The Little Russian

by Susan Sherman

  The next morning Berta went to see Aleksandra Dmitrievna and was told by her maid that she was still asleep. Berta would not be put off and pushed passed the girl, saying that it was all right, Madame Tretiakova had asked her to come around and get her up early. She went up the stairs, her hand gliding over the marble balustrade carved to look like waves on an ocean, and opened Alix’s door without knocking. She found her friend asleep under a mound of quilts and down-feather pillows and shook her awake.

  “Berta, milochka . . . so early?” she croaked. “What time is it?”

  “It’s time you were up.”

  “But it’s still the middle of the night.” Alix never got up before noon, sometimes not even before two or three in the afternoon. She never went to sleep before dawn. She was fond of saying that she kept Moscow hours, even though she had never lived a day in Moscow or anywhere else except Cherkast and the little village near Kiev where she was born.

  Her father had been a cotton mill owner. He had nine children, most of whom he didn’t like very much, but Alix was the baby and he loved her dearly. He always treated her like the baby until the day he died and that was fine with her. So fine, in fact, that even after she had five children of her own and had reached middle age she still couldn’t see why she should be treated any differently.

  “I have to talk to you. It’s important,” Berta said, opening the drapes and letting in a rush of sunlight. Alix’s room was a great lagoon of green satin. The whole house was built around an ocean theme. It had a wavy iron fence out front and a wide frieze of shells and fantastic sea plants just under the roofline. The floors were decorated with inlaid shell patterns and seahorses made of exotic woods.

  “So bright,” Alix complained. The light was reflecting off the snow outside and filling the room with a blazing white light. She put her hands over her eyes and the rings on her fingers threw off a thousand tiny rainbows over the satin-lined walls. “It’s a good thing I love you,” she said, pulling the sheet over her face. “Now go away.”

  Berta came over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Alix, you have to wake up.”

  “I want to sleep. I was up all night on the telephone. Things are bad. Very bad. The cities are starving. And who will plant in the spring? All the boys are dead and buried, poor things. I’m very worried, Ber-tochka. Very worried indeed.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Olga Fedorovna says there is going to be a revolution. Her husband wants it. Can you imagine that? A revolution here in Russia. Of course we always talked about it, but I never thought that it would actually happen.”

  “Alix . . .”

  “Did you know they tried to kill Rasputin?”

  “Alix!”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Will you listen to me?”

  “You’re scaring me. Is it the children?”

  “I need to borrow five thousand rubles.”

  She sucked in her breath and sat up. “Milochka . . . my God, that’s a lot of money.”

  “I know. But I’ll pay it back.”

  “I’m sure you will. I don’t doubt it for a minute. It’s just that—” There was a knock on the door and the maid came in. “The house Jew is here, Madame.”

  “Why is everyone coming so early?”

  “Can’t we finish this, please?” Berta asked.

  “Yes, of course. But first I must get up.” Alix sighed and swung her legs out of bed. The maid hurried over to help her on with her dressing gown. “Come down with me. It won’t take a minute. He brought me some bracelets. I have to choose one so that Lenya doesn’t get me something awful for my name day.” She was heading for the bathroom and expected Berta to follow.

  “I can’t stay, Alix. I need to know if you’re going to loan me the money.”

  “It’s so much, milochka. I hate to bring this up at a time like this, but do you know how you’re going to pay it back?”

  She followed Alix into the bathroom. “Hershel . . . who else?”

  “You said he wasn’t answering your letters.”

  “It’s the mail, Alix. And the war. Everybody knows that. He probably already sent the money. It was held up by the blockade. It’ll get here when it’s over.”

  “Yes, of course it will. But just in case . . . not that it would ever happen this way, but let’s just say, Hershel doesn’t want to repay the loan. What if he has other plans for the money? How would you pay it back then? I know I’m being overly cautious, but it’s just that Lenya will ask me these questions and, naturally, I have to have an answer. You know how he is.”

  “Of course I’d pay it back. I’d find work or sell something, I’d find a way. But it won’t happen like that. Hershel always pays his debts.”

  “I know. I’m just being foolish. And you are so dear to me. I couldn’t deny you anything.” She thought for a moment and then brightened. “I have it. I won’t tell Lenya. Why does he have to know? I have my own money.”

  After that the two women hugged and kissed and Berta left her in the bathroom splashing icy water on her face, which, as everyone knew, was good for the liver and circulation.

  Once it was all settled Berta seemed to uncoil; every muscle in her body relaxed. She was flush with relief. On the way down the stairs she had an urge to talk to someone, to chatter about nothing, to be frivolous and flirty. Which explains why, when she saw the house Jew waiting in the little office off the foyer, she stopped to talk to him. He looked up nervously at her approach, a little man in a shabby tweed wearing a jaunty bow tie that seemed out of place with his grave expression.

  “She’ll be down in a little while,” she said in Yiddish.

