Strange Are the Ways

by Strange Are the Ways (retail) (epub)

  Kurakin gawked. The man Ashkenov turned his head, sniffing. ‘There’s a fire down the street –’

  ‘There’s a fire right here,’ Krakovski growled. ‘And I’m going to be the first to put it out.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  Without taking his eyes from Margarita, Krakovski bunched his great iron fist under the other man’s nose. ‘My good right hand says so. Wait your turn. Come, little lady. Here, in the doorway. That’s right! Up with it. Sweet Jesus! Watch this, lads – this is the way it’s done – that’s right, girl – Christ, yes! – that’s the way!’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘Mrs de Fontenay.’ The man across the desk regarded her gravely over the tips of his steepled fingers. ‘I must repeat that we are advising all British passport holders to leave the city as soon as possible.’

  Anna shook her head. ‘I can’t. Not yet.’

  He affected not to have heard her. He was a small man, meticulously neat, and she knew from past experience not unkind, but at this moment he looked drawn and harassed, and she had already sensed that his temper was short. ‘You must know how grave the situation is, and becoming more so by the minute. The latest attempt by the Bolsheviks to take over the city has been defeated; but that isn’t to say that they won’t try again. Each time it happens the unrest and disturbances get worse and the chance of very real civil violence increases. I’m afraid that I don’t see Mr Kerensky being able to pull this particular chestnut from the fire. To add to the confusion there is a strong rumour of a counter-revolutionary coup by a section of the army. Anything can happen in the next few months, Mrs de Fontenay – absolutely anything! Not least, of course, that Petrograd could fall into German hands.’

  ‘Surely not?’ Anna was shocked.

  ‘It’s not the most distant possibility.’ He leaned forward. ‘Mrs de Fontenay, I implore you – get out now, whilst you can, and whilst we are still able to facilitate your going. The situation here can only worsen. There are epidemics and famine in the city, the political situation is a shambles. Petrograd, and Russia, is falling apart. Anarchy, Mrs de Fontenay, that’s what we’ll be facing in a very few weeks, I assure you. Anarchy.’

  ‘I thought –’ Anna stopped. ‘They’ve arrested the Bolshevik leaders, haven’t they? Won’t that stop any further trouble?’

  ‘Stop it? It will foment it! The Bolsheviks have wormed themselves into every position of power amongst the people. The Soviet has gone over to them almost entirely. They promise the earth – bread, peace, land. Bread, peace and land, indeed!’ His voice was wearily angry. ‘Promises, such promises! You mark my words, they’ll turn out to be as bad as the worst of them. It’s democracy they’re fighting against now. What the Bolsheviks are fighting for is simply another dictatorship. The same oppression, the same cruelty, the same crushing of freedom. I tell you, Mrs de Fontenay –’ he rested his head upon his hand for a brief moment ‘– I despair of this country. I truly do.’

  ‘It’s my country,’ she said, very quietly.

  He lifted his head, looked at her levelly. ‘Yes. I realize that. And there’s the rub, isn’t it? You have to make a decision, Mrs de Fontenay. And it has to be soon. The situation is too desperately uncertain for me to be able to give you any guarantees for the future. It is even conceivable that a time will come when your British citizenship will be more threat than protection. If the Germans come – or if the Russian Government makes a separate peace – you will be an enemy alien. Think about it, Mrs de Fontenay. Please think about it. We are anxious to get as many people away whilst we still can. My own family is gone.’

  Anna picked up her gloves and pulled them on, reached for her handbag and stood up. ‘But mine, Mr Thompson, is not.’

  He sighed, stood, extended a hand. ‘No. I do realize that. And I understand your reluctance to leave them. But, believe me, Mrs de Fontenay, I know what I’m saying. Things are going to get worse. Far worse. And the violence is by no means over. Please – if you change your mind – do get in touch with me. I’ll be pleased to make the arrangements.’

