The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

‘He thought you were dead. We all did.’

  ‘What’s Serov to you anyway? Even if you don’t care about yourself, think of your family,’ Bogoleev warned. ‘Once the Party finds out you have turned traitor, they’ll be thrown out into the street. Or, worse, sent to Siberia. You are willing to sacrifice them for Serov?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’ Ivanov took a step closer. ‘This is your last chance, Commissar. Let them go. Forget about Serov.’

  ‘I told you, I can’t do that.’ Bogoleev raised his gun.

  The sound of gunfire shattered the peace of the quiet neighbourhood. From across the street, a footman saw a man run out of the alley clutching his arm.

  A balding man with a round face raced out of the next building, hastily shrugging a coat on over his shirt. ‘What’s going on?’ he called out to the footman. ‘I thought I heard gunshots.’

  ‘Not sure, sir,’ the footman said, scratching his head. ‘I heard two shots and when I came out, I saw a man run out of that alley. I’ll call the police.’

  The footman had turned to go back inside when the bald man said, ‘Wait,’ and gestured to the alley. A figure was crawling along the road, dragging himself on his elbows. Reaching the gutter, he collapsed and lay motionless. The two men rushed to him, turning him over. Blood gurgled in his mouth and his eyes stared in shock. Opening his jacket, they saw the man’s shirt was soaked with blood.

  ‘I’ll call the ambulance.’ Jumping to his feet, the footman ran back to his building.

  The bald man leant over and said, ‘Help is on its way.’

  The wounded man’s wide eyes moved towards the voice. The lips moved, but no words emerged.

  By the time the footman returned, the rasping breath was coming louder. Then the man’s body twitched and, with a final gasp, fell still.

  59

  Tallinn, December 1919

  Marie huddled close to Alexei as medics lifted a body onto a stretcher while police officers interviewed residents and passers-by.

  Alexei called the footman over. ‘We heard gunshots. What happened here?’

  ‘There was a shooting in the alley,’ the footman said, still visibly shaken. ‘A man was killed.’

  ‘Did they find who did it?’ Alexei asked.

  ‘He was hiding behind a tree, shot in the arm. The police took him away.’

  ‘Did you get a look at him?’

  ‘It was dark so I didn’t get a proper look. I saw the police take him away. Maybe they’ll be able to help you.’

  Alexei approached one of the policemen. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

  The policeman pointed to an officer barking orders at the mouth of the alley. ‘The inspector.’

  ‘The suspect has been taken into custody,’ the inspector told Alexei.

  ‘Did you learn the man’s name?’

  The inspector shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t talk. In any case, he’s not from around here. Probably a pair of drunk communist agitators. Those men have no discipline. They are just as likely to turn their guns on their own comrades.’

  Back in their apartment, Alexei was quiet, staring at the street below from behind the curtain. Who were those men? Were they communist agitators as the inspector had suggested? Was it just a coincidence that the shooting had happened outside his apartment?

  Alexei shook his head. None of it made any sense.

  ‘It’s late, Alexei,’ Marie said. ‘Come away from the window.’

  He did so reluctantly, still troubled by the unanswered questions.

  The next morning, the street sweepers washed the dark stains off the pavement. Marie and Alexei climbed into the waiting cabriolet stacked with their trunks. As the cab pulled away from the kerb, neither turned to look back at the dark alley wreathed in grey morning mist.

  Epilogue

  Sydney, February 1921

  The Pacific Ocean stretched out before him, waves crashing and sending foam almost to the tip of his shoes before retreating. The hot sun beat down, blinding him with its glare.

  Distracted by a tugging at his pants, Alexei glanced down to see the round smiling face of his granddaughter looking up at him. At six months, Nina was chubby and content, with golden hair and eyes the green of shallow water. She squealed when Alexei lifted her, legs kicking the air in excitement.

  ‘Oh Nina, leave your grandfather alone.’ Reaching for her daughter, Irena took Nina from her father’s arms. ‘She’ll wear you out if you let her, Papa.’ She pinched the fat rolls of her baby’s legs in mock reprimand. ‘I’ve got a feeling she’s going to be a handful when she grows up.’ She smiled adoringly at her daughter.

  As daylight faded, the crowds trickled away, leaving the beach to catch its breath. In the early twilight, the ocean changed from blue to silver, and stars pricked the sky.

  Alexei gazed at the horizon, picking out the Southern Cross. Even after a year of gazing up at the stars, their configuration in the Southern Hemisphere still left him confounded. Oh, the vertigo of a displaced life, he thought sadly. It robbed him even of the simple joy of looking at the heavens to find them unchanged.

  He did not hear the soft tread of footsteps on the sand until they were almost upon him.

  ‘Nina has fallen asleep.’ Marie laced her fingers through Alexei’s. ‘Irena and Thomas are taking her home.’ Caressing the small swelling of her stomach, she smiled, then was silent for a while, looking out to where the ocean kissed the sky.

