Madame stopped and turned, a quizzical look on her face. Afraid? Astonished?
I continued to complete the enrollment form. Varinka Pushkinsky. Taras Pushkinsky.
Taras went on. Would he push her too far?
“Maybe let me tell you what I do for a living. Perhaps you’ve heard about people meeting a bad end…”
Madame waved the thought away. “Stop.”
Taras smiled. “Surely you can find room for one more child in your ranks.”
“That is blackmail.”
“You learn so much at school,” he said.
“I will call the police.”
Taras frowned. “The poor police. Overwhelmed. Some of them are already my friends.”
He was a brute, but at that moment I was grateful for it.
I handed my completed application to Madame Fournier.
Her hand shook as she took it. “By law I need to have your photographs for the application.”
I pulled the white envelope out of my bag. “Right here.”
“Well, we require a trial visit day,” she said.
“I knew you would see it my way,” Taras said with a smile.
Moments later, Taras and I stepped out of the building, having left Max behind for his half day of getting acquainted, his test to see if he would get along well enough there to join the class. How happy he’d been to see the other children.
I said goodbye to Taras, told him I was off to buy bread, and smiled as I pulled on my gloves. There was no question Max would pass the test.
* * *
—
I MET RADIMIR AT the bakery on the corner.
“Clever girl, Varinka,” he said. “You understood my cryptic message.”
We took a quick train ride to Gare de Lyon station. The restaurant there was part of the station so we walked only steps up to the entrance. I would have my first date in Paris and then be back in time to pick up Max.
Radimir linked one arm in mine and hurried me into the restaurant. “Look up.”
I brought my gaze to the ceiling. “So beautiful.” The whole thing was covered with paintings of country scenes, in fanciful golden frames. In the middle of it all sat a giant gold chandelier.
“Isn’t it incredible? Since I first saw it I wanted to show you.”
A waiter sat us on two leather seats facing each other, a table between us. I slipped my arms out of my sable coat and let it fall back, the label there for all to see, Worth, printed in script, the “h” swooped back across the word. I made a note not to slurp my tea from the saucer.
Radimir looked good, his dark green cap matching his eyes. He tossed his cigarette pack onto the table; I slid a cigarette from it, brought it to my mouth, and waited. “How long have you been in Paris?”
He hesitated, a slight smile on his lips, and then lit a match. “About a week now. You?”
“A few weeks.” I coughed a bit. What was the attraction to smoking?
Radimir smiled. “You’ve become quite sophisticated, Varinka.”
I smiled and looked about the place. A date. In Paris. How exciting it all was. Meeting at the bakery, coming to such a fancy place full of rich Parisians.
A waiter handed us a sheet with the restaurant’s few offerings printed on it, but I could not tear my gaze from the ceiling.
“They’re all landscapes,” Radimir said. “I knew you’d like them. It seems crazy eating dinner at the train station but the food is good.”
I closed my eyes and breathed in the scents of the kitchen. Beef and onions.
“These paintings were done by the rail company, each is a different scene one might see on a trip on their trains, through places like Lyon, Marseille. Forty-one paintings altogether. By twenty-seven artists.”
“I like them all. But the one straight above is the best.”
He looked straight up and his wool cap almost fell off the back of his head. “You have a good eye. René Billotte painted that. France’s best. Perhaps we will travel by train together one day. Bring your mother. If she ever warms up to me.”
“She’s just very religious. She likes good people, though, so you have no worries.”
“I’ll blind her with my charms.”
“Why do you never take off your hat?”
“I’m afraid you won’t like me.”
He pulled off his cap to reveal his hair, deep red as my sable coat. I couldn’t help but stare.
“You hate it. Since I was a baby old ladies have been coming up to me and touching my red hair.” He tried to replace his cap.
I reached across the table and stopped him. “It’s beautiful. Not red like a sunset but deeper.”
Radimir sat up a little straighter. “They tell me my father had this hair as well. Titian the painter made it his signature.”
“Well, I like it very much.”
The menu was limited, no eggs or sugar and little bread, but they did have the famous bouillon soup they were known for so we ordered a bowl to split. My mouth watered at the thought. I’d had no French food since we’d arrived, cooking Russian food for Taras at home, unable to go out with Max anyway.
“I worked at the Louvre yesterday and found a painting I must show you.”
So he was planning another date?
“There is a word in Hebrew beshert. It means ‘meant to be fated.’ And that is how I feel about us. How else would I have met you in Petrograd?”
“And here on the street?”
“Well, I must admit I have been keeping one eye out for you here. But it seems God keeps throwing things in my path. Sitting here, it’s hard to imagine there’s a revolution going on at home.”
“I hope it all ends up good for us.”
“It’s going to be better than you can imagine, Varinka. Finally, no more taxes. Everyone equal. No more tsar turning on his own people when we strike. Common people will finally own land. The art will be brought out from the big estates, free for all to enjoy.”
Radimir took a drink of his water, cheeks flushed. How deeply he felt about—
All at once came a hard squeeze on my arm.
“Buying bread?”
I looked up to find Taras standing at our table.
“Get up.”
I yanked my arm away, causing a water glass to fall over, sending water across the table. “We’re in the middle—”
Radimir threw his napkin on the table. “Let her go.”
Taras stared at Radimir as if memorizing him.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked.
Taras shifted in his hunter’s boots. “I won’t tell you again, Inka.”
The hot stares of the other patrons lingered on us.
I stood and Taras shoved me toward the restaurant door.
Radimir scrambled to his feet. “Stay, Varinka.”
Our waiter hurried toward the table. “No fighting in here.”
“I’m sorry,” I called back to Radimir.
Taras pulled me roughly by my arm toward the door, causing more patrons to gape at us. I knew I would be punished more, later, in private. Would Radimir see the results? I would use extra powder to cover the bruises.
I turned back as Radimir stood looking like he wanted to follow, our bouillon steaming on the table.
CHAPTER
38
Eliza
1918
New York City went mad with joy at the news the war ended that November. Mayor Hylan led what can only loosely be called a parade, of city employees, in a delirious march up Fifth Avenue as New Yorkers choked the streets and almost drowned in confetti.
But no parade could hide the fact that the war had left nine million soldiers dead, 125,000 of them Americans, and 21 million wounded. Was Merrill among them? I’d had no letter for a full year and had wri
tten to every hospital in France with no word back. If I was lucky enough to find him alive, there was no guarantee he’d still care for me.
I planned to sail later that month in search of him. What would I find on my passage to France? Certainly, a country ravaged by war, but I had American Central Committee for Russian Relief business and a long-promised meeting with Nonna Zaronova to attend to.
And perhaps I’d find some clues about Sofya. The papers said the number of Russian émigrés in Paris soared that year to over five thousand. Surely someone there knew more of her whereabouts.
* * *
—
THE DAY OF OUR third bazaar to benefit the Committee for Russian Relief, held at our New York apartment, an unexpected, though most welcome, guest arrived.
It seemed the whole city waited for our sales of handmade Russian gifts, a line forming around the block, and this pre-Christmas event proved larger than ever. In the vast living room, Mother and I had set up every table we had, upon which we artfully arranged our Russian goods. Guests hurried from one table to the next, gathering the handmade, lace-edged sheets and pillow covers, dolls and painted boxes to their chests, knowing we sold out quickly. Caroline and her fellow debutante friends dressed in Russian dress for the day and milled through the crowd attending the shoppers.
A good-looking, blond gentleman with excellent posture stepped into the room, clearly not interested in shopping, and Mother and I went to him.
“I am looking for Eliza Ferriday?”
He stood tall, dressed in a wool suit, high white collar, and thin tie. His clothes were of the finest quality, though clearly worn, but he was perfectly groomed.
“Whom may I say is calling?” Mother asked.
He removed his gloves and extended one hand. “Baron Yury Vanyovich Vasily-Argunov, madame. But please call me Cook. Everyone does.”
Mother reached out her hand to shake his, and he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. She turned away, color high in her cheeks. The last time I’d seen her blush was when she’d worn a new pair of heels and Father had called her his “Amazonian princess.”
I extended my hand. “I’m Eliza Ferriday.”
“I know Sofya Stepanov. She spoke of you often.”
Sofya. How I yearned to grill him on Sofya’s status. “We must hear about Russia. There are so many questions.”
“Let the man settle in,” Mother said with a warning glance at me.
“I just sailed from France. Been in Paris several months.”
“How is it?” I asked.
He spread his feet wide and folded his arms across his chest. “Dangerous for Russians. The Bolsheviks already have agents there, London now, too. Assassins to finish off the wealthy who flee, take the money they feel is Russia’s. I had a few close calls.”
“Murder?” A chill ran through me. Sofya.
“There have been a few killings. It’s not uncommon for Russian aristocrats, ‘former people’ they now call us, to disappear in the night, sent back to Russia to stand trial. Some get poison in their meal. I was followed more than once.”
“Have you heard news of the Streshnayvas?” I asked.
“Two years ago, I was with them when the estate was seized by thieves.”
My stomach lurched. “So it’s true?”
Mother pulled a chair over and sat.
“We’ve been frantic for news,” I said.
“Sofya helped me escape, but one of their captors, a woodsman named Taras, shot me in the side.”
“You poor man,” Mother said.
“I was lucky it was nightfall and raining. I buried my boots in leaves so as not to leave tracks and somehow evaded him, but on the second day, half frozen, I lost consciousness in the woods. Next thing I knew, foragers had dragged me back to their izba.”
“Did they have medicine?” Mother asked.
