The Russian Tapestry

by Banafsheh Serov

  ‘At ease, soldier.’ Bogoleev saluted. ‘I wish to be alone with the Cossack.’

  Bogoleev sat on the chair vacated by the soldier. Studying the man by the light of the candle, he tried to decide whether he really was who he claimed. Despite the gaunt cheeks, he had the broad, strong features of a Cossack. His right cheekbone sat at an irregular angle that gave one side of his face a grotesque look.

  How had he escaped the Germans? Bogoleev wondered. Leaning forward, he narrowed his eyes. Was he a spy sent by the enemy?

  The Russians had long suspected that the Germans had cracked their codes and intercepted telephone calls. However, suspicion that the information was passed to Germans through a network of spies had never been ruled out either. Leaning back in his chair, Bogoleev pulled out the folded piece of paper with the soldier’s name and opened it.

  ‘Leo Nicholaevich Ivanov.’ Bogoleev read aloud.

  At the sound of his name, the man’s eyes opened.

  ‘Good evening, Corporal,’ Bogoleev said amiably.

  The man’s face turned towards him.

  ‘Water,’ he said hoarsely, and ran his tongue across his lips. ‘I need some water.’

  ‘Nurse! This man needs water.’

  The nurse gave Bogoleev a dark look but did as he asked. Propping up Ivanov’s head, she brought the cup to his lips.

  ‘Thank you.’ Ivanov closed his eyes as the nurse lowered his head back to the cot.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Bogoleev asked.

  ‘Like I’ve been put through a meat grinder.’

  Bogoleev nodded once. He wondered if it was too soon to interrogate him. Deciding that Ivanov – if that was his real name – was more likely to trip when tired and not thinking straight, Bogoleev decided to ask him a few questions straight away and study his reaction.

  ‘They tell me you escaped from a POW camp.’ Bogoleev kept his voice light to avoid arousing the man’s suspicions.

  Ivanov nodded without opening his eyes.

  ‘How did you escape?’

  ‘I killed a German.’

  The words came out flat but Bogoleev noticed Ivanov’s body tense as he said them.

  ‘How did you do it?’

  Ivanov slowly opened his eyes and Bogoleev was surprised to see them brimming in the candlelight.

  ‘I plunged his own dagger into his throat.’ Ivanov paused, then added in a softer voice, ‘He choked on his own blood.’

  ‘That was a courageous act. You deserve a medal.’

  ‘I did what I had to do. I place no pride in taking another man’s life.’ Ivanov turned his face fully to Bogoleev. ‘The army can reward me by letting me visit my family.’

  ‘In time. Right now, we may be on the cusp of a major victory.’

  Ivanov gave a hollow laugh. ‘Victory or defeat, Captain, I’ve had enough of bloodshed. I’ll be happy just to see my family.’

  At that moment, Bogoleev was certain Ivanov was who he claimed to be. If a spy, he’d be eager to boast about his heroic deeds and push to learn more about the upcoming offensive. Instead, he showed little interest in either. There was still a possibility that he was a deserter and, having got lost, had stumbled back into the Russian trenches. Bogoleev thought he’d try a different tactic. He showed Ivanov the paper with his details.

  ‘Is this your hand?’

  Ivanov nodded.

  ‘It’s unusual for a farmer to have such beautiful handwriting.’

  ‘My father insisted that his children, including his daughter, learn their letters.’ Ivanov let out a chuckle. ‘He made us practise writing them every night. I was just good at it. And a lucky thing, too, because it helped me land a job behind the lines as a clerk for a while.’

  Pulling the photograph from his breast pocket, Bogoleev pretended to study the faces. In his peripheral vision he could see Ivanov watching him silently.

  ‘You have a handsome family.’

  The words seemed to unhinge Ivanov. ‘I’ve never held my son.’

  ‘Your family is from Moscow?’

  Ivanov shook his head. ‘No, we come from the steppes. My wife and children moved to the city with her sister during her third trimester.’

  ‘How are they faring?’

  ‘They are struggling, same as everyone.’ Ivanov coughed; the strain of talking was making him weaker.

  ‘I’ll leave you to rest.’ Bogoleev rose to his feet. ‘We’ll talk some more tomorrow.’

  ‘May I ask a question?’

  Bogoleev stopped. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why do I need someone guarding me?’

  ‘It’s just a precaution.’ Bogoleev waved a hand as if it was of no importance. ‘You have been through a lot and with the nurses and doctors run off their feet we want to make sure you’re not forgotten.’ He called the guard over. ‘Be sure he is well looked after.’ He could tell his answer did not convince the Cossack.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Yes, Corporal?’

  ‘May I please have my picture back?’

  Bogoleev handed it to him, hesitating briefly to cast a last look at the family. ‘If I had a family as beautiful as yours, I’d try to escape and return to them.’

  Ivanov said nothing, not looking up from the picture.

  33

  The Brusilov Offensive, June 1916

  Thick clouds of smoke hung low over the trench-marked plain. For the past few hours, the Russian army had been pounding the Austro-Hungarians with their artillery as part of a coordinated effort to break through the enemy’s lines. Lowering his binoculars, General Brusilov handed them to Bogoleev.

  ‘What news?’ Brusilov asked, walking briskly to where several commanders crowded around a map.

