by Judith Gould
Senda treasured these Sunday afternoons. Her friends stimulated her mind, forced her to grow creatively, to live and think creatively, and they nurtured each other. They were demanding and gifted, accomplished and ambitious, and they were each other's worst, and therefore best, critics. Merely having money, no matter in what staggering amounts, or a title, even on the highest rungs of the Imperial social ladder, was not enough to gain one's entry into the exclusive domain of this artistic circle. What made one welcome was brilliant talent, or at least creative accomplishment and passion about one's work.
But what Senda loved best of all about her salon was that Tamara was never far away. Tamara usually stayed in the nursery while Senda entertained. The child swiftly became an accomplished eavesdropper and mimic, and the people she overheard were the best possible teachers on earth. Senda was gratified that Tamara was picking up an education and hearing debates from masters in their fields—an experience which would have been unlikely for even the wealthiest child to dream about.
One evening at bedtime, when Senda kissed her daughter good night, Tamara had declared staunchly, 'Mama, I want to become an actress.'
Senda laughed lightly as she tucked the blanket around her daughter. 'And if I remember right, angel cake, last week you wanted to be a pianist, and the week before that, a dancer.'
'Oh, but actresses have more fun! And they have many more boyfriends, don't they? You have more boyfriends than anybody, Mama.'
Senda looked startled; she'd never categorized her friends in terms of male or female, but it was true, most of her salon did consist of men.
'And besides, you're the only actress. And a lot prettier than anybody else.'
Senda smiled and kissed Tamara's forehead. 'And now you'd better get your beauty sleep, young lady,' she advised with mock gruffness, turning off the bedside lamp. 'Otherwise you'll never grow up to be a beautiful actress.'
As Senda shut the door, she heard Tamara sigh happily and murmur, 'I want to be just like you, Mama.'
Senda felt a slight shudder quivering through her, the thin strands of hairs at the nape of her neck prickling.
Don't be too much like me, she prayed silently. I've had more than my share of misery. I wouldn't want you to suffer that. I want only what's best for you, a life of peace and happiness.
She felt a sudden rush of guilt. She was trying her best to raise Tamara well, but she was never able to convince herself that she could be a decent model for an impressionable child. Trying to juggle the responsibilities of mother and father, she felt she failed at both. She wished she could provide a real family for her daughter, even a surrogate father.
Nearly two years had passed since Schmarya had walked down the hospital steps and out of their lives forever. Not a card or letter had come, not even for Tamara, and Senda didn't know whether he was in Europe or had made it to Palestine. He had left a void in her life, a blankness which nothing could fill. Senda continually felt loneliness gnawing at her, the company that only a man she loved could have relieved. It seemed overwhelmingly ironic at times that among her friends and fans, thousands of men would have been ecstatic at the opportunity of sharing her life.
But the only man she could love had deserted her, never to return.
Not that she was celibate. Far from it. She had Vaslav, and it was true that they harboured a certain fondness for each other, but it was a fondness of the flesh. It was Schmarya she hungered for, and she would have gladly traded every last gem and coin of her newfound wealth and fame to follow him back to poverty if the chance had come.
'Sometimes I have the impression that you are really not here with me,' Vaslav once complained.
What made the Sunday afternoons at Senda's so continuously prized was that her salon was founded upon two principles of enormous integrity—honesty and freedom of speech. Everyone was encouraged to speak on any subject close to his or her heart, without fear of the opinions being ridiculed or violated; above all, without fear of outside retribution. By common agreement, no matter how radical or unpopular, no discussion ever went beyond the four walls of Senda's salon.
Thus, it was only natural that as 1916 sped to a close, and the war had been dragging on for nearly two and a half years, it was politics instead of art that was the major subject of conversation among the peace-loving intellectuals that gathered each Sunday.
This was becoming the norm all over Russia.
Again, frightening talk of revolution began creeping back into everyday conversation. Again, violence was becoming widespread. The outbreak of the war had initially united all Russians, regardless of political or social leanings. But the festive days of soldiers marching proudly off to finish the Germans was a dream of the long-gone past. Victory had been an elusive rainbow; harsh reality had set in. Among all strata of society, the war was now being seen as a useless, ceaseless drain on Russia, and in one way or another it had touched upon everyone's life. Its continuance was threatening to tear the nation asunder: the ravenous war machine was devouring lives, food, and the economy. Hunger, which had always been widespread, was now rampant. Starvation had become commonplace. People were freezing to death in their homes and on the streets.
Anger, frustration, and hatred were piling up in dangerous quantities, and the objects of these lethal emotions were invariably the Czar and his Czarina.
The heartfelt cries of 'Batiushka! Batiushka!—Father! Father!—had weakened in strength, and were no longer heard by the Czar.
To further complicate matters, there was endless talk of the Czarina and her relationship with the monk Rasputin and her possible pro-German treachery. Even at the highest rungs of the nobility, people assumed the Czarina and the monk were having an affair. It was widely believed that Rasputin, a known drunk and womanizer, was consorting with German spies, and he was murdered in 1916. Others were convinced the Czarina still harboured fierce German loyalties and sentiments, and went so far as to suggest she be tried for treason. Even the simplest acts of kindness on her part, as innocent and humane as sending prayer books to wounded German officers in Russian hospitals, did not escape the ire of her growing ranks of enemies.
