by Jerry Sacher
“Duty calls,” he said as he ran from the room.
Petrograd, Russia
December 1916
SERGEI AND Petr stood in front of the Carter mansion, where the British flag flew from its staff once again.
“Why are we here? Don’t you realize that the upper classes who have oppressed the people for centuries live here?” Petr spat on the sidewalk at his feet, gazing in contempt at the limestone facades lining the block on both sides.
“I want to see if Mrs. Carter is at home.”
“The leisured classes are all alike, especially the foreigners, Sergei. She won’t see you, so let’s go back to the hotel and forget about this.”
“You can relax your opinions of the upper classes where Mrs. Carter is concerned. She treats everyone with dignity, even me, a grubby soldier. If you don’t wish to go inside you can stay on the sidewalk.”
“I don’t see why you have to do this anyway. This isn’t your world.” He spat angrily, and stepped back down on the sidewalk.
Sergei was adamant, and stepping timidly at the door, he rang the bell. It was a few moments before a servant answered the door. He gazed at the two visitors with ice-cold black eyes and informed them that Mrs. Carter was not at home.
Petr led a dejected Sergei down the stairs and back to the hotel.
PETR GROANED loudly as he reached orgasm. He panted noisily in Sergei’s ear before he rolled off Sergei’s body and onto his back. As usual, he sat up and reached over Sergei for the bottle of vodka on the table next to the bed.
“I need a cigarette. Don’t suppose you have one, eh?” Petr leaned down to ask him, burping into Sergei’s ear. Sergei told him he didn’t and threw the blanket aside, prepared to get up and retire to the chair while Petr slept off the vodka. But this time, Petr sat up next to Sergei.
Somewhat surprised, Sergei asked, “You’re not going to get drunk and go to sleep on me like usual?”
“Not today. I have a workers’ meeting in an hour. Come with me, your eyes may be opened.”
“Opened? My eyes are already open, Petr.”
“Ah, but one of our comrades from the Putilov Works will be speaking. It will do you good to go.”
Sergei did go and sat in the rear of a packed auditorium with hundreds of others. The overcrowded room stank of smoke, vodka, and unwashed bodies. Soon the crowd fell gradually silent when a short man with a peasant’s cap and worn tweed coat walked out on the stage and lifted his hands for quiet. Sergei turned around in his seat and faced forward, and the crowd focused their attention on this man at the head of the room, their eyes following him as he walked back and forth in front of them, his hands gesticulating as he called for more strikes and an end to the Romanov reign. To the soldiers in the audience, he asked them to lay down their weapons and join the people.
Sergei had heard this talk hundreds of times, but in his depression he found himself beginning to listen.
The Vyborg Factory District, Petrograd, Russia
January 1917
THE NEWS spread through the capital, first by whispered rumor and then public acknowledgment, that Rasputin, the empress’s holy man, had been killed, murdered at the hand of Prince Felix Yusupov. Many in the upper classes said Russia had been saved from at least one spy, while noting one still sat on the throne while her husband was at the front.
Sergei heard the news while attending a meeting with Petr at a textile factory on the outskirts of the city. He watched the happiness of the gathered assembly over the death of the infamous monk.
“One man is dead and we’re happy, but where will it all end? That’s all I want to know—where will all of this lead?” Sergei spoke to a man standing next to him, but the man didn’t seem to hear him.
Nobody could give him an answer, and he hung his head, depressed, and walked out of the crowded room. Sergei didn’t even know where he was going; he just walked until the sky began to turn gray and heavy. He felt alone in Petrograd, and it was obvious the people in these meetings, who slapped each other on the back and called each other ‘comrade,’ didn’t notice his mood. They had their own problems and wouldn’t understand that he longed for a soldier who was over a thousand miles away. Petr was the only one he could reach out and touch, and he put up with his revolutionary talk and his touch to combat the loneliness. What else can I do?
