The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  Herman Kulbas dropped his eyes for a moment to control his emotions, then forced himself to look back into the captain’s face. The smile that greeted him chilled him to the core. ‘If there are no more issues you wish to discuss, captain,’ he fought to keep his voice steady, ‘I’d like to return to my family.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there is one more matter. My men suffer from lice. Their clothes need to be boiled.’

  ‘We have large copper pots the men can use.’

  The captain’s smile widened at the same time as his eyes turned a shade darker.

  Understanding the meaning behind the smile, Monsieur Kulbas retorted, ‘My household staff have enough to do with cooking and chopping wood for your men.’

  ‘This might be a good opportunity for your children to participate.’

  ‘Surely you are not suggesting my son and daughter be engaged in doing your men’s laundry?’

  The captain downed his drink. ‘That’s precisely what I mean.’

  In the laundry, Marie and Anna, with the help of Valentin, stoked fires and boiled water in large copper pots. Their skin slick with sweat, their faces flushed as they stirred the uniforms with long sticks. Taking a load out to dry on the lines, Marie was approached by a soldier.

  ‘My uniform needs mending.’ The man held out a torn collar to Marie.

  ‘I don’t know how,’ she said matter-of-factly and went back to hanging the wet uniforms on the line.

  Grabbing her arm, the soldier spun her roughly and pushed the uniform at her.

  ‘I want this mended by tonight or none of you gets to eat tomorrow.’ His eyes blazed with fury. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  Marie nodded, not trusting herself to speak without her voice breaking. The soldier held on to her arm a little longer, squeezing it tighter. ‘By tonight,’ he warned again, then walked away, his boots crunching on the gravel.

  Marie stood frozen on the spot with her eyes shut, fighting back tears. She did not notice Anna approach and prise the uniform from her clenched fist.

  ‘It’s alright, Marie,’ she soothed. ‘I’ll look after this for you.’

  Marie opened her eyes and tears of gratitude and humiliation spilled down her face.

  That evening Marie sat close to Anna, watching as Anna threaded a needle then made small, even stitches. Marie then attempted to do a few on her own.

  ‘It’s a good start.’ Anna smiled encouragingly.

  Bending her head close to the uniform, Marie compared her irregular stitches to Anna’s straight, even ones and laughed. Her parents looked at them curiously and smilingly shook their heads at the sight of two of them holding a uniform between them and laughing. As for Marie, a smile played about her lips as she struggled with the next few stitches and, for a fleeting moment, her amusement helped drown the gnawing ache in her belly.

  Each day posters with the latest announcement flapped in the wind as if impatient to fly away. Marie and Anna joined a crowd of people in the town centre, craning their necks for a better look.

  ‘What does it say?’ a person at the back of the group called out.

  ‘The Germans are demanding that each household volunteer two members to grow vegetables for their troops.’

  ‘Outrageous,’ a man next to Marie hissed under his breath. ‘We hardly have enough time to tend to our own gardens, and even those vegetables we do manage to grow they take from us.’

  Arriving home exhausted one evening, his hands blistered from handling the hoe all day, Valentin said, ‘The Germans have put up a new announcement today.’ He warmed his hands by the fire. ‘If any family is not contributing enough, a family member will be taken by force and held until their family complies.’ He paused and blew on the bowl of broth Lara handed him.

  ‘My nerves can’t stand any more,’ declared Pauline Kulbas.

  Marie put a protective arm around her mother. ‘Let’s do something more cheerful. Do you want to play a round of cards?’

  Madame Kulbas shook her head. ‘No, I’m too tired.’

  Sitting her mother on the bed, Marie undid the hair coiled at the back of her mother’s neck and ran a comb through the thick locks.

  ‘You’ve grown so thin, Marie.’

  Surprised by her mother’s sudden remark, Marie’s hand froze for a moment. ‘We all have,’ she said, carrying on with her combing.