  ‘Early reports are promising. Our troops have broken through the first line of trenches.’

  Brusilov nodded, pleased. ‘And the Austrian reserves?’

  ‘Taken by surprise; they’ve been stretched and are opening up huge gaps.’

  The generals moved to allow Brusilov to study the large maps. Bogoleev waited at a respectable distance behind them. The field communicators from the four points of battle continuously reported their advances and the results were dutifully marked on the maps. Brusilov looked down at the table. Little red dots marked the advance of the five Russian armies.

  ‘Gentlemen …’ Brusilov raised his eyes. ‘I believe victory may be at hand.’

  At dusk, Bogoleev stood before his assembled men. He had already inspected them to ensure all guns were properly cleaned and ammunition pouches were full.

  ‘This is an important day,’ he began. ‘Yesterday our guns silenced the Austrians’ artillery, breaking through their first line of defence. Today, it’s our turn. Moving through the tunnels, we wait for orders to attack the trenches.’

  Bogoleev paused, searching for words to inspire his men.

  ‘We are close to achieving a major victory for our beloved Russia.’ Taking a breath, he concluded, ‘As sons of Russia this is the definitive moment in our lives. This is our chance to bring honour to ourselves and glory to our motherland. This will be our finest hour!’

  Standing shoulder to shoulder, the men held their rifles poised over the lip of parapets. Above them shells howled through thick, soupy air. With each explosion, the sky glowed red then settled into black. Having lost any sense of time, Bogoleev could not remember how long they had been waiting in the trenches. Since the guns had begun their thunder, the noise had grown until it seemed like a single dull roar. He knew the shelling would gradually slow to individual bursts, indicating the time for the infantry’s attack.

  His men waited silently alongside him. Shells landing close to the trenches made nervous recruits jump. One of them, sensing Bogoleev’s eyes on him, dropped his head in embarrassment.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Igor Alexandrivich Andropov, Captain.’

  Another shell exploded, throwing dirt and ash over their heads. Bogoleev put a hand out to steady himself. Androp
ov, his body pressed to the wall, crossed his arms over his head.

  ‘It’s alright.’ Bogoleev placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Cocking his ear to the sound of the artillery, he added, ‘I think the guns are starting to slow down.’

  Andropov looked down at his feet with an agonised stare.

  ‘Captain!’ The voice came from down the trench. Faces turned to the lieutenant squeezing his way between the men. ‘The order has come.’ The lieutenant saluted. ‘We are to attack.’

  The sky was a trace lighter by the time the men prepared to climb the parapets. Bogoleev waited with tense fingers curled around his rifle. His senses, at their sharpest before a battle, felt as if they were balanced on a knife’s edge. He wiped at the sweat on his brow.

  Suddenly, officers along the line blew on their whistles. Torrents of men poured over the parapets and ran at the Austrian trenches. Behind them, Russian guns pounded the enemy, the explosions shooting up walls of fire in the trenches. Sporadic gunfire rattled from the Austrian lines, white sparks glowing against the darkness and the smoke.

  ‘Take cover!’ Bogoleev threw himself into a crater. A body slumped next to him but he had no time to see who it was. Leaping to his feet again, he charged, spearing a man with his bayonet as he jumped over. Before long, his men had secured the first line of trenches.

  Joined by a second regiment, Bogoleev’s men stormed another line of enemy trenches, trapping the Austrians within.

  By the time the sun had worked its way up the sky, the fields were quiet. Bogoleev took stock of his men. Half had fallen. Stretcher-bearers carried the worst of the wounded back to the field hospital. The remaining wounded leant against the walls, waiting for their turn.

  Bogoleev was on his way to the kitchen when he saw Andropov being stretchered to the field hospital. The young face was bleached grey and his eyes were closed. The bearers lowered the stretcher to the ground next to a long row of casualties. Kneeling beside Andropov, the medic cut away at the bandages to inspect the wound.

  ‘How is he?’ Bogoleev asked.

  ‘He took a bullet through the knee,’ the medic responded without taking his eyes off his task. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood.’

  Bogoleev looked at Andropov’s pale lips and felt a twinge of sadness.

  ‘Will he walk again?’

  The medic gave Bogoleev a sidelong look.

  ‘Not on two legs,’ he said and moved to the next patient.

  In the hospital, news of Brusilov’s victory was celebrated with bottles of vodka. The nurses rationed it among the patients, who passed the bottle around, taking turns to swig at the neck.

  ‘To Brusilov!’ The man in the bed next to Ivanov raised the bottle.

  The sharpness of the alcohol made Ivanov’s throat and chest burn. Once the pain subsided, the alcohol’s steady warmth spread through his body, relaxing the tension in his muscles. He stretched his legs, luxuriating in the crisp white sheets. He had been transferred from the field hospital to one further behind the lines, from where he would be transferred to Moscow on the hospital train.

  At a nearby village, the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s hospital train waited at the station. Throughout the afternoon and early evening, wounded soldiers were brought on carts and wagons, and officers arrived in motor-ambulances.

  It had been raining steadily and there was no cover over the platform, which was packed with stretchers carrying the wounded. After several hours of waiting, Ivanov’s clothes and thin blankets were soaked.

  At last nurses in Red Cross uniforms began to help the wounