“I miss it.”
“I think about Cook’s apple cake every day. My silk sheets. But too much time in the past hobbles a person.” Luba paused for a moment. “It’s so strange to be wandering the world, isn’t it? Unable to just go home.”
She nodded toward the plant on my nightstand, its two white buds just opening.
“Your rose.” She stood, leaned down, and breathed in its scent. “Mr. Gardener’s antique.”
“When I went back to the house I found it in Agnessa’s ruined hothouse. Kept it alive since I left Russia.”
Luba stroked a petal. “Poor lost roses. Like us, I suppose.”
As dawn broke in earnest, more light streamed in through the louvered blinds. I searched Luba’s face. She was a teenager now; at fourteen more like Father than ever.
Luba placed her hand over mine and held it tight. “I have a plan.”
“Of course, you do.”
“And do not try and stop me, sister. I know what I’m doing. Meet me at that townhouse—where you saw Taras—at Rue de Serene, this afternoon at three. We’re going to get Max back.”
I reached for her. “Please stay. Where are you living?”
She bent to kiss my cheek. “The less you know the better, sister.”
How blessed I was to have her back.
She looked down at me with such a serious face. Father’s concerned look. “Three o’clock. Rue de Serene.”
“Be careful,” I said. I’d lost her once, I could barely think of losing her again.
Luba walked out with a hasty look back and it occurred to me that once I would have found her overly dramatic, but now I just thought she was the most courageous woman I’d ever known.
I reveled in the wondrous idea that my precious Luba was alive and well and more ferocious than ever.
* * *
—
I BOUGHT AN APPLE CAKE, sat on a bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg and savored every bite. It was a far cry from my usual meal, half-eaten croissant and some melted ice cream from the trash basket at the puppet theater. I found a camel hair scarf abandoned on a bench, frozen stiff, and warmed it with my breath. Once I draped it around my neck I saw the quality of it, heavy and warm. Only in Paris.
After wandering the park for some time, braving cold winds, I arrived at the Rue de Serene townhouse to meet Luba and approached the café across the street, with its glossy black-painted front.
One table remained out there in the cold, two chairs around it. The bar inside looked lively and I sat, dressed in my white dog fur coat and hat.
That café table offered a perfect view of the townhouse, elegant in gray stone, the windows on the three-story facade tall and wide. What was Luba’s plan? A bad feeling rumbled in my belly.
Soon Luba came along and sat in the chair next to me.
“So, what is this plan?” I asked.
“No hello? Some sisters would be grateful to have their son rescued.”
“I’m worried about you, Luba.”
“I did my homework.” She sat a little straighter and nodded toward the townhouse. “I’m going in there.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Do you have another way to find Max? The thought of him with them makes me sick, Sofya.”
“You think I don’t worry every waking minute? I’ve kept an eye on the house, but never see Max. Or Varinka.”
“I watched this place today since I left you. No one is home now.”
“We’ll go in together, Luba.”
“No offense, but I work better on my own. Plus, Taras has seen you when you came to collect. So stay over here in case he shows up. My plan is foolproof. I’ll go in the back door.”
“How do you know there is one?”
“I checked.” On the café table Luba spread out an imaginary map. “The kitchen is on the ground floor, quite a big one. The bedrooms are bound to be on the third floor. I’ll find the study on the second.”
“What if Varinka comes home?”
“Her I can easily talk my way around.”
“Taras is a killer, Luba.”
“That’s where this comes in.” She pulled a white cotton cap from her pocket.
“A maid’s cap.”
She smiled. “Borrowed it from a friend. How will he know I’m not the maid? I can be subservient if I put my mind to it.”
“I’m begging you not to do this.”
“I won’t even see him.” She stood. “But one thing’s for sure, you’ll be too obvious out here in the dead of winter.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Very well. We’ll have a signal, as all good spies do. If you see someone return, stack your chair on the other. If I don’t come back in ten minutes, contact the police.”
“Wait…”
“I’m doing it, sister. For Max.”
Luba hurried across the street, looking both ways for traffic, and stepped down the block on her way around to the back alley.
I stood and then sat again, gaze fixed on the townhouse facade. Where was she? I watched one crow fight another for a crust of bread and then searched the windows for movement. Had she even gotten in? How could I allow my little sister to take such a risk?
I saw movement at the second floor window and jumped to my feet. Luba came to the window and shook her head, hands palms up. I waved to her to come out, but she disappeared into the darkness of the room.
I sat again, the lining of my fur coat soaked with sweat.
Minutes passed and Luba came to the third floor window with a box in her hands. She opened it and shook it upside down with a scowl.
Again, Luba disappeared into the depths of the house. How much could I take before I just knocked on the front door?
Behind me the café door opened spilling golden light and warmth and laughter onto the cobblestones. A man emerged and walked by me. I turned and we met eyes.
