A Deceptive Devotion

by Iona Whishaw

  He knew why he hadn’t told them.

  Countess Orlova sat primly in the passenger seat as Lane drove them, and the bags of groceries she’d bought, to King’s Cove. She had not spoken since they had exchanged the communication necessary for determining what sort of food to buy at the nearly brand-new supermarket. Lane tried to imagine what question she could ask about the countess’s life that would not be intrusive, when her guest finally spoke.

  “It is beautiful. It is a little like Russia, with all these trees.” Orlova spoke in Russian.

  “Yes,” Lane said, smiling. “Perhaps that is why I love it. I knew the minute I came here that this was where I wanted to be.”

  “You were smart not to choose to live in that miserable little town. I grew up on an estate along the Neva River. We too had to drive up to town for things. But it was Saint Petersburg. We went in the late fall for the season, the opera, ballet. They call it Leningrad now. A travesty. But the city was ruined by the war. Saint Petersburg is no more. They can call it anything they like.”

  “How very distressing,” Lane said. She wanted to dispute the “miserable little town” designation the older woman had given Nelson, but she sensed that Orlova, having started on her own past, might need to share her bitterness.

  “One can never escape,” Orlova continued. “It was not enough that our parents were made to disappear, our house taken over by officers pretending to be egalitarian. It is not enough that my brother and I were forced to flee all the way to Shanghai. No. Now they must pursue us still.”

  “Why now, do you think?” Lane asked. They were climbing the hill upon which the little Balfour store and gas station sat. She slowed down because Mr. Bales’s black Lab often lay in the middle of the road.

  “My brother foolishly cast his lot with the anti-Communist groups in Shanghai. He wrote articles, drew attention to himself. Now with China on the verge of embracing the red star, well. There you are. He fled without even telling me. He must have been in danger of his life. He would never leave without taking me unless that were true.”

  The black Lab was lying at the side of the road for a change and lifted his head lazily as Lane drove by.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lane said. “I can’t imagine the worry you must have endured.”

  She really couldn’t. In spite of her dangerous war work, she hadn’t had to suffer exile and flight, only to find herself still hunted by people who wanted her dead. She was not surprised at Orlova’s bitterness. And to have to endure the uncertainty and anxiety of having a brother disappear like that, with no warning.

  The birch and alder leaves rustled in the breeze as they drove up the hill toward the junction that would take them to Lane’s house. Some leaves were just beginning to turn yellow, warning of the coming fall.

  “But this is beautiful!” Countess Orlova said, clasping her hands under her chin. “I have brought my little watercolour kit and some paper. I will paint here and give some paintings to you. That will be my way to thank you!”

  Carrying her guest’s two small suitcases to the house, Lane said, “You paint. How wonderful! Come. Let me show you your room and where you can freshen up, and then I will show you around.”

  The second bedroom off the hall had not seen use since Lane had moved to King’s Cove, but she kept it more or less at the ready in case of a visit, in particular from her friend Yvonne, who promised often that she would descend on Lane from France one of these days, but instead had buried herself more and more in horses and, recently, a new love interest. Lane unlatched and pushed the window sash up and put the suitcases on the bed. She must have books in one of them, she thought. It weighs a ton. How far had the old lady had to drag them on her own?

  “Will this do? I’m afraid it looks out on nothing but trees.”

  Countess Orlova stood at the door and scanned the room, looking at the pale green walls and the ceiling, the simple green and orange curtains in broad vertical stripes, the side table with a lamp, and then she smiled. It was the first real smile Lane had seen from her.

  “This is like the room in a summer dacha. Simple, peaceful, calming. Thank you. I don’t think I realized until this moment how completely weary I am, and the prospect of being in this restful place for even a short time fills my heart.”

  Leaving Orlova to settle in, Lane went back out to the car to pick up the groceries. She was feeling uncertain. She was so used to being alone, to suiting herself and coming and going without reference to anyone else’s comforts or needs. Still, she reminded herself, this was only until Stevens found something for her guest. More worrisome was that these same anxieties might hold when she was married. How would she adapt to giving up this complete sense of independence, even given that she loved Darling? Up until now she had, she realized, assumed that the love alone would ameliorate any losses she felt. That her new identity as part of a couple would open for her a new way of being happy. Putting these anxieties firmly out of her mind, she began to sort the food into cupboards and the fridge. She told herself it would be jolly good for her to get into some sort of normal routine of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  Darling heard the latch being pulled from inside after his second bout of knocking on Mr. Stearn’s door. The door opened a fraction and a man peered suspiciously at Darling.

  “Yes? Oh. It is the inspector, is it not?”

  “Yes, Mr. Stearn. Inspector Darling. I wonder if I might come in? You may be able to help me with some information.”

  Stearn, who had looked on the verge of opening the door wider, frowned and seemed to recede slightly. “What sort of information?”

  “Really, Mr. Stearn, this might be easier if I could come inside. It is your expertise on the local Russian community I need. We have a woman who has come from Shanghai in search of her missing brother. I thought you might be able to help me understand how to proceed, as you understand the complications best.”

