Russian Winter

by Daphne Kalotay

  “Yes, that’s Viktor Elsin.” Looking virile and jolly, he sat at one end of the settee with a cigarette held nonchalantly in his fingers. Next to him Nina Revskaya looked almost prim, her shoulders and neck straight, her smile small and slightly impish.

  On her other side was the man Grigori had eventually identified as Aron Gershtein. His slightly crossed right eye had helped with that. “This was his friend, an accomplished composer.” Looking up everything he could about Viktor Elsin back in college that first year, Grigori had learned that some thought Elsin’s arrest might have been related to that of Gershtein. Grigori had therefore read up on Gershtein too, and subsequently recognized him as the other man in this photograph. “He survived years of persecution.”

  “What was he persecuted for?”

  “Oh, it was simple anti-Semitism. After the formation of Israel in ’48, Stalin decided he had a new enemy. He was old and becoming more paranoid, and of course Israel was allied with the United States. So he revved up the anti-Jewish campaign. As a result, people like this man here suffered.”

  In the photograph he was laughing. Leaning into him was a beautiful woman with big dark eyes. It had taken Grigori longer to figure out who she was. Only after much research had he learned that Gershtein had married an active Party member, an employee of the Moscow Education Department.

  Even as he explained this to Drew, she kept her eyes on the photograph. “It’s amazing,” she said. “It’s as if they still exist. There’s so much life in this picture. You can see it in their faces. They’re in love.” Her expression was sad and serious.

  “Both of those men ended up incarcerated, probably not long after this photo was taken. A year or two at most.” Saying so, Grigori felt like a killjoy.

  “And Nina Revskaya defected.” Drew nodded gravely. “And this woman”—she pointed to the woman next to Gershtein—“do you know what happened to her?”

  “No, but she probably would have become, by association, an enemy of the state.”

  Drew made a little sighing sound. She seemed to be having trouble looking away. “She’s so beautiful.”

  Before he could stop himself, Grigori offered that he found the woman looked a bit like Drew.

  “That’s quite a compliment!”

  Something inside his chest did a small flip, at the delight in her eyes. For a moment she seemed about to speak—but then she looked to the other photograph. This one had been taken out of doors, in front of what looked to be a dacha. Seated there were Nina Revskaya, Viktor Elsin, and another woman. Nina and Viktor looked much more serious in this one, almost stiff, their eyes tired and gray underneath. But the woman next to them, skinny and long-necked, had a big bright smile. There had been someone next to her, too, but the way the photograph had been cropped, only the side of his arm and his hand were visible.

  “Someone wanted this guy out of the picture,” Drew said. “Who is this woman, do you know?”

  “I do not.” He had tried to find out, had looked through numerous photographs associated with Elsin and Revskaya, but none showed any woman resembling that one.

  Drew was again examining the photograph. “Do they know what eventually happened to him?”

  “According to my research, Elsin was sent to the Vorkuta gulag and died there a few years later. It was surely a miserable existence.”

  Drew looked at the photograph for a moment longer before asking the question Grigori had been expecting. “And you have these photographs because of your…family connection?”

  Grigori said what he had prepared. “It’s a long story, but, through a series of events, I was given, many years ago, a woman’s pocketbook that contained these photographs as well as the letters I showed you.” He waited a moment before adding, “It also contained the amber pendant.”

  “Oh!” And then, “But whose pocketbook—”

  “Exactly. I was told it belonged to a dancer. A woman who gave birth to—” But he could not do it, he could not say it. Why not? Just say it, Grigori, tell her what you think. A fool, to think he could just open up like this…“A relative of mine, who was then adopted.” He closed his eyes, furious at himself, at his cowardice. “This relative was told that the dancer, his birth mother, had died.”

  Drew’s eyes had opened wide, her mouth opening slightly. “You think…the birth mother—the dancer…” He could almost see her mind working. “That’s why you tried to show them to her. To Nina Revskaya.”

  “Tried, yes.”