  She inclined her head politely. ‘Thank you.’ At the door she hesitated. ‘If I decided to go – it would have to be alone? My family – I couldn’t take them with me?’ She knew before he shook his head what his answer would be; knew, too, what a wild and silly scheme it was, even to contemplate. Natalia would not leave the apartment; what chance of persuading her to leave Petrograd? Varya could no more face a journey to England than she could grow wings and fly there, and as for Lenka –

  ‘No, Mrs de Fontenay. I’m sorry. The authorities in both countries are getting stricter and stricter. It would pose enormous problems, and could take years. I don’t believe we have that amount of time. I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  She nodded, unsurprised. ‘Well. Thank you anyway for your advice, Mr Thompson. I’ll think about it.’

  He hurried to open the door for her. As she passed him he laid a hand upon her arm. ‘Another word of advice, Mrs de Fontenay, if I may?’

  She waited.

  ‘The next time you draw money from the bank, don’t let them give you paper roubles. They will be all but worthless in a matter of weeks. Gold, Mrs de Fontenay – take it in gold.’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you. If I can I will.’

  ‘Get to the bank soon. You’re with the Anglo-Russian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Stoddart will see to it for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She walked home through streets that shimmered in August heat; on impulse, with Mr Thompson’s grim warnings still fresh in her ears, she stopped at the bank to make the arrangements he had recommended. At least they wouldn’t be short of money; though like almost everyone in the city they were short of everything else. There were simply no supplies to be had, except, inevitably, on the black market and at extortionate prices. Bread rationing had not helped; what point in rationing a commodity that had all but disappeared from the shops? They, like most others, were reduced to one meal a day, and that not always as nourishing as it should be. There was no question now of eating for enjoyment, of choosing one thing over another; it was the stark business of survival that drove them from shop to shop, from one black market contact to another. Anna worried about the children; the baby Dmitri was sick again – Natalia’s other two children ’Tasha and Nikki were practically living with them at the Bourlov apartment now, and were constantly on the move. Delighted by the unaccustomed space they raced about the huge rooms like a pair of over-active puppies, and were forever hungry. Every day upon the streets she saw the thin, gaunt-faced children who begged or stole what they could to keep body and soul together. Great, empty, hungry eyes followed her wherever she went; ’Tasha and Nikki would not suffer so. She would do anything – anything! – before she would allow that to happen to the two children who had come to mean more to her than she was ready to admit, even to herself.

  * * *

  She knew the moment she saw Volodya’s face as she stepped through the door that something had happened. The children, as always, launched themselves upon her, hugging and kissing her, clamouring to know where she had been, who she had seen, what was going on in the city. Volodya came into the hall behind them. In his hand he held a grubby envelope.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked over ’Tasha’s fair head.

  ‘Lenka,’ he said. ‘She’s sent you a note.’

  Anna straightened, disentangled herself from small, clinging hands. ‘Lenka?’ she asked, disbelieving.‘Lenka has sent a note?’

  ‘Yes. A neighbour delivered it. I had to give her the last half loaf before she’d let me have it.’

  Anna all but snatched the note, ripped it open, scanned the two briefly scrawled lines. ‘I have to go out,’ she said. ‘Lenka needs me.’

  ‘I suspected that might be it.’ Volodya was reaching for his cap and overcoat. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No!’ The word was sharp; too sharp, she knew. ‘No, Volodya,’ Anna said a
gain, more placatingly. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. In the first place we can’t leave Mama with the children. And in the second –’ she looked back down at the note ‘– in the second, I feel this is something I have to do alone.’ She avoided his mild, questioning eyes. Not for anything would she admit that she was frightened; frightened of what might lie behind this unexpected approach, afraid to have anyone else witness what might only be another and perhaps more cruel rejection. Whatever Lenka wanted, whatever she wished to say to her, Anna’s wary instincts told her it was best faced alone. ‘Please, I’ll be all right. The streets are comparatively quiet today. It’s too damned hot; not even the students have got enough energy to cause trouble.’

  ‘Volodya’s showing us how to make a violin,’ ’Tasha was saying, eagerly. Volodya, some weeks before, had visited the wrecked shop and salvaged what he could of the materials from the workshop. More from a need to do something than in any hope of selling it, he had begun to make an instrument; it had been soothing to them both in these past weeks to sit together as he worked, lovingly cutting, smoothing and planing the wood, carving the intricate scroll.

