Lost Roses

by Martha Hall Kelly

  “The provisional government is in chaos, my darling. The duma dissolved. The Ministry is reeling itself, infected with traitors, one step away from radicals cracking open their safes. Even Papa is not accepting the truth that his people no longer support him. Keeps blaming his troubles on the Jews. Says they hate him.”

  “He funded pogroms against them, Olga. Murdered thousands—”

  “I know it all, Sofya, and God will punish us. But don’t you see? Everyone has turned against him. Even if they wanted to send a brigade to Malinov, who would they send?”

  “Imperial guards?”

  “There are no more imperial guards. Since Papa abdicated last month there is no more imperial anything. Last week the Council of Workmen and Soldiers dismissed Papa’s long-standing regiment and replaced them with a hideous mob. Those guarding us have become increasingly hostile and we must lock our doors to keep them from walking into our most private spaces. They walk in as we dine simply and rant about our meals being too extravagant.”

  Olga pulled me closer. “They took our dear Madame Wiroboff from here in March—to Peter and Paul prison where she has been tortured, all just for her connection to us. We must hide you, for if they find you here they may do the same.”

  “I cannot just stay here with my family at risk.”

  “We must think quickly then, or else I’m afraid you will not be leaving here, at least not in time to help your family.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  Eliza

  1917

  An ambulance brought Nancy from the Bowery to Southampton Hospital, where she received expert care. I still rested on my medical laurels, happy with the idea I helped save her. The plan was to host her at Gin Lane once she recovered. Would she offer clues to Sofya’s whereabouts? I yearned for her to mend so I could broach the question.

  Mother finally gave in and allowed us to bring Princess Yesipov, too, mostly to stop her from pushing the issue each morning at breakfast. Mother’s only admonition to us was, “Just don’t let things get rowdy.” She was worried about the Southampton colony, the Pink and Greens, reacting poorly to our guests. The season was not yet fully open, but I vowed to do my best not to ruffle local feathers.

  * * *

  —

  ONCE THE DOCTORS DISCHARGED Nancy she came home to Gin Lane and one unseasonably warm, breezy April Tuesday, Mother deemed her well enough to talk with me. Our goal, set by Mother, was to have her well enough to walk to the wood-and-iron bench in the backyard, which overlooked the ocean. The salt air was one of Mother’s favorite cure-alls.

  We started slowly, arm in arm, and walked about Mr. Gardener’s garden, green-and-white-striped crocus shoots had just started to emerge from the dark earth. I hoped to hear some encouraging news about Sofya.

  We started out toward the bench, waves crashing below us in the distance.

  “How can I ever repay you?” Nancy asked.

  “I have so many questions. If you don’t mind me asking, Nancy is such an American name…”

  “Just a precaution. Some think the Reds will not rest until they’ve done us all in, no matter where we are, to make sure we don’t come back and overthrow them. I read a book called Pollyanna on the ship over and thought Nancy was a pretty name. Much easier to say than Yelizaveta.”

  “I know you may not be well enough yet to talk to me about it, but where is your husband?”

  “You are kind to ask. I’m fine talking about Russia, but just not that. Not yet. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course, dear. Only when you’re ready. I had a friend in Russia I wanted to inquire of. In Malinov.”

  “We used to visit my aunt at her estate near there.”

  “Sofya Streshnayva.”

  “Of course. Her father is with the Ministry.”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  We made it to the bench. Only a bit winded, Nancy gripped the wooden back of it and looked out over the ocean.

  “She was one of tsarina Alexandra’s ladies-in-waiting. I was always so envious of her, so kind and refined, with the most handsome husband.”

  “Have you heard any news of her?”

  Nancy stepped to the front of the bench and sat. “I hate to say…”

  “Please, anything.”

  “Well, bad things were happening south of Petrograd before I left. Bandits raiding estates. Whole families, well…”

  “I must know, Nancy.”

  “My aunt sent a letter. Said Little Heaven had been attacked.”