  This appeal to his expertise seemed to do the trick. Stearn opened the door and stepped aside to allow Darling to enter. The room had a murky feel, which Darling took a moment to identify as coming from nearly closed curtains, cigarette smoke, and unopened windows, as if Stearn recoiled from both light and air.

  “Please sit down, Inspector. I can offer you tea,” he said, glancing with evident reluctance at the kitchen visible at the end of a short dark hall.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Stearn. I won’t keep you long.”

  This assurance caused Stearn to sit on the edge of a faded easy chair with his hands folded on his lap. “Yes. How can I be of assistance?”

  “A woman in her sixties has come here looking for her missing brother. They are, she told me, White Russians from somewhere near Leningrad. They were forced to flee in the twenties to Shanghai. Her brother left suddenly, and she traced him to Vancouver, and there she was told he had come here. Who are some of the people I should ask about this? Indeed, do you know of anyone who might have come into the community recently?”

  Stearn shook his head. “I know nothing of this. Most of such people stayed out on the coast. Why would anyone come here?”

  “You did,” Darling pointed out.

  “Inspector, you know nothing of our situation. The people who came away from Russia were aristocrats, professors, writers, scientists. People who had real standing in the old Russia. We had to flee, leaving everything behind, or risk imprisonment or death. We arrive in China, or here, with nothing, and we are nobody. I taught philosophy at the university in Moscow until I was unceremoniously turned out. Why did I come here? Because I must eat, Inspector. I decided that my best chance would be to hire myself out as a mere translator in a place far enough away from the coast that I would not meet any competition from my fellow refugees. As for others like me here, there are very few. Understand, I will not give you their names; however, I am willing to contact them and encourage them to c
all or visit you at the police station if they know of anything that will help you. I’m afraid it is all I can offer.”

  Darling, not for the first time in his work, was struck by his own ignorance of the greater circumstances and backgrounds of the many people whom trouble had thrown into involvement with the police. Stearn had been to him a somewhat tiresome and resentful person to whom he’d had to apply from time to time to translate in courtroom or interview situations. He imagined him now at the height of his powers as a prestigious member of a doomed society, brought to these threadbare circumstances.

  “That will be wonderful, Mr. Stearn, if you could organize people to contact us. Thank you so much for your time.” He stood up and offered Stearn his hand.

  “I do not promise anything will come of it, Inspector.”

  Precisely at three, Darling’s phone rang, and he was put through to Constable Ames, who was calling, he said unnecessarily, from Vancouver.

  “I know where you are, Ames. What are you doing?”

  “Working hard, as instructed, sir. Do you miss me?”

  “Certainly not. Your replacement is a respectful young man who doesn’t put his feet up on desks. I need you to do something for me. I want you to nose around the recent émigré community from Russia. I want you to find out if there is, or has been, anyone there by the name of Vassily Mikhailov. An old lady called Countess Orlova has turned up here from China, saying she is looking for her brother and that she heard in Vancouver he had come here.”

  “Well, if he’s supposed to be there, why am I looking here?”

  Ames heard Darling sigh on the other end of the line.

  “I’m trying to help her find her brother, using the resources of our exemplary police system. You wouldn’t mind just doing what you’re told and getting what you can?”

  “Sir. Sorry, sir. What’s his name again, silly-what?”

  “Don’t try me, Ames. This is costing money. Vassily Mikhailov.” Darling followed up by spelling the name out. “Wire me when you have something.”

  “Righty-o. How is Miss Winslow?”

  “Thriving, somehow, in the absence of your constant worship. Ames, I, uh, never mind. Just get to it.”

  “Yes, though you do know I’m trying to study for my exam coming up,” Ames pointed out.

  “Yes. So you say. Now run along.”

  He had been about to tell Ames about his upcoming wedding and ask him to stand as his best man. That effusion of whatever Ames was going to say on the subject could wait.

  Chapter Four

  Ames closed his book and looked at his watch. He was scheduled to have a drink with another aspirant called Tompkins and then go for a bite. Tompkins was a local and might know where he could start with the Russian émigré community, something that, until that moment, he had not known existed.

  The bar was noisy and smoky, and Tompkins was holding up his end, talking loudly between puffs on the subject of the study material they were being subjected to. “I mean, you read that stuff, and you think, it’s all common sense, isn’t it? They can ask me anything about a situation, and I could give them the right answer.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Ames. “There’s all the regulations to remember exactly as well, though.”

  Tompkins offered him a cigarette, which Ames declined.

  “Listen, my boss needs me to look into something.” Ames leaned forward. “I need to look for some Russian who might be here as some sort of immigrant.”

  “Ruski, eh? Mostly here as displaced persons. They have a church near Hastings somewhere. I don’t know why people don’t just stay home. Do we need all these DPs who can’t talk English? They never adapt or mix in. Just stick to themselves and never learn the lingo. Funny you should ask about them, actually. A buddy of mine told me one of them ended up dead a few days ago.”

  “Do you know the name?”

  “Even if I’d heard it, I wouldn’t be able to say it!”

