which a diver had disappeared a few minutes ago. A chilling wind was blowing but no one wanted to move. All eyes were fixed on the frozen expanse of the river and the black figures that stood in the middle of it. Finally, the diver emerged and was helped onto the ice by the policemen. He was holding one end of a thick rope, which he passed to the policemen and the crowd gasped as the men pulled on it and dragged up a body from the freezing water.

  ‘It’s the Tsarina’s holy man, Rasputin,’ someone whispered, and the words spread through the crowd.

  ‘May his spirit burn in eternal hell,’ a woman spat.

  ‘And same goes for his German whore,’ muttered another.

  The words were uttered just loudly enough for those standing close by to hear.

  Katya turned to leave. Hurrying, she weaved through the traffic to the other side of the street. She was already late to make the breadline and did not look forward to the prospect of spending the remainder of the morning standing in the queue only to be turned away when the bread ran out. Quickening her step, she felt irritated with herself for wasting time at the bridge.

  They had never made it to Warsaw. When the Germans invaded the city, Katya and Fyodor had again joined the exodus of refugees, this time to Petrograd, arriving at the start of winter. They found lodging in a squalid single room run by an elderly widow. Though she looked fragile, Madame Ozerova was a shrewd woman who insisted on prompt payment. Having very little money, Katya begged her to give them an advance on their rent until she could find a job.

  ‘The city is full of refugees and all of them looking for a place out of the cold,’ Ozerova told her. ‘Why should I grant you an exception?’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Katya said. ‘The boy and I have come a long way. We’ve lost everything. We don’t expect handouts, we’re willing to work for our lodging.’

  The widow had looked at the two of them speculatively.

  ‘Alright,’ she said finally. ‘I’m too soft, that has always been my curse.’ She raised one hand to show Katya the knotted fingers crooked with arthritis. ‘These crippled hands are not much help to me any more.’ She buried them again in the folds of her thick shawl. ‘They always feel worse in winter.’

  ‘I have some ointments that can help relieve the pain.’

  ‘I don’t want any of your gypsy witchcraft,’ Ozerova retorted. ‘First thing tomorrow morning, you empty the chamber-pots, then you scrub the staircase. As for the boy, my legs don’t hold up standing in the breadline all day. He needs to be at the queue by six, otherwise there will be none left by the time his turn comes. Do you understand?’

  Fyodor nodded.

  ‘What’s the matter with the boy?’ Ozerova looked Fyodor up and down. ‘Is he mute?’

  ‘He’s very quiet,’ Katya said quickly. ‘You’ll have no problems with him.’

  ‘You’d better be right, because the first sign of trouble and I’ll throw both of you out into the street.’ Taking her cane from where it leant against the wall, Ozerova walked to the stairs. After labouring up a few steps she turned and, seeing that they had not followed, shouted, ‘What’s the matter with you? Have you turned into a pair of statues?’

  She showed them to a room with a single cot covered by a thin mattress and a small table that listed to one side. A window looked down on the busy street. In the corner, a stove sat cold.

  ‘In this wretched city, the only people who can afford to keep a warm stove are the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie,’ Ozerova said bitterly. ‘The rest of us have to scrape and beg for a handful of coal.’ She handed Katya the key. ‘There’s a spare chamber-pot downstairs if you want it.’

  Gathering her courage Katya asked if the widow could also spare them some food. ‘We’ve had nothing to eat all day,’ she pleaded.

  ‘I’m not running a charity,’ Ozerova snapped, but when Fyodor went downstairs with her to retrieve the chamber-pot, she gave him a small parcel wrapped in newspaper. Upstairs, they opened the bundle to find a large slice of bread, a stick of salami and some cheese.

  Katya turned the corner and cursed to find the line already snaking around the block. She looked up and down for Fyodor. When she couldn’t spot him, she joined the queue and was surprised to find news of Rasputin’s death had already reached those ahead of her.

  ‘I heard the Emperor finally woke up to the fact his wife was that swine’s mistress and ordered his execution,’ a woman said.

  ‘Bah!’ said another, waving a dismissive hand. ‘The Emperor is too busy with the war. My Vadya wrote in his last letter that things are deteriorating in the trenches. They have now lost all the territory they won during the Brusilov Offensive.’

  The women tutted and shook their heads.

  ‘While our men eat bullets and suffer from frostbite, we starve behind the lines,’ said the first woman. ‘People are fed up.’ Lowering her voice, she checked to see that she would not be overheard. ‘We’ve been on a strike in our factory for several days and it looks as if we’ll remain that way for some time to come.’

  Standing among them, Katya remained silent, offering no opinion.

