by Judith Gould
Then he walked off.
Behind him, Mordka Kokovtsov threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. He could only wonder what his cousin was up to now. Little did he know what wild idea had blossomed in the Prince's mind.
How simple it would be! Vaslav Danilov thought as a footman threw open a pair of gilded double doors which led into yet another massive hallway. He would get his emerald-eyed goddess even sooner than he had expected.
Chapter 5
As that dark, icy winter afternoon melted into an even icier evening, and finally into a brittle arctic night, a light snow began to fall, powdering St. Petersburg and muffling its city sounds. The crystalline snowflakes sparkled in the avenues and streets, on the thousands of windowsills and mullioned panes, and in the lamplit parks as though an especially munificent god had sprinkled giant handfuls of diamonds over the earth. The baroque and Renaissance-style palaces skirting the ice-sheathed Neva were a vision out of a Pushkin fairy tale, with both electric and candle lights glittering through the haze of flakes.
The entire three blocks of the Winter Palace was floodlit from without and glowed richly from within. The Czar and Czarina were staying in, retiring after their evening prayers, a late dinner, and an hour at which the Czarina worked on needlepoint with her daughters in their private apartment and the Czar helped his young haemophiliac son, Alexis, complete a picture puzzle that had been purchased at the English Shop on Nevski Avenue.
In the Danilov Palace, which was second in size and splendour only to the Winter Palace, the lights glowed brightly. Three hundred retainers worked furiously but silently around the clock to prepare for Princess Irina's fiftieth birthday celebration the following day. The lights glowed in all windows of the palace save those of two private apartments and rooms in the servants' quarters above the garages and stables.
'Thank you.' Senda smiled at the young footman who had escorted her from the private theatre past squads of servants dusting, polishing, and arranging massive bouquets of hot-house flowers in giant vases and urns. She closed the door softly behind her. After the endless trek through gargantuan, glittering hallways and towering reception rooms, the small room under the eaves, which connected with Schmarya's, seemed especially tiny and utilitarian. The thick plaster walls were cracked and the plain furnishings looked scarred and uncomfortable. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret and resentment. She had hoped for lodgings far more luxurious, for the palace was grand beyond her wildest imaginings. Except for the servants' quarters.
She tightened her lips and suppressed her pique. She knew her resentment was without foundation. She should count her blessings. After all, they had a roof over their heads, food was bountiful, if plain, and there was an abundance of firewood.
Briskly she rubbed her arms with her hands. She glanced about the room. Only a solitary lamp was burning, throwing dark shadows up the grey walls. The fire in the grate had almost burned itself out. The room was chill. At first she thought Schmarya was asleep but now she saw that the bed was still made, the covers drawn so tautly across the thin mattress that a kopeck tossed onto it would have bounced off.
Then she noticed him at the narrow window, half-hidden behind the thick double curtains which served to cut down on the insidious, stealthy drafts which wormed their way through every crack and crevice. He was standing motionless, gazing out into the night. He didn't turn to greet her. Perhaps he had not heard her come in.
She moved to the right, paused, and peered down into the crib the housekeeper had arranged to move in from the nursery. The ornate gilded carving and satin coverlets seemed incongruous in the room, but Senda smiled placidly as she pulled the blanket closer around the angelic little face. Tamara was sound asleep, one tiny thumb stuck in her mouth. Senda, remembering Grandmother Goldie's admonition that thumb-sucking made a child's teeth grow in crooked, bent over and disengaged the thumb from the child's lips, but gently, so she wouldn't awaken her. Tamara needed a good night's sleep. At least until the day after tomorrow she would be warm and cosy. Senda was grateful for that. Tamara had had to suffer more than her share of discomfort and cold since birth.
Convinced that her daughter was comfortable, Senda picked up a poker, jabbed at the dying embers in the grate, and added another birch log to the fire. The dry wood crackled and quickly caught fire. Satisfied by the amount of heat radiating forth, she moved toward the window and stood behind Schmarya. He had still not turned around. He had surely heard her by now.