  ‘I worry about you, Marie.’ Pauline Kulbas looked up at her daughter. ‘Your father and I are at the end of our lives; we have tasted both the sweetness and the bitterness of its fruit. But you, child –’ she cupped a hand under Marie’s chin ‘– you are still at the beginning. I don’t want to see the spark in you slip away. Don’t let this war beat you. Life has a way of healing your wounds, but you need to keep yourself open to all its possibilities.’

  Marie gently pulled her mother’s hand away. ‘You must rest.’

  Pauline Kulbas searched her daughter’s face for a little longer before dropping her eyes.

  ‘Goodnight, Mama.’ Marie kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’

  Pauline Kulbas’s hand tightened around Marie’s wrist. ‘One day you will be a mother,’ she said, sadly. ‘And you’ll realise that a mother never stops loving or worrying about her children.’

  48

  Western Russia, October 1918

  Bogoleev walked into the mud dugout, removing his fur papakha. He went straight to the map spread across the table, ignoring Alexei and Ivanov, who had been waiting for him for the past thirty minutes. Taking a gas lamp, he placed it at the centre of the table.

  ‘The lines have been cut.’ He pointed to a series of markings on the map. ‘The English are pressing from the south-west and the White Army is closing from the east.’ He raised his head to meet the other men’s eyes. ‘We’re surrounded.’

  ‘We can’t fight on two fronts.’ Alexei stepped into the light. ‘Our best chance is to take a defensive position and then flee once it is dark.’

  Bogoleev gave Alexei a long look, considering his advice.

  ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘We will stay and fight.’

  ‘That would be suicide.’

  ‘I don’t see an alternative,’ Bogoleev said in an abrasive tone. ‘You know as well as I do that if Trotsky hears we have fled, he’ll drag us all before a firing squad without a moment’s hesitation.’

  Alexei leant over the table. ‘You have a responsibility to the men under your command.’

  Bogoleev took a step closer to Alexei. At his full height, he stood almost a head taller. ‘Don’t lecture me on responsibility. For years, our esteemed generals threw away soldiers’ lives without a second thought. The men out there –’ he jabbed a finger towards the trenches ‘– know what they are fighting for and they are willing to lay down their lives for it.’

  Alexei held Bogoleev’s gaze a little longer before dropping his eyes.

  Satisfied, Bogoleev turned to Ivanov. ‘Prepare the troops for battle.’

  The men stood to attention, watching their commander. As Bogoleev spoke to them about victory, some eyes travelled to the white skies, then down to the mud on their boots before eventually returning to rest on Bogoleev. The dull thundering of cannons, not far away, sent small tremors through the soles of their boots, making the men shift nervously.

  ‘Comrades, today we fight for Soviet socialism. Today we fight the enemies of the revolution. We must put an end to the tyranny and the oppression that has plagued the hard-working peasants’ lives throughout Russia’s history.’

  Pausing, Bogoleev stared into the distance. When he spoke again, his voice was softer and the men had to lean in to hear him.

  ‘You have proved yourself worthy soldiers. Our leaders in Moscow have noticed your efforts and rewarded you accordingly with better rations and promotions. Today, I will stand beside you to fight our common enemy. Side by side we will fight to right past injustices, for the glory of our revolution and freedom for our children.’

 
As snow fell steadily, dusting coats and papakhas in white flakes, the men blew on their hands, waiting to see whether the enemy would mount the first attack.

  Alexei stood between Bogoleev and Ivanov, one eye pressed against the viewfinder of his rifle. The icy air squeezed his lungs, making his breath wheeze inside his chest. He hated fighting for the Reds and twice had tried to escape. After he was captured a second time, Bogoleev warned him he would be shot on sight if he tried to escape again.

  Surrendering or defecting was also out of the question. With the unspoken understanding that neither side took prisoners, Alexei’s only choice was to continue with the Reds.

  Somewhere across no-man’s-land a bugle sounded. White Army soldiers in long dark coats, papakhas pulled down over their ears, ran across the snow-covered fields. Having dug into the hill, the Reds held the higher ground and immediately opened fire on the advancing army. In between exploding shells, the chatter of machine guns and the screams of the wounded, a military band played a marching tune as men fell around them.

  Pressing his back against the trench wall, Alexei reloaded his gun, drew a breath to steady himself and took aim. His first shot missed but the second hit a soldier in the kneecap. The man reeled and collapsed to the ground, grabbing his knee with both hands. Eyes wide with pain, he looked around for a place out of the firing range. Spotting a crater, he crawled towards it, dragging himself on his elbows. He was almost at the mouth of the crater when a bullet hit him in the head and he fell, still, to the frozen earth.

  A shell exploded to Alexei’s left and he threw an arm over his head to protect himself from the shower of metal fragments.

  ‘Come with me.’ Bogoleev tapped first Alexei and then Ivanov on the shoulder. Holding his rifle in front of him, Bogoleev climbed the ladder to a platform where a machine gun was mounted. Last to climb the ladder, Alexei reached the gun just as Bogoleev and Ivanov were pulling the two operators from behind it. One, still alive, opened and closed his mouth, gasping for air. Blood foamed at his lips and trickled down his chin. Kneeling over him, Alexei made the sign of the cross.

  ‘Leave him,’ Bogoleev barked. ‘Help me operate the gun.’

  The machine gun’s legs were bent and half buried under debris. Pulling the trigger Bogoleev sprayed bullets into the air at random.

  ‘Keep it steady,’ he yelled.

  Taking the stand, Ivanov kept the gun from jumping.

  ‘Serov, feed the bullets.’

  Alexei was about to rise when a faint pressure on his hand made him stop. The soldier’s blood oozed out of the hole where the shrapnel had embedded itself. Looking straight at Alexei, the soldier moved his mouth, struggling to form words. Alexei placed his ear close to the soldier’s lips.

  ‘P-pray for …’ The noise of the battle drowned out the rest of the words. Alexei waited a few more seconds, and when he heard nothing more lifted his head in time to see the soldier shudder then grow still.

  ‘Serov!’

  Alexei jumped to his feet. He had only taken a step when another explosion threw him off the platform into the trench. Dazed, he lay on his back staring at the pale sky and struggling for air.

  ‘Comrade Serov!’

  Still struggling for breath, Alexei pushed himself to a sitting position and looked back up to the platform.

  Ivanov, his jacket splattered with blood, leant over the edge. ‘I need your help. The commissar is hit.’

  Slinging the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, Alexei climbed back up the ladder. He found Bogoleev, bloodied and unconscious, slumped over the machine gun.

  Laying him on the ground, Ivanov pulled out his field medical pouch and, after applying iodine, bandaged the wound to stop the bleeding.

  ‘Help me lift him.’

  Hooking Bogoleev’s arms around their shoulders, Alexei and Ivanov carried him between them. At the field hospital, they placed him on a stretcher and stepped back to allow the doctor to examine the wounds. Cutting the bandages, the doctor carefully peeled them back to look at the raw flesh. A nurse stood at the doctor’s elbow.

  ‘There’s nothing more you can do for him,’ she said when she saw Ivanov and Alexei still waiting. Seeing Ivanov’s hand bleeding, she lifted it to take a better look. ‘That looks as if it might need stitches.’ She pointed to a single chair at the front of the tent. ‘You’d better wait over there until the doctor can see you.’

  ‘It’s only a flesh wound.’ Ivanov pulled his hand away.

  The nurse shrugged. ‘It’s your choice. I can bandage it for you but come and see me if it gives you any trouble.’

  Katya watched the soldiers leave, their bodies hunched against the wind. Aside from the odd exploding shell, the battlefield had fallen quiet, catching its breath before the next instalment. Stretchers carrying the wounded arrived at a steady pace. Several times, she stopped to look at the mangled bodies, praying that she would not find Fyodor among them.

  Fyodor joined the Red Army after having lied to the recruiting officer about his age. Mortified by his decision, Katya followed him, volunteering as a nurse. He was not pleased when he found Katya had also volunteered and even less pleased when she was assigned to the same regiment as he. Before moving to the front, Fyodor had made Katya promise she would not embarrass him by repeatedly asking after him.