  “Yes, thank you,” he replied, also in Yiddish. He seemed a little surprised at finding a young woman in this house who spoke to him in his mother tongue.

  “What kind of jewelry did you bring?”

  “Pearls.”

  “She wants pearls?”

  “Pearls with diamonds. She says she has a friend who has a bracelet she has always admired and I’m supposed to find her one just like it.”

  Berta laughed and wished him good luck. She fingered the coveted bracelet on her wrist as she swept out the front door. It was a cold, bright morning and she took a deep and freeing breath. She hurried down the steps and stopped at the bottom to turn her face up to the sun and catch a little warmth before setting out for home. After that she stopped off at the butcher’s and the bakery and went to the produce market in search of the freshest potatoes, onions, and beets. At last she could open her purse without that familiar dread that came with every kopeck she spent. Now that the threat had been lifted, she could see how frightened she had been. She had contracted into a hard nut, shunning company, avoiding anyone she knew, not even wanting to get out of bed in the morning. But as she walked home at her customary clip, stopping to talk to shopkeepers and even smiling at a soldier who was selling sunflower seeds, she felt whole again, safe. She had pulled herself through.

  When she got home she met her upstairs neighbor, Professor Bardygin, on the stair and stopped to invite him over for tea and pastries.

  After that she climbed the last few steps to her door and was about to insert her key into the lock when Sura opened it and gave her mother a disapproving frown. “Where have you been? We were expecting you hours ago.”

  “Well, I’m here now.”

  “What’s all this?”

  “If you help me in, I’ll show you.”

  Vera hurried over to help. “So much, Madame?” she said peeking into a bag. “Butter,” she exclaimed.

  “Did you get something for me?” Sura asked. Berta held up a pastry box. “What is it?”

  “A surprise.”

  Sura followed them into the kitchen, where they put the packages down on the butcher-block table. It was a small kitchen with a brick stove in the corner. Most of the shelves were empty except for a few dishes and glasses. Vera had her pick of shelves when it came to putting away the dry goods.
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  “Can I have some now?” asked Sura.

  “No, you must wait for tea.”

  “Are they little cakes?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You must have found work,” Vera said, dumping the onions into a basket on the counter. Then she found the package of meat and her eyes widened. “Meat, Madame. You must’ve found a treasure.”

  That afternoon they were in the kitchen preparing the stew. Vera had peeled the onions and Berta was chopping them. Her eyes were tearing so badly that she had to stop and splash them with cold water. The whole house smelled of frying onions, meat, and woodsmoke. The boy had delivered a bundle and now nearly every stove in the apartment was going and it was so warm that Berta had to take off her sweater.

  “What if Professor Bardygin wants a chocolate one?” Sura asked. She was following her mother from table to sink and back again. She had stolen a look at the cakes and now she was intent on securing a chocolate one for herself.

  “He won’t.”

  “But what if he does?”

  “We won’t let him.”

  “But he’s our guest. We’ll have to let him.”

  “Then you can have the other one. There are two chocolates.”

  This seemed to satisfy her for the moment until she remembered she had a brother. “But what if Samuil wants it?”

  “We’ll give him the lemon.”

  “He doesn’t like lemon.”

  There was a knock at the door and Vera went to see who it was.

  “Then he can have the apple.”

  “He’d rather have the chocolate.”

  “Then you can share it with him.”

  “But it’s so small, Mameh.”

  Vera hurried back in and whispered, “It’s Aleksei Sergeevich Tre-tiakov. He wants to see you.”

  Berta stared at her without blinking. “How did he look?” she asked, untying her apron with trembling hands.

  “Stern.”

  She went out to the front room, where she found him standing at the window, looking out on the street, with his hat in his hand, still wearing his overcoat. There was a red halo around his head from the setting sun. The potted ferns she had brought from Lubiansky Street cast leafy shadows on the walls and furniture and turned the little room into a jungle of chiaroscuro. Even with his back to her she could see that he was stiff and uncomfortable. When he turned at her approach he barely looked at her. She saw the firm set of his mouth under his moustache and the hard glitter in his eyes and her stomach dropped. She knew what he was going to say even before he opened his mouth. It was all over. She had lost and now they would be out on the street.

  “Aleksei Sergeevich, how nice of you to call.” She was surprised at how calm she sounded.

  “Yes . . . yes,” he said, not bothering to hide his impatience. Alix was always joking about how she managed Lenya, but nothing was further from the truth. Aleksei Sergeevich ruled his household the same way he ruled his export business: with a keen sense of propriety, moderation, and thrift. He didn’t inherit his fortune—he made it with hard work and his wife’s small inheritance. He was a Slavophile. He liked to collect Russian paintings, admired all things Russian, and had no patience for any schemes that he considered to be out of the bounds of common sense. Moreover he cared little for the sentimental wishes of his silly wife and long considered her money his.

