I stopped at one article titled “Do You Know How to Kiss?”
The article showed pictures of a couple embracing, the captions calling out the right and wrong ways to kiss. The right way was standing just the right distance apart, but not too close. The woman must lift her chin, close her eyes, and turn her head all in that order. I tried it, lifting my chin.
I tossed the magazine back in the trunk. For all Taras’s romantic interest in me we’d never kissed mouth to mouth and I would die unkissed.
I checked the other compartments. A silver kokoshnik studded with gems lay in the bottom of one. I lifted it out of the drawer and ran one finger down the peaked crown, heavy with the kind of paste gems Mamka often sewed with. I rushed to the lavatory, looked in the mirror, and placed it on my head. It was just like one I’d seen the tsar’s daughters wear.
A black thought struck me. Would it bring bad luck to wear the clothing of a dead person?
Soon there came a great commotion in the hallway. I stayed very still and barely breathed.
“Let us in, by order of the Red Army. We have come to check for guns.”
I ran to the bedroom and froze there next to the great piano, fingers laced at my chest, my heart thumping against them. Taras said not to let them in. But could they break down the door?
“We know you are in there,” called one. “If we have to break the door down we will show no mercy.”
Should I hide in the armoire? Under the bed? I felt my pocket for the key, cold and heavy there.
I stepped to the door and placed one hand on the cold wood. “Go away.” Did I sound strong?
“We’re not leaving until we check this room.” Something hard hit the outside of the door.
“There are sick in here. Typhus.”
Their answer was another slam at the door. Then another. The wood splintered at the edges.
“Stop!” I called out. I tried to put the key in the keyhole but my hands shook so.
“This is the last warning,” a woman’s voice called from the hallway.
I finally unlocked the door and six or seven men and one woman rushed in, all dressed in the kind of drab clothes we’d seen on the street. All stank of sweet wine.
The woman came toward me. “Your travel papers?”
“I have none. I came from Malinov on official party business.”
The men laughed and the woman stepped closer. “Party business? You in your bourgeois dress and jewels.”
“The headpiece came from the princess’s trunk.”
“Good story,” one of the men said. He grabbed my backside and I jumped away from him.
“You’ll have to come outside with us while we check the room,” the woman said.
A little man wearing a white sailor’s shirt stained about the neck with splotches of red wine pulled my arms behind me. He whispered in my ear, “I may just take one for myself tonight.”
“Taras Pushkinsky. You may know him. He works for the party. I have rights as a citizen.”
The woman stepped to the piano and ran the back of her hand down the keys. “No papers, no rights.”
Suddenly the ruffians turned and looked at something behind me.
“Who authorized this?” a man’s voice asked.
I turned to find a nice-looking young man, wearing a green coat like the ones the others wore and the same sort of gray cap.
The woman recognized him. “I’m sorry, Commissioner.”
“Go check another room, if that is what you’re really doing. You seem to be looting for your own purposes. This will not help the people.”
The group filed out, the excitement of their little raid passed.
The man closed the door behind them and nodded his head. “I’m Radimir Solomakhin. What are you doing here alone?”
“Taras thought it would be a good time to visit—”
“Taras?”
I held my breath. What to say? How could I tell a stranger the truth?
“Taras Pushkinsky. My guardian. I am Varinka from Malinov. He is here for a party meeting and thought I would like to see the sights. Those people thought I was wealthy.”
“Those people are Bolsheviki and a dangerous bunch. Lend you a helping hand one minute and put a bullet in your head the next.”
Radimir smiled and held out one hand. “Come, Varinka. You’re safe with me. Let’s have some fun.”
CHAPTER
32
Sofya
1917
I turned, there on the servants’ entrance path. Why did I speak to the guard? I’d been so close to freedom. I clutched Ortipo closer, her little heart pounding against my palm. Did she sense my fear?
“I’m sorry—”
“How many times must I say it?” Stas asked. “Get over here.”
I stepped back toward the servants’ entrance.
Stas tossed a coin toward me. “Bring me back two peppermints.”
I caught the coin with my free hand and glanced at Olga and Tatiana, relief on their faces.
“Of course,” I said, the coin warm in my cold hand, and headed off toward town.
* * *
—
I HURRIED PAST A drunken mob that had vandalized the little wine shop in town, dropped Ortipo at the veterinarian’s office, and headed out of Tsar’s Village for the road back to Malinov. I removed my white maid’s cap and apron, in case Stas had a sudden ray of insight and reported me missing. I wished thanks to my cousins for the warm boots, happy the tsarina shod her maids well and ordered them French-made uniforms.
The trek back to Malinov seemed interminable. I walked all day, hungry, but vowed to save the food in my kit bag for my family, and finally hitched a ride with another farmer who took pity on me. We had to stop over and sleep with his family in one room for the night before he dropped me near Malinov.
I trudged through the night energized by thoughts of seeing the estate again. I fixed little Max’s sweet face in my mind. Would he remember his mama after so many months apart?
Near morning, lit only by the moon, I approached the estate, keeping to the ruts a troika had left in the slushy spring snow.
