by Staton Rabin
We climbed the stairs to the stage.
“Please, do not be afraid, Vaslav!” I patted him gently on the back, but he cringed. “I have slain the Moor with my sword,” I said soothingly. “You see? He is gone. He will not bother you anymore.”
Slowly, Nijinsky raised his head to look up at me, like a turtle coming out of his shell.
I nodded to him, and saw the trace of a childlike smile forming through his tears.
Varda tugged at my sleeve and whispered.
“Alexei, I think we should go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“HOW SAD! WAS HE ALWAYS LIKE THAT?” Varda said as we walked out into the hallway.
“Nyet, nyet—of course not. War does strange things to people, Papa says. Nijinksy is sensitive artist, maybe war, all this, too much for him.”
We passed by the open door to a storage closet.
“Look!” Varda said. “Theater costumes!”
She started rummaging through the boxes.
“Varda! We must go—no time to play dress-up!”
“Wait a minute!” she said. “This is important! The Bolsheviks have got your family. They must be out looking for you under every cabbage leaf. Right?”
“Da. Suppose so.”
“You’re Russia’s most wanted man! Maybe most of the peasants don’t know what you look like. But I bet the Bolsheviks do. They must have sent out an Amber Alert on you.”
“Sent what?”
“Look, you can’t keep walking around looking like you. Sooner or later somebody’s going to recognize you and rat you out. My teacher said Lenin snuck back into Russia disguised in a red wig and took over the whole country. If he got away with it, maybe you can too!”
She reached into a box and took out a costume.
“Here,” she said, “try this on for size.”
“Nyet! Will not wear woman’s dress!”
“Picky, picky! Here. How about this?”
We put a peasant’s cap and jacket on me, along with a beard. I looked at myself in a mirror on the wall.
“Beard itches.”
“You look like Harvey Fierstein in Fiddler on the Roof,” she said, “but it’ll have to do.”
Varda took a shawl to cover her own clothing, and we went outside.
“What time is it? I’m hungry,” Varda said.
I looked at the sky, then at the street.
“Probably near eleven at night. All shops been closed many hours.”
“That’s impossible! It’s still light outside.”
“Beliye Noche.”
“What?”
“White nights. We are far north here, sun never set in Petrograd during a few days in summer.”
“Wow! And they call New York ‘the city that never sleeps’!”
Suddenly I felt a rough push from behind.
“Stoi!”
We halted—and looked behind us to find two Red Army soldiers, rifles pressed firmly into our backs.
“Who are your people, comrade?” the sergeant said to me in Russian.
“Peasant farmers. From the east.”
The man looked at me suspiciously.
“Pah! You talk too good for a peasant. What crop you grow?”
“Uh … I—”
“I thought so. Liar! What about girl?”
Varda opened her mouth, but I jumped in before she could say anything.
“Mute. The tsar’s secret police cut out her tongue.”
The sergeant nudged the corporal next to him.
“Good thing for a woman not to speak, eh, Krepinsky?”
They slapped each other on the back, laughing till their rotten teeth showed.
The sergeant’s face turned sour again. He stepped around to the front of us and stared at my shirt, whose lettering peeked out from under my peasant jacket. He yanked my jacket rudely aside for a closer look.
“What mean this word? Foreign, anti-Bolshevik propaganda?”
“Nyet!” I said. “‘Livestrong.’ It mean …‘Long Live Lenin!’”
“You think quickly, mouzhik.” He poked me in the chest with his finger. “Not much meat on his bones, eh, Krepinsky? But smart in the head. Come along!”
He and the other man nudged me forward with the rifle.
“Wait! Where are we going?
“Red Army can use smart mouzhik.”
He pushed me onto the back of a run-down truck.
“Red Army? But—”
“Alexei!” Varda screamed, running toward us.
“Hey!” Krepinsky said. “Thought you said she couldn’t talk?”
The soldiers hopped into the cab of the truck, slamming the doors behind them.
“Alexei! Where are they taking you?”
Varda ran after us as fast as she could. But it was too late.
The truck—with me in it—had already pulled away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“ODIN, DVA, TRI, CHETYRE! Odin, dva, tri, chetyre!”
A soldier was drilling Red Army troops at their camp near the railroad tracks just outside Petrograd. He slapped his arm sharply against his leg with each count, demanding that they march to his beat.
An armored train pulled into the station, and a man in an army greatcoat strode down the stairs with a self-important air. He was immediately surrounded by officers who stepped all over one another trying to please him.
The man ignored them, instead studying the drilling exercise at camp with a critical eye, his dark mustache twitching with impatience. He took out his monacle, polished it quickly on his handkerchief, then squinted it back into his eye socket.
The sergeant and Krepinsky dragged me by the elbow, planting me in front of the man with the monacle. The sergeant “snapped to,” saluting him.
“Commissar!” he announced. “I recruit this man, new volunteer, myself!”
Volunteer? Hah!
“Another little fish caught in the Neva, eh, Sergeant? You are dismissed!”
The sergeant and Krepinsky saluted again and marched away.
