Tsarina

by Ellen Alpsten

  ‘Look at that, all thick and shiny . . .’ one girl said.

  ‘And she’s all nice and fleshy too. Who has fed you so well, my dove?’ another one said, with a giggle.

  They stopped and scattered when a woman came down the corridor. This had to be Sonia. I took a step back, bumping into the coachman. Compared with this woman, even the portly Nadia had been skin and bones. Sonia’s red dress was laced tightly around her belly blubber. On her wide, sallow face little hairs sprouted in a fine moustache above her upper lip. A lacy cap covered her bald head and her eyebrows and eyelashes were fine and almost white. I shrank back with fear, but the coachman grabbed my arm and bent it. White-hot pain shot through my shoulder.

  ‘Sonia,’ he grinned. ‘It’s been awhile.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She slapped him hard. ‘The culprit always returns to the scene of the crime. Don’t think that I have waived your debts.’ Then she hugged him to her and kissed him on both cheeks. All the while she was looking me up and down. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked finally.

  ‘She came from some godforsaken place to work in Marienburg. She doesn’t have a family, but is hard-working, she says . . .’

  The girls all around giggled. Sonia pushed me underneath a nightlight, taking my bundle and tossing it to Misha to hold. There she held me so close I could smell her sour breath, and squinted at me.

  ‘You have eyes like a cat and nice full lips. The men like that.’ She forced my mouth open. ‘You still have all your teeth, straight and white . . .’ She loosened what remained of my braid and unlaced my dress to assess my breasts. ‘A bosom like a milkmaid’s. Delicious. I have new Swedish recruits coming tonight. They won’t believe their luck.’

  Despair washed over me. Was this to be my punishment for killing Vassily?

  ‘Are you a virgin?’ Sonia asked.

  I didn’t know what to say to this and lowered my eyes. Sonia grinned. ‘Ah. Butter wouldn’t melt, eh? Who was it? A stable boy? Your former master?’ I blushed, all of a sudden grateful for the twilight of the corridor, then the woman slapped me so hard that my ears rang and tears welled up in my eyes. ‘Stupid girl. But we’ll sort that out. Men are so easy to fool.’ She turned to Misha. ‘How much do you want for her? I’ll forget about your debts, if you like?’

  Misha grinned. ‘I knew it. She’s just what you’re always looking for. But she doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ Sonia said, taking a key from the ring at her belt and opening a door. ‘There is better light in this room. Come in here.’

  I clamped my feet to the floorboards – vowing not even ten horses would drag me into that room. ‘I want to leave,’ I said. I don’t know what I was hoping would save me. Nothing did, of course.

  Misha, who still held on to my bundle, pushed me into the room, which was musty and windowless and smelt of mould. The stench reminded me of our izba at the end of the long winter. ‘You are going nowhere,’ he said. I saw a mattress, a few chairs and a table with several candles as well as some empty vodka bottles on top of it. A rat scurried through the open door into the corridor. Sonia breathed heavily as she lit the candles with her nightlight. A dull glimmer spread throughout the room: what was to happen here?

  ‘I want ten roubles,’ Misha said. ‘And . . .’

  ‘And?’ the madam asked with suspicion in her voice. ‘There is to be more?’

  ‘Yes. I want to be the first to take her. Here and now.’

  Sonia pursed her lips, but the girls tittered and clapped their hands.

  ‘That’s his due, Sonia. He should be good at breaking her in . . .’

  ‘Please, Sonia. Can we watch?’ someone called out.

  She shrugged. ‘Do what you have to do. But we’ll stay. I don’t trust you – what if you disappear with her afterwards, to sell her elsewhere?’ She slumped down on one of the chairs. ‘At least we’ll be able to see if she’s any good. My men like girls who wail like cats. But don’t bruise her, otherwise I’ll train my new whip on you.’

  ‘No!’ I cried when he grabbed my arm. ‘Let me go, you swine!’ I shouted, pushing against him with all my might.

  It didn’t stop him. It barely slowed him down. My mind raced as Misha pulled me towards the filthy mattress and tore at my clothes. After striking out blindly a few times to no avail, I tried to take control of the fear bubbling up inside me. There had to be some way out and I had nothing to lose.

  Looking up, I could see Sonia counting and recounting the roubles in her palm. The four girls who had followed us into the room were standing behind her, lacing their arms around each others’ shoulders and waists. My mind raced. I had to make it out of here or I’d be lost, damned for all eternity. Misha let go of one of my arms to fondle my breast, weighing it in his palm. Now or never! I twisted out of his grip with a jerk, stretched out and hit Sonia’s hand from underneath as hard as I could. She screamed: the roubles flew high up in the air and rained down all over the creaking, pitted floorboards. I heard them clink and saw them shine. Misha stopped groping me and the girls lunged for the coins like vultures going for a carcass. Sonia jumped up and started pulling them away by their hair, her mouth foaming with curses. Misha kicked them and shouted, while all the time also trying to grab some coins. I jumped to my feet and ran down the corridor, my hair loose and dress undone, stumbling down the stairs. The heavy bolt scraped against the door when I dragged it up. Then, with a strength born out of sheer dread, I yanked it open and ran outside.

  The icy air of the Marienburg winter night hit me like a cudgel. Snow fell so thickly that I couldn’t see further than a couple of steps ahead. I kept running, through now empty roads, not looking behind me, paying no attention to where I was going, slowing only to lace up my dress. When I finally felt far enough away to stop, I had a stitch in my side. Icy air stabbed my lungs, tears blinded me and I could hardly breathe for fear. I sank down into the wet slush at the roadside, not caring that my old boots, socks and the hem of my dress were soaked. I was freezing. I leant against the wall of a house and wiped tears and snot from my face. My limbs now felt like lead, my teeth chattering so hard that my whole body trembled. Only then did I understand my utter misery: I had left not only my bundle and my gloves in the whorehouse, but also my tulup coat. I quickly checked my pocket: the coins were all missing. I was as good as dead.

  I sank onto the threshold of the house and buried my face in my arms, too spent even to think. This was it. I had killed and now I should die. I hoped for a quick, merciful death. Perhaps I’d just fall asleep and feel nothing? Already a drowsiness came over me and I curled up inside the porch.

  The street was empty save for a group of patrolling Swedish soldiers who walked past without spotting me. I had withdrawn into the doorway before the light of their lanterns touched me. At this hour, nobody but loafers and beggars were out. The respectable burghers of Marienburg sat around their dinner tables, folding their hands in prayer, even if the little wooden church opposite my resting place was still lit for the evening service. My stomach growled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. All that wouldn’t matter anymore soon. As my eyelids closed, I tried to think of something comforting, such as Maggie’s weight hanging on my arms when I swung her around, her little face splitting with laughter in the spring sunshine. It was a memory from a lifetime ago.

  With every shallow breath I took leave of life, my hands and feet totally numb by now. My mother had died giving birth to me, and my life was going to end on a street in Marienburg, where I knew no one, was no one. In the past three days my existence had turned into a nightmare, so the prospect of death didn’t scare me. Just let it be quick, I prayed, and shut my eyes for what I thought would be the last time.

  12

  I heard voices so beautiful that I thought I was at the gates of Heaven. Though what business would God have with a murderess like me? I opened my eyes unwillingly. The chanting grew louder and I tried to sit up, my limbs painfully stiff. The warm voices and lyrics of the chorale
felt like a cloak against the cold. I gave an involuntary sob. I couldn’t even die easily.

  The hymn stopped and the church door was flung open. Warm light fell onto the icy pathway leading up to the little wooden building. Candles were lit in its low windows, banishing the cold and darkness. As well-dressed gentlefolk left the church, I moved deeper into the shadows. I was cast out and damned.

  A tall man stepped outside the church. Despite the bitter cold, he wore no coat over his black gown with its narrow white band at the throat. He seemed to have a friendly word for everyone leaving the Lutheran church, accepting what looked like small gifts and alms and shaking hands with all the men before parting. People chatted on the street and then took their leave with friendly farewells. Even though I pulled up my stiff knees and made myself as small as possible, some of the churchgoers spotted me as they walked past, the women hurriedly – and somewhat disgustedly – hitching up their wide, thick skirts so as not to touch me and the men crunching through the snow as if they’d not noticed.