  Drew was still thinking. “And if I showed them to her…”

  “Perhaps you might have more luck. But, Drew, that’s not the reason I’m showing them to you. Not to make you do that. Not to make you do anything for me. I hope you understand that. I decided to share them with you because I felt I could tell you. I—I want you to know that I have them, and why I have them.” He was already feeling embarrassed. “I supposed, since you’ve been so involved with the auction, you might be interested.”

  A look in her eyes like a question mark. She was still figuring, calculating. Why not just tell her, Grigori, that you’re that child, that boy?

  “This auction,” he said, “what started it, I fear, was…” He decided to begin with November, the second anniversary of Christine’s death. But what came out was his grief, how he had loved Christine more than he had understood, that sometimes one forgot what it meant, really, to love, the way the tide of a marriage advances and retreats, and how it was to watch her fade into some other person at the end, still Christine but also someone he did not, could not, quite know. Drew sat still and expressionless as Grigori continued, explained that he had already lost his parents, felt that loss every day, really, and now that Christine was gone realized just how much these things mattered, not just family but love, connections—and that time was short, he had in his possession these belongings, and Nina Revskaya was still alive. “And so I wrote to her. I included in my letter a photograph of the pendant. Because surely it’s one of a kind, surely she would recognize it, no one else could have the same one. If indeed it is part of her set.”

  “And instead,” Drew said, nodding slowly, “she decided to get rid of hers. I see now.” And then, “I’m sorry.”

  She seemed to mean it. Grigori was touched. But there was a knock on his door: Evelyn leaned in. “Hey there. Some of us are going out for drinks—”

  Drew looked up, her face registering who this woman was, as Evelyn said, “Oh, sorry, you’re with a student. Give me a knock when you finish up.”

  Drew’s face fell. Evelyn had already turned away, not recognizing Drew, leaving the door half open behind her. His heart thudding, Grigori could hear Carla in the hallway saying, “Oh, Evelyn, if you could sign these thesis forms…”

  Grigori tried not to frown. But suddenly everything felt wrong. Drew had stood and buttoned her coat. “May I take these, then?” she asked of the photographs, her voice flat and businesslike.

  “Yes.” Grigori was having trouble looking her in the eye.

  “I mean, may I show them to Nina Revskaya?”

  Grigori heard himself say, “You may.”

  “And the letters?”

  He nodded as she put the photographs into her bag.

  “Don’t worry,” she added, her voice still flat, “I wouldn’t force anything on her. I would just see if she might be willing to look at them. Maybe talk about them.”

  “Just don’t expect much,” Grigori told her, his heart still heavy somehow. “She clearly has her reasons for not wanting to see them. I don’t suppose it makes any difference who brings the subject up.” Drew was standing close to him. Nervously, he added, “Who knows, perhaps all of it’s meaningless.”

  “I doubt that.” She was looking straight at him, the way she had when he had held her hand, touched her cheek.

  He thanked her and, determined not to behave imprudently, held his hand out firmly to shake hers.

  Drew shook it briskly, hesitating for the slightest moment before saying good-
bye. Already she was heading for the door. Grigori could hear Carla, just outside, asking Evelyn where she had her hair done.

  Then Drew turned, her eyes dark. In mere steps her body was against Grigori’s. Grigori pulled her close and, as she leaned into him, refrained from whispering something long and embarrassing.

  In the hallway, Evelyn’s voice said something that caused Carla to laugh.

  Then Drew stepped back, gave a small nod, and went quickly out the door.

  DAYS OF WAITING, time so thick, you could touch it. Now that Gersh has been transferred to the prison camp, Viktor and Nina make sure to stop by the other wing of their building as often as before; perhaps Zoya, still living in Gersh’s apartment, has more news.

  He has been placed in a psychiatric rehabilitation camp, not far from Moscow—which Zoya attributes to her epistolary efforts on his behalf. “I think quite highly of the place, actually,” she tells them after her first visit there. “Very progressive and all that. Impressive, how it’s run.”

