"What is actually required of me? What will I be doing?" I asked.
"Well, for me you will be opening the post and sorting it, filing, typing minutes and some of my letters, keeping my appointments diary and making sure I'm where I need to be at any time. Aleksandra will likely want you to do something similar, but she can use you as she likes."
I was about to ask another question, but he held up a hand to stop me, pulling a grand old pocket watch from his waistcoat and looking down at it like a character from Charles Dickens. "I have to leave you," he said, suddenly in a hurry. "There's a meeting of the Council; I must be there." He swept his arm in another expansive gesture. "Make yourself at home here, learn where everything is. This is your domain, now, so arrange things how you want them. I'll be back in a few hours."
With another grin and a wave, he disappeared through the door into his office in a swirl of dust.
* * *
I opened the top drawer of one of the filing cabinets and peered inside; it was empty. Puzzled, I checked the next, and the next, finding them all equally void. Amused, I moved to the cabinet beside it, which was also empty. The last one, however, held a shock ~ the top drawer was stuffed full with papers, but not organised, they had just been stuffed in, apparently at random. So much for Sverdlov's filing system.
Happy to have something to occupy my mind, I cleared a space on my desk ... my desk! ... and began to remove things from the filing cabinet. I read the heading of each item, and started to discern a pattern ~ correspondence, some bills, speeches, pamphlets ~ making a stack for each obvious category, and one for those of which I was unsure.
When Sverdlov returned, a couple of hours later, I was happily sorting through a sea of papers. "Ah," he said, rather embarrassed. "Sorry it's such a mess. There never seems to be time ..." His voice trailed off into a mumble.
I smiled. "Don't worry, it's what I'm here for."
Sheepishly, he retreated into his own lair, and I carried on working. At some stage, he reappeared with a cup of tea and a sandwich. He was so considerate, I had to hide a smile, but I also realised that tea-making was probably another of my jobs. I made a mental note to find out where the facilities were kept.
Mid-afternoon, he popped his head through the door. One filing cabinet had been labelled and filled with sorted papers, and I was starting on the second drawer-full of confetti. "Do you feel like stopping for a break?" he asked. "I have an hour free, and I'm going to the park; you can come, if you like."
I looked at the fresh heap on my desk, then at the bright afternoon sun streaming in through the window, making beams in the floating dust. It was not a hard decision. I grinned. "Da!"
* * *
Our driver for this trip, a small man in army uniform, drove us along a broad road beside the river, then swung the car through wrought-iron gates into a park, where he stopped by a café. Sverdlov climbed from the vehicle and held the door open for me. Couples and small groups of people were walking in the afternoon sunshine, some of the women carrying parasols, some men wearing the colourful national costume of tunic and loose trousers. The trees were scarcely swaying in the slightest of breezes. Outside the café, tables and chairs had been set out on the grass, and couples sat with glasses of wine or cups of tea or coffee.
As we set out to walk together across a lawn dotted with beds of flowers and sprinkled with daisies, I found myself suddenly uncertain and reluctant to begin conversation. Though he was treating me with respect and kindness, and he seemed to be relaxed, I could not forget that he was a high-ranking official in the new government; not only my employer, but also part of the system that hated everything I had grown up accepting as normal.
So we walked in silence until we joined a path that wove through the shrubs beside a glistening lake. Many trees were still in bloom, and there were neat borders beneath them. Here and there, gardeners were at work among masses of summer flowers. The perfume was heady and restful.
"You are thoughtful," he said, gently.
I nodded, thinking about every word before speaking. "My life has changed dramatically," I finally replied. That much at least was true, but I could not tell him more, nor could I risk him asking too many direct questions. "You have been very kind to me, but I don't know anything about you," I said, after careful thought, diverting the conversation away from me.
He smiled. "Well, I was born in Nizhny Novgorod, forty-three years ago. I have two sisters and five brothers, and I am unmarried." As he said the last word, he stopped and turned, meeting my eyes and holding them until I had to shyly look down. He was interested in me! How much more complicated could my life become?
He took my hand ~ it was a surprise, but not unpleasant ~ and we began to walk again. "And now you must tell me about yourself," he said, assertively. The moment I had been dreading had arrived.
"You know almost everything from my Party application," I said, dismissively, shrugging my shoulders, desperate to turn the conversation away from my life.
"Oh, I know your name, and that you were raised by the nuns in Nizhny. Isn't that a coincidence? We were living in the same city; so close, yet we never met. But why were you with the nuns? And what kind of things do you like to do? What makes you happy?"
I smiled, and swept my free hand in an arc, indicating the scenery. "Actually, this. I am always most at ease when close to nature. I like to watch birds, and to draw them."
We reached the far end of the lake, and I paused to take in the pleasant sight: the sun glistened on the ripples; ducks, geese, coot and swans were swimming in their little groups, or just resting on the warm mud at the water's edge. People, mostly in twos or threes or fours, strolled past.
He turned his head to gaze at me, thoughtfully, a small smile on his lips. "I come here whenever I can, to remind myself that there is more to life than speeches and meetings and arguments and wars."
It was the first time I had seen him truly relaxed; most of the time he seemed to be in a permanent state of tension. I had noticed the way he chewed his nails and picked at the skin around them until they sometimes bled. He was thin, his cheekbones stood out beneath eyes that seemed to vanish into black pits; his passion for his work consumed him. But here, in the park, with the sun warming his pale skin, I began to see something of the real Yakov Sverdlov.
"You work too hard," I told him.
He smiled wryly. "There are not enough of us willing to take on the responsibility," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I did not really want this job, but no-one else would step forward."
We returned to the winding path that followed, approximately, the perimeter of the lake. Flocks of sparrows, feeding in the dappled shade beneath the trees, scuttled off into the bushes as we passed, though they didn't fly away ~ I saw that they waited there until it was safe to emerge again. Yakov had not released my hand, and I felt that I was being unfaithful to Max, because I was enjoying the company and the closeness.
* * *
"I have heard that Lenin ordered the killing of the royal family," I said, reluctant to spoil the mood, but scared of where it was leading, and hoping to learn something that might lead me to Max.
His lips visibly tensed. "Revolution is not about cosy chats in coffee shops," he replied, suddenly defensive. "Nor is it all about marches and demonstrations. The royals were not prepared to give up their comforts or their power easily, and used methods against us that were every bit as brutal as anything we have committed. In the years since this began, I myself have been imprisoned and exiled, as have just about all my comrades. Many brave people have been murdered. You have to understand that the Tsar and his family were part of a world-wide financial empire that, between them, own most of the Earth's resources. They were never going to hand over their share of that without a fight."
I studied him, carefully. He was earnest and sincere; there was a fervency about him that was infectious. And he was so thin! He looked as though a gust of wind could carry him away.
"I'm sorry," I said. "
I did not mean to sound critical."
He squeezed my hand. "There's no need for you to be sorry. You were not part of it. Your life was dedicated to doing what you thought was right."
How wrong he was! I had been at the heart of the conspiracy, though I did not understand it at the time, and would have been horrified if I had known what was really going on. With a little shiver, I sensed that my whole life had been leading to this. For all my royal blood and privileged upbringing, I was always a rebel, on the side of the ordinary citizen. With the deaths of the Tsar and his family, I was freed from my fealty to the monarchy, although I was unsure about my new role as a servant of the people.
And there was Max. How could I tell Sverdlov about him? I was supposed to be a nun, for God's sake!
I needed Max, but what had happened to him? I wished I could talk it over with him, have him beside me. I needed him, every part of me yearned for him, ached for him to be there. Because, perverse though it may have seemed, my job with Yakov was offering some kind of hope for the future ~ dangerous, perhaps, but a better future than we had dared hope for. If only I could find my beloved Max.
* * *
We returned to work, Sverdlov to his meeting, I to my mountain of filing. When the drawer was organised, I went through the door into his office. He was back from his meeting, sitting at his desk, scribbling on a sheet of paper, and I asked for his appointments diary.
With a surprised expression, but no comment other than a raised eyebrow, he looked up from his own paperwork and handed over a fat, leather-bound book. Back at my desk, I sat and opened it, not sure what I expected to find. It was filled with scrawled notes that, at first, I found hard to read. After a while, though, I began to see a pattern in the hieroglyphics.
An hour later, at five o'clock, I peeped into his office. "I have to go," I told him. "My friend will be expecting me for dinner." I placed the diary on his desk. "And you have to address the shopkeepers soon."
He groped in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his watch ~ making me think for a moment of the white rabbit in Alice In Wonderland ~ then pulled a face. "Damn, yes! I can't give you a lift home. But I will walk down to the car pool with you and get one of the drivers to take you."
I thanked him, and we made our way along the corridor and down the stairs. He led the way through the maze of passageways until eventually we emerged from the back of the building into a large courtyard. Along one side of the square were stable doors, where men worked, brushing down horses, cleaning out soiled straw and filling feed and water troughs, on the other side stood a row of cars, their drivers polishing the paintwork or poking at the engines. A row of small carriages, Phaetons, was also parked nearby, their horses stamping impatiently. A driver appeared from the nearest one and lowered the step for me to climb up.
"This is Miss Nestorova," Yakov informed him. "She works for me. Please inform your colleagues that she is to have access to a vehicle at any time."
The man nodded and touched his cap. I climbed in and gave him directions to Sacha's apartment, then settled into the hard leather seat, waving goodbye to Yakov. The driver flicked the reins, and the cab lurched forward with a clatter of horseshoes and metal-rimmed wheels on the cobblestones. The age of the motor car may have been dawning, but the horse would still rule for a while longer.
Chapter 9
~ Wednesday 7 August 1918 ~
One of the first challenges of my new job was learning to use the modern Underwood No.3 typewriter, a heavy machine that took up a sizeable portion of my desk space. I had a little typing experience, but not much. There were typewriters at Alexander Palace ~ ancient, little, spidery devices ~ but we rarely used them, as Tatiana and her mother preferred to write their letters freehand. However, with the help of the little instruction booklet I soon mastered it, and after a few days I even began to enjoy using it.
With the filing organized, I found I had time on my hands, and began to pester both Yakov and Aleksandra for more work. They gave me the minutes of their meetings to type, and their speeches, and letters. I was also able to help Aleksandra occasionally with the refuge at the convent, and to visit with her another project, a school for orphans in one of the ghettos.
We took a motor car from the pool, and as we wound through the streets of Moscow, I gazed around with interest at the contrasting images of the city, much of which I had not seen before. At first, around the Kremlin, there were affluent shopping areas, with well-dressed people bustling in the warm, mid-day sunshine. But, a few turnings on, these began to be replaced by dilapidated tenements, with washing lines looping between them across the street, sullen groups of men smoking pipes, and ragged children pausing in their play to watch us pass. It was in such a road that we stopped, to my surprise, and disembarked. We stood in the shadows cast by the grey, sad buildings that loomed above us. Rubbish was piled in corners, paint flaked from broken doors and grimy windows; the area was weighed down with poverty. Without hesitation, though, Aleksandra headed towards the nearest door, and I followed, somewhat anxiously.
There, two men leaned menacingly against the wall, and pushed themselves upright at our approach. I turned nervously to Aleksandra, but she was unconcerned, and addressed each man by name. Their world-weary faces cracked with welcome as they answered. She then introduced me to them, explaining that I was helping her, and they each held out a grubby hand to greet me. I accepted with a relieved smile, resisting the urge to wipe my hand on my dress afterwards. Their guard duty done, they stepped aside and allowed us to enter the building.
Inside, the air was heavy with the smells of poverty ~ stale cooking, dust, tobacco smoke and, yes, urine. Yet, not far off, I could hear the sound of children laughing, and it was towards that sound that we began to walk.
* * *
In a large, bare room, we found a group of children waiting. They were dirty, dressed in rags, the poorest of the poor in a city that had known extremes of wealth and poverty. She called them into a circle around us, and we sat on the floor among them. "This is my friend, Mia," she announced to them.
"Hello, everyone," I said to the circle of upturned faces. "Now I must learn all your names."
The rest of the afternoon passed easily, as I got to know each of the waifs and helped them to say my name. I found my admiration growing for the amazing woman who cared so much about them and seemed to have so much love to give. She organized simple games for them, but I noticed that, as they played, she was building them up, encouraging them, educating them. It was wonderful to see the smiles on their faces and the growing confidence in the way they carried themselves.
Yakov had left for a week, travelling out of Russia on diplomatic errands to Finland and Germany, so I spent all my time with Aleksandra. There was something that drove her, a passion inside that kept her going long after her body was physically exhausted. I did not know where it came from, but I had to keep up with her as, over the next few days, we bounced from one task to another, in the office and around the city, scarcely pausing for breath.
Back at the Kremlin, we worked on plans and preparations for a trip she was to take, out of Moscow, to visit the 'textile' towns that ringed the city, stretching North to Petrograd and as far east as Orekhovo-Zuyevo. These towns represented the heart of the Russian textile industry, and were the birthplace of much of the support for the revolution. Aleksandra was contacting the various unions in the factories, the Party representatives of each district, mill managers, town leaders and council officials. There were also security arrangements to be made and train tickets to be bought, as well as informing her colleagues in the other departments of the People's Council of the progress of the arrangements.
The telegraph room was on the ground floor, and at least once every hour I trotted down the two flights of stairs to deliver new messages and collect replies. I saw the names Lenin, Stalin and Trotsky in the addresses and the text of the slips of paper I carried, and experienced a thrill when I also saw those same names on the doors of offices
I passed in the corridors. This was the heart of the new Russia, where charismatic and ambitious men made decisions that were bringing about their vision of the future, and, with Aleksandra, I was part of it.
* * *
At the same time as all this organising, Aleksandra was also dealing with the regular daily business that went with her position at the head of the Women's Congress. This involved receiving delegations from various organisations, visits to factories in Moscow, public meetings, and, of course, the orphanages. She involved me in everything, and I was extremely grateful to her. To be taught by such a great woman was a rare privilege.
But she was also a human being, and, along with all this work, I discovered that she had matters of her personal life to reconcile, which brought a surprise.
Sverdlov arrived back and came to call on Aleksandra. He stood in the doorway of her office. "It's Pavlo," he said to her, but seemed reluctant to say any more in my presence
Sensing that it was a private matter, I suggested that I could check the telegraph room for new messages, but Aleksandra shook her head. "No," she said, acknowledging my gesture with a hint of a smile of gratitude, "you need to know. Doubtless it will crop up occasionally. Pavlo is my husband. He has a habit of getting into trouble. He is a very brave man, a soldier, but foolish and weak-willed when it comes to alcohol and women."
She nodded to Yakov.
Obviously feeling uncomfortable, he told her: "He has been arrested again, in Ukraine."
I saw her lips tighten. "You're not telling us everything, Yakov dear. Was he with a woman?"
He nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry. A prostitute."
She turned to me. "When I first met Pavlo, it was his wildness and independence that attracted me. But it has become tiresome and an embarrassment. I see him only once or twice a year; sometimes he doesn't come home at all. I still love him as much as ever, but I wish we had not married."
Returning her attention to Sverdlov, she said, with a sigh: "Will a letter from me get him out?" Yakov nodded again, and she continued: "Very well. I will write something and Mia will type it."
Natalie Tereshchenko - The Other Side Page 5
