by Jerry Sacher
Not a moment passed when he didn’t think about Sergei and their brief adventure from Mogilev, those days back in February. How many times had he wished since then that he had climbed into bed with Sergei that night and made love with him, right on the peasant family’s bed. He didn’t mean the kindly household that took them in any disrespect, of course, but he wished that love had happened that night, a memory to take with him, but alas, it was nothing more than a fantasy.
His one bright spot in the gloom of war was the letter he’d received from his father, which reached him in March. Sergei had come to the house asking for him! His fellow soldiers at the training depot had asked him about the smile that had lit his face. They had assumed a girl had written him with good news, but they were disappointed to hear that it was only a letter from his parents. Benjamin slept with the letter close to his heart every night.
Petrograd, Russia
June 1916
SERGEI STOOD at the foot of the limestone steps in front of the Carter residence with the address to write Benjamin pressed close to his heart. He checked several times to make sure it was still there securely.
As he flew through the streets to his barracks to send a letter as soon as possible, he almost ran into a man coming out of a low brick building on a side street. He stammered an apology and found himself face-to-face with Petr.
“Well, it’s my old comrade….”
Petr slapped him on the back and burped. Sergei could smell the vodka on his breath.
“It’s been a long time since I saw you. I recall your face, but your name escapes me,” Sergei said to him.
“So sorry, so sorry, but of course you remember me? It’s your old friend Petr from the workers’ dormitory.”
“Petr, of course.” Sergei remembered his drunken touch and his kisses, and it was written in Petr’s eyes that he recalled that night too. Sergei glanced away toward a clock high atop a church steeple.
“I’m sorry, I really must be going. I have an appointment.” Sergei backed up, eager to be away, but Petr grabbed his sleeve.
“No, Sergei, I insist we have a drink somewhere, and I can tell you what I’ve been up to. You don’t have to tell me about yourself. I can see you’re a soldier.”
Sergei noticed the disgust in Petr’s voice when he said the word “soldier,” but he pretended not to notice. Petr wrapped his arm around Sergei’s shoulder and led him to a small restaurant on a dim side street. When the heavy door shut behind them, Sergei found the atmosphere in the café even dimmer.
The smoky air hung in a halo around the naked light fixture in the ceiling, and the smell of cooking onions and cabbage mingled with the smell of cigarettes and unwashed bodies. The noxious odor bothered Sergei, but Petr didn’t seem to notice as he pulled up one chair for himself and another for Sergei.
“Hey you, Pavel, bring my friend here and I some vodka!” Petr called to a round, red-faced man in a worker’s cap.
Pavel grumbled loudly, and pulled a bottle from a cupboard.
“And two glasses!” Petr shouted over the din of conversation. The waiter came over and slammed the bottle and two glasses down in front of them, then walked away. Petr poured for them and slid one across to Sergei.
“Good health.” Petr smiled and drained the vodka in one swallow, then poured another. Sergei downed his also, glad for the burning warmth down his throat. He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.
“So, Petr, what’s been going on since I last saw you?”
Petr leaned forward and got close to Sergei’s ear. “Preparing the way for revolution, my friend, because it’s coming. If only we can get Lenin back into the country, then we’ll see some real history being made.” He slapped his palm on the table.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about Lenin lately. He’s in Europe right now, I believe.”
“Right you are, my friend, but soon he’ll be back and everyone at the top….” Petr made a sweeping motion with his right hand, nearly sending his glass off the table, but he caught it before it toppled over.
It was obvious to Sergei that this was not Petr’s first drink today, but then he had smelled it on Petr’s breath when they first met.
Sergei threw some money on the table, put one of Petr’s arms around his shoulders, and helped him down the street and to a rickety wooden hotel. Sergei paid a kopek for the room, received the key from a red-faced desk clerk, and they headed up to a room on the top floor, where Sergei flung Petr onto the bed.