  “But why is he in a psychiatric camp?” Nina asks. “I still don’t understand.”

  “Oh, the director explained it. It turns out they found some things in his diaries, you know, about the French Impressionists and Picasso and all that. But it’s all right, it’s just a mistake, poor Gersh, he’s been confused, that’s all. It will just take some instruction, re-learning, you know. It’s really not a bad place at all.”

  Viktor’s face is expressionless, while Nina tries to make sense of what Zoya has said. Why should it be a crime, to have such thoughts? How could that be serious enough to send Gersh to a psychiatric prison?

  “Oh, and I have other news.” Zoya gives a coy smile, waiting for them to ask. “His sentence has been reduced. To just five years.”

  “Already,” Viktor says. “That’s wonderful.”

  Wonderful. Nina can’t bring herself to agree. Only five years—of watery kasha each morning, bread and water at noon, a scant ladle of soup at night. That’s what they fed Nina’s uncle, according to Mother. But of course this is one of the tricks, Nina sees now; a sentence is reduced, so that the prisoner and his family become grateful rather than incensed, thankful rather than outraged. The same thing happened with her uncle. But even a reduced sentence was not short enough. He died before they could send him home.

  “It’s a very good place, actually, the rehabilitation camp. The director has a degree in psychiatry and all that. There’s a whole system worked out, to help the patients. Poor Gersh! I should have noticed the signs. His views were quite mad, actually, I just didn’t know. But it’s all right, they’re going to help him.”

  Surely she doesn’t believe this, Nina thinks to herself. Surely she is just pretending. Yes, that must be it; it is an act, a performance, this too is a dance. A dance they all have to do, carefully saying the right things.

  Or does Zoya really not understand what Nina sees, more clearly every day now, a thought so awful and yet she is every minute that much more sure of it: that this is all some big horrible, nasty joke.

  AT HOME AFTER rehearsal one afternoon a few weeks later, Nina finds Madame at the table as usual. But instead of counting the silverware, she has in front of her an open cardboard box. Inside, Nina sees, there is jewelry: amber, framed in gold. Big thick beads, like candies on golden foil.

  There are three pieces: necklace, drop earrings, and a bracelet. Nina wants to touch them, feel their weight in her hands.

  Seeing that the array has caught her eye, Madame gives a pleased smile. “They needed polishing.”

  “Are they yours?” Madame has always complained about her jewelry being stolen after the Revolution, says that all she owns are her earrings and pearls and the tortoiseshell hair comb lined with diamonds. “Where did they come from?”

  “Viktor brought them.”

  “Viktor?” Nina leans closer, because she sees, now, that the beads are more than just amber and gold. Inside the earrings are tiny flecks that, as she brings them to her eyes, look like midges.

  “You may use my lorgnette.” Madame hands the little spectacles to Nina.

  Magnified, the insects’ wings are clearly visible. Holding the lenses over the bracelet, Nina finds more midges, and a tiny fly, and then a tiny moth, its body visibly furred, its wings nearly translucent.

  “Viktor brought them?” Nina wonders when, since he has been away much of the week, resting and writing at Peredelkino. Hopefully the change of scene will cheer him. He has been so glum since Gersh’s arrest, drinking more than usual. Nina hasn’t said anything to him about the drinking. But she worries.

  “He wanted to keep them in my room, to hide them—Oh—” Madame makes an exaggeratedly startled face, as if she has just remembered something. “I believe it was supposed to be a secret.”

  She is visibly glad to have ruined the surprise. It seems she cannot help herself, every now and then, from poking at Nina in some way, seeing what she might get away with. Just last week, apropos of nothing, she turned her head away and said, as if to herself, yet purposely loud enough for Nina to hear, “I preferred Lilya.”

