It was, by far, the best period of their entire lives.
But as the thaw came, and snow began dripping and slopping from every roof, branch, rock and slope, their long winter idyll came to an end. Tonya was summoned back to her city hospital full time. Misha received instructions requiring him to relocate to a railway repair depot in Perm, six hundred miles and more east of Petrograd.
Tonya cried at the impeding separation, full of foreboding.
As ever, Misha saw only the positive side of things.
‘Perm is ideal. Out there in the provinces, the revolution won’t have changed anything too much. I’ll be able to get on with things. As soon as you can, you can join me. In a few years’ time, you’ll see, everything will be different.’
He was more right than he knew.
On the fifteenth of April, 1919, he left Petrozavodsk. His route took him first to Petrograd, then east to Perm. He sent a message to Tonya, asking her to meet him at Ladozhsky Station so they could say their goodbyes. There wasn’t time for him to wait for a reply so he just went through the tedious business of getting his ticket sorted out, hoping against hope that she’d find a way to see him off. The line moved forward and Misha got to the ticket counter.
‘Authorisation?’ said the clerk. ‘Ah, yes, priority. All right for some, isn’t it? And I suppose you’ve got a travel warrant too? Of course, you’ll need to get that stamped. Unstamped means nothing at all. That queue over there, by the glass windows. No, they’ve abolished the special trains. Over there, that window.’
The clerk shoved Misha’s papers back at him. His wodge of documents had mounted up over the past eight months, until it was now a compact little brick of grey papers, soft and fibrous, like blotting paper. Misha moved over to the window that the clerk had indicated. A crowd of starlings had flown under the arched roof into the station and now couldn’t find their way out.
He started again in another queue. The country was well into a civil war by now and there were soldiers everywhere. When he reached the head of the line, his papers were inspected again. There was a minor problem: one of Misha’s papers had been stamped but not initialled. Regulations stated that it had to be initialled as well as stamped.
Misha took back the document, and tucked some paper money inside it – kerenkas – currency issued by the Provisional government in the months before the revolution. The money was mostly worthless, but not entirely. The clerk took it with a shrug and initialled the offending document himself. Another four minutes and the all-important travel warrant was stamped.
Misha’s train had pulled in by now, and there was a surge of passengers towards it. Misha knew he ought to join them if he wanted any chance of a seat, but he still hoped to see Tonya. He went to the main entrance and waited there, hoping to catch sight of her. He saw two nurses, but both of them short and fat. He felt a jab of disappointment. A column of conscripts were being herded into the station at rifle-point. Inside the station, a whistle shrilled.
Misha could delay no longer. He turned back into the station, feeling suddenly lonely and afraid. He made his way towards the train, but his path was blocked by the column of conscripts. A man had just keeled over and there was a knot of other men around him shouting and arguing.
Misha began to negotiate his way through the mêlée, when there was a shout behind him. It was Tonya. She came bursting through the crowds, her face straining with the effort.
‘Misha! Dearest!’
They kissed with passion.
‘Take care.’
‘I will. I’ll be fine. As soon as I’ve got myself sorted out, I’ll let you know. The sooner you can come, the better. You and Pavel and Babba Varvara and Kiryl, of course.’
‘Yes, yes. Is that your train? You mustn’t miss it. If you want a seat…’
‘Oh, the seats are long gone. Don’t worry. I don’t mind standing.’
They were interrupted by one of the soldiers who had been herding the conscripts.
‘Hey! Comrade nurse, we have a man here who’s just conked out. One minute standing, next minute, whack! Over he goes. Anything to get out of fighting, eh?’
Tonya took an impatient look at the fallen man. The man was obviously unfit to fight. He had the pale face and ravaged expression that often preceded typhus, and there was an ooze of blood from where his head had struck the station concourse.
‘He can’t go,’ she snapped. ‘Look at him. He needs to get to a hospital. Take him to the Third Reformed and ask for Dr Griese.’
She stood up, seeking Misha’s hand with hers. But they were prevented from moving. The officer in charge of the soldiers, an easterner with Khirgiz eyes and a reindeer skin cap instead of his regulation headgear, detained them with a sharp movement of his pistol.
‘Well, comrade lovers, it seems you’re right. This man isn’t fit to serve. But the trouble for you is that we have a quota to deliver. We can’t be short.’
‘That’s your business,’ said Tonya, beginning to pull away.
‘Your papers.’
The officer ignored Tonya, but a ring of his men stopped Misha from going anywhere. Tonya, already half out of the circle, came back into it, scared and white. Misha handed over his documents, knowing they were in order. The officer began to flip through them, commenting on them in his thick Siberian accent.
‘Travel authorisation – yes. Warrant – yes, stamped. Immunisation certificate – you have been thorough, comrade. Authorisation from local party commissariat – no, I don’t seem to find that.’
‘Yes, I have that. Here.’
Misha reached out, but the officer anticipated his movement. With a short, sharp jerk of his arm, he hurled the whole meticulously collected stack of documents high up into the station roof. The movement alarmed the starlings who were roosting there, and all of a sudden the air seemed to be alive: the tumbling grey papers and the swooping birds. The papers fell down into the crowd, only a few yards away, but as inaccessible as the coast of Japan.