Sergei went to throw a blanket over him and leave, when Petr opened his eyes and pulled Sergei toward him. He kissed Sergei, and Sergei fought to move, but Petr held him tighter.
Sergei closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was in an old abandoned house in the country, and Benjamin was there with him, smiling at him, and reaching out to him with his fingers.
“Angel moy… it’s you.”
Sergei blinked as if his mind was playing tricks on him. He wasn’t that drunk, so how could this be happening to him?
“Yes, it’s me. I missed you, Sergei,” Benjamin’s voice seemed to whisper.
Sergei pulled Benjamin closer, his lips lingering. Benjamin laughed, telling Sergei that his mustache tickled, and Sergei smiled, laying Benjamin back against the mattress and bringing himself on top of him. He whispered, “How long I have waited for this moment.”
“Now I’m here, Sergei, and nothing can keep us apart,” Benjamin whispered breathlessly into his ear.
When Sergei opened his eyes to reality, he was staring into the bloodshot, drunken eyes of Petr, who was fumbling clumsily with the buttons on his shirt. Sergei closed his eyes once again and fantasized that it was Benjamin who undid the buttons on his shirt, removed his tie and then his celluloid collar, and flung them on the floor. Sergei struggled with the heavy buttons on his uniform. He shed the coat, the shirt, and belt, and they landed on the pile of clothing already on the floor. He gazed steadily into Benjamin’s eyes while he pulled off the rest of his clothing and threw them on the floor next to the bed.
Sergei lay on top of Benjamin, running his hands over the places he had longed to explore. He moved his hand downward, and the sour smell of onions and vodka reached his nose. He opened his eyes, and to his disappointment he found Petr.
Sergei sat back and moved to the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
“How could I do this? This isn’t what I want.” Sergei felt confused by his feelings. Giving himself to someone he didn’t care for because the one he truly had feelings for was so far from him.
Sergei sprang out of the bed and searched for his uniform in the dim light from the street. Petr burped in his sleep and rolled over onto his side. Sergei threw the heavy wool blanket over Petr’s naked body, and then he stretched out in an ancient stuffed armchair, much like Benjamin had done the last night they were together. He wondered if Petr would remember anything of what they had done after he woke up.
SERGEI RETURNED to his barracks and sat until the room began to grow darker, and finally he stirred himself to light a lone candle and set it on the table. He jammed the box of matches back into the pocket of his military greatcoat and felt a piece of folded paper. It was the address Mr. Carter had given him to write Benjamin. He pulled a pen and some paper out of a drawer, then set pen to paper and began to write.
Benjamin, it has been so long since that time we were together….
Sergei would have called him “angel,” but for discretion’s sake, he stopped himself from addressing Benjamin that way. After putting him off so abruptly that night, Benjamin might not welcome a letter from him, but he had to try. Sergei shook his head and brought the letter to a close, then sealed it and set it in front of him to post immediately.
Casualty Clearing Station, Somme, France
July 1916
BENJAMIN FOLDED the latest letter from his parents and placed it between the pages of the book he’d tried to read while off duty. It cheered him to know Sergei had stopped by the house once a
gain, and this time had been given the address to write to Benjamin. That brightened his day more than the rest of the letter. His mother had come to admire the monk Rasputin now… more strikes and riots in Petrograd… discontent in the armed forces brought on by heavy losses. His father told him it wouldn’t be long before the revolution—days, weeks, a month. The letter contained more, but Benjamin couldn’t read on. He put the letter aside until later and stood up.
He walked over to the mud-splattered hospital window. Rain poured down once again, but still the boom of distant shells and gunfire continued. Soon the stretchers and ambulances would come in from the trenches, and he would be too busy to think, except about the countless wounded men, most dying from their wounds. He threw on a cape and went outside into the mud and rain.
The stretchers out in the drizzle reminded Benjamin of that day in Mogilev and the men lying in the mud and snow. In certain faces, he would see himself staring into Sergei’s, and though he wasn’t a praying man, he would whisper silently, “Lord, wherever Sergei is, please keep him safe.”
A doctor walked outside and stood next to him, halting his prayer.
“Here they come again. I guess we can’t count on getting any sleep tonight, eh?”
The doctor pointed down the road at the line of ambulances and the line of wounded who were able to walk. Benjamin and the doctor rushed forward to assist.
Petrograd, Russia
September 1916
SERGEI STARED out the window of the train as it jerked out of the station, and he watched as the city transformed into countryside. He turned away from the dust-covered window and shifted in his seat. The soldier lying heavily on Sergei’s shoulder and snoozing, grunted, opened his eyes, and closed them again. Sergei moved closer to the window.
What is there for me to do now? he thought. His presence was needed at the front, but so many soldiers had become disillusioned with the war, with the lack of supplies and food, and tens of thousands deserted every day. Soldiers with injuries, even those men with superficial wounds, milked hospital stays to avoid returning to the horrors of the front line.
He leaned his head back and wished he had a cigarette, but he had forgotten to pick them up before he met Petr the night before.
Sergei hoped the letter he had mailed to Benjamin would reach him in France. He wondered what Benjamin would think when he opened it and read one line after another of clichés: the weather in Petrograd, army duties, and the food served in the barracks, which was not any better than what the civilians were eating. He hadn’t written one word about how much he missed Benjamin and that he thought about him often. Sergei had sealed the letter and mailed it before he said too much.
Through the grime on the window, he watched the passing scenery. Once the train bounced past a rundown barn along the tracks, and Sergei remembered being in a similar place, but he pushed the memory out of his mind, looked away, and closed his eyes.
Casualty Clearing Station, Somme, France
September 1916
THE EXPLOSION of shells shook the very foundations of the hospital, and occasionally a fine dust of plaster fell from the walls and ceilings, reminding Benjamin of the dusting of snow that had covered the streets of Petrograd when he’d last seen it.
His mother had told him in one of her letters about spring in Petrograd and the beautiful flowers that bloomed in the park near the house. Benjamin saw them in his mind’s eye just from the way his mother’s letter described them. He wished he could be there to share them with Sergei, but alas, they were hundreds of miles apart on two different fronts. The last letter he received from Sergei had mentioned he was fighting in the Ukraine, near a place called Vladimir Volynskiy.
Benjamin had heard from newspapers and letters from home, rumors of what was happening on the Russian Front, but the news that filtered down to him was not very cheerful. Letters from his parents and Russian friends reached him that openly criticized Nicholas and Alexandra and their “friend” Rasputin. In the past, nobody had ever been allowed to criticize the tsar without finding himself or herself in Siberia. Now the criticisms were printed in newspapers and spoken aloud on the streets, and nothing was done about it. Benjamin wondered where it would all lead.
Things were equally as horrible in France, and his work at the hospital distracted him from thinking about the ominous rumblings from distant Russia. In the past couple of weeks, he hadn’t even taken time to think about Sergei. Surely, he has forgotten me by now?
“Captain Carter!”
Benjamin snapped to attention.
“There’s no time to stand there daydreaming. We have more wounded coming!” a doctor with colonel’s stripes called out to him.
The next several hours went by in a red-and-white blur of faces: English, French, and even German. Benjamin could barely speak by the time he fell into his cot late that night.
He struggled to get comfortable, but something pressed into his back. He stood up to determine the cause and found a small parcel wrapped in brown paper that had been left by one of the hospital clerks. He forced his tired eyes to focus on his father’s handwriting, then tore the brown wrapping and opened the lid on a box. Inside he found the usual: several pairs of socks, chocolate, cigarettes, and Russian tea. On the bottom were more letters from his parents. While he was going through the box, a knock came on his door, and he looked up to see one of the orderlies standing in the doorway.
“Come on in,” Benjamin said, hoping the man wouldn’t stay, because all he wanted to do was sleep, but the young soldier held out a letter to him.
