The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  Pale yellow light from his lamp spilled over the telegrams strewn across a map of the eastern front. Picking up pages at random, his shoulders gave an involuntary shudder at the repeated requests for his abdication. He reread the telegram from his uncle, the Grand Duke Nicholas.

  I beg you on bended knee to avoid bloodshed and abdicate the throne.

  He dropped the telegram back on top of the pile of papers. Grief squeezed his throat. He stood and paced the carriage. Pausing at the window, he looked blankly at the stretch of densely packed pine and cedar trees, capped with snow. On the horizon, the pale sun sank, taking with it the last of the day’s warmth. Watching the sky change, Nicholas chewed absently at the inside of his lip.

  He checked his watch. It would not be long now. The air in the carriage felt stale yet he did not move to open the window. Pulling at his collar, he tried to relieve its noose-like grip on his throat but eventually gave up and slumped on the chair by the window, waiting for the end to arrive.

  It was dark when the second train slowed and stopped. Two figures, wrapped in heavy coats with their heads bent against the cold bite of the night air, alighted and walked hurriedly towards the royal train. Watching them approach, Nicholas recognised Guchkov and Shulgin, members of the state Duma. Returning to sit at his desk, Nicholas felt the heavy hand of dread closing around him. He took a breath and readied himself for what was to come.

  Guchkov and Shulgin entered the carriage and for a moment stood nervously, as if wondering whether they should bow. The Tsar saved the men from their embarrassment by waving them over.

  ‘Gentlemen, let’s get this over as quickly as possible.’

  Picking up his pen, Nicholas signed the papers the men placed before him. And although his expression was set, he could feel the pinpricks of tears stabbing at his eyes.

  37

  Petrograd, March 1917

  Marie sat across from Princess Maria, staring mutely into her teacup. Since Pyotr had been declared missing, Marie had called on the princess regularly, though Pyotr’s absence loomed large in the silences between them and their conversations were invariably strained and awkward.

  Today, the princess had sent for Marie to inform her she was leaving Petrograd.

  ‘With the Emperor abdicating, our future here is uncertain.’ She stirred her tea slowly. ‘Things seem to be a little better in the south. I’ve left instructions with the staff to notify me if there is … well … in case there is any word from Pyotr.’

  Marie nodded, her throat constricting.

  The princess reached across the table and touched Marie’s hand.

  ‘It’s been almost three years since we last heard anything from him.’ The princess dropped her chin. ‘Maybe we should consider the possibility that he’s not coming back.’

  Marie felt the room spin around her. ‘How could you say such a thing?’ She pulled her hand away.

  Flinching at the harshness of Marie’s voice, the princess retreated to her seat. ‘Don’t for one minute assume that I feel no pain. I carried that child inside me and felt him grow. I rejoiced in his every turn and kick and prayed that God would grant him a long and happy life.’ She dabbed at the corner of one eye with a handkerchief. ‘The day he introduced me to you, I thought all my prayers had been answered. I would give my life to have him back. But it seems that when it comes to war, God is on no mother’s side.’ She looked at Marie earnestly. ‘You are still so young, Marie; don’t throw away your chance to find happiness with someone else.’

  Marie immediately thought of Alexei and blushed.

  ‘Maybe you have met someone already,’ the princess remarked.

  Unable to hold the princess’s watchful gaze, Marie’s eyes dropped.

  ‘There’s no need to feel ashamed,’ the princess said, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice. ‘Seeking happiness is never something to be ashamed of.’ She sighed. ‘I am sure it is what Pyotr would want,’ she added.

  Leaving the palace, Marie politely refused the offer of a carriage. She needed to think and decided she would walk. The sky was bright and clear and everywhere the streets were quiet, but the roadblocks, barricades and charred remains of buildings were reminders of the city’s tensions. Wrapping her coat around her, she walked along the footpath, the princess’s words echoing in her head. Maybe Pyotr’s mother was right. Maybe it was time to stop grieving and start living.

  Arriving home, Marie headed straight to her room. Taking off her coat, she sat before her dressing table, staring at her reflection. Then, opening one of the drawers, she pulled out Pyotr’s diary. Her heart somersaulting, she turned to the back, where she kept his last letter. Marie’s eyes filled with tears as she read his final words to her.

  Together again, we would never part. I beg you to wait for me.

  Tides of emotion swirled and drove against her chest. She lowered her head, one hand resting on the diary. She was still sitting there, anchored to her seat by grief, when Anna came in to help her get ready for dinner.

  Once dressed, Marie held out the diary to Anna. Hesitating, Anna took the small leather-bound book and flicked through the pages. ‘This is Pyotr’s.’

  Marie lifted her eyes. ‘I want you to take it away.’ She spoke the words softly, her voice caught and pulled by an invisible force from within.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Marie nodded, tears flooding her vision.

  ‘What do you want me to do with it?’

  Marie’s shoulders slumped. She dropped her eyes. ‘Do what you think is best.’

  ‘Marie …’

  ‘Anna, please.’ She bit down on her fist. ‘Take it away before I change my mind.’

  Anna placed a hand on Marie’s shoulder. ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she said.

  A quiver passed through Marie. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so too.’

  ‘Is there something I can do for you?’

  Marie shook her head, not able to speak and not able to look Anna in the eyes. For a moment, she considered confessing, to unburden herself from the guilt she carried. But even as her eyes turned to Anna, her throat clamped. She couldn’t do it. Anna would not understand.

  ‘What is it, Marie?’ Anna’s look was full of concern. ‘Would you like me to send your apologies to your uncle? Tell them you are not well?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I just need a few minutes on my own.’

  After Anna had gone, Marie again opened her drawer, this time to retrieve a letter she kept in a bundle between other letters from her family. Untying the ribbon, she found the one she was looking for. Her heart sped at the sight of Alexei’s handwriting. Holding the envelope close to her face, she inhaled, but any scent the letter once may have held had long disappeared.

  Unfolding the single piece of paper, she read the few lines.

  Dearest Marie,

  Her body ached to hear him whisper her name again.

  I know this is an impossible dream, the mere infatuations of a foolish man … How I wish I was ten years younger. I would have fought to win your affections.

  She wondered if he still felt the same way, or if he had long forgotten her. She read the words again – fought to win your affections.

  ‘This is foolish!’ she said aloud. ‘You know what officers are like, Marie. Besides, he’s a married man. You must forget him!’

  But even as she uttered the words, her heart unhinged at the hope of meeting him again. Memories of their days in Tsarskoe Selo slipped across her mind like scenes from a dream.

  An exhausted sigh escaped her lips. ‘That’s all it is,’ she told herself, ‘a dream.’

  Feeling hollow, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Slowly, a stern look hardened around her eyes.

  ‘It’s time you grew up,’ she told herself.

  Getting to her feet, she reached for the shawl Anna had laid out on the bed. Hesitating at the door, she inhaled then, stepping through, shut it decisively behind her.

  38

  Moscow, April 1
917

  Once discharged from hospital, Ivanov joined his family at Dmitry and Tamara’s apartment. His family slept in the tiny living room, while Dmitry and his wife had the bedroom. On his first weekend home, Tamara and Dmitry treated the children to an afternoon in the park, leaving Marina and Ivanov to be on their own.

  In the afternoon light, Marina stood before him as he sat on the bed. With her back to him, she pulled out her hairpins, then shook her head so that her hair cascaded over her shoulders in a river of gold. Ivanov suddenly felt shy as his wife unbuttoned her shirt and then her skirt and let them drop to the floor. She turned and his gaze moved down the length of her, pausing at the dark shadow between her legs.

  ‘You’ve gone grey,’ she remarked. ‘It makes you look distinguished.’ Moving closer, she traced the silver strands growing at his temple, then ran her fingers lightly, gently down to where the broken bones caved into his face. And her smile disappeared.

