by Tom Bradby
“What do you say to your uncle Sandro?” Pavel said. He still had his son in his arms.
“Hello, Uncle Sandro.” The boy was younger than Michael. He had long eyelashes and big blue eyes and, apart from his hair, was the spitting image of his mother.
The sight of him, the innocence in his voice, made Ruzsky’s heart lurch.
It was insane. He had been back more than forty-eight hours. Why had he not seen his boy?
Tonya picked up a suitcase and put it on Pavel’s desk. “A holiday in Yalta!” It was a poor joke and, when she turned to face Ruzsky, he saw clearly the fear in her face. “You will look after him, won’t you, Sandro?”
“I was rather hoping it would be the other way around.”
“I don’t trust him to look after himself.” Whatever confidence Tonya had projected a few minutes before had vanished.
“He’ll be fine,” Ruzsky said. “I’ll see to it he’s kept out of trouble.”
“I can tell, even on the telephone, when he’s uncertain about something.”
“Tonya-”
“Please, Sandro.” Her eyes burned. “You will look after him, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Tonya…” Pavel’s face softened further as he took his wife into his arms and drew their son into the narrow gap between their bodies. Ruzsky stood, transfixed, then turned and quietly withdrew.
24
T here was a low archway to one side of the front door to the house in Millionnaya Street, and beyond it a gate into the garden. Ruzsky slipped through and climbed the stone steps that led up to the lawn. He saw Michael immediately, but there was a woman with him, so he ducked instinctively back into the shadows. It took him a few moments to realize that the woman was Ingrid.
They were building a snowman, and Michael was perched on a wooden chair, leaning forward to work on the eyes and mouth.
They were both dressed in dark overcoats, but neither was wearing a hat. Ingrid’s long blond hair had shaken loose down her back, and shone in the dim light. Ruzsky suddenly wanted to reach out and touch it.
Michael concentrated on scooping holes carefully in the center of the snowman’s head, until he got bored and threw a handful of snow at his aunt. Ingrid roared and chased him around the garden as he shrieked with laughter. After allowing him to escape repeatedly, she caught him and rolled him in the snow until he was in hysterics.
She straightened and caught sight of Ruzsky. “Stop, Liebchen, stop,” she said, blushing. “It’s Papa.”
For a moment, Michael stood rooted to the spot. Then he ran headlong into his father’s outstretched arms. Ruzsky hugged his son so tightly that Michael groaned with the pressure.
“Papa,” Michael said, his eyes shining as Ruzsky released him, but then he looked down, suddenly unsure of himself.
“It’s all right, my boy.”
“Where have you been?”
“I’ve been… working.”
Michael looked at him solemnly. “Mama said you didn’t want to see us.”
Ruzsky stared at his son in silence, then gathered him into his arms again. “You know that’s not true, don’t you?”
Michael nodded, but Ruzsky mourned the fact that the look of playful innocence he had radiated during the game with his aunt a few moments before had vanished from his face.
Ruzsky walked over to Ingrid. She adjusted her hair nervously. “I’m sorry, Sandro. I didn’t see you.”
“Why should you apologize?”
“It was just a game.”
“Of course. We can play on.” Ruzsky put Michael down, inclining his head toward the house. “Is…?”
Ingrid shook her head.
“Out all afternoon?” Ruzsky said.
“I don’t know,” Ingrid answered. “She never says.”
“Let battle commence,” Ruzsky said. He built himself a small wall, scrabbling around in the snow and glancing across to where Ingrid and Michael were preparing their ammunition. Once or twice, he caught the look of bewilderment in his son’s eyes, but sought to divert it by chasing him around the garden. They collapsed in the corner and Michael stuffed snow in his father’s shirt and over his hair and face as Ruzsky giggled and screamed for help. Ingrid stood above them, her face flushed and chest heaving. She was smiling and Ruzsky thought again that she was even more beautiful than he remembered.
He wrestled with Michael until he was cold and knew his son must be, too. He cried, “Enough,” and stood, tossing Michael over his shoulder and striding toward the house. Michael wriggled with delight, then lay still, his head pressed against his father’s, a small hand clutching the back of Ruzsky’s collar.
Outside the kitchen, Ruzsky unpeeled Michael’s overcoat, scarf, and boots. The boy watched him warily. As Ruzsky hung his son’s coat on the low hook by the kitchen door, his nostrils filled with the aroma of baking bread and he was overcome by a wave of nostalgia.
He took Michael’s hand and pushed open the kitchen door with his foot. Katya was bent over the oven. A young assistant he didn’t recognize eyed him nervously while Katya fussed over the baking tray. When she straightened and saw him, there was a hint of anxiety in her eyes too, but she quickly smothered it. “Sandro,” she said, beaming, as she bustled toward him and put her round, red face against his.
Before he had had a chance to respond, she had begun to fuss over Michael. “You’re freezing cold, young master,” she said. “Look at the state of you!”
Michael glanced at his father and rolled his eyes. Ruzsky smiled.
“You need a cup of hot milk,” Katya said as she returned to the stove and pulled across a pan. “Would you like some English tea, Master Sandro?” She glanced at Ingrid, who was standing behind them. “Madam?”
“Why not?” Ruzsky said, turning.
“Your father is here,” Ingrid blurted.
Katya bustled across the room. Ruzsky sighed quietly. How they all jumped to the old tyrant’s tune.
“Why is Grandpapa always angry with you?” Michael asked.
Ruzsky knelt down and lifted his son onto a side table. “It’s a long story.”
“Mama says that Grandpapa won’t let you into the house, but I asked Grandpapa about it and I told him it was unfair, because it is your house, too.”
Ruzsky forced himself to smile. “And what did he say?”
“He said he would think about it.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“I love Grandpapa. Some people, like the servants, say he is frightening, but he doesn’t frighten me.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
“He gave me a wooden train set and we play with it together.”
Ruzsky put his hands in his pockets and breathed in deeply, trying to hold on to his smile. Once, his father had liked nothing better than to join his eldest son after a day’s work, building a train track on the floor of his bedroom.
“You must like playing with Auntie Ingrid,” Ruzsky said.
“Yes, I do. Auntie Ingrid is kind. She always plays with me. Mama never does.”
Ingrid unselfconsciously stroked Michael’s hair. “That’s not true, Liebchen.”
“It is true.” Michael’s face had become sorrowful. “She is always busy.” He looked at his father. “Why don’t you live with us anymore, Papa?”
Ingrid looked embarrassed. “I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to.” Ruzsky took his son’s hand. “I’ll explain in a minute. We’ll go upstairs and play together. Would that be all right?”
“Yes!” Michael jumped off the table. “We can build a big train track!”
“In a minute. Have your milk first.”
Michael walked over to Katya’s side and the housekeeper hugged him to her as she had Sandro when he was a boy, his head resting upon her ample thigh while she finished warming the milk. She reached up and took down a large mug from the shelf. It had a familiar picture of Peter the Great on one side holding a hammer and the dates of the city’s bicente
nary: 1703-1903.
“Is it true, what he says?” Ruzsky asked Ingrid.
“I honestly don’t know, Sandro.”
“She ignores him?” he whispered.
“He misses you.”
Ruzsky closed his eyes for a moment. Should he try and patch up some kind of relationship with Irina for Michael’s sake? Would she allow it? Could he bear it? He thought of their violent, bitter, loveless rows, of her screaming at him, teeth bared.
“I don’t know what one can do,” Ruzsky said. “Perhaps you should be grateful you don’t have children.”
“I would never be grateful for that,” Ingrid said, and Ruzsky saw the deep sadness in her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “There is no need to be sorry.”
“What will you do?”
Now she laughed, and although her laughter was brittle, it brought light and warmth to her face. “What can I do? A German in wartime Petrograd. I’m a prisoner.”