  I sat next to Nancy on the bench, light-headed. “By whom?”

  “She said there was a terrible new element in town….”

  “Criminals?”

  “Yes, but also some disgruntled factory workers and deserted soldiers, too. Ordinary town folk. But with newfound courage. Call themselves Reds. Seems once they wear a red armband they fear nothing and simply take what they want.”

  “Where are the police?”

  “She said there was a big change happening with the police. In Moscow she’d seen a terrible thing. People were holding a meeting in one of the squares and the police shot sideways to dispel the crowd, but then shot into them. People rose up, grabbed one policeman, and dragged him away in his long greatcoat and gray fur hat. Took him around the corner and shot him. After that, many policemen just disappeared or joined the ranks of the Reds.”

  “Could you write your aunt again—”

  “She had to leave the estate, all her beautiful things. She said the servants cried the night she left. And that’s the only letter I have. I don’t know where she is. All I can do is wait.”

  What we’d suspected was true. The thought of the Streshnayvas overrun by criminals was too terrible to bear. What of little Max? “I should have done more when I could.”

  I handed Nancy my extra handkerchief and we both dabbed our eyes.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself. Who could foresee all of this? Sofya is a smart woman.”

  “Can you ask the others if they know her?”

  “Of course.”

  We sat in silence watching the waves crash upon the beach.

  “I feel bad staying here so comfortable, with the rest of the Russian girls living in that terrible boarding house.”

  I touched her arm. “We call that guilt, dear. It’s the foundation of some of our most popular religions.”

  “I must go back and help them.”

  “You’re barely recovered and bound to catch something new. But rest assured they’ll be fine, for I’ve arranged to bring them all here. The community won’t like it but that’s too bad. I’m planning a party, too, a gala to benefit Russian émigrés. All through my committee.”

  Nancy stood straighter. “May I help?”

  “Of course. It’s the American Central Committee for Russian Relief. I wrote to a woman my aunt told me about named Mrs. Zaronova, in Paris, who has organized a workshop and is employing displaced émigrés to make all sorts of Russian handmade items. I asked her if we could sell her things here in the U.S. We’re now expecting the first shipment any day.”

  “Will you sell them in stores?”

  “At our apartment in the city on Wednesdays this fall; and I’ve spoken to the Plaza Hotel about special sales there. Part of the proceeds will help the women here in New York. The remainder we’ll send to Paris to support the women who make the items.”

  “I’m happy we can help,” Nancy said.

  She returned to the house, ready to nap, and I continued to the beach for a walk, wondering if I could keep my promises to bring all the Russian women to Gin Lane. The Pink and Greens would have me in stocks at Lake Agawam if I didn’t watch my step. But how could I leave the women living in squalor?

  For the first time in so long I felt a warm glow of sixth sense, an unexplained certainty. That so
mehow it all brought me closer to Sofya.

  * * *

  —

  WE CHOSE THE WRONG time to venture into town to Hildreth’s to pick up more cleaning supplies. Though the cottage had been scrubbed top to bottom, we needed to prepare for the additional Russian guests we expected any day; and Mother also wanted to show Nancy and Princess Yesipov Hildreth’s, the oldest, largest, and most reliable Southampton store devoted to the sale of general merchandise.

  We piled into the carriage, which we used for short trips into town. Southampton at the time embraced the new automobile, but couldn’t give up its horses. It was a short ride from Gin Lane, along wide streets arched with elms, the horses’ hooves falling soft on dirt roads. Was it the sea air that was helping Nancy? She already had new color in her cheeks.

  “What a lovely town,” Nancy said from the rear seat.

  “Founded in 1640,” Mother said.

  Princess Yesipov leaned forward. “My town Kiev was founded in sixth century. Withstood Mongol hoards.”

  Mother turned in her seat. “Well, we’ve weathered our own challenges. The Vagabond Hurricane of 1903.”

  “And the Pink and Greens,” I said.

  “They are dangerous?” Nancy asked.

  “Very,” Mother said. “You don’t want to poke that wasps’ nest.”

  I laughed but it was true. My Henry used to call them “the Mink and Means,” a force to be reckoned with.

  “They run the colony here,” I said. “Mostly the more mature ladies in town. They dictate what to wear. What kind of tea to drink.”

  “They wear these colors, pink and green?” Princess Yesipov asked.

  “Yes. And they grow pink roses and green plants.”

  We arrived at Hildreth’s, a wide, well-kept building with two peaked roofs and a long, striped awning that hung over the picture windows.

  Caroline ran into the store and we followed.

  Inside the wide shop the floors creaked with every step and I breathed in the essence of the old place, of soap flakes and fresh-cut hay. How satisfying it was to see those two floors packed with staples and fancy groceries, furniture, crockery, carpets, and horse feed stacked to the beadboard ceiling.

  The fat, green cash register commanded the oak counter, which ran down the length of the place, and the stairs stood at our left. The Regulator clock on the wall behind the counter, brass pendulum swinging, kept time as it had since I’d come in as a child with Mother.

  “Carry Mitchell. Back so soon?” Mr. Hildreth greeted us, a slim, bespectacled gentleman with a businesslike air. “Tried to get more sugar but I’m on a wait list. And no more plungers until rubber’s back.”

  “We’ll make do, Mr. Hildreth.”

  The princess pulled a jar of fancy gherkins down off a carefully stacked pyramid. “Six kinds of pickles? Very good.”

  Mother called out items from her list and we scurried to find them.

  “Gayetty’s Medicated Paper. One mop. Waterthin crackers.”

  Mr. Hildreth slipped Caroline two cellophaned root-beer candies and she pocketed them with a smile.

  Soon Electra Whitney and her Pink and Green Garden Society friends stepped down the stairs, dressed almost identically in full shopping regalia, celadon silk dresses and rose-colored hats. Each carried a rake in one hand.

  “How do you do, Carry?” Electra asked.

  Mother sent her a curt nod. “Very well.”

  Electra stepped to me. “Good to see you, Eliza.”

  Proud of her small feet, Electra held her skirt hem high to show them off. Her granddaughter Jinx followed behind her, a square, humorless child who’d inherited Electra’s entitled air and sour disposition.

  Electra stopped at the base of the stairs and the other secure and leisured ladies stood on the stairs like debutantes posing for a picture.

  “We are just picking up a few things.”

  Mother stepped aside, chin high. “Don’t let us keep you. We’re just browsing.”

  “What?” Electra asked. “Shopping? Not out carrying jars of soup to the sick?”

  “And where are you off to, Electra? An anti-suffrage meeting?”

  “If you came to one, you’d realize that giving women the right to vote would threaten the family.”

  “Women know so little beyond the home,” a blond woman added, from her spot on the stairs.

  “May I introduce Anna Gabler?” Electra asked.

  So, this was the famous Anna. I stepped closer for a better look and was strangely satisfied to find her more plain than pretty, her features on their own quite good—a nice nose, ice-blue eyes, and golden hair—but put together were not what I’d call beautiful.

  Anna nodded toward me. “Anna Gabler. One B like Ibsen’s Hedda.”

  I nodded in return. “Eliza Ferriday. I hope the similarities end there. Things didn’t go well for poor Hedda Gabler, did they?”

  Even at first glance, the similarities between Anna and Hedda were hard to ignore. Aristocratic. Hard to please. Hopefully not pregnant, for Merrill’s sake.

  “Eliza, Anna’s family has joined the Meadow Club.”

  I brushed a speck of dirt from my sleeve and tried to smile. “How wonderful.”

  “Anna is coming up to the camp next week,” Electra said.

  By “the camp” Electra meant her second country house on two hundred acres of Maine coast in Bar Harbor, where Mother’s people often summered but Father had always refused to go, finding the women there vulgar and rowdy, since they swung their arms when they walked.