  Removing her hand, Ivanov brought it to his lips and kissed each finger in turn. He had spent countless nights dreaming of her, recalling the press of her fingers as she held him close, gripping his back like her life depended on it. Wrapping his arms around her, he thought back to the long lonely nights when all had seemed lost. It was thoughts of returning to her, to her warm, welcoming arms, that had sustained him and given him strength. Without even knowing it, she had saved him. Because of her, he had wanted to live. Nuzzling his face against her neck, he inhaled the sweet lavender scent of her soap on her skin.

  She took his hand and placed it over her left breast. He could feel her heart beating in her ribcage like a trapped bird. He kissed her, first tenderly on the lips and then urgently, moving his mouth down to her throat and breasts. He bit gently at the taut nipples and she moaned, clawing at his curls, pulling him closer.

  He drew her down to the bed and lowered himself on top of her. As he entered her, he heard her breath catch. The tiny gasps made him want to weep in gratitude. He held her tight, showering her with kisses, needy and possessive of her.

  Afterwards, they held one another. Resting her head on his shoulder, she caressed the length of his chest with the tips of her fingers.

  ‘Lyova?’

  ‘Hmm?’ His voice was groggy with sleep.

  ‘Now that you are released from the army, will we be returning to our village?’

  ‘We have little to go back to. We have no livestock, and with no one tending the fields they would have all gone to weed.’

  ‘We can’t stay here. Dima has been more than generous, but we must find a place of our own.’

  Ivanov had been thinking along the same lines. ‘Dima has found me a job at his munitions plant as a machine operator. We’ll start looking for our own place as soon as I am earning money.’

  ‘With so many refugees in Moscow, it will be hard to find anywhere decent.’ She lifted herself on one elbow. ‘Can’t we somehow go back to our village?’ She kissed his chest. ‘Back to the steppes?’ Ivanov groaned as her lips moved lower. ‘To our home by the Don?’

  Ivanov’s breath became shallow as Marina’s warm lips reached his torso. ‘What are you doing to me, Marishka?’

  Lying flat on top of him, Marina brought her face level with his. ‘I don’t want to stay in Moscow any longer.’

  Cupping her face, he kissed her lips. ‘Why do you say that? My pay at the munitions plant will be more than what we earned from the farm – and I’ll work hard. Things will get better, just be patient.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you!’ She rolled off him. Taking her wrist, he tried to pull her back. ‘Listen to me, Lyova.’ Twisting her hand, she freed her arm and reached for her blouse. ‘Things will not be getting better any time soon.’

  ‘Why do you insist on talking about this now?’ he sighed. ‘Come, Marishka …’ He smiled suggestively. ‘Show me again how much you missed me.’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Stepping into her skirt, she fastened it and reached for her shirt. ‘Every day there is a new strike. One day the trams don’t run. The next day the garbage is overflowing. The shops along Arbat don’t have anything to sell. And even if they did, they are so expensive we couldn’t afford to buy it. There is no coal. No bread. Every morning Toma and I line up for hours for bread. I don’t dare send the girls on their own in case others steal the bread from them.

  ‘As for the factory, according to Dima the workers are deliberately sabotaging the equipment. And when the foreman and owners yell at them, the workers feign ignorance, and blame the interruptions on faulty equipment.’

  ‘People are sick of the war. Things will settle down.’

  She gave him a level look. ‘Get dressed, Leo. It’s getting dark. They will be home soon.’

  Although he was sympathetic to the workers’ grievances, Ivanov avoided their meetings. Keeping his head down, he worked diligently at his station.

  ‘Afternoon, comrade.’

  A couple of paces away stood a tall, handsome, dark-haired man. ‘You are new here.’ The man thrust his hand out. ‘I saw you walking to the plant this morning with Dmitry. I’m Mikail Aleksandravich Bazarov.’

  Ivanov took his hand. ‘I know who you are.’

  Bazarov smiled. ‘So you are familiar with the Bolsheviks?’

  Ivanov turned back to his machine. ‘I know of them.’

  ‘Dmitry is a member. Maybe you’d like to come to our next meeting.’

  ‘I prefer to keep to myself.’