Snow was falling, coming to rest on the spires of the churches Sergei could see from a bridge across the Moika River. It looked like a scene from a Christmas card. He started walking again and crossed the bridge. He avoided the Carter mansion and went straight to the hotel, where he found Petr lying drunk on the bed they had shared so often.
Petr greeted Sergei with a sloppy kiss and pulled him down to him. Sergei turned his head away to avoid the smell of alcohol on Petr’s breath.
In the flickering light of an oil lamp, Petr fumbled with the buttons on Sergei’s coat and threw it on the floor, followed by his cap and shirt. Sergei closed his eyes, and on opening them again, he saw Benjamin lying there on the bed and smiling up at him.
“Benjamin, my angel…,” Sergei whispered.
A puzzled look appeared on Benjamin’s face, and he said, in perfect Russian, “What did you just say?”
And Sergei was staring at Petr again, who pulled away and sat up, letting the blanket fall from his naked body. Sergei stammered and tried to cover up his mistake, but it was too late.
Petr shoved him off the bed, shouting, “So, you’re thinking about your upper-class foreigner?” Petr pounded on the table, upsetting the bottle of vodka, which he saved before the contents spilled out.
Sergei began to dress, and Petr angrily scrambled into his clothes, scowling at Sergei as he did so.
“I don’t deny it. I love him. And you want me only after you’ve had too much vodka and excitement from your workers’ meetings!” Sergei said, he didn’t look at Petr, but he knew the look of anger and hatred was still on his face.
“You love him, huh? Well, enjoy it, because soon he will be swept away with the rest of the upper classes, and you’ll come crawling back to me.”
“That’s highly unlikely, Comrade.” Sergei spoke calmly, turning back to Petr, who stood with his rough hands on the rusty, old doorknob. Petr twisted it and pulled the door open, and he didn’t say good-bye as he slammed the door behind him.
Alone in the room, Sergei sat down on the bed and pulled on his boots. He was surprised that Petr had just walked out without any more harsh words being spoken or punches thrown. He raised his head and gazed at his face in the small mirror across the room. What do I see? Sergei thought. I have lost the one I love, and deserted the Army, so what do I do now?
SERGEI LEFT the hotel and walked outside. The snow was still falling and making crystals around the haloes of streetlights. Two men coming up a stairway from a basement pub brushed past him, turned to give him a dirty look, and then went on their way. Sergei watched them until they went out of sight around a corner. He went down the creaking wooden stairs and shut the door behind him.
He had never been in this place before. A single naked lightbulb hung in the middle of the tiny room, surrounded by a thick halo of smoke from cigarettes and the fire of a wood stove in the corner. It was grimy and gray, like the men who sat at the tables drinking vodka and singing folksongs that someone was playing on an out-of-tune piano. Two men at a table playing chess made room for him, and he sat in an ancient chair to order a glass of vodka.
Sergei swallowed his drink in one gulp and ordered another. One of the men lifted his eyes from the chessboard and made eye contact with him.
“Have you never seen a soldier drink before?” he snapped.
The man continued to stare at Sergei through lowered lids and then went back to his game.
“Waiter, bring me the whole bottle of vodka!” he called out, and everyone lifted their eyes to stare and then returned to their own affairs.
When the bottle arrived, Sergei didn’t even bother with the glass; he took a s
wig right from the bottle. He set it down, looking into the neck at the liquid sloshing around in the bottle. Now that I have deserted the Army, what am I going to do? Sergei hadn’t given the matter much thought. He could find out if they needed help in the factories, but Petr wouldn’t be too happy and would accuse him of being unfaithful to the revolution, a cause Sergei never had any loyalty to in the first place but supported in name only. He still had his uniform, so he could return to the front and nobody would be the wiser about his absence. Sergei poured himself another drink. He heard the sound of a chair being moving to one side of him.
“Good day, sir,” a husky female voice purred in his ear. He set down the glass and turned to face her. The woman was dressed in black, and a lace veil covered her face so Sergei had no clue as to her looks or her age. He was amazed she could even see in this dim room under the profusion of lace.