“It can’t be that bad, surely.”
“These last few months…” Ingrid shook her head. “My accent is still strong.”
They both watched Michael sitting at the table with Katya, drinking his milk.
“I am pleased that you are back,” she said, quietly. She spoke slowly and carefully, and Ruzsky felt his face reddening. “Will you live together again? With Irina?”
“We couldn’t afford to,” Ruzsky said. “Not in the style she would insist upon, anyway. Irina’s parents are embarrassed by me and will only entertain the idea of her without me. As for my own father, you know the situation well enough.”
“I’m sure Dmitri could-”
“No.” Ruzsky turned toward her and smiled. “It’s not possible anymore.”
Ingrid gazed at the floor. “Have you seen Dmitri?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Ingrid still did not look up. “Did…”
It was painful to watch her struggling with herself. “I’m sorry,” Ruzsky said, without thinking.
She raised her head. “Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“It is common gossip?”
Ruzsky wished he could ease the desolation he saw in her eyes. Had she not known of his brother’s reputation before? Was it only Maria that she was aware of? Her pain fueled his own. “I do not believe so,” he said kindly.
“Then how-”
“I guessed.”
She did not believe him. “Dmitri has been arguing with your father.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know. But it puts him in a foul temper.”
For a moment, they stared at each other, then Ruzsky walked over and bent down by his son. “Come on, my boy. Shall we build that train track now?”
As he left the room, Ruzsky turned and saw Ingrid with her head down, her hands over her eyes.
The house in Millionnaya Street was almost dark. Ruzsky led his son quietly past the door of his father’s study. Like their home at Petrovo, the walls here were filled with portraits and banners from the family’s martial past. The floors were covered with rich red rugs from central Asian campaigns, and the mantelpieces laden with strange and exotic artifacts-masks, daggers, even jewels.
They turned the last corner and, still hand in hand, climbed the narrow stairs to the attic.
At the top, Ruzsky hesitated. To the right of the landing, behind a door that was now shut, had been Dmitri’s room when they were both children. Ilusha had shared it with him, because he hadn’t liked sleeping alone.
Ruzsky stepped toward it.
“Come on, Papa,” Michael said.
Ruzsky felt the nerves tauten in the base of his stomach as he depressed the metal latch.
“Grandpapa says that room will be for Dmitri’s son.”
Ruzsky pushed open the door, ducked forward, and opened the curtains. Gray light filtered through the dust that hung heavily in the air.
The two wooden box beds were still in place under the lee of the sloping roof. Ilusha’s tattered elephant lay on his pillow. A painted wooden soldier in the uniform of the Preobrazhenskys stood guard at the end of his bed. On a shelf, a black-and-white photograph of Ilusha, flanked by two short brass candlesticks, made the alcove seem like a shrine.
On the other side of the room, above Dmitri’s pillow, was the box in which all his toy soldiers were stored, arranged neatly by regiment. His tattered polar bear was sprawled across the lid, its head drooping.
“Grandpapa doesn’t like me to come in here,” Michael said quietly.
Ruzsky stared at Ilusha’s elephant. One ear had fallen off and his trunk had been loved almost out of existence. Its one remaining eye was fixed upon him.
“Grandpapa doesn’t like me to come in here,” Michael said again.
Ruzsky put his hand around his son’s head and drew him closer, then bent down and picked him up, holding him tight, the boy’s head resting upon his shoulder.
“I love you, my boy.”
“I love you, Papa.”
Ruzsky carried his son back out onto the landing, pulling the door gently shut behind him. He lowered Michael to the ground and let the boy lead him into his bedroom. An electric lamp spilled across the floor, which was littered with bits of train track and other wooden toys. Ruzsky saw his own bear sitting above Michael’s bed, also now a shadow of its former self. He picked it up, smiling.
“I always sleep with him,” Michael said. “And my bear, of course.”