Tenderly she encircled his powerful chest with her arms and placed the side of her head against the warmth of his back. He stood there tense and unmoving.
She frowned, but forced a lightness to her voice. 'I think I've got all the lines memorized.' she said.
Still he did not respond.
After a moment she stepped back and began to knead the knots out of his shoulders. 'You're very tense.'
'What else would you expect?' he asked, his voice filled with a quiet bitterness.
She drew away in surprise. 'What's wrong, Schmarya?' she asked in a low voice so as not to awaken the child. 'Aren't you glad I'm finished for the day? Now we have the rest of the night to ourselves.'
'I've barely seen you all day.'
'I had to go over the lines until I memorized them all. You knew that.'
He whipped around to face her. In the dim light, despite the guardedness of his pale face, the savageness gleaming through his narrowed eyes shocked her. They stared at each other for an interminably drawn-out moment. Then he turned back around to face the window. 'This acting bug is going to your head,' he said gruffly. 'So is the blatant luxury here. The servants' quarters aren't good enough for you, I suppose? That's why you've been down in that theatre all day and half the night.'
She stared at his back in surprise. 'But . . . you yourself agreed that we were to perform here tomorrow. And we need the work.' She moved closer again and reached for him, but anticipating it, he stepped adroitly out of her grasp. He moved across the room, away from her.
Her eyes were huge and hurt. 'Schmarya.' Tears blurred her vision. 'What's wrong? What's suddenly come between us?'
'Nothing.' He dug his hands into his trouser pockets and stared down at the floor. 'It's just that I feel caged up here, I suppose. There's always somebody spying on us. Following us around as if we were common thieves. Maybe I just need some fresh air.'
She stared at him, then let out a soft sigh. 'You're sure that's all it is?' she asked doubtfully. 'Just a feeling of being locked up?'
'What else could there be?'
In puzzlement she stared at the scowl of hatred twisting his face into an ugly mask. She was at once astonished and devastated by his vehement reaction. Until recently, unless she brought up his political activities, he had generally been warm and loving.
'If it's that important to you, we can leave here right now,' she decided quietly. 'No performance is worth seeing you so unhappy. We have too much love to share.'
'You just do what you have to,' he said coldly, 'and I'll do what I must.'
'Let's not fight, Schmarya,' she pleaded softly, plucking desperately at his sleeve. Somewhere deep inside, a smouldering fire, half-hope, half-desperation, rose and burned intensely. 'Let's make love! Let's forget this squabbling and . . . and recapture what we used to share.' She paused and lowered her voice huskily. 'If not for our sakes, then for Tamara's.'
He stared expressionlessly at her, and on an impulse she reached up, wrapping her arms around his neck. She stepped up on tiptoe and kissed him, closing her eyes as her tongue sought his, but her lips brushed a mouth carved of stone, as cold and lifeless as one of the multitude of statues which lined the endless corridors of the palace.
Sighing, she let her arms drop heavily to her sides. In a daze, she moved over to the window on leaden feet and parted the curtains with a forefinger. The snow fell heavier now, but she didn't notice. A solitary tear slid a rivulet of moisture down one cheek; then it was followed by another, and another. How many m
onths had it been now since she and Schmarya had made love? Since Schmarya had held her in his passionate embrace and kissed her, seeking the intimacy of her body, urgently needing the fulfilment that only the bottomless well of their mutual desires could provide? The well, she was beginning to realize with a sinking heart, had dried up, at least as far as he was concerned.
And all because of a misunderstanding. Because he believed she had turned her back on their heritage, and thus him.
She sobbed soundlessly. How much things had changed! How little Schmarya really understood her. What she had done had not been to hurt him, but to make things easier for all of them. In Russia, Jews were outcasts only because of religion: Conversion to Russian Orthodoxy provided acceptance for any Jew even in the highest circles of society, and many Jews had thus obtained enviable positions in the loftiest ranks of czarist Russia. And four months earlier, in order to spare herself, and especially Tamara, any more anguish and heartache resulting from future persecution, Senda had converted to Russian Orthodoxy. In their travels she had met other ambitious actresses who had done the same thing and told her about it.