“Good evening.” Sergei turned away so he wouldn’t have to engage in further conversation. The woman however reached out a black-gloved hand and grabbed hold of Sergei’s. She released it long enough to remove a glove and grasp his hand once again.
“I can see you are troubled by something, perhaps I can help?”
“No, thank you, but I need no help.” Sergei was curt, hoping this would put the lady off and she would leave. Instead, she gripped his hand tighter, and with a finger began tracing the lines on his hand. She was not the type of woman Sergei had suspected, and he was relieved, but even though he couldn’t see her face, something about her felt familiar. The hold on his hand distracted him from even thinking about removing her veil. She continued to trace the lines on his hands under the harsh naked light of the pub, and she began to hum, then stopped to raise her head.
“You have many questions that need answering, but I can only tell you these things: Russia will be out of the war soon, but first many terrible things must happen. True love is at this moment far away from you, but you will find each other again.”
Sergei didn’t believe in fortunetellers, but this woman knew the questions that weighed on his mind. He reached into his pocket, removed a ruble, and placed it on the table, but she was gone. He looked around the dim, foggy room, but nobody fitting her description could be seen.
Sergei asked the men at his table if they had seen where the woman had gone.
They looked up from their game, looked at Sergei and the bottle in front of him, and one of them said, “Are you out of your head, Comrade? There was no woman here.” They went back to their game.
Sergei reached for the bottle but then at the last second pushed it away. He walked out to the street and looked in both directions to see if he could find the woman, but the narrow back road was deserted. Sergei gave up on going back inside and went back to the hotel. He sat the rest of the night in the chair, thinking about her words.
Chapter 11
Paris, France
January 1917
BENJAMIN ENJOYED the final day of his forty-eight-hour holiday leave, waking up to clean, warm sheets and edible food at the Ritz, with Reggie lying asleep in the next room. Reggie’s wound had healed, and he and Benjamin headed to Paris on the first available leave train. Passing the open door to his room, Benjamin heard Reggie mumble something in his sleep, but he couldn’t hear what it was. He was going to wake Reggie, but someone knocked at the door.
An older gentleman in livery handed him a letter on a silver tray. “Captain Carter, this letter arrived for you.”
Benjamin thanked him and closed the door. He was relieved that the handwriting was his mother’s and not from the War Office, ordering him back to the front. As he tore open the note, he felt only a trace of disappointment that it wasn’t from Sergei. He had only gotten as far as the greeting, when Reggie, still sleepy, spoke from the doorway to his bedroom.
“I heard someone knocking just now.”
Benjamin shook his head and held up the letter for Reggie to see.
“Don’t tell me you’re being ordered back to the war.”
He walked over and stood next to Benjamin to see the contents of the note for himself, but Benjamin moved away to continue reading. “It’s from my parents. Sending their Christmas wishes from Russia.”
“Dearest Benjamin,
A very happy Christmas to you. I can’t explain why now, but do you know how and where in Petrograd I can locate Sergei?”
The letter went on to include Christmas wishes from his father and nostalgia for holidays past, but no further explanation as to why she wanted to locate Sergei. Eager to know what this might mean, he locked himself in his bedroom and wrote a response to his mother that went into the post that same day.
Petrograd, Russia
January 1917
SERGEI WAS sitting alone at a table at the hotel in Vyborg factory district, staring at a glass of tea.
“You’re wasting your time, no food today!” the waiter said very curtly to someone.
Sergei didn’t even look up when the person pulled up a chair and sat down. He glanced around him at the empty seats, and then up at a woman who was standing over him. Her hair was hidden under a peasant’s shawl that obscured her face in shadow.
“There are other empty seats available, you know.”
The woman nodded, and slowly let the shawl fall back onto her shoulders.
He looked up slowly and into the familiar face of Hazel Carter, dressed as a peasant woman.