Ruzsky felt the tears creeping into the corners of his eyes.
“What happened to Uncle Ilusha, Papa?”
Ruzsky wiped his eyes.
“Are you all right?” Michael asked.
Ruzsky sat down next to his son and breathed in. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like your uncle Ilusha?”
“Does that mean I’m going to die too?”
“Of course not.” Ruzsky leaned forward and started gathering together the pieces of track. “Of course not,” he said again.
“How did Uncle Ilusha die?”
“It was an accident.”
Ruzsky began to concentrate on assembling the track, and soon Michael was doing the same. The sections were beautifully made, and easy to fit together. There was a station, three bridges, a group of wooden houses, and a sprinkling of pine trees. The houses had been modeled on the village at Petrovo. There was even a replica of the big house itself, which Ruzsky set on top of a papier-mâché hill.
While Ruzsky assembled the track, Michael put the train together and began to push the engine around, imitating the sound of escaping steam as the wheels turned.
Ruzsky was working on the signal box when he looked up to see his father standing in the shadows by the doorway. He seemed to tower above him.
For a moment, Ruzsky tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t, so he returned to what he was doing.
The silence grew.
Did the old man expect him to stand and be polite? Did he expect him to apologize for coming to his own home to see his own son?
Michael was steering the train around the other side of the track, oblivious to any tension, as if having his father and grandfather alongside him was an everyday occurrence.
The old man sighed and then squatted down and took the signal box from Ruzsky’s hands. He looked at it for a moment and then slotted it together and placed it by the side of the track. He reached over, picked up the roof of the station building, and slotted that into place too, before gathering up all the people from the box beside him and placing them in position on the platform. There was a stationmaster, a newspaper seller, several passengers.
“No wounded soldiers,” Ruzsky said.
The old man grunted. His lined and distinguished face was solemn, the tension visible around his eyes.
“Why were you arguing with Dmitri?” Ruzsky asked.
“That woman will be the death of him.”
“Which woman?”
“You know damned well which one.�
��
Ruzsky flushed with embarrassment. He wondered if Dmitri’s affair with Maria really was common knowledge in the city.
The Colonel-as they had sometimes called him-examined his toy figures closely, then rearranged them so that the passengers were more obviously waiting for a train. “The world’s gone mad,” he said.
“Mad enough for you to be entertaining a man like Vasilyev at the opera?”
Ruzsky hadn’t intended to be this provocative, but his father didn’t flinch. “Vasilyev is a monster, but I don’t know if he is a necessary or a treacherous one.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“I won’t, but this is a time of moral relativism.”
“What are you talking about, Grandpapa?” Michael asked. He had sat back on his haunches, his hand still protectively over the train, his face creased by confusion.
“What indeed?” Ruzsky’s father asked.
“Mama says that you hate each other.”
There was a long silence. Ruzsky rearranged some of the pine trees into a small coppice in front of the house. “Then Mama, on this occasion, is wrong,” his father said quietly.
Ruzsky didn’t dare meet the old man’s eye. He watched him check his gold pocket watch and then twist in his direction. “She’ll be back in a minute,” he said softly.
Ruzsky nodded and straightened, but his father got to his feet first and took a step back toward the door. “Have a few moments more in peace.” He took another pace away. “Come again… won’t you? Sandro?”
“Of course, Father.”
The Colonel hesitated for a moment longer. Ruzsky turned away, his heart beating fast, and, a few seconds later, he heard the sound of his father’s retreating footsteps.
25
A s the night train to Moscow prepared to pull out, Ruzsky and Pavel watched the last burst of activity on the platform from the red velvet window seats of their second-class compartment.
A pair of swarthy Tartars selling shashlik competed volubly with two Chinese touting illegal hooch in tin bottles. The last of the third-class passengers bustled past, clutching straw baskets and clumsy bundles. A newspaper boy running the length of the train, his wares held aloft to display the headline, was suddenly lost in a cloud of steam that billowed from the engine.