  “May I offer you some tea?”

  “I’m not staying. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to get right down to it. My wife made you a promise this morning that she cannot possibly keep.”

  “I see.”

  “Although it is not my intention to add to your troubles and I am naturally sorry for them, I’m afraid you will have to look elsewhere for the loan. You see, my wife is not in control of her money, as she calls it, and has no right to make you such an offer.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yes, well, I’m very glad you do,” he said, casting his glance about him to see that he hadn’t forgotten anything. “I hope you are well . . . considering.”

  “Yes, thank you, Aleksei Sergeevich. Very well.”

  On the way to the door he asked about her children and about her new apartment and how she was getting along. Her answers were all positive and she seemed quite normal. She gave no indication of the storm raging inside her head, of the panic that froze her thoughts and the heavyweight on her chest that was making it hard to breathe. She had no idea what she was saying. Fortunately these little pleasantries were so much a part of her that they didn’t take any thought at all. After she closed the door, she came back into the kitchen and told Vera she was going out and not to wait tea for her.

  “What about Professor Bardygin?” asked Sura, as she stood at the door and watched her mother put on her coat.

  “Tell him I had to go out.”

  “And what about the cake?”

  “You have it without me,” she said putting on her hat.

  “A whole chocolate one?”

  She stopped and laid a hand on her daughter’s cheek. Then turning back to the door she said, “Whatever you like.”

  She walked down Sretensky Street, ignoring the crowd all around her and keeping her eyes on the ground in front of her so that she wouldn’t have to speak to anyone. She didn’t go down to the bluffs or up to the Berezina; she avoided the streets where she might run into someone she knew and headed straight for Dulgaya Street.

  There she found it crowded with refugees from Galicia and Lithuania—whole families huddled around fires built in metal drums with their belongings scattered around them, bundles of clothes and wheelbarrows filled with household items that they managed to save. It was so crowded that she had to walk down the middle of the street, skirting a mound of horse dung still steaming in the frosty air. Everywhere there were Jews who had been expelled from the towns along the front. There were old men and women; mothers with children; sick, starving people staring at nothing, seeing nothing, waiting for something to happen: death, disease, for somebody to tell them what to do now that they had lost everything—their families, their homes and businesses—everything that had once given their life meaning.

  Berta glanced over at a group of children, orphans most likely, huddled together over a fire. They looked hardened and defiant as though they had been on the street for a long time. A boy of about ten looked up as she came closer and for a moment there was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. She might have looked like his mother in the murky twilight. He might have thought he recognized the quick step or the hair or the figure. He was wearing a man’s overcoat with the sleeves rolled up and held a cigarette between his fingers. But in that instant the hardness left his face and hope returned, and for a moment he looked like a child again. Then he got a good look at her in the gaslight and his eyes went dull with disappointment. He shoved the cigarette between his lips, stuck his hands in his pockets, and hunched his shoulders against the cold until he looked to Berta like an old man.

  She turned in at Lhaye’s apartment and walked up the steep flight to the musty hallway. She edged past the barrel of water on the landing with its collar of ice.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Lhaye asked, when she opened her door and found her sister standing there, wet and cold, a lost look in her eyes, her features smooth with fear. Lhaye was holding the baby on her hip and stepped aside to let her in. “You look horrible. You’re shivering . . . are you sick? Here, sit here. Let me get you a blanket.”

  She shooed her older children into the kitchen and gave the baby to Vulia and went to get Berta a blanket. She came back in and tucked it around Berta’s legs and shoulders the way Mameh used to do when they were little and the winter winds were blowing outside. After that she went into the kitchen to make a glass of hot tea, brought it back, and sat down across from her. “So, tell me. What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  Lhaye laughed with relief. “Is that all?”

  “All? I have no
money for rent or food. We’re destitute. I tried to find work but no one will hire me. I sold my jewelry. I even tried to borrow, but it’s hopeless . . . all hopeless. We’re going to be out on the street like the people out there.” She burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. The children stuck their heads out to watch their aunt cry. Lhaye waved at them to go back into the kitchen. Then she put her arms around her sister and held her, rocking her like Mameh used to do.

  “First of all, Bertenka, you will never be out on the street,” she said. You’ll stay by us.”

  “Here?”

  “And why not?”

  Berta looked around at the water stain on the wallpaper and the dirty lace curtains. There was a basket of yarn beside her on the floor with a pair of rusty scissors sticking out of a skein. There were bedrolls against one wall where the children slept when it wasn’t too cold. “What will Zevi say?”

  “He will be happy to have you. And he can find you work at the factory.”

  She thought of the factory girls coming out of the ironworks that day, hard, sullen, eyes swollen with exhaustion, misery stamped on their dirty faces.

  “Don’t be frightened. It won’t be so terrible. It’s not like some of the factories you hear about. The workers are organized. Zevi will take care of you.”