  ‘Times are changing. The workers of Russia need to unite to bring about progress.’

  Ivanov said nothing. A foreman approached and Bazarov pretended to be helping Ivanov.

  ‘What are you doing away from your station, Bazarov?’ The foreman, a large potbellied man, glared at them suspiciously.

  ‘I was just helping the new operator with his machine.’

  Ivanov gave Bazarov a stony look.

  ‘Do what you have to do quickly and get back to your own work,’ the foreman said sharply. ‘And if I find you are stirring trouble –’ he pointed a fleshy finger at the two men ‘– I’ll throw you both out.’

  As soon as the foreman left, Ivanov turned to Bazarov. Grabbing the other man’s collar, he hissed into his face, ‘I can’t afford to lose this job.’ He tightened his grip. ‘You understand me?’

  ‘Calm down, comrade.’ Bazarov held up his palms.

  Ivanov let go of Bazarov’s collar. ‘Stay away from me.’ He gave him a small shove.

  ‘Fine, I’ll leave you alone. But just in case you change your mind, we are holding a small memorial in honour of the Petrograd workers.’ Bazarov slipped a folded pamphlet into Ivanov’s coat pocket. ‘You have heard about the fate of the bread rioters, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ said Ivanov tersely.

  ‘Then I hope to see you at the meeting.’ Touching his cap, Bazarov walked back to his station.

  The changes promised by the Provisional Government formed after the abdication of the Tsar were slow to arrive but Ivanov remained hopeful, reasoning that problems caused by years of war and mismanagement could not be resolved overnight.

  Walking with Dmitry to the plant the next morning, they passed several stalls selling revolutionary books. Dmitry stopped to browse at one with a banner reading SOCIALIST REVOLUTIONARY PARTY. Ivanov lit a cigarette and watched as Dmitry haggled over the price of a book with the vendor.

  ‘Which party do you belong to, comrade?’ asked a young man with a dusting of hair over his upper lip, who was standing behind the stall.

  ‘I don’t belong to any party,’ Ivanov said gruffly.

  ‘You can join ours,’ the youth said excitedly. ‘The Socialist Revolutionary Party is the most democratic of all the parties.’

  Ivanov groaned and turned his back on him. ‘That’s funny – that’s what the Mensheviks and the Bolsheviks say about their parties.’

  Leaving the stall, Ivanov and Dmitry fell into step. Tucked under his arm, Dmitry carried the latest edition of
Pravda, a revolutionary paper with columns in it written by a man named Lenin.

  ‘I like this Lenin.’ Dmitry pointed to a picture of a scowling, nearly bald man.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘You don’t know Lenin? He is the leader of the Bolshevik Party and currently living in exile. There are rumours he’ll be returning soon.’

  Ivanov shrugged. ‘I don’t know much about these things.’

  Dmitry changed the subject. ‘I heard you met Bazarov.’

  ‘I suppose he told you of the reception he received from me.’

  ‘He’s telling everyone you welcomed him with open arms.’ Dmitry laughed. ‘Are you coming to the memorial?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘The Provisional Government has announced the First Congress of Soviet Deputies,’ Dmitry said. ‘After we remember the Petrograd workers we plan to nominate a representative to attend the congress on our behalf.’

  ‘On whose behalf?’

  ‘Our behalf – yours and mine.’ Dmitry looked at Ivanov incredulously. ‘The Bolshevik Party.’

  ‘I’m not a member.’

  ‘You can join at the meeting.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ivanov sighed.

  ‘Listen. I’ve been approached by some of the men.’ He placed a hand on Ivanov’s shoulder. ‘They want you to represent them at the meeting.’

  ‘Why me? I’m not even a member. Why don’t you nominate yourself?’

  Dmitry shook his head. ‘The men like you. You fought at the front and escaped a POW camp. You have earned their respect. And trust.’

  ‘But I don’t know the first thing about politics.’

  ‘There’s not much to know.’ Dmitry nodded a greeting to the guard at the gate. ‘All you have to do is attend the congress and put forward our grievances.’