  ‘I’ve seen you around Vyborg,’ the second woman said abruptly, turning to face Katya. ‘You’re often walking with that boy.’ A few other women turned and looked at Katya as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Do you work in one of the plants?’

  Katya nodded, feeling her cheeks turning red at having so many eyes on her.

  ‘You have started only recently.’ The woman’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  ‘We are new in Petr
ograd,’ Katya explained, confused as to whether the woman’s last comment had been a statement or a question.

  The eyes lingered on Katya’s face as if deciding whether she could be trusted. Suddenly a youth with his cap pulled low darted forward and began pressing pamphlets into the women’s hands.

  ‘Stop the imperialistic tyranny,’ he said in a low hurried tone. ‘Join the workers’ Soviet.’

  Katya waited in the line until it became clear that the bread had run out. The women’s disappointment at having to leave empty-handed spilled into anger at the baker, accusing him of hoarding the flour. Arguments broke out and someone threw a rock at the shop window, shattering the glass. Katya left as the police arrived to disperse the crowd.

  Walking back to her flat, Katya hoped Fyodor might have had better luck. She ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Behind her, the widow’s voice bellowed from the bottom floor. ‘Where have you been? The boy has not given me my bread. You wretched thief, you are trying to rob me of my meagre rations.’

  Closing the door behind her, Katya found Fyodor at the stove, feeding something into it. A single loaf sat in the centre of the table. Katya covered the space between the door and the table in three quick steps and cut a large slice of bread as Madame Ozerova’s heavy fist banged loudly on the door.

  ‘Open the door this minute. I know you are trying to hide from me. Shame on you, robbing an old woman of her last morsel of bread.’

  Katya opened the door and, before the old woman could say another word, pressed the bread into her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, Madame Ozerova, but I arrived late and missed out. Please, this is half of what Fedya managed to get with our coupons.’

  ‘I heard you leave before the sun was up.’ Madame Ozerova’s face wrinkled into deeper creases. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I saw a crowd gathered along the Petrovsky Bridge and was distracted. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Stay away from them revolutionary types,’ the old woman warned, misunderstanding the reason for the gathering on the bridge. ‘No good will come of them.’

  Katya closed the door behind the widow, letting out a small sigh. Turning, she looked at Fyodor, who looked back at her with a mischievous smile.

  ‘What is it, Fedya?’ she asked, the corners of her lips lifting also.

  ‘I met a revolutionary coming back from the bakery,’ he said, still smiling. ‘He gave me five rubles to distribute these pamphlets for him.’ Bringing his hands from behind his back, Fyodor showed Katya the bundle of papers he carried.

  ‘Fedya, if the police catch you with those, you’ll be arrested and charged with treason.’

  ‘I did not hand out a single one,’ Fyodor said quickly. Motioning to the stove with his chin, he added, ‘I fed them to the stove instead.’

  For the first time, Katya noticed the warmth wafting from the stove. ‘Fedya!’ she said, laughing. Remembering she still carried a pamphlet herself, she reached into her pocket. Too frightened to read it in the open, she had carried it home to read in private.

  ‘Join the workers’ Soviet,’ she read aloud, ‘and put an end to the imperialist war that has bled our country, killed our men, starved our women and made orphans of our children. Bring glory back to Russia! Join the workers’ Soviet!’

  Katya was aware of the Soviet meetings from overhearing whispers at the plant, but she had never attended one. Reading the pamphlet a second time, she felt a stirring of emotion begin to swirl. Folding the paper carefully, she slipped it back into her pocket.

  ‘I am sick of having my children go hungry every day.’

  The women working turned from their machines to look at Larissa. Standing with her hands on her hips, Larissa’s usually laughing eyes flashed with anger.

  ‘Two days in a row I’ve missed out on bread. How am I going to feed my family?’

  ‘I don’t have two sticks to rub together to fend off this freezing cold,’ said another.

  ‘I say we should go on strike until the government gives us bread,’ Larissa said.

  ‘And coal,’ added a third voice.

  ‘I say we go on strike now!’ Larissa punched her fist into her open palm.

  ‘Strike! Strike! Strike!’

  As more and more women joined the call for a strike, Katya remained rooted at her post, torn. Part of her wanted to join with them, but who would look after Fyodor if she was arrested?

  ‘Let’s head to the men’s factory,’ shouted Larissa over the noise.

  The doors were pushed open and Katya, caught in the press of women, had no choice but to follow. Outside the icy air whipped at her arms and legs. Taking shelter in a doorway, she watched the women march across the courtyard to the men’s section. Throwing snowballs at the windows, they beckoned the men to come outside. Among the faces pressing against the window, Katya spotted Fyodor. A few minutes later, he came out, following a group of young men holding aloft a red flag.