  Through the open church door I caught a glimpse of the inside. Simple wooden pews were aligned either side of the well-lit nave, braziers smouldered and fresh straw was scattered on the wooden floorboards. Someone had taken the trouble to adorn the altar with stems of willow, their cat’s paw buds reaching up to a painting of the Holy Trinity. In the monastery, the sheer number of icons staring down on me with stern, knowing eyes had been as threatening as the clouds of myrrh and incense were suffocating. This Lutheran church looked so homely that I was overcome with longing; it was a true light in the darkness.

  The priest pulled the door shut, ready to lock the church. His duty was done: were a well-deserved dinner and a loving family awaiting him? He hesitated on the church’s threshold.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called out in Russian, raising his lantern. Its light ate into the darkness but hadn’t quite reached me when I started coughing. I gasped for air, covering my mouth with my fingers, but he could hear me. He came down the pathway, crossed the road and touched my shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing out here at this ungodly hour? You’ll freeze to death, girl,’ he said in German. ‘Look at me.’ He lifted my chin, but my head dropped listlessly. He touched my cheek and then took my wrist, checking my pulse. ‘Good God! Get up.’ He pulled me up on my feet though I was so limp he had to drag me along the narrow pathway to the church. I stumbled after him, trying not to think of Misha forcing me into the brothel. My clothes as well as my heart felt unbearably heavy. The priest more or less carried me to a small chamber hidden behind the altar. He took a cloak from a hook on the wall. He wrapped me in it, but then frowned and took it off me. ‘Get that wet dress off,’ he said, and began to unlace the bodice of my German dress and then rubbed my bare arms and back with his hands. I tried to cover my breasts but he shooed my arms away. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said curtly. ‘I am married with three children. Do you think I’ve never seen a woman’s breasts before?’

  He covered me with the cloak anew; its cloth was itchy, but I felt as warm and safe as if in the womb. He left the room and returned with a bowl filled with a steaming, scented drink. ‘Drink this, don’t scald your tongue.’

  I sipped and swallowed, which made my throat hurt, but never before had I tasted something so delicious. Its scent was heady with wine, cloves and cardamom, and the drink itself thick, hot and sweet.

  ‘What is this?’ I whispered, and took another sip. It was like drinking life itself. The heat from the braziers made my face burn. Still, he blurred before me when I tried to look at him. Was there only one man or were there two? I wasn’t sure and didn’t care. I squinted but it didn’t help. I had a splitting headache.

  ‘It’s mulled wine. My wife makes it for me and for the congregation, if they are lucky. It’s one of her many secret recipes. Some work, others don’t,’ he said with a smile, before asking me, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Marta.’

  ‘Marta. What’s your family name?’

  I shook my head, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘Hmm. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ he said. ‘I am Ernst Gluck, the pastor of this Lutheran church. Where are you from?’

  ‘I came from Walk today,’ I answered with what I felt was not an utter lie. ‘I am orphaned and am looking for work.’

  ‘Honest work, that is?’ he asked with raised eyebrows, and helped himself to some of the hot spiced wine, eyeing me over the rim of the cup. I held his gaze; it wasn’t difficult, as he had a friendly, honest face, and I hadn’t seen too many of those recently. His hair and moustache were the colour of honey and his skin weathered by the Baltic seasons. The little wrinkles around his blue eyes and his mouth – fine white lines in his tanned face – spoke of a happy, good nature.

  Or perhaps it concealed something worse. My grip weakened. The bowl of spiced wine slipped to the floor. It broke and a deep red puddle spread over the flagstones, just like Vassily’s blood on his kitchen floor. The crimson footprints I’d left in his house spun around me, treading all over me and marking my soul, just as Misha’s grip and his greedy fondling had branded my body. Sonia and her girls had been no help to a fellow woman in distress. Chills seized me, yet I felt boiling hot; my hands searched in vain for something to hold on to and my teeth chattered so hard that I couldn’t speak anymore. The last thing I remembered was Ernst Gluck catching me before I fainted.