It was, to her, a simple matter of ensuring their safety. Social acceptance had never entered her mind. The memories of the pogrom were still all too real. How often the nightmares about it still caused her to awaken in a cold sweat. Schmarya might have understood that, had she not, despite his violent opposition, had Tamara baptized in the Russian Orthodox Church at the same time. He had taken it as a personal insult, an insult against all he held dear. Senda simply viewed her action as practical necessity, insurance against the future for both herself and her daughter.
The question haunting her now was: Would Schmarya ever find it in his heart to forgive her? Would he ever get over what he considered her treachery against their faith, their heritage, and love her again the way he once had? The way she still loved him in so many, many ways.
These terrible thoughts swirled in her mind as thickly as the snowflakes outside.
The tears blurred her vision, but it was not her own crying which finally brought her out of her reverie. She swiftly crossed over to the crib. The little room was chilly again. The fire had burned itself out. The cries were coming from Tamara. She had awakened, and was hungry and cold. Or, Senda wondered, could she somehow sense that something was wrong, even in the depths of her sleep, and need comfort as badly as she herself?
It was then that Senda realized Schmarya was no longer in the room. She hadn't heard him leave during her miserable soul-searching. She shivered, but it was not from the cold. Icy fingers of dread rippled through her, bringing new fears along. Where was Schmarya? Where had he gone? And what in heaven's name was he up to now?
Oh, God, she prayed silently, let him do anything he feels he must as long as it will not ultimately bring harm to Tamara.
It was an interminable wait before the guard ambled along to the far end of the narrow hallway, turned his back, and lit a cigarette. Then Schmarya saw his opportunity. He shut the door soundlessly, and furtively dashed down the narrow staircase to the ground floor. Avoiding the servants was no easy matter. While the Danilovs slept, a small army worked in a quiet frenzy to prepare for the next day's celebration. Once he reached the grand public rooms on the ground floor, he thought he had a chance to escape undetected.
The floors of the hushed corridors and reception rooms were masterpieces of their makers' craft: finely inlaid marquetry swirls and checkerboards with a polished, honey-rich glow. Despite the heat radiating from the porcelain ovens and steam radiators, Schmarya could feel the relentless damp chill soaking through the arabesques of wood, numbing his stockinged feet. No amount of heat could completely dispel the damp arctic chill as he tiptoed soundlessly, boots in hand, and flitted in and out of the shadowed niches, pressing himself against the icy statues at any distant sound. Finally slithering behind two sets of heavy curtains, he unlatched a tall bevelled-glass French door in one of the splendid reception rooms and slipped outside, wedging the door shut again with a large splinter of wood so that he could open it from the outside once he returned. He pulled on his boots in the dim yellow glow of light which spilled out from a window on the floor above. He was on the balustraded terrace overlooking the park which sloped down to the frozen river.
It was deathly cold out. Although well-bundled, he instantly felt the raw wind turning his blood to ice. The moisture in his nostrils crystallized, and he wound his scarf around his nose and mouth. He was both terrified and exhilarated by the sudden overwhelming sense of freedom.
For long silent minutes he stayed concealed in the shadows, wary of being seen or stopped or, worst of all, tracked to his ultimate destination. When he was fairly certain no one had spied him leaving, he crept along the palace, keeping as close to the wall as possible. Drawn near the servants' entrance by a cacophony of clanging and banging, he noticed a solitary sleigh drawn by two impatiently waiting dray horses.
Creeping closer, Schmarya wrinkled his nose in disgust. This was no luxurious passenger sleigh, he realized. This was winter's version of a garbage truck being piled high with the day's refuse. The kitchen and house servants were dark shadows scurrying in and out to dump the contents of boxes and barrels into the back.
As the garbage was being loaded, Schmarya crept nearer. Soon he was but a few feet from the sleigh. He could see that it was roughly built, the boxlike utilitarian body formed by uneven slats of weathered, splintery wood atop a pair of thick, solid metal runners. He let out a breath of satisfaction. Since the boxlike construction towered above the drivers' seat, it would be child's play to climb up the back without being noticed.