“I am Commisar Trotsky,” the officer said to me. “And you have the high honor of serving in the People’s Army.”
“I could have done without the honor, sir.” I immediately regretted my words. But to my surprise he smiled.
“So, you do not believe in our cause, comrade?”
As Gilliard says, you cannot unring a bell, so I forged ahead.
“Everyone wants the peasants and workers of Russia to have enough food to eat. Even the tsar. It just depends on how.”
“The ex-tsar, you mean.” Ex? Was Papa already dead? “The end may justify the means as long as there is something that justifies the end. When you are older, you will know. There are no absolute rules of conduct, either in peace or war. Everything depends on circumstances. Where are you from, young man?”
“New York, most recently.”
“Ah! I was there myself, last year. Waiting for a more … comfortable climate in Russia. How are things in New York these days?”
“I—I don’t think you would recognize it, sir.”
“Hmm … yes, the world changes very fast now. I trust you will enjoy your stay with us. A young man needs time to think about his view of the world. Over there is the latrine. You will have plenty of time to think while you are cleaning it. You are dismissed!”
He strode quickly away.
“Here!” a soldier barked, handing me a smelly shovel. “Get busy!” I glanced up at him.
“Derevenko!”
It was one of my two diadkas!
I pulled down my beard a little so he could get a look at my face.
He stared at me, his mouth dropping open.
“Derevenko, did they kidnap you, too? Thank God you are all right! Where is my family?”
He ignored my question, then pointed to the toilet. “Clean that out!”
“What? It’s me, Derevenko! Alexei! Don’t you recognize me?”
“You heard me!” Then he spoke in a mocking voice.
“’Move my leg, Derevenko,’ ‘Get me that book, Derevenko,’ ‘Hurry up, fatty—carry me over there!’ For three hundred years you Romanovs told me and my family what to do. I’m giving the orders now!”
I was stunned by his words, and the cold hatred I saw in his eyes.
“Derevenko—please! I know you are angry. Maybe—maybe I can even understand why. But you must help me!”
“Help you? You should count yourself lucky I don’t turn you in!”
He shoved a bucket of soapy water into my hand and turned away. I ran after him.
“Please, I beg of you! Just tell me one thing! Where did they take my family?”
“So you beg, eh? Is nice to see you beg.”
“I’m sorry if I was cruel to you! Really.”
“Sorry? Sorry fixes nothing! Ã11 tell you where Bloody Nicholas is, and your German witch of a mother, too. They were taken to Tobolsk, may they rot in hell. There!”
I gathered up my courage to ask one more question.
“Are they-Did they kill them?”
But Derevenko had already walked away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MOST OF THE SOLDIERS WERE SLEEPING under the midnight sun.
I stole some bread from the mess area. It was moldy but I was too hungry to care. Then I stayed up all night in the tent they had assigned to me, writing in my book.
If only I could find some way to escape and get to Tobolsk! But the guards kept a watchful eye. I prayed I was not already too late to save my family.
And what about Varda? A pretty young American girl alone in Petrograd, in the middle of famine and civil war! And with so many brutal, godless men roving about. I shuddered at the thought of what might happen to her!
I glanced over at my tent mate—a tired old man who seemed more ready for the rocking chair than the front lines of battle. The tent flaps fluttered with each blast from his snoring.
Suddenly the man bolted awake at a sound.
“What?” he sputtered. “Is it morning already?”
“No.”
“Damn bugler, playing reveille in middle of night!” But it wasn’t the bugler. It was music from my little telephone!
“Uh … I’ll see if I can get the bugler to be quiet,” I told him, slipping out of the tent.
I hid behind a tree and pressed the telephone’s on button.
“Alexei, thank God! Press the green button to talk.”
“Varda!”
“I was sure our cell phones couldn’t work here—no cell towers in 1918—so I didn’t even try calling you. But then it just hit me: Varda, you idiot, these are those new combo cell phone-walkie-talkies! Where there’s no cell service, they automatically switch over to their two-way radio frequencies. They don’t need cell towers, as long as we’re within a fifteen-mile radius of each other!”
“Huh?”
“Never mind that now. Where are you?”
“Am—with Red Army, about five versts outside Petrograd. Next to water tower and railroad tracks. Where are you?”
“With my bubbe Tillie. I looked all over for you, then hitched a ride back to Tsarskoye Selo with some singing Gypsies who speak a little Yiddish. Bubbe took me home and fed me. She’s really nice when you get to know her. Makes a great—what did she call it?—borscht soup, too.”
“My family—they are in Tobolsk!”
“Where is that?”
“Siberia. I hope I am not too late!”
“It’s kind of cold there, isn’t it?”
“Only some parts, not this time of year. We must go to Tobolsk!”
“All right, all right. Look, stay where you are. I’ll find some way to get to you. I’ll help you escape!”
“Da. Good.”
“Alexei?”
“Da?”
“How far is a verst?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I SLEPT FOR A FEW HOURS, then was awakened by music from my telephone. I went outside to answer it.
“I’m right outside your camp,” Varda said on the screen. “I can see you. Tell me where the sentries are posted and how many.”