It was becoming the national consensus that the Czar was weak and incapable and had to be removed from power. And his Czarina, the lovely German-born Alexandra, called 'Nemska', the German Woman, was fast becoming the most hated monarch's wife since Marie Antoinette.
Russia was ripe for revolution—and Lenin.
Chapter 21
It was the beginning of the end.
On Thursday, March 8, the silent, endless breadlines in Petrograd erupted into chaos. All over the city, the hungry and the starving, no longer willing to wait for their pitiful starvation-level rations, violently stormed the bakeries and grabbed whatever goods were in sight. Simultaneously, protesting workers marched from the industrial Vyborg section across the Neva bridges to converge in the centre of Petrograd. Another demonstration, nearly all women, marched up and down the Nevsky Prospekt chanting: 'Give us our bread! Give us our bread!' Peaceful though the march was, mounted Cossacks patrolled the Prospekt through the night in anticipation of violence.
Over a simple dinner of potato pancakes that night, Senda was filled with a growing sense of anxiety, Inge uncharacteristically picked wordlessly at her food, and Tamara, always a sensitive barometer of the moods around her, was curiously subdued and quiet. Matters had reached a very bad state indeed, Senda considered, when even her privileged household was feeling the punishing strain of food shortages so severely.
Since the arrival of Polenka and Dmitri, Polenka's duties had been to cook, clean, do the laundry, and shop. Except for certain long-lasting staples, Polenka shopped every morning for whatever the day's menus would require, carrying the purchases home in two net shopping bags. Since Senda was a stickler for fresh, nutritious food, and because the pantry was too warm in the winter, perishables were bought on an as-needed basis. These arrangements had worked out perfectly— that is, until this very morning, whe
n Polenka had gone shopping with a clutch purse full of money and had not returned. Finally, when it had been safe to assume that something had happened which made it impossible for her to return with the groceries, Senda and Inge, rummaging through the distressingly bare pantry, found a few staples and little else. There was no meat, fowl, eggs, or fresh vegetables. The potatoes and oil had been transformed into the pitiful pancakes, but there was no apple sauce, no sour cream—nothing moist and tasty to perk up the pancakes' greasy tastelessness.
Inge pushed her plate away, saying, 'I'm not hungry.'
'Me, neither,' Tamara grumbled, letting the heavy sterling fork drop on her plate with a resounding clatter. 'Yech! I hate potato pancakes! They taste like newspaper.'
Senda, equally depressed and uninterested in the rubbery, unappetizing rounds of shredded potatoes, drew on her apparently limitless wellspring of indomitability and good cheer. 'I know they're terrible, angel, but they're all we've got today. Tomorrow we'll feast extravagantly and make up for it.'
Inge raised her eyebrows and tartly said, 'Tomorrow is going to be as bad or worse, mark my words. If you ask me, it's all that Polenka's fault. She probably took the shopping money and ran off with it. I hope at least she and Dimitri are eating well!'
'Inge! We can't make such assumptions,' Senda cried sharply. 'You know there were riots and demonstrations all day. In all probability, Polenka couldn't get back here.'
'Oh no? And what about Dmitri? He's got your horse and carriage, hasn't he? I've checked downstairs in the stable and they're not there. He could have driven her here.'
'Maybe they've been injured.'
'Maybe they're plain thieves.'
'Tomorrow,' Senda said wearily, 'will be a lot better.'
'Tomorrow, I'm afraid,' Inge mumbled pessimistically, 'is going to be a lot worse.'
Unfortunately, Inge was proven right.
The next morning, crowds of even greater magnitude filled the streets. More bakeries and food shops were looted, and the ubiquitous Cossacks, who appeared anywhere at the first sign of trouble, patrolled the streets once again, although this time without their whips. The significance of whipless Cossacks was not lost on the demonstrators—whips were the traditional method of crowd control. The whipless Cossacks, greeted cheerfully by the mobs, also assured them they wouldn't use their guns.
But even the lack of whips and bullets could do little to assuage hunger.
'So now what?' Inge growled unnecessarily. 'It's past noon and neither Polenka nor Dmitri has shown up. Not that I miss them, especially that shifty-eyed Dmitri, but we can't wait much longer for them. If we do, we'll starve.'
She and Senda were in the kitchen going through the bare pantry shelves and cupboards. 'Meissen porcelain and sterling silver are very nice, but we can't eat them. We've got to get hold of some food. The two of us can get along on a lot less, but it's Tamara I'm worried about. She's a growing girl and needs all the nourishment she can get.'
'I know, I know!' Senda snapped, reaching the end of her strength and patience and finding herself in a morass of irritability, frustration, and growing anger. She turned on her heel, marched briskly out to the foyer, and began pulling on her thick, warm sable coat and matching hat.
'And where do you think you're going, all dolled up like the Queen of Sheba?' Inge demanded, arms akimbo.