I rehearsed my plan. I would first get Max from his nursery, wait for the right moment, and then set my family free.
I stepped to the back of the house and at the sound of shuffling footsteps near the back door pressed myself close to a tree. A woman emerged and flung a box onto what looked like a massive refuse pile and then hurried back into the house. Could there be food there? My stomach complained at the thought.
I inched closer and saw Agnessa’s greenhouse, somehow imploded, the glass and metal crushed and lying at odd angles in the snow, household refuse dumped there. Laundry soapboxes and tin cans. A funny little breathy grunting met my ears and I made out two hairy bodies among the trash, two wild boars nosing about.
I waited for the pair to move on, stepped to the pile, pulled out the closest box, and almost fainted from what I found there. Could it be? A package of Agnessa’s French meringue dessert shells. I ripped open the bag and bit one, rock hard, and then slid it into my pocket. Just the taste of sugar helped me stand taller.
Something white caught my eye and I turned to find one white rose growing out of it all, a Katharina Zeimet. Mr. Gardener’s rose. A true survivor. I pulled the plant out, root ball still intact and covered with burlap, and slid it into my bag, careful not to crush the leaves. Could I keep such a delicate thing alive?
I walked to the back steps, the oak panel Bogdan had nailed there so many months before pried off. It smelled of urine and boiled cabbage as I entered the hallway, the house hushed.
I climbed the back stair to Max’s nursery, my hands clasped to stop the shaking. I would take him and go. To the village. I reached the top of the stairs and halted, listening to the muted voices coming fro
m behind the nursery door. Inka? Her mother? No. They didn’t sound familiar, like those who would recognize me, so I took a deep breath and entered.
The room was brightly lit with new hanging petrol lamps and anchored in the center by a typically Russian wooden desk big enough to spread a picnic on, a man sitting on one of Agnessa’s dining room chairs there. Near the window sat a table heaped with ledgers. I stood in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the light, watching a woman walk about the room straightening up. I stood, rooted to the spot. It was dear Raisa.
“You’re late,” the man said without looking up, hunched over a glass of tea. Everything about him was round and porcine, his little eyes lost in the folds of his fat, pink face. At least I’d never seen him before. No chance he would recognize me.
“Late?” I asked. I walked toward the desk and read a crudely written cardboard sign there. The People’s Rope and Laundry, Laundry Division.
“You’ll have to fly to get to Kolpino by six. Where is your husband to drive?”
Raisa and I met eyes. Would she expose me?
“Taken ill?” I asked.
“You are asking me? Ill with what? The drink, that’s what. Am I the only one willing to work around here anymore?”
“I can drive the wagon.”
“You’ll have to.”
Raisa stepped to the desk and bent toward the man. “Commissioner, I must tell you—”
A chill ran through me. Please, Raisa, don’t expose me. I’ve come so far.
CHAPTER
33
Eliza
1917
It was a warm late spring morning, the night before our fund-raiser for the Russian women, when Merrill’s first letter arrived.
Peg delivered it to me as I stood in the driveway at the front of the house. I hurried the envelope open and took in Merrill’s lovely script.
NEWPORT NEWS, VIRGINIA
Dearest Eliza,
Had my first trip up this morning, with an instructor. Fairly simple getting up to 3,200 feet, some pockets of rough air but a glorious harbor view. We made a pretty landing having been up only 18 minutes. Other than knowing my life will officially start when I come home to you, the only other thing I know is that flying is something I want to stay with for some time. I head out for France soon, eager to see their machines there…
He closed the letter with a lovely colored pencil sketch, an aerial view of the harbor so detailed, down to the sailors on the boats in the harbor. Was this Merrill’s artistic work? How unlike him, but what a lovely surprise to see that hidden talent. Had I made a tremendous mistake, shaming him to enlist? How good it would be to see him again.
As I refolded the letter and slid it back into its envelope, Officer Maddox rode into our driveway on his motorbike.
“Afternoon,” he said, one hand at his uniform hat brim.
Everything about Billy Maddox, his gentle way, his slight frame and bland, Midwestern good looks made him wholly unsuited to police work. But what he lacked in authority he made up for with his affable way.
“Here on official business, I’m afraid.”
I folded my arms across my waist. He was there to enforce zoning laws no doubt.
All at once Mother drove her car into the driveway, sending crushed quahog shells flying. She was due to pick up most of our household to see Mary Pickford in Little Pal at the Crescent Theatre. She sounded her horn and out of the house came Peg, Princess Yesipov, Caroline, and three women from the boarding house in the Bowery visiting for the day to meet with the Irving Hotel about possible work. They all piled into the car. Why had Billy picked that moment to visit us?
“Good day, Officer Maddox,” Mother said.
“Good day, Mrs. Mitchell. Afraid I have bad news.”
“The mean turkey is loose again?” Mother asked.
Billy kicked at the shells with the toe of his boot. “Yes, but there’s more bad news. Electra Whitney has filed an official complaint against you.”
Mother sent me her best stern look.