“Oh, Carter, I have one letter more for you. I got it by mistake.” He dropped it next to Benjamin and walked away.
Benjamin felt his face warm up. The letter was from Sergei. With trembling fingers, he broke the seal on the envelope, took out the sheet of paper, and began to read.
The letter was a brief account of military duties, a few notes about Petrograd, and a mention that it was raining as Sergei wrote the letter, but that was all he said.
Sergei closed with: “I pray that God keeps you safe wherever you are in France. Until I see you again.” And at the end, signed his name.
Benjamin folded the letter and put it into his pocket.
“Benjamin, we have wounded coming in!” an orderly called to him from the doorway.
Petrograd, Russia
October 1916
SERGEI SAT at the rough wooden table, tea getting cold in its cracked gray glass, rereading Benjamin’s latest letter. Benjamin and Sergei always avoided talking about two subjects: the war and the future. They wrote to each other about their childhoods, the things that interested them, and the things that annoyed them. The people in their lives—Sergei laughed when Benjamin wrote to tell him about one of the medical personnel at the hospital, a Scot who insisted on playing his bagpipes every morning and night, and how one recent morning, one of the soldiers put flour into the pipes.
“When he picked up the bagpipes to play as usual, a heavy white cloud hung over his head with each note….”
Sergei sincerely wished he could write to Benjamin of such antics, but nothing of the sort happened on his side, only misery and the whispers of revolution that could one day become a shout. He didn’t write Benjamin about that; he wrote to tell him about his friend Petr.
“He has given me pamphlets from men like Trotsky and Marx and writings from Lenin that have filtered into Russia from Zurich in Switzerland, where he’s exiled at the moment. One day he will return to Russia….”
Sergei thought about including in his letters some of the leaflets he had gotten at the factory meetings in Petrograd’s Vyborg district when he was last home. He always left them out at the last minute. He desired his letters to be somewhat cheerful, even if the world around them was in utter chaos.
Whenever Sergei returned to Petrograd, he would slip out of the barracks and return to the old backstreet hotel to visit his friend Petr. He always wrote while Petr slept off his vodka in the same dingy b
ed. They would have sex, and then Sergei would go down to the hotel dining room. As always, the waiter would apologize for the meager offerings of tea, watery cabbage soup, and a scrap of black bread, if they were lucky enough to obtain it that day. Sergei would write, and the food would get cold.
Tonight, as usual, the waiter appeared again to urge him to eat.
“We are lucky to have this today. Tomorrow we might have nothing,” the waiter said with a frown and walked away. Sergei surveyed the meager repast and pushed it aside to focus on his latest letter to Benjamin.
“Benjamin, my angel, as I write this to you, I’m staring at what passes for my evening meal. I’m grateful for what I have, of course, because outside this hotel people are starving. I sometimes wonder where all this will end. Attended a workers’ meeting with my friend Petr, and the call for food and an end to the war are rumbling louder.”
Sergei paused the pen in midsentence, trying to think of what else to add. All the thoughts he desired to put on paper were too depressing to set down.
“I’m returning to the front in a couple of days, so I want to finish this letter and get it to the post so you’ll receive it soon. I wish that I could see you again. Maybe when this cruel war is over.”
Sergei composed a few more lines, and then he sealed the envelope. The lukewarm food tasted good, and again the waiter appeared and whispered to Sergei, “Make it last, sir. You never know when you’ll get something like this again.” Sergei obliged silently.
WHEN SERGEI entered the barracks, he found his commander seated on a bench inside the door. He stood up, and Sergei came to attention and saluted.
“Captain Breselov. I would like to have a word with you, if I may?”
“Yes, sir.”
They sat down on the bench. The colonel reached into his pocket and removed a white piece of paper with the Imperial crest, which he handed to Sergei. While Sergei read, he made occasional glances over the top of the page, noticing how tired his colonel looked. He handed the paper back when he had finished reading.