“They did what they could with herbs and poultices. Once the snow came it was impossible to get me out to a hospital—I had to wait for spring and by then Petrograd was in absolute chaos. The couple brought me, bound to a sledge, to my friend in the provisional government. He was packing his office, leaving on a diplomatic transport, and he secured a doctor and offered to bring me with him. I was too weak to stay on my own and my papers marked me as a ‘former person,’ so I had to leave. I begged my friend to send help back to the Streshnayvas, but the government had fallen. We barely made it out ourselves.”
“With a bullet still lodged in your side?” Mother asked. “You must have had blood poisoning.”
“Yes. The doctor couldn’t believe I’d lived with the bullet inside me for months. Removed it on the train. Long recovery in Paris. My friend was good to keep me hidden at the embassy, but he was being transferred to New York and, after a close call with a Cheka kidnapper, I knew I had to join him here.”
“Do you know what happened to Sofya?” I asked, almost afraid to know the answer.
Cook ran his fingers through his hair. “I looked for her every day in Paris. Checked the lists of émigrés at Rue Daru, where so many Russians have settled, but found not one Streshnayva or Stepanov. I did hear things about what happened to the family. Just rumors. That they’d met a horrible end.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed one eye.
I sat on the piano bench. “Oh, no.”
“But I’ve also heard that Sofya’s body was not among the dead, so I still hope.”
“Where would she be if she survived?” I asked.
“Hard to say. She may have gone to the tsarina for assistance, but once the tsar abdicated he could be of no help. Ivan’s townhouse in the city has been nationalized so there’s no going back there.”
I stood. “I’m traveling to Europe soon on a host of missions and hope to find her.”
“Back before the attack the family was headed to France.”
“Yes,” I said.
“The first place she’d go would be Paris.”
* * *
—
MOTHER AND I STOOD in the living room of my Manhattan apartment unpacking another shipment of handmade items from Paris when Peg burst into the room.
“Mail, Miz Ferriday.” She reached out with a crocheted bag, stuffed with envelopes and packages. “There’s a package there, ma’am. Return address says Russia.”
I dug into the net bag and pulled out a pale blue, square cardboard box, the kind sewing supplies like bobbins came packaged in. It was not much bigger than two cigarette packs lashed together and wrapped with enough twine to truss a turkey.
I unwrapped the twine and pulled off the lid to find a bracelet lying on a bed of cotton wool. It was quite a nice enameled bracelet with two dragonheads, whose gaping mouths met where the bracelet opened. The beasts stared each other down, their eyes set with red jewels.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s from a Viking design,” Mother said. “In Norse mythology, a giant serpent encircles the world, growing larger each day until it is big enough to devour itself. They believed that moment would trigger the end of the world.”
“Cheery,” I said.
I read the note, scribbled in a messy hand, harder to read than the hieroglyphics on the Pyramid of Cheops.
Sofya’s? But no one had more beautiful script than she.
Please guard this well. It is all we have. See you in our favorite city. Much love, S.
“My God, it is Sofya.” I grabbed the box. “The address?”
Peg shrugged. “Just says Krasnodar. Odd name for a town, if you ask me. But then again ‘K’ words always sound harsh, don’t they?”
“Not now, Peg.” I reread the words. See you in our favorite city. That was Paris, of course. Cook was right.
I slid the bracelet onto my wrist.
Mother bent for a closer look. “I think th
ose rubies are paste, but it’s a handsome piece.”
How good it looked on my wrist, as if born to live with my charm bracelet, which featured the Seven Wonders of the World, including a pyramid whose top opened to reveal a jiggling cobra.
And it was from Sofya. She was alive and well and at least near enough to civilization to send a package. But why such a gift? I ran one finger down the cool enamel of the bracelet. Why had she sent it all the way to me?
Just two of one thousand questions I would ask my beloved friend in Paris.
CHAPTER
39
Sofya
1919
One frigid January Tuesday I finally reached the outskirts of Paris. I’d taken the southern route to avoid both winter and war, west along the coast and up through France. On the way, I bartered my starched Russian sheets and pillowcases for bread and overnights in barns.
Many times each day the image of my family impaled on that fence floated up in front of me as good Jarushka pulled the wagon along. I did not swat them away, but steeped myself in every horrifying detail, stoking my hunger for justice. I considered ending my life, thoughts of Afon’s disappearance swirling in my head. But nothing would stop me from reclaiming my son.
I was eager to get to the city and start my search for Max, but our progress was slow, trapped on the narrow, poplar-flanked roads, which were clogged with traffic, mostly horse-drawn. Though the war had been over for months, there were still a few ambulances among us, bandaged casualties sitting next to the driver or sitting in the back of the cart.
As we drew closer to the city, Jarushka picked up speed and soon I could scarcely look anywhere without seeing remnants of the war. Reminders of the bravery and ingenuity of the French people and what they had done to survive were everywhere. I urged Jarushka along, past the captured German cannon proudly displayed in the Place de la Concorde and the Champs-Élysées and drove along the grand boulevards where the once majestic chestnut trees, thinning now, had been cut for firewood.
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