I looked around and counted.
“Tri on north side, odin on east, and … dva on north and south.”
“Only one sentry at the east?”
“Da,” I said. “He’s near water tower.”
“Where? No—I see him! If you can get past him, you’re free. I’m going to distract him.”
“How?”
“Never mind that. The second you see him leave his post and go inside a tent, make a run for it. Be careful not to fall. I’ll meet you behind the water tower. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
I kept an eye on the sentry, using field glasses I’d found inside my tent. I hung the field glasses by their leather strap around my neck.
Soon I saw a woman in a red dress slink up to the sentry, swaying her hips like a prostituka. No, not “a” woman. Varda!
Zdorovo! Wow!
I saw the sentry take off his cap and smile at her. He kept nervously dropping his cap and picking it up! He spoke to her, but Varda didn’t say anything back. No wonder! She didn’t speak any Russian! But she spoke the only language every man can understand. Wiggling her hips, Varda touched his arm, then traced a finger across his lips. He nodded sheepishly. She pointed to a tent and gave him a little push, as if to say: Go ahead. I will follow in a minute.
The sentry glanced quickly from side to side, as if to make sure no one was watching him. Then he deserted his post and went inside the tent. Brava, Varda!
I ran as fast as I could to the water tower, where Varda was already waiting for me. We hugged like we hadn’t seen each other in a hundred years.
We barely had time to congratulate ourselves before the sentry, pants down around his legs, came running furiously out of the tent, looking every which way. He spotted us! Shouting angry curses, he woke up half the Red Army.
“Dezertir!”
We took off running. In seconds a whole battalion was coming after us!
“Hurry, Alexei!”
We ran for our lives, but my bad legs slowed me down, and the soldiers were quickly gaining on us. They started firing shots in our direction.
“Get down!” she shouted.
“Look!” I said, pointing. A train came rumbling down the tracks toward us. “Jump on!”
“It’s not going to stop! We can’t; you’ll get hurt!”
This was no time for arguments. I grabbed her hand.
“On three!” I said. “Odin, dva, tri!”
I leaped onto the train car—its door was slid back a few feet—pulling Varda up behind me. A soldier on the ground made a running grab at her ankle, and … caught!
I pulled and pulled, hanging on to Varda with all my strength, while the soldier, running to keep up, pulled her leg in the opposite direction. Then the train sped up, and we broke free, falling backward together into the train car—leaving the soldier and the Red Army far behind.
“Spasibo for breaking my fall,” I said.
“Anytime, comrade,” she said, rubbing her sore leg. “But next time I think I’d rather take my chances with the Red Army.”
We turned around.
“Breakfast is served, madam!” I said, bowing like our footman, Trupp. We were in a car full of vegetables—at least a tysyacha kilos’ worth.
Varda laughed.
The engineer must have left the door open by mistake—with so many starving Russians around, this cargo wouldn’t last long.
We sat down, smashing open melons and stuffing tomatoes into our mouths till our faces were sticky with juice.
I stared at her, smiling.
“What are you looking at? Haven’t you ever seen a girl pig out before?”
“Where did you get dress?” I asked her.
“From my bubbe—she gave me one of hers.”
“Very nice.”
“Spasibo,” she said.
I suddenly felt shy, but
I was determined to ask her my question.
“Varda, what happen if hemophiliac boy marry girl who is carrier?”
She made a choking noise and spit out some melon seeds.
“You mean like … you and me?”
“Da. And they have children someday.”
“Alexei! We can’t get married. Not that it’s such a crazy idea … you’re kind of cute. But, I mean, we’re cousins! Like, that’s illegal or something!”
“My mama and papa were kuzin, and they marry.”
“That’s different; they’re royalty! Those people always marry their relatives.”
“You are royalty too.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right, I forgot. ‘Princess Varda.’ I like the sound of that.” She leaned back against a huge pile of potatoes. “Well … let’s see. If a hemophiliac male has kids with a female carrier, all their daughters would be carriers, and 50 percent of their children of either sex would have the disease.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “But maybe they have cure by then! Maybe you find cure.”
“Yes. That’s certainly possible.”
“So … You think Alexei is ‘cute,’ eh?”
She looked at me and tried to hide her smile.
“Well, don’t be getting a swelled head or anything. But I think that on the cuteness scale, you’d rate about a devyat-and-a-half.”
I leaned closer to her.
“Devyaf-and-a-half. This is good?”
“Uh … very good,” she said.
“Not full desyat?”
“All right. Maybe desyat?”
And then I did something I had never done before in my life.
I kissed her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BOOM!
“‘Was that cannon fire,’” Varda asked, breaking our kiss, “‘or is it my heart pounding?’ I always wanted to say that…”
“Huh?”
“It’s from an old movie, Casabl—Never mind.”
“Is not guns, just thunder. Do not be afraid, Little Peasant. Just storm coming.”
Together we slid the train doors all the way back and sat down to watch the storm. Lightning flashed jaggedly across the sky.
“Alexei, are you sure this train is going the right way to take us to Siberia?”