  Though Nina feels a familiar surge of anger, she reminds herself, as always, that there is nothing she can do about it. What does it matter, really, that Madame has shown her the amber? The surprise doesn’t matter so much; what touches Nina is the simple thought that Viktor has seen these jewels and thought of her. Their anniversary is in just a few days, as Madame knows. The amber must have been incredibly expensive. Perhaps Viktor feels he has to outdo himself each time.

  “Oh, well,” Madame says theatrically. “Now you’ve seen them, what can I do? We’ll just have to not tell Viktor.”

  Nina bites her lip and doesn’t reply. Holding the lorgnette over the necklace, she inspects the bead. It is larger than the others. Inside, caught in action as if just moments ago, is a clearly visible spider, and below, like a tiny balloon, its egg sac. The way it is puffed out, just beneath the spider’s body, it looks like a single big white egg. A tiny creature in the midst of creating new life—stopped forever by the very resin that preserves it. Nina looks at it for a long while, aware that she is witnessing the final moments, the dying act, of another being. Then she hands the lorgnette back to Madame and thanks her politely, making sure not to seem at all bothered by her having spoiled the surprise.

  THEIR THIRD ANNIVERSARY is a staid affair. “To love” is their toast, raised tots of good vodka brought back from abroad—Viktor bought it, Russian vodka, but for export only, better than any for sale here. Viktor swallows his glassful in one gulp, says, “Love is all we have. I understand that now.”

  The first thought Nina has, though, is that for her there is also the dance. Dance and love. They may be all she has, but they are also all she needs.

  Viktor nuzzles her neck. “Let’s start a family, Nina, hmm? What do you say?”

  A family. Children, a child. “I’ve tried. I’m just…having trouble.” Now is simply not the right time. It would put a stop to her career right when she is at her peak.

  Looking very serious, Viktor says, “I suppose it’s common for dancers sometimes. To have trouble.”

  “Yes, but don’t worry. We have time.” She feels a wave of guilt, that she is unwilling, now when he so needs her, to give him this one thing he wants. With every passing month she sees more clearly how certain feelings and actions become decisions, rather than the other way around. Because really she would love to start a family, if only it did not mean that other sacrifice. How nice it would be, in a fantasy world, to have both.

  Now Viktor is reaching under the table, and produces a small cardboard box. “Your present.”

  It isn’t the box Madame had out the other day. This one is square and much smaller. Nina unwraps it to find yet another box, of beautiful shiny green malachite.

  “Viktor, it’s lovely.”

  “Open it.”

  Ah, so this is a double gift. Nina lifts the lid, which is some other stone—dark shiny black, inlai
d with malachite—and looks down. There, inside, is a pair of little round sparkling green earrings.

  She has no trouble looking surprised.

  “When I saw them, I saw your eyes.”

  Emeralds. “They’re gorgeous.” She can imagine how much these must have cost. She is moved by Viktor’s thoughtfulness, and by the great beauty of these dazzling green stones.

  Even so, she can’t help but think of the amber set, and wonder what Viktor might be saving it for.

  LOT 89

  Malachite and Onyx Box, c. 1930. The onyx lid with malachite intarsia, ribbed body set with beveled onyx panel, 3¾ × 3 × 11 /8 in., signed Russian guarantee stamps and maker’s mark (minor crack to bottom panel). $900–1,200

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Cynthia went right back to the catalog the next evening, saying she needed to wait for the pork to thaw. Nina sat patiently through all sorts of questions, how heavy was this tiara, is this photograph the actual color of that stone, who gave you this opal ring…. For brief moments it felt almost good to recall times other than those early memories, to describe her travels, her move from Paris to London, the photo shoot where she wore the ruby necklace, the pearl bracelet the Earl of Sheffield gave her when she went with him to Wimbledon.

  When the buzzer sounded, Cynthia gave a start. “You expecting someone?”

  “The girl from the auction house. She has a man’s name.”

  Cynthia went to the intercom to allow her in. She had already retreated to the kitchen to chop vegetables when Drew Brooks stepped inside, her cheeks rosy. “Hello there.”