Taras. I barely breathed. He wore a puzzled expression and a look I knew intimately from the brothel. The sleepy eyes of the opium smoker. Surely he recognized me? I turned away as he passed and he walked across the street to the townhouse, climbed the steps to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
My heart hammered against the lining of my coat as Luba came again to the second floor window. I stood and gave the signal, sliding one café chair over the other. I jabbed my hand in the direction of the front door.
“He’s in the house,” I mouthed.
Luba turned from the window and I clutched one hand to my chest. Should I go around to the back door and enter as she had? Run for the police?
Instead, I hurried across the street, straight for the front door.
CHAPTER
48
Sofya
1919
I knocked on the townhouse door, knuckles burning against the cold wood, more options buzzing in my head. Should I go to the neighbors for help?
I knocked again and stood there listening to the children’s voices on the nearby playground, my heart battering my chest. What had I done to my sister?
The door swung open and a slight, dark-haired woman wearing a pink scarf tied about her head stood there. At her side stood Luba, wearing her maid’s cap, mop in hand, the cotton head wet and gray. I knew the woman from somewhere.
“Be here next week,” she said to Luba.
That voice. It was Varinka’s mother. What a kind face she had.
“I will, madame,” Luba said, bowing low. She stepped out the door and walked by me onto the street.
Varinka’s mother gazed into my eyes. “You take care, now. Mind the steps.”
We hurried away from the townhouse, Luba’s mop head already freezing stiff at her side.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I told you it would be fine.”
“Fine? Taras came home. He was at the café all along. He may have recognized me. Did he see you?”
“I searched everywhere for school papers. Desks, cabinets. But then Varinka’s mother came upon me—found me going through drawers in the kitchen. She asked what I wanted and then stepped to the library and brought them to me. She’s on our side, Sofya. Wants you to have Max back.”
“Any sign of Max? Varinka?”
“Just his old blanket on the floor of a bedroom.”
“Did Taras see you?”
“I started to leave and he came into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said. He had been drinking, I think, or into the opium, for he swayed a bit standing there.”
“Luba, I can’t believe you did this.”
“And then Varinka’s mother said, ‘She’s the maid. Let her work.’ She handed me this mop and said, ‘She was just leaving to get us a new mop head.’ ”
“An angel.”
“I did have a scare when Taras said, ‘Wait. I’ve seen her before,’ but Varinka’s mother was quick and said, ‘She’s a French girl and cleans very well, now leave her be.’ She handed me ten francs and said, ‘Be on your way now and hurry. That floor won’t clean itself.’ ”
From her coat pocket Luba pulled folded papers and we stepped into an alley to read them. It was an enrollment letter from L’Ecole Cygne Royal, the letterhead a crest with a swan.
“Dear Varinka Pushkinsky, Your son Maxwell—” I didn’t stop to read the rest, but folded the letter, slipped it in my pocket as tears filled my eyes. I was going to see my son.
Luba put one arm about my shoulders. “There is no time for crying, sister. We have work to do.” She smiled. “And ten extra francs to spend.”
She reached into her pocket. “And look what I found.” She pulled out Mother’s emerald necklace and held it in the air by the clasp.
“Luba, you little genius. Where—”
“It was right in the jewelry box in the bedroom.”
We left the frozen mop in the alley and headed back to Rue Chabanais. Halfway home, I touched the papers in my pocket to make sure they were real.
We had found my son.
* * *
—
THE NEXT MORNING LUBA and I went to L’Ecole Cygne Royal hoping to catch a glimpse of Max in the schoolyard. We arrived at ten o’clock to avoid seeing Varinka at morning drop-off.
Careful to keep to the opposite side of the street, we walked by the school entrance, Ecole Maternelle chiseled above the door. Above the blue door was a stone crest with three swans carved in it. Next door, surrounded by a black iron fence, stood a pea-graveled schoolyard. How neat it all was. Three metal, pastel bouncy horses, each atop a heavy, rust-colored coil, stood in a sandy area along the left wall. A pretty sandbox. Beyond the schoolyard, steps ascended to a pair of honey-colored oak doors with black hinges. Was Max’s schoolroom beyond those doors? Would the children come out for play, even in the cold?
Just a glimpse of him was all I needed.
Luba and I jumped a bit when the oak doors burst open and children marched out in a wobbly procession, three teachers helping them down the stairs. The little ones, wrapped up in their heavy coats and scarves, headed for the sandbox. How quiet they were.
Soon another group arrived, older children. Luba and I strolled down the street and back searching for my son among the warmly dressed students.
The teachers stood near the sandbox in twos, chatting, hands in their pockets, stamping away the cold. Every now and then one would break up a spat or button a coat.
One teacher left the group and gathered the older children.
“Jacques dit touche tes genoux!” she called out. The children bent and touched their knees.
It was the famous copycat game, where a player was eliminated if he followed instructions without hearing the words “Jacques dit.”
A young couple came along the sidewalk and stopped near us to watch the little game. Luba and I stepped to the fence and I searched the children’s faces, best we could, since they were wrapped up in scarves and hats, until my gaze landed on one child.
Luba grabbed my arm. “It’s him.”
Could it be Max? He wore a navy blue coat and a nubby, gray woolen cap.
“Jacques dit tirez la langue!” the teacher called out.
The children stuck out their tongues, sending little white puffs of breath into the air.
“Lève un pied!” she said, catching all of them unawares. Each child lifted a foot and when they realized they’d been caught, one let a laugh ring out, a laugh that sent a chill through me.
Max. The boy in the navy blue coat.
I held on to the cold iron bars to steady myself. My boy.
He walked with another child to the sandbox.
The more I watched the more certain I was it was him. Afon’s easy gait. My skin tone. If only he would come closer.
The young couple walked on and I considered my options. Could I call out to Max? The teacher was distracted with her Jacques Dit game, after all.
Max wandered in my direction, along the fence, running his mittened hand along the slats.
“Max, dear,” I whispered.
He turned toward me.
“It’s your mama, darling.”
He stepped closer. Did he remember?
All at once a teacher from the sandbox stepped to the steps at the door and clapped her hands. “Lunchtime, children.”
Max hurried to the door with one look back to me.
Luba pulled me close. “He knows you, Sofya. We must go talk to the headmistress. After we show her the papers we could leave with him today.”
A lovely warmth spread over me as I pictured the three of us walking out the front gates, Max’s hand in mine.
I snatched the dog fur hat from my head. “How do I look?”
“Terrible. That coat is frightening, but just remove it when you enter the building. And the hair…” She licked her palm and smoothed back my hair. “There. Like any French mother.”
“At least I finally bathed.”
“You could still use some perfume. Just keep your distance.”
* * *
—
LUBA AND I WAITED in the outer room of the headmistress’s office. Glorious scents of roast chicken and potatoes and cinnamon wafted into the room sending our stomachs growling. At least Max was being fed one good meal per day. I pulled my dog fur coat closer, having decided it best to keep it on, the dirty shirt and trousers underneath even worse.
A tall woman came to the inner office door and Luba and I scrambled to our feet. I ran my hands down my trousers.
She waved us into the room and stood behind the Louis Seize desk, posture straight, in a well-cut black wool dress, the white lace cuffs and collar delicate as a spider’s web. It was a dark-paneled room, thickly carpeted, coals glowing in the fireplace, and it was all I could do not to warm my hands near it. Madame left the door open, clearly expecting a quick meeting.
“What is this about? You’ve come at an inopportune time. We consider lunch part of our curriculum.”
Madame looked at me and seemed unable to look away, a slight furrow in her brow, as if watching a trained monkey in a calico skirt. Of course, she was mostly put off by the coat, for to a Frenchwoman, wearing a dog fur coat in public was worse than wearing a clown costume or paper bag. Add my chopped hair and maid’s boots and there was plenty to take in.
I froze, unable to speak. How badly I needed Madame to understand.
Luba spoke up. “Good day, Madame Fournier, my name is Luba Streshnayva and this is my sister Sofya. We are here inquiring about a student.”
“Name?”
“Maxwell Streshnayva Stepanov,” I said.
“We have no student by that name.”
With trembling fingers, I pulled the enrollment letter from my pocket and handed it to Madame. “The mother asked me to pick up the child and deliver him home, with this as proof of my legitimacy,” I said in my best French.
She scanned the sheet and handed it back to me at once. “This says the child’s name is Pushkinsky. We are authorized to discharge students to immediate family members only.”
“There has been a death in the family,” Luba said.
“Not surprised. Look, if I allowed every person off the street to come in here and take home a child—”
“May I be honest with you, madame?” I asked. “I may look terribly unkempt to you, for I have made it here from Russia by horse cart, but I am Max’s mother. He is a noble child—my family is related to the tsar.”
“I can’t help you.”
“I saw him today in the schoolyard. He looks unwell. He’s not safe with those two. And once they know I’m in the area they’ll take him and run.”
Madame closed the door and stepped to the window, arms folded across her chest.
“All I know is the couple that enrolled this child threatened me and could be a danger to the students.”
“But Max was stolen from me in Russia.”
“What am I to do? A Cheka agent the size of an elm tree comes in here and suggests I will die if his child is not accepted.”
“How do you know he’s Cheka?” Apparently, the Red secret police was not so secret anymore, if Madame knew of them.
“I’m not stupid. Look, my mother is sick and needs me. I cannot risk it.”
“If having Max here endangers your other students, why not let us take him?” Luba said.
“You don’t understand. He threatened my life. Suggested he has the police in his pocket. Hinted he was responsible for the murders around Paris. I can only imagine what he’d do if this child went missing.”
“Do you have a child yourself?”
“No.” Madame stepped behind the desk. “I’m sorry, but you must take it up with the family.”
“I have reason to believe Max is in grave danger,” I said.
Lost Roses Page 38