“Mrs. Carter, what are you doing?” Sergei jumped up to get a chair so she could sit down.
“I have wanted to speak with you for some time, and I have spent all day searching for you. The shawl I borrowed from a servant girl.” Hazel gathered it up and laid it on her lap.
Sergei told the waiter to bring tea, and finally they were alone.
“I won’t ask how you managed to find me, but I’m eager for any news about Benjamin.”
“He’s in Paris with an old school friend, busy with hospital work, and asking about why he doesn’t hear from you.”
“Well, Mr. Carter….”
“I know, Sergei, I overheard the conversation between you and my husband. I sincerely hope you know I had no part in his decision, which is why I’m here.”
“Mrs. Carter, I’ve never stopped thinking about him. I wrote dozens of letters, but he hasn’t replied to any of them.”
Hazel noticed a tear rolling down his cheek, and she pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket. “I can’t imagine that it’s easy to write letters at a busy field hospital, but I’m sure he will soon.”
“What about your husband, Mrs. Carter? He’ll be angry to discover you’re here.” Sergei saw her stifle a laugh.
“Leave him to me, as far as he knows, I’ve been visiting a friend, and I’ll change my clothes before he gets home. He’ll never know. I have been searching the city most of the day to find you, and it was good fortune that I happened to pass by and look in the window.”
“Did you venture into this area alone?” Sergei inquired.
“I came with my maid, but she got a little nervous being in this area, so I sent her home,” Hazel informed him. He stared at her across the table, and he silently admired her courage. He pushed his teacup aside and stood up offering her his hand.
“I’ll take you home, Mrs. Carter. This is a rough area at night.” She stood, and together they left the hotel.
Sergei and Hazel walked across Petrograd, talking about Benjamin, and Sergei told her about his desertion, surprised that she wasn’t shocked by his revelation. Instead, she placed a sympathetic hand on his arm.
“What will you do now, Sergei? I suppose you’ll join the revolution… the Bolsheviks and those types.”
“I suppose, but to be honest, I don’t agree with their tactics or their politics.” He whispered in case someone on the street should hear him.
“Have you thought about leaving Russia and emigrating to America or perhaps to England? The war can’t go on forever.”
Sergei thought about the words of the fortuneteller, bu
t he didn’t share them with Hazel. “I have given that some thought, but it takes money, and that’s one thing I lack in abundance right now.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something. You seem to be a resourceful man. Don’t give in to despair. There’s too much of that going around the world these days.”
“It isn’t easy, Mrs. Carter, but things are bound to get better soon.”
“I certainly hope so.” Hazel sighed.
They continued the rest of the way in silence.
Sergei walked Mrs. Carter to her door, and while she searched for her key, he said to her, “Thank you, Mrs. Carter, for speaking to me.” Sergei bowed his head slightly.
“You’re welcome, Sergei. Good night.” Then she disappeared behind the oak door.
Field Hospital, France
January 1917
BENJAMIN FOUND the package on his cot when he went off duty at nine thirty in the evening. It contained the usual chocolate and tea, cigarettes, socks, and a couple of books. A letter from his mother was at the bottom of the parcel. And he had letters from Sergei.
“I have seen Sergei, and he’s well and asking for you…,” his mother wrote.
During breaks in his duties, Benjamin read and savored all Sergei’s letters, but when he reached the last, a brief note, it stated Sergei had deserted the Army at the front and now attended daily the Bolshevik meetings in the factory district. Benjamin let the piece of paper fall from his hand. He had always thought of Sergei as a man of bravery and honor, but that he would willingly desert his post because a Bolshevik speaker moved him was unthinkable to Benjamin.
Benjamin threw the letters aside. He wanted to be angry with Sergei for giving up the fight, and his first reaction was to write a letter calling him a coward, but he knew Sergei would not do what he had done without reason. He knew from his father’s recent letters that things in Russia were going from bad to worse. With the government on the verge of total collapse, Petrograd was starving while the tsar sat on his hands.