  Anna tugged at the tangled curls. ‘Watch well, my love. You won’t find a better teacher.’ She looked up, caught Volodya watching her. She turned away sharply, obscurely distressed by the look in his open, friendly face. ‘Lenka’s note sounds urgent. I’ll go straight away. Volodya – there’s soup left from yesterday, and some cheese in the cupboard. Did you really give away the last of the bread?’

  He shrugged. ‘Almost the last. There’s a little left. Enough for the children.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do when I’m out.’ She kissed the children swiftly. ‘All right, all right, I won’t be long, I promise. Look after Uncle Volodya for me, won’t you? Don’t let him misbehave.’

  * * *

  There were the usual voluble, scruffy groups on street corners, still endlessly debating, though perhaps in the enervating heat marginally less passionately than usual. What on earth they found to talk about, Anna found herself thinking with a sudden weary spurt of anger, she could not imagine. What were grown men doing standing around on street corners and arguing when their wives and families were starving? What was more important than the search for food, the security and health of the children? What in heaven’s name did these people want? She doubted that they knew themselves. There were, as always, soldiers everywhere, their uniforms shabby, guns slung sloppily upon their shoulders. They slouched in the shade of the buildings, leaned against the remnants of the last lot of barricades to block the city’s streets, marched in ragged formation or drove past in noisy trucks and lorries. Anna was used to it all. She walked through the dingy streets of the once-beautiful city quickly, head bent, avoiding all eyes.

  * * *

  She noticed the stench first, foul and stomach-stirring, hanging about the stairs and landings like a reeking fog. She put her handkerchief to her nose. Somewhere a child was crying, thinly, exhaustedly, a sound to wrench the heart. She climbed the worn stairs to Lenka’s room. The door to the single, filthy toilet on the landing stood open; the foetid air stank like an open sewer. It took all Anna’s strength of will not to gag.

  She pushed open the door. ‘Lenka? It’s Anna. Lenka, are you there?’

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom within. Here too the smell was so dreadful that it was difficult to breathe without choking.

  Lenka lay on a narrow truckle bed on the far side of the room, rough blankets heaped upon her. The girl Tonia was crouched beside her. On the floor was a bowl of water and the child was with careful concentration soaking and wringing out small pieces of flannel, bathing her mother’s brow with infinite and intent gentleness. She looked up as Anna entered, and her expression changed with fearsome suddenness. Coming to her feet like a small, fierce, startled animal, she glared at her aunt, placing herself protectively between her mother and the newcomer. Her small brother, a child, Anna thought, of three or perhaps four years, huddled in a shabby armchair, eyes huge, his thumb in his mouth, watching in silence.

  ‘What do you want?’ Tonia snapped. ‘Go away. We don’t want you here. We don’t want to see you.’

  ‘Your mother sent for me,’ Anna said quietly. Once again the startling resemblance between this child and herself struck her forcibly. Even in this dim light, the sharp-boned, pointed face beneath its mop of wiry hair could be seen to be the very image of her own. She wondered if the child herself knew it.

  ‘No!’ Tonia snapped. Her pale eyes were too big; the bones of her face stood out, fragile and sharp in the faint light. ‘No, she didn’t! She couldn’t have –’

  ‘Tonia,’ Lenka said from the bed, her voice so weak and exhausted that the sound barely carried to where Anna stood, ‘be quiet, child.’

  ‘But, Mama, you must be still! You must rest!’ In a flash the child was crouched beside her again. Her voice was urgent; desperate.

  ‘Lenka, what is it? What’s the matter?’ Anna stepped forward, was warded off by the fierce and furious glance Tonia sent her.

  ‘Typhoid.’ The word was tired and flat. Lenka turned her head upon the pillow to look at her sister. Anna flinched from the sight of that face. It was drawn and agonized; the eyes sunken and shadowed with pain.

  ‘No,’ Tonia said firmly. ‘Not typhoid, Mama.’

  Lenka gripped her daughter’s small hand. ‘If God wills it, Tonia,’ she said softly, and then, with an effort lifting her voice a little, ‘Anna –’

  ‘Yes?’ Despite the hostility of the child Anna dropped to her knees beside Lenka. She took her sister’s hand; it burned in hers like a brand.