He wrinkled his nose in disgust and pulled his shabby scarf higher above his nostrils. He couldn't believe that the smell was so powerful in weather this cold. Because of it, however, he didn't think he would have to worry about the guards at the gate poking in the garbage.
When the trash was finally loaded, he watched the two burly drivers climb heavily up onto their seats. One took a swig from a flask and passed it to his partner; afterwards only their eyes showed from under their low-pulled caps and above their upturned collars and tight-wound scarves. The servants' door banged shut. He could hear a bolt being thrown across it. It was much darker now.
The snow suddenly turned to fast-falling sleet. Schmarya cursed under his breath. As if the cold were not enough. But he had little time to consider this change in the weather. He tensed as a whip cracked mightily in the night. The horses whinnied their protests, and the sleigh immediately began to hiss swiftly away, its jingling bells warning anyone in its path of its hurried approach.
Now was the moment, Schmarya knew.
Crouching low, he ran after the receding sleigh and flung himself facedown as he made a grab for one of the runners. He allowed his prone body to be dragged through the snow for several yards. Then swiftly he pulled himself closer, clutching first one and then the other of the upright struts which rose from the runners to the sleigh bed, until his feet found purchase atop the runners. He glanced down. The white ground seemed to fly past in an ever-quickening blur. Without further ado he climbed up the towering body of the sleigh, using the wide cracks between the slats like the rungs of a ladder. At the top, he nimbly vaulted over into a heap of trash.
The hellish stench was worse than he had anticipated. He had to breathe through his mouth, but even so he nearly gagged and had to fight the impulse to retch. Silence was imperative. Even dry heaves might attract the drivers' attention.
Moments later, the garbage sleigh slid to a halt at the gates. Schmarya peeked out from between two slats. The guards, obviously well aware of the stench, kept their distance. They unlocked the double gates and quickly waved the sleigh through. It crossed the Neva on the bridge beside the Petropavlovsky Island Fortress, and then raced down a straight stretch to the Little Nevka before crossing yet another bridge to Kamenny Ostrov. Unfamiliar though he was with the city, Schmarya sensed it was time he got off this infernal convey
ance.
He climbed to the top slat and braced himself for the leap. For long seconds he crouched there. Then he jumped. He seemed suspended in midair before he tumbled painfully onto a snowbank.
Testing his limbs, he rose slowly to his feet. No broken bones or sprains, thank God; the most he likely suffered from the leap was a few bruises.
He whistled to himself. At least he had found a way to escape the Danilov Palace. Why anyone chose to live there, he could not for the life of him imagine. However gilded it might be, it was a prison, a self-imposed prison for the rich. It not only locked undesirables out, it locked the Danilovs in. He wondered if they ever gave that any thought.
He glanced up and down the street, his eyes wary. Few pedestrians were about, as it was not a night for idle strollers. The weather was working in his favour.
Satisfied that he hadn't been followed, he started walking, remembering what his revolutionary 'brother' in Kiev had shared with him: the secret St. Petersburg address was engraved in his memory forever.
'They're our kind of people, Schmarya,' Sasha Sergeyevich Kraminsky had whispered to him. 'Working with them, we can achieve wonders. Give them this dynamite . . .'
Well, he hadn't brought it with him. It was still hidden safely among the props and costumes. Before he handed it over, he had to see if Sasha's friends were as motivated as he. If they deserved the explosives, or if they would waste them. Soon he would find out. But first, he had to find his way to their house. Find out if they were still together as a group. Find out. . . Butterflies stirred in his stomach. He would have to be careful. They might have been discovered and arrested already. The house could be under surveillance.
At last he came to a streetcar stop. He waited for nearly half an hour for the electric trolley, but it never came. An old woman, head hunched down against the relentless blasts of stinging sleet, finally passed, mumbling about it snowing too hard for the trolleys to run.