Senda turned to blink rapidly at Inge from within the starburst of sable framing her oval face. 'You know it's cold out. Besides, I always dress like this,' she said in surprise. 'I'm going out to try to buy some food.'
'Not in that outfit, you won't,' Inge said grimly. 'The way tempers are flaring on the street, it's best to melt into the crowd. I should think it would be a lot safer for you to wear something old and suitably tatty. Right now, those people out there aren't going to be impressed by displays of wealth. They're liable to rip that coat right off your back.'
Senda stared at her, then nodded. Inge was right. In fact, she should have thought of it herself. Silently she slipped off her coat and hat and rummaged through her closets trying to find something plain and inconspicuous. She sighed as she slid aside padded hanger after padded hanger. She'd had no idea that her wardrobe was filled with so many extravagant clothes. Only now, searching for something that would not draw attention from the starving multitudes, did she realize the extent of her beautiful wardrobe. In the end, she settled for her oldest astrakhan cape and one of Inge's plain black woollen scarves. She scowled at herself in the mirror. 'I look like an old babushka,' she said with a tight grimace.
'Better a live old babushka than a dead princess,' Inge retorted gently.
Senda left, and when she finally returned from shopping, it was three hours later. She was exhausted and her feet ached, but considering the circumstances, she'd scored a triumphant coup. It didn't matter, she told herself, that she'd had to pay ten times what the groceries would normally have cost; at least she'd managed to buy some wilting turnips, limp string beans, a scrawny chicken, six brown eggs carefully wrapped in newspaper, a brittle wedge of mouldy cheese, and a box of rice. Still, in light of the fact that most of the food stores had been shut, it was going to be a glorious feast.
'If this is any indication of what's to come,' Inge told her grimly through clenched teeth as they put the precious groceries away, 'then God help us all.'
They would need God's help. The following day, Friday, March 9, the wheels of Petrograd ground to a complete standstill. Almost to the last man and woman, the workers staged a city-wide strike. The trains stopped running. The trolleys never left their terminals. There wasn't a single cab in sight. Not one newspaper was printed. Massive crowds, this time carrying the enormous red banners which were to become a familiar sight, marched through the streets chanting, 'Down with the Nemska! Down with the war!' The two cries echoed from the crowded streets throughout the day.
At last the seriousness of the situation was making itself felt. Even those privileged people at the highest levels of society could no longer ignore the impending doom. Hardly anyone went out that night; at the Maryinsky Theatre, Georges Enesco gave a violin recital to an audience of less than fifty. The restaurants were empty.
Senda, due to open in a revival of the ever-popular La Dame aux Camelias at the Théâtre Français, prudently decided to stay home behind locked doors. As it turned out, so did the rest of the cast, and the audience.
Throughout Petrograd, the food situation became even more critical. Without transportation, the little there was could not be distributed. If it was, the stores were ransacked before the first customer could purchase anything. The Czar, five hundred miles away and unaware of the extent of the problems plaguing his capital, naively telegraphed his orders— carefully veiled instructions clearly meaning that military troops were to shoot to clear the streets.
As luck would have it, bloodshed was kept to a minimum, thanks to the lack of disciplined troops. The well-trained veterans had long since perished fighting the Germans, and what remained of the better fighters were entrenched on the far-away front. The garrison at Petrograd was filled with raw, inexperienced recruits, many hailing from the working-class suburbs of the city itself. Due to a severe shortage of officers and arms, many had not been trained at all.
Still, on Saturday, March 10, fifty people were killed or wounded on the Nevsky Prospekt after soldiers fired into the crowds. Altogether that day, the death toll rose to two hundred dead civilians throughout Petrograd.
Scores more would have been killed had the soldiers obeyed orders. One company, urged by its screaming officer to shoot into a crowd, turned on the officer and shot him instead. Another regiment emptied their rifles into the air rather than shoot into a mob.
That night, a telegram was sent to the Czar, there is anarchy in the capital, it read.
The Czar promptly responded by sending reinforcements, but by Sunday afternoon, scores of soldiers were starting to mutiny and join the rebels.
By Tuesday, one solitary outpost of czarism rem
ained in the city: fifteen hundred troops loyal to the Czar were holding the Winter Palace. The rebels gave the troops twenty minutes to evacuate or else face bombardment. The troops fled.
It was a scene out of Dante's Inferno.
The majestic, once-well-ordered city was in the midst of a revolutionary hurricane. Mobs rampaged, looted, and pillaged. The rattle of gunfire was heard day and night. Screams rent the air. At the naval base outside Petrograd, sailors slaughtered one officer and buried a second alive beside the corpse of the first. Nothing was sacred, life least of all. Centuries of hunger and oppression were vented in one ghastly spree. Armoured cars rumbled through the streets, their tops and sides packed with cheering rebels flying huge red banners. Arson was in many a heart: flaring red sheens lit the night sky as buildings were put to the torch. When the fire department arrived, the firemen were invariably chased away. Killing and burning were a catharsis of sorts. Mobs danced like driven devils around the massive pyres which had once been government buildings and stately homes.