He held out a paper and read. “In Southampton proper, a one-family detached residence, unless a church or similar place of worship, seminary, parish house, convent—”
Princess Yesipov turned in the backseat and said in her thick accent, “Sir, we are missing our cinema.”
Officer Maddox continued. “Unless dwelling is a camping grounds, multiple dwelling for three or more families, and is a country residence over two hundred thousand square feet—”
“Summarize, Billy.” Mother stepped down from her auto.
Officer Maddox rolled up his paper and shook the little tube in Mother’s direction. “Complaint says you can’t have more than four guests staying here permanent unless they are family, Mrs. Mitchell. And from the sound of this group you’ve got a problem.”
Electra wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the increased activity at our house. I hadn’t told Mother, but we’d received a letter from a New Jersey couple asking to rent rooms with us for the weekend, thinking it was a hotel.
“But Peg is a registered worker. Caroline is my granddaughter.”
“And the rest? Mrs. Whitney says at least one’s been working without a permit.”
Mother stepped toward Officer Maddox. “How long have we known each other, dear? Since you were sick at the hospital?”
Billy removed his hat, licked his palm, and smoothed down his blond hair, suddenly looking younger than his nineteen years. Deferred from war by a diphtheria-related inner ear issue, Billy earned the top law enforcement job in town when the former police chief enlisted. His sweet nature and penchant for motorbikes made him especially vulnerable to Electra Whitney’s demands.
He stuffed the letter in his pocket. “Lived there almost a month.”
“You know me, Billy. I would never violate the law.”
He stepped closer to Mother and lowered his voice. “I’m getting it from all Miss Electra’s pals, too. Saying they will have me canned. Told me the town’s overrun with folks talking foreign languages and they just don’t like it. Said you’re the problem, harboring so many aliens.”
“Electra bought that motorcycle, correct?” I asked.
“Threatened to make me walk everywhere if I don’t get you to comply. Said they talked to the hospital, too, askin’ the board to have you removed, Mrs. Mitchell.”
Mother stepped up into her auto and swatted the air with the back of her hand. “Oh, let them try, Billy. In the meantime, we will do everything in our power to relocate the ladies and make sure they are legal.”
Billy replaced his cap. “Good thing. Have it done by tomorrow? Or else I will have to start arrests. Hate to do it, because they seem like good folks. Not sure where they’d be sent. Maybe back to Ukrainia.”
“They are from Petrograd, Officer Maddox,” I said. “Russians.”
Mother backed up her vehicle. “Don’t give it another thought, Billy. The problem will be solved tomorrow, isn’t that right, Eliza?”
“Of course,” I said.
* * *
—
I STEPPED INTO THE DARKENING kitchen to make final preparations for the next day’s party, glassware arranged on the counters, a crystal ziggurat of samogon bottles stacked on the kitchen table. I seized a crudités platter from the icebox, sat near the window, and opened the newspaper.
I found an article about Vladimir Lenin, which said he was encouraging the wholesale slaughter of monarchists and anti-Bolsheviks and eliminated dissent through the Cheka, the new secret police. I looked past the dark lawn out to sea, the lights from the fishing boats on the distant horizon. Lenin’s rise made the situation even more perilous for those like Sofya. How terrible it was to hear nothing from her. Was she even alive to see Lenin come to power?
Nancy stepped into the kitchen, cradling a dark rectangle in one arm, and picked
up a bottle of samogon.
“Hello, dear,” I said.
She turned, startled. “I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself to a taste.” She wore an old flannel robe Mother had given her. “Care to join me in a drink?”
“You’re still recovering, dear—”
She held out the bottle and the light glinted off the glass. “This is good medicine.”
More than a little curious about the vodka Princess Yesipov claimed tasted like nectar, I took a glass from the counter and held it out. “Perhaps a touch.”
Nancy splashed clear liquid into my glass. It tasted not exactly like nectar, but it was smooth and crisp and sent glorious warmth through me.
“You are supposed to throw it back with one shot.” She drank the contents of her glass in one swallow.
I did the same. For homemade alcohol, it was remarkably smooth.
Nancy pulled out a chair.
She took a stalk of celery from the platter and bit into it. “This is a surprise. No Russian likes this vegetable. Too noisy. There are so many surprises here. Like the kindness of Americans. Your daughter has been so good to me. Brings me tea every morning.”
“Caroline loves you all. It’s the first time I’ve seen her happy since her father died.”
“If you don’t mind me asking how?”
“Pneumonia.” At least I could talk of it without feeling like the world was made of blown glass and about to shatter.
“You still wear black.”
“Can’t seem to give it up. It’s all I have left of him.”
Nancy poured me another glass and I drank it in one gulp. The warmth grew in my belly. “I should have been able to save him. I’m still not quite right.”
“A natural death is a gift.”
“It has caused me nothing but pain.”
“I would have given the world for a natural death for my boy. A pneumonia germ. A death in the night.” Nancy poured us both more samogon and tossed back her third. “You want to hear the story?”
Lost Roses Page 26