  Anna smiled. “Electra wants me to see the place and has invited a whole houseful.”

  “Richard Merrill too, of course,” Electra said.

  I conjured an image of Electra holding court from a striped cabana at their heated swimming pool, Anna and Merrill frolicking in the shallow end. That pool had been a first in Bar Harbor and won Electra a great many friends since, though some may protest otherwise, a human body cannot survive Maine’s coastal waters even in August.

  “What important work are you off to?” I asked Electra.

  “Planting salvia around the cannon in front of Daughters of the American Revolution headquarters.”

  “How very important, and you not even a DAR member.”

  “One does what one can,” Electra said. “And you? Preparing for guests, I hear. Already? With the season not fully opened yet?”

  “A few Russian friends,” I said.

  “That kind of thing is common in Slavic countries, isn’t it? Crowding into houses? You never used to see such a thing on Gin Lane.”

  The rest of Electra’s acolytes stepped down and stood behind her.

  “You can always drop your Russians at the new hospital,” Anna Gabler said. “They’re taking in roomers.”

  Another woman spoke up. “Take them to Quogue. Plenty of boarding houses there.”

  Little Jinx addressed Mother. “Next thing you know, they’ll all be on the relief.”

  Electra clasped her hands at her waist. “Reverend Dunmore says, ‘Do not worship false idols,’ and there’s a lot of that going on in Russia, praying to shiny, false gods.”

  “I saw it in National Geographic,” Anna said. “They hang pictures of them on every wall.”

  Caroline stepped toward the group. “In the Russian Orthodox Church, Mrs. Whitney, they pray to icons not idols, the faces of Jesus and Mary painted on board, some covered in metal. Mother brought one home from her trip.”

  Electra stood straighter and looked at Caroline as if seeing her for the first time. “Well, don’t you offer opinions freely for a young girl?”

  Caroline stepped closer to her. “These people are our guests. My mother is working hard to help them, and if you cannot issue them an apology we must ask you to leave, is that not right, Mr. Hildreth?” />
  Mr. Hildreth shrugged. “You’re the boss, Miss Ferriday.”

  Electra paused a moment, clearly having never been thrown out of anywhere, and then waved her ladies onward. “Well, we need to be on our way, anyway. Anna is meeting Richard Merrill at the Meadow Club. But I know we won’t be shopping here again anytime soon.”

  They swept past Caroline and out the door.

  Merrill? In Southampton? My gaze swept the scene outside the picture windows. Perhaps I would see him?

  I stepped to Mr. Hildreth. “I hope this doesn’t hurt your business.”

  “Oh, no. Electra can’t stay away. No one else has her favorite fertilizer. And it was worth it to see that daughter of yours stand up for herself. I like that.”

  “Good job, Caroline,” I said, never prouder of my daughter, but I knew we’d poked the wrong wasps’ nest.

  CHAPTER

  28

  Varinka

  1917

  Once I freed Luba I returned to the estate to pack for our escape, one eye open for Taras. He and Vladi were out hunting, their feud forgotten for the moment. Since the tsar’s woods had become fair game to anyone with a red armband, the two were off on a hunters’ holiday. What would Taras do if he caught us running away? Vladi? A shudder went through me. Would he track us on our first day, walking to Petrograd?

  I pulled Sofya’s valise from the armoire, smoothed one hand down the black-and-white fabric side of it and touched the fancy “S” marked on the leather strap. How was she doing without her son? I forced my mind on to the task at hand. Mamka, Max, and I were to meet Luba at our old izba. What to pack?

  In the armoire, Sofya’s clothes still hung there by color. We were a similar size. Why did it still feel so strange to wear her clothes?

  I pulled out lavender silk slippers with silver beading and lay them in the valise. A dove gray organza dress for Mamka and a tangerine shawl. From the lingerie chest I grabbed handfuls of pantalets, chemises, and stockings and tossed them in. Max’s valenok, little felt boots. How small they were. He was growing out of them. We would get new ones in Petrograd.