The officer with the Khirgiz eyes smiled at his new recruit.
‘Welcome to the war, comrade fighter.’
The soldiers closed around Misha and began to sweep him away.
Tonya watched numbly, but with ever-rising shock. This, she realised was the moment she’d always dreaded. The moment in which the world proved itself to be as hostile as she had always believed it. She had been right to fear, right to be untrusting, right to have told Misha to leave when he could. These thoughts took shape in a sudden awful burst of realisation. For a second or two, she stood woodenly, seeing Misha’s form dwindle as it passed down the platform in the knot of khaki-clad soldiers. Then, all of a sudden, she found herself running, sprinting, as fast as she could, her shoes clattering down the platform in a burst of noise that made even the soldiers stop and turn.
She caught up with them, but was prevented from getting close to Misha.
Over the arms and shoulders of the men who held her, she shouted: ‘Leave! When you can, leave. I’ll join you. I’ll find a way. Just get out. As soon as you can, get out.’
Misha stared back at her. He too was in shock. At any rate, his face was void of all expression, all emotion. He said nothing, just nodded. Then the soldiers pushed him forwards, and Tonya away down the platform.
Tonya didn’t know when or if she would ever see him again.
10
It was eight weeks later.
Tonya had heard nothing. She didn’t know where Misha was, which unit he belonged to, or where he was fighting. She had received no letter or message of any sort. All the same, he was always on her mind. It was because of him that she had come here – to the Bureau of Housing in Petrograd.
The Bureau was located in one of the old palaces that used to line the banks of the Neva. The large old rooms had been crudely divided with rough block walls to make a row of offices that faced onto the courtyard. Tonya made her way along the corridors until she tracked down the room where Rodyon worked. The door was open and Tony
a peeped through it before announcing her presence.
He sat at a desk with his back to the window. Three junior functionaries sat in front of him, taking notes, amending documents, presenting letters. Rodyon dealt with his business with a brisk but even rhythm, as though he were competing in some long-distance race of paperwork, where pace had to be balanced against the importance of conserving energy. Rodyon dealt with one functionary and dismissed him.
Tonya let the official go by, than sidled past him into the room. Rodyon had his head down and didn’t look up.
It was summer now, mid June. The courtyard outside was lined with maple trees, their leaves dense, healthy and green. A few moments went by. Then Rodyon glanced up and saw Tonya.
‘Ah. Antonina Kirylovna. How long have you been there?’
‘The door was open.’
Rodyon nodded. He dismissed the two remaining officials with a nod, and invited Tonya to sit with a wave of his hand. Or perhaps invited was the wrong word. Authority was stamped in everything Rodyon did. It was half invitation, half command.
‘You’ll have tea.’
‘You don’t need to be formal with me, Rodya.’
‘No, no … but still, tea would be good. I usually have some around this time.’ He stuck his head around the open door and called down the corridor for refreshments. ‘The greatest empires have always been tea-drinking. The Chinese. The Mughals. The British, of course. Now it’s our turn. The rise of the Russian tea-drinking empire.’
Tonya knew that Rodyon’s flippancy was carefully managed. It was very unrevolutionary to speak of the Russian empire. A good Bolshevik knew that the revolution in Russia was only a prelude to revolution elsewhere. The only empire that counted was the workers of the world acting in unity. Rodyon spoke as he did to take the ideological sting out of his position of power. He did it as an act of delicacy towards Tonya. She smiled her appreciation.
‘You’ve heard nothing, I suppose?’ he said.
‘No. I don’t suppose I will.’
‘Well, there’s always a chance. Let’s hope we hear something soon.’ In the weeks since Misha had been taken away, Rodyon had done all he could to find out his whereabouts. He had made full use of his official position, bending the rules as far as he was able. He hadn’t once mentioned the offer he’d made in her apartment that hot July evening last summer. He had been tactful and generous.
The tea was brought in. It came in an ornate samovar with a polished ebony base and an elaborate silver-bound handle. Warming on the top of the samovar was a small teapot containing zavarka, strong black tea, to be diluted with hot water from the samovar. A saucer of lingonberry jam, something Tonya hadn’t seen for years, came with the tea.
‘The reddest of teas in the whitest of pots,’ commented Rodyon.
‘Thank you.’
They drank, holding a spoonful of jam in their mouths before swallowing it with the tea. Tonya still hadn’t mentioned the reason why she’d come.
‘You didn’t come here to drink tea with me, Tonya.’
‘No.’
‘Well then?’
‘Last summer, that day you came to my apartment, you raised a subject … you asked a question.’
‘Yes, I seem to remember it.’
‘I was wondering… I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t … but if you still wanted to, I’d be able to give a different answer.’
She had been sitting with her hands over her stomach. Now she moved them. A gentle swelling was already evident.
Something changed in Rodyon’s face as he watched her. Or rather, not a muscle seemed to move. His intense dark eyes, his strong mouth, his focused bent-nosed handsomeness all stayed exactly as they were. But there was some change in his energy. Some quality of attentiveness, even softness came into him.