  Lenka shifted suddenly in the bed, her face a spasm of pain, her hands lifted to press in agony to her head, her lip caught in her teeth, to prevent her from crying out. ‘God!’ she said. ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘Hush, Mama, hush, dear Mama.’ Tonia was wringing out the flannel again, laying it upon her mother’s burning forehead, murmuring endearments as she might to a child. She turned a sudden, frightened face to Anna, her hostility for the moment overwhelmed by her terror for her mother. ‘I don’t know what to do for her! I don’t know how to make her better!’

  Lenka, weak as she was, snatched her hand from Anna’s and reached to her daughter. ‘You’re doing everything you can, my darling. You’re doing right. Tell her, Anna.’

  ‘If it is typhoid –’ Anna hesitated. If it were typhoid then in these conditions and given Lenka’s weakened constitution there could be little hope no matter what anyone did. ‘You’re right to try to keep her temperature down.’

  ‘But then she gets cold, so very cold – she shivers, as if she’s in the street in winter –’ The brave child was fighting tears. They trembled in her voice and stood in her eyes. Furiously she dashed them away.

  Anna said nothing. The symptoms were classic.

  ‘It’s all over the city,’ Lenka said. She had calmed a little. Her eyes were steady. ‘A woman died in the street yesterday.’

  ‘I’ll get a doctor,’ Anna said.

  Lenka laughed harshly. Winced in pain.

  ‘I will. There must surely be one somewhere near?’

  Lenka shook her head upon the filthy, crumpled pillow. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. A doctor? You won’t get a doctor anywhere near here. He’d be afraid of catching something.’ The words were derisive.

  Anna stood up. ‘Nevertheless, I’ll find one somewhere.’

  ‘No!’ Lenka’s voice was wearily obstinate. ‘No! Listen to me.’

  ‘But, Lenka, we must get you well.’

  ‘Whether I get well or not is in the hands of God,’ Lenka said. ‘Anna, it’s the children –’

  Anna felt the child who crouched beside her stiffen, caught from the corner of her eye the quick movement as the small head lifted sharply.

  ‘– I want you – to take the children –’

  ‘No,’ Tonia said.

  ‘– can’t feed or care – for them –’ The exhausted, a
nguished voice was getting fainter by the moment.

  ‘No!’

  ‘It isn’t – just this –’ Lenka gestured at her wasted body. Beneath the inadequately thin covering of the dirty blankets Anna could clearly see the outline of the painfully distended belly. Lenka convulsed again in pain.

  ‘I won’t go,’ Tonia said, very calmly, not to her mother but to Anna, her haunted eyes fierce. ‘You won’t make me. You can’t make me. I won’t go. I won’t leave her.’

  ‘Tonia –’

  ‘No, Mama. No. I’m staying with you. You can’t make me go. She can take him –’ the child jerked her head at the little boy who still crouched silently in the armchair, watching them all with eyes almost blank with pain and fright ‘– good riddance I say, he’s nothing but a nuisance. But I’m staying.’

  Anna shook her head helplessly.

  Lenka lifted herself from the pillow, eyes blazing. ‘Anna, you promised! You promised you’d help if I asked.’

  ‘I will! Of course I will!’

  ‘Then take the children! Forget me – God will take me or not as he sees fit. But the children, Anna – the children! They haven’t eaten in days! Take them – feed them – care for them – until I can –’ She could not finish. The furious spark of energy died and she collapsed in sudden silent agony upon the pillow.

  Anna turned to face the child Tonia. Turned to look into her own childhood face, distorted with intransigent anger and hatred, her own eyes, blazing with fear and defiance. ‘No!’ the child all but spat. ‘I won’t come with you! I won’t! I won’t leave Mama.’

  ‘Listen – Tonia, please – listen.’ Anna reached out pleading hands. Tonia shook them off as fiercely as if they had been the grasping claws of nightmare. Anna found herself shaking. On the bed Lenka, despite herself, moaned softly in pain. Anna put her hands to her own head, forcing herself to think. ‘Tonia, your Mama is right – this is no place for either of you –’