  Sucking air through her teeth, she joined the doctor still bent over the wounded commissar. The officer’s light hair was matted and his skin, covered in blood, was almost translucent. Using a wet cloth, Katya dabbed at his face, pushing the hair away from his eyes.

  ‘There is shrapnel lodged in his skull,’ the doctor said without looking up, ‘and there’s some more above his knee.’ He pointed to Bogoleev’s right leg. ‘I can pull out the pieces in his leg but the one in his head …’ He let his voice trail off. Standing up he stretched and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He looked at the row of stretchers, all bearing men who wore the same expression of twisted pain on their faces, and sighed.

  ‘We raise them, send them to war, patch them up when they are injured and send them out again only to receive them back broken again.’

  Katya ducked her head, trying to keep her emotions from spilling over. The doctor squeezed her arm as he moved past her to his next patient, leaving a bloody imprint on her sleeve.

  Sitting outside his dugout, Alexei stared into the flames, nursing his rum. Beyond the fire’s halo, the night was inky black. A shell exploding in the distance lit up the sky before darkness closed in again. Alexei considered his options.

  It was unlikely Bogoleev would pull through and this provided Alexei with an opportunity. On the other hand, Bogoleev had vowed to have Alexei shot if he tried to escape again. Reaching a decision, he threw the remainder of his drink into the fire and, keeping to the shadows, made his way to where he had a satchel hidden.

  Back in the dugout he shared with Ivanov, Alexei lay awake in the dark. Ivanov was a light sleeper and bigger than Alexei; he could easily overpower him in a hand-to-hand struggle. Alexei listened to the sound of Ivanov’s breathing. The rhythm had slowed, the breaths growing deeper. Stepping lightly, Alexei moved briskly to the dugout opening.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Alexei’s hand stilled on the thick flap. He turned to face Ivanov.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Alexei kept his voice casual. ‘I thought I’d step out for some fresh air.’

  There was a long silence and Alexei’s pulse quickened, fearing Ivanov might be suspecting something. Finally the Cossack grunted and said, ‘Don’t be long.’

  Leaving the dugout, Alexei knew he had to move quickly. He drew his collar against a bitter cold wind blowing from the west. Spying the dark shape of the sentry leaning on his rifle, he made his way towards him. A light rain had started to fall, and the mud underfoot was deep, slippery and clinging.

  ‘Do you have a match?’ Alexei approached the sentry, a cigarette between his lips.

  The sentry shifted his feet. ‘I don’t smoke.�
�� He kept his eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

  Patting his pockets Alexei found a match and lit it against a log that secured the mud walls of the trench. A faint light flickered into life and he studied the sentry’s features.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Old enough,’ the sentry snapped back.

  Alexei held up his palms. ‘I’m sorry, comrade. I did not mean to offend.’

  ‘I look younger than I am.’

  Alexei nodded. ‘You must be freezing. I have just the thing to warm you up,’ he said amiably. ‘It will put some hair on your chest and replace the smell of your mother’s milk on your breath.’

  The young sentry frowned but let the comment pass.

  ‘I have some distilled vodka stashed away in a burnt-out shell of a tree just to the left of the trenches.’

  The sentry stiffened. ‘I can’t let anyone pass.’

  ‘Oh, come now, comrade.’ Alexei draped an arm over the boy’s shoulders, giving him a friendly squeeze. ‘I will only be a few minutes.’ Cocking his head to one side, he asked, ‘You do drink, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ The reply came a little too quickly.

  ‘Good man.’ Pulling on the last of his cigarette, Alexei stubbed it out under his boot. ‘What’s your name, comrade?’

  The sentry gave Alexei a suspicious look. ‘Fyodor.’

  ‘Well, Fyodor, I promise to only be a few minutes.’ And before the boy could object, Alexei moved past him into the darkness.

  Away from the trenches, Alexei hastened towards the woods, conscious that he only had a short time before Ivanov or the sentry raised the alarm.

  Naked branches of trees threw distorted shadows as Alexei climbed over rocks, weaving between the trees. His boots squelched loudly in the mud. He stopped a few times, listening for the sound of approaching voices. Hearing nothing, he continued, careful not to trip over anything in his path.