  13

  For the next few months I was at death’s door. The Glucks weren’t sure if I wanted to live, they told me later, when I opened my eyes on a day in mid-March. It must have been noon: spring sunlight fell into the friendly, bright room I was lying in, its rays drawing patterns on a rug braided from many colourful strips of cloth. The walls were painted a sunny yellow and all the furniture was stained white. I turned my head. Next to my bed stood a low chair with a bunch of early daffodils set upon it, blossoming in a small vase. A woman sat at a dainty desk, her blonde hair pleated into a thick braid, big brown eyes scouring the open book in front of her. She frowned and moved her lips silently – was she counting up numbers, ticking them off with a flick of her quill? Next to her stood a girl; her serious little face a smaller copy of the woman’s. Her way of leaning on her mother’s chair made me think of Maggie, and it hurt me deep inside. She felt my gaze on her, looked up and nudged her mother gently.

  ‘She’s awake, Mother,’ the child whispered.

  The woman rose, her blue-grey cotton skirt swishing around her slim waist and hips. ‘Can you hear me? Do you understand me?’ she asked, her large eyes full of concern.

  I nodded. Swallowing hurt so much, I didn’t even want to think about having to speak. She touched my cheek lightly, smiled and slipped out of the door, returning minutes later with a bowl of hot, thick soup. It smelt heavenly. ‘Help her to sit up, Agneta. She has to eat otherwise she’ll die on us after all,’ she said, and Agneta placed her hand behind my neck, while her mother pulled me up and stuffed two cushions behind my back. Then she spooned a soup of comfrey with fleshy lumps of fish into my mouth. Even though it hurt me to swallow to begin with, I gladly finished it and then wiped the bowl clean with the crusty brown bread she offered me.

  ‘Welcome back amongst the living, girl. There isn’t much you’ll have to fear in life after surviving this,’ she said, smiling.

  I could only marvel at the Glucks’ kindness and generosity. War was drawing close, I learnt; both armies awaited further orders, growing nervous and tetchy. This was not the moment for anyone to take in a stranger. As soon as I was well enough, I did everything I could to thank them, even if I hadn’t much to offer but my labour. I darned socks and turned collars on Ernst Gluck’s shirts as well as on those of his two sons, Anton and Frederic. After supper, I scrubbed the pots with ash and soap until they sparkled, and following each service I swept the church, gathered wilted branches from the altar’s adornment and burnt them in the braziers of the cosy, small vicarage I shared with the Glucks. On market day I drove a
harder bargain than Caroline Gluck herself, and each Sunday afternoon I ladled pea or barley soup into the beggars’ wooden bowls outside the church, for every week their number grew. During Mrs Gluck’s visits to old or sick members of their congregation, I’d carry her bag of medication or alms, and hold her lantern if things got late. Last but not least, I played with Agneta in all my free time, giving in to her every whim. Caroline gave me a chamber behind the kitchen, which was wonderfully warm as the oven was on the other side of the wall. I had it all to myself since the cook went home in the evening once her work was done. I felt like a part of the family and ate at the table with them, watching, listening and taking everything in.

  ‘Marta? Come and see me when you have a moment,’ Caroline said one afternoon, peering out of her study. I had been scrubbing the floor, so I wrung the cloth and wiped my hands on my apron. My heart pounded. For a while I’d known I was strong and healthy again. It was only a matter of time till this life of peace and happiness would come to an end. How should I brave the world without the Glucks’ warmth and kindness? If she asked me to leave, I hoped she’d give me a recommendation, or, in the best case, would tell me of another family who needed help. On the threshold of the yellow room that looked like sunlight itself, I curtseyed, waiting for her to ask me in. I wore one of Caroline’s old high-necked dresses, which I had widened a bit in the seams and tucks to suit my curves. The Russian way of dressing made me feel like a peasant now compared to the more tailored Western style.

  ‘Sit down.’ Caroline smiled at me, patting the stripy fabric of the sofa. A fire crackled in the tiled oven – it was April, but winter still had a hold on the weather – and the basket next to it was filled with logs. I waited for her to speak when she closed her accounts book: those numbers were a steady source of despair to her because of her husband’s generosity – soon, they’d have to pawn the rectory, she’d say – but they were also a good way of catching a cheating, thieving cook. The rows of numbers looked like poppy seeds on a bun to me. She took my hand; her fingers felt warm and dry.