  The chanting, which had started with, ‘We want bread! We want coal!’ soon turned to ‘Down with the imperialistic regime!’ and ‘No more war!’ Moving through the factory gates, the crowd headed down the street.

  ‘Fyodor!’ Katya called, worried, but the boy didn’t hear her.

  Katya followed the crowd, keeping her eyes on Fyodor and trying to push through the crush of people to reach him. A few times, she lost sight of him and her heart hammered in panic. The crowd continued to swell, and more people stood between her and the boy. Someone started to sing ‘La Marseillaise’ and the crowd joined in.

  Up ahead, the crowd came to a stop. Craning her neck, Katya saw soldiers blocking the road. As more people also noticed them, the singing died away.

  ‘Turn around and go back,’ the commanding officer shouted to the crowd.

  ‘We want bread, we are starving,’ a woman shouted back. ‘Our children are freezing. We have no coal.’

  ‘There is a war on.’ The officer squared his shoulders. ‘We all have to shoulder the burden.’

  ‘We’re tired of war. We want peace.’

  Katya started to squeeze through the crowd towards Fyodor.

  ‘If you don’t disperse immediately, I have orders to shoot,’ the officer warned.

  Grabbing Fyodor’s arm, Katya pulled him towards her. ‘We need to get out of here.’

  Fyodor shook his head. ‘I’m not leaving.’

  ‘Soldiers, take aim,’ called the officer.

  A deathly silence descended.

  Nobody moved.

  All eyes were focused on the raised weapons. Surely the soldiers wouldn’t fire on unarmed citizens?

  ‘Fedya!’ Katya tugged at the boy’s arm. ‘We must leave now.’

  ‘I’m not leaving,’ he replied tersely. ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘FIRE!’

  Katya shut her eyes, her right hand flying across her body in the sign of the cross. A long second passed before Katya realised nothing had happened. Opening her eyes, she saw the soldiers still in position, their rifles aimed at the crowd.

  ‘I said FIRE!’ shouted the officer, his face turning red.

  Still nothing happened. The crowd started to stir.

  Pulling out his pistol, the officer pressed it against the temple of the nearest soldier.

  ‘Did you not hear me, soldier?’

  Katya used all her strength to pull Fyodor behind her into a side street.

  Crack!

  The guns fired into the crowd.

  ‘Run, Fyodor!’ Katya pushed him ahead of her, not letting him turn to see what was happening to the crowd. Behind them, bullets were fired into the screaming throng.

  36

  Petrograd, February 1917

  The early morning sun lit the tips of St Isaac’s domes. Marie sat at her table close to the French doors, oblivious to the view, her tea growing cold by her elbow. The temperature had dropped sharply but inside they had a warm fire. The coal shortage had forced them to grow frugal, and they only lit the fire for a few
hours in the morning and again in the evening, while for the rest of the day they wore deerskin coats to keep warm.

  Outside, the faint sound of people shouting grew louder. Lifting her head Marie listened. The angry voices, partially muffled by the thick glass panes, came from the street directly below.

  Anna appeared in the doorway and walked over to the balcony door. Marie stood to join her. As she opened the door, a blast of cold air rushed at them, making their eyes water.

  Strikes and demonstrations had become part of daily life. The security police and the Petrograd garrison had initially managed to disperse the demonstrators but, more recently, the soldiers had refused to fire on women and children. Stepping out onto the small balcony, Marie looked down at the angry mob.

  ‘The revolution has started,’ the people below cried to the faces appearing at the windows. ‘All power to the workers! Down with the imperialist regime!’

  ‘What’s happened?’ a neighbour called out.

  A man was about to answer when shots rang out and the crowd scattered, swallowed by the narrow side streets.

  Anna’s fingers fastened around Marie’s arm. ‘We’d better go inside.’

  Marie, mesmerised by the scene, didn’t move.

  ‘Please,’ Anna persisted, tugging at Marie’s arm. ‘It might get dangerous.’

  Marie allowed herself to be pulled inside and Anna closed the doors, turning the large key in the lock. ‘Do you suppose it’s true?’

  Detecting the quiver in Anna’s voice, Marie placed an arm around her narrow shoulders.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘This will soon pass.’ But even as she spoke the reassuring words, Marie struggled to believe them.

  Pskov, March

  Tsar Nicholas sat behind the desk in his private carriage. Travelling from the military headquarters in Mogilev, his train was detained in Pskov, less than a day’s journey from Petrograd.

  Since the murder of Rasputin, Alexandra had taken to bed, grief-stricken. Unable to leave her side, Nicholas had not returned to the front, spending his time at their palace in Tsarskoe Selo instead. He was aware of the mounting disorder in Petrograd but had hoped people’s wartime patriotism would eventually triumph over any revolutionary sentiments.