  Siberia, August 1947

  “Why are we stopping?” someone asked. The question seemed to slowly penetrate the consciousnesses of the people dozing and ill in the train car, and they began to stir, coughing and struggling up off the floor.

  Aptekar, who had been crammed into the corner, opened his eyes, and followed the upward movement of the others. He had been asleep, finally, after what had seemed days of rocking back and forth in the wooden confines of the cattle car, and he longed to return to sleep’s forgetfulness. The energy, suddenly, of people getting up, pressing to peer through the cracks in the boards, asking each other questions, finally reached Aptekar, and he pushed himself to a standing position, slapping his legs to return circulation. The train certainly was slowing.

  With a shriek of scraping metal, the train came to a complete halt, followed by the sound of steam releasing. The prisoners fell quiet, trying to hear the subject of the shouts now going on outside.

  “We are nowhere,” a young man, who still sported a bruise from a beating that covered most of the side of his face, called out. “You can see. It is some tiny station. They are running around outside like chickens. Something has happened.” This statement caused another push to look through the slats. Aptekar didn’t bother. Something was amiss. He could hear it in the voices of the soldiers outside the train. He primed himself to full alertness.

  “We have to put these swine somewhere,” he heard someone say just outside his corner of the car.

  “We can’t reach anybody,” another complained. “Even the telephone is not working at this piss-pot of a station.”

  “Why can’t they stay where they are? What’s going to happen in the next hours? How far are we anyway? We’ve been travelling for more than a week.”

  There was a shout and then the talking soldiers receded. The prisoners could hear the sound of boots on the wooden platform. “There’s an old fool of a telegraph operator,” someone called.

  “They’ve gone inside, no doubt to decide how best to eliminate us,” the young man said, spitting out the words.

  A woman sobbed and began to pray in a high-pitched voice, rocking back and forth.

  “You call on God? Really? Have we not had proof enough of His non-existence over the last years? Shut up!” someone shouted. The woman reduced her praying to tearful whispers.

  Aptekar kept his ear to the wall of the car and looked around at the people who had been unceremoniously pushed into the train by armed soldiers in Moscow with bundles of bread and sausage, some buckets for latrines, and a barrel of water with a metal cup. Re-education begins with the complete removal of all human dignity, he thought. The food was long gone, and the water sloshed in the bottom of the barrel, where the taste of rust and gasoline was intensifying. Aptekar thought that wherever they were being taken, they must be near. He had made the trip across the country more than once, and a week would get them nearly to Vladivostok, where he knew there were at least five labour camps, and on the way, many more.

  He felt weak and leaned against the corner and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the oblivion of being asleep as he stood. Sitting down again felt like giving up and he wanted to be ready for whatever was about to happen.

  It was dusk when the door of the car was slid open. People stood momentarily frozen, looking at the row of armed soldiers watching them, feeling the sudden gust of cool pine-scented air. Then they began to press forward. A young man, pushed from behind, tumbled out onto the rocky bed of the rails and cried out.

  A soldier prodded him with the butt of his rifle to get him up, then shouted, “Everyone is to come out in an orderly fashion. You are to proceed over there to the station room. You will rest overnight, and we will continue in the morning on foot. There is a camp near Svobodny. And, comrades, do not attempt to leave. You will be shot.” The sarcasm of that word, “comrades,” was not lost on them.


  Some of the young soldiers turned their faces away, closing their eyes and covering their noses, as the stench of unwashed people and overflowing latrines billowed out of the car. Aptekar was one of the last out. A young woman climbed down and then turned to help him.

  “Leave him! Move on!” someone shouted at her.

  “But he is old,” she protested.

  “Go, young woman. Do as they say. I thank you,” Aptekar whispered to her. “I can manage.”

  Reluctantly she turned away, and Aptekar slid off the car on his stomach so he could slow his descent. He fell to his knees, and rose slowly to look surreptitiously at where they were. A small wooden train station, a water tower, dense, rapidly darkening forest. There must be a road, but he could not see it. Thank God it was not winter. He had seen people clinging to the outsides of trains freeze like blocks of ice.

  “There are sick people,” he said to one of the soldiers. “They need warmth, food, medicine. One of the women is pregnant.”

  “Do I look like a doctor to you? No one asked them to get sick. Now get inside.”

  Aptekar nodded his head once. It could have been acknowledgement, it could have been an expression of his feeling that this response was about what he’d expect from one of these soldiers of the revolution.

  “He won’t last ten minutes,” a young soldier said, lifting his chin toward Aptekar. “He’s old. Why do they bother? No bullets in Moscow?”

  They want to see regret in our eyes before we expire, Aptekar thought. It is revenge for a thousand years of feudal repression. Somehow it is never enough for them, though.

  At dawn, the soldiers, exhausted from having to be on guard all night, began to shout and kick the sleeping prisoners to get them up. Aptekar had found a corner again, having decided on the train that having no people on two sides was preferable to being hemmed in on all sides. He rose and slowly put on his jacket, which he’d used as an inadequate blanket during the cold and uncomfortable night. He did not at the moment know how, but he would not spend one night in the camp they were bound for. The soldier was right. He would not last ten minutes in one of the Soviet Empire’s labour camps.