  ‘How long do you think before we see our family again?’ She kept her voice neutral, but Alexei understood the meaning behind the question.

  ‘When it’s safe for us to return.’ He wished he could sound more optimistic.

  Marie exhaled, wrapping a protective arm around her stomach. She felt the fluttering of the baby’s movements and took it as a good sign that their baby was strong and healthy. ‘I hope it’s a boy,’ she said. ‘We should call him Grigory.’

  Alexei’s eyes grew soft. ‘Grigory would have been pleased to know I named my first son after him. He might have been alive today, if not for me.’

  Marie’s palm felt soft and cool against his. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

  ‘I love you.’

  Resting her head against his chest, she replied, ‘And I you.’

  Author’s Note

  The Russian Tapestry remembers those who have come before us. Drawn from anecdotes recited at family dinners, it is the imagined history of the Serovs’ journey, blending legend with fact and make-believe with truth. It is the bringing together, unlocking and sharing of the stories that bind us.

  It took two revolutions to bring my husband and me together. The Russian Revolution in 1917 was the catalyst that prompted his grandparents, Marie and Alexei Serov, to flee to Australia. Over half a century later my family, similarly, escaped their homeland following the Islamic Revolution.

  Marie Kulbas was the daughter of a rich Estonian merchant, studying law in St Petersburg. Engaged before the war, her fiancé went missing in action and never returned. She had three brothers, two of whom died from cholera during the German occupation of Estonia. The family later moved to Tallinn, where Marie and Alexei met.

  Alexei Serov came from a prestigious family, which boasted court painters and conductors in its midst. A major general in the Imperial Army, Alexei had fought on the eastern front. He was the father of two daughters with his first wife, Emily, and a third, younger, daughter, who was illegitimate but who also lived with them. Infirm and unable to return to the army, he was later forced to join the Reds (as the Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army was known), but managed to escape, travelling through blizzard conditions to reach Lithuania.

  The parallel lives that preceded my husband’s and my union fascinated me. Like me, Alexei and Marie possessed migrant hearts. They travelled halfway across the world to start life anew in a foreign land, with little more than their hopes and dreams to sustain them. Unlike for my family in Iran however, their lifestyle in prewar Russia was one of glittering balls, the ballet an
d horse races. As a long-time lover of Russian literature, I started imagining the world they inhabited, their first meeting and their eventual love affair. As their story started to take shape in my mind, I was swept away by the romance of the period and the tragedy of the war that followed it.

  Starting out, I had little to guide me other than their obituaries, a few dusty photos and Alexei’s three surviving medals; their diaries had all been lost or destroyed over the decades. Nevertheless, supplemented by my own research, these treasures provided me with a skeleton upon which I was able to flesh out my story. At times, in the interest of storytelling, I took liberties with the truth, bending it slightly to suit my purpose.

  My supporting characters – Ivanov, Bogoleev, Katya and Fyodor – were born from my imagination and are not based on any real people, dead or alive.

  Each of us has a story we carry silently within us, protected in our soul. Australia is the sum of all her stories. As custodians of these narratives, it is our duty to keep alive the memory of our ancestors for the benefit of future generations. In The Russian Tapestry I attempted to echo and recreate some of these migrant tales to bring alive the past. In telling their story, I hope to have done justice to the memory of Marie and Alexei Serov.

  Acknowledgements

  This book owes much to the collaborative efforts of many people. My most ardent thanks go first to my publisher, Bernadette Foley, for championing my writing and believing in it from the beginning. Special thanks to Ali Lavau, whose amazing editorial guidance transformed the initial manuscript into a tighter, stronger book. To Professor Roger Markwick for cross-checking the accuracy of the historical and military terms. And Kate Ballard for her patience and advice as the manuscript went through its second, third and fourth drafts. Many thanks to the team at Hachette Australia – from editors, to designers, to publicity and the sales team. Every book benefits from the collaboration of many people and without you, The Russian Tapestry would not be what it is today.

  To my friends – you know who you are – who supported me every step of the way. Your encouragement was the tonic that spurred me onwards when I felt like giving up. A special thanks to Vassiliki and John, for the loan of their eleven-volume encyclopaedia, which proved to be an invaluable resource.

  Finally, to my parents, my husband, our boys, my in-laws and our siblings; your love sustains and nourishes me. I would especially like to thank my father-in-law, Oleg, who has generously allowed me to write about his parents. I love you.

  Banafsheh Serov was born in England but spent her childhood in Iran, from where she fled with her family during the Iran–Iraq War to eventually resettle in Australia. She is the author of Under a Starless Sky, the true story of her family’s escape from Iran. She lives in Sydney with her husband and sons, and owns and manages a chain of bookshops. The Russian Tapestry is her first novel.