‘You still love Malevich, of course.’
‘I do like you, Rodya. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’
‘No and you wouldn’t be here either unless … when is it due?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Maybe five months.’
‘And even in these revolutionary times, babies need fathers. Ones who are fighting somewhere in the wastes of Siberia hardly count for much, do they?’
‘No. I want his baby…’
‘… to be protected. Quite right.’
Tonya looked down at her hands. They were folded primly on her lap. She felt herself looking like an efficient secretary or a schoolgirl eager for praise. And Tonya was neither. She tried to make herself relax.
‘Tonya, you asked if my offer still stands. It does.’
‘Ah!’
‘I know your feelings for Malevich. I think I understand your feelings for me.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you do understand that any marriage of ours would be a real marriage? We would share an apartment and a bed.’
‘Of course.’
‘If Malevich returns… I shan’t seek to prevent him. If he comes and you choose him, I shan’t stand in your way. The revolution must be total. The heart and the state.’
‘You are a good man, Rodya.’
Rodyon stood up. Tonya did the same.
‘Well then,’ he said.
Tonya swallowed. She knew that a kiss was now expected. Rodyon’s physical proximity now seemed sudden and almost overwhelming. She could smell him as though noticing his scent for the first time: a mixture of linen and ice water, ink and tobacco smoke, pierced through with something athletic, the light sweat of exercise.
‘Well.’
She nodded, and held her arms slightly out as a signal for him to step forwards. Her movements were jerky and abrupt, like a mechanical toy that hadn’t been oiled. Rodyon stepped lightly forwards and kissed her gently on the lips before moving back. His touch had been definite, but light; more than familial, less than possessive.
‘Thank you,’ she said stupidly. ‘Thank you.’
She tried to summon up a picture of Misha in her head, but all she could bring up was the soldiers surrounding him on the station platform, his white face looking around at her in shock, the fist in his back pushing him forward, and the train that would take him east to Siberia, out of her life, perhaps for ever.
It was the eleventh of June, 1919 and the future suddenly felt very empty indeed.
GERMANY, 1945
FOUR
It was the second of May, 1945.
The day was rainy and cold. Dull grey clouds pressed low over the city. Everywhere over the shattered city, smoke continued to rise in dense black pillars, but the flames themselves were already dying back. There was shooting here and there – at the Zoo flak tower, at some U-Bahn stations, in isolated buildings and cellars – but mostly the impression was of silence.
Silence and desolation.
In Prenzlauerberg that evening, a group of Red Army soldiers tumbled out of a ransacked brewery. The soldiers were so drunk, they were barely able to walk. One of the men went to relieve himself in a doorway, then heard shouts from downstairs, where there were men locked in a cellar. The man was too drunk to care much, but as he lurched back out onto the street, still fiddling with his flies, he happened across a SMERSH officer. The man told the officer about the cries, then staggered off. The SMERSH man investigated.
Inside the cellar there were eight men, hungry, their faces black with grime and stubble. The SMERSH man was briefly interested. The Russians were on the lookout for scientists and technicians who would be of value to Soviet weapons programmes. But the prisoners were of no consequence. There were a couple of pastors, some old Social Democrats, a couple of common criminals. The SMERSH officer lost interest. He was only human, after all. This night was the first night of victory, and he too wanted to get drunk.
And that was lucky. Because if the officer had been a bit more inquisitive, he might have noticed that one of the prisoners – a tall, fair-haired man in his mid-forties – looked more Russian than German. For all that his German was fluent, it was almost a little too perfect,
as though it had been picked up in the schoolroom not the cradle.
But the officer went on his way without investigating further and the prisoners spilled out onto the smoking street. There was rubble everywhere, rubble and smashed steelwork. The air was harsh and gritty with soot from the fires that still dotted the city.
It was like a scene from the end of the world.
In another area, in Spandau on Berlin’s north-eastern corner a group of Soviet soldiers looked across at the ruins of the city they had fought so long to capture. The soldiers were numb with tiredness. Long exposure to the weather and the filth and smoke of war had given them an almost Asiatic colouring. They sat beside their packs, staring out at the flat, grey landscape beyond them. A few of them smoked. No one spoke.
One of the soldiers was a female driver, somewhere in her forties. She wore the uniform that marked her out as a member of a shtraf battalion, a punishment unit linked to the regular Red Army. The shtraf battalions had been given the worst jobs in a war full of horrors. The woman had been lucky to survive.
For a while, the woman sat and stared at the demolished city, doing nothing, not moving. Then she stood and climbed up onto the carcass of a burned-out truck. From her vantage point she could see more of the city: the dense black columns of smoke, the jagged edge of the ruins, the smell of scorching. She hung onto the truck and drank the sight in. Her face was too tired to express much emotion, but if there was anything at all in her eyes, it certainly wasn’t victory or elation; more a kind of wistfulness, even longing. She had brown hair and greenish eyes, with a slightly eastern slant to her eyelids. She looked like a woman who had seen a lot, suffered a lot. On her right hand, two fingertips were missing, little stumps of dark pink that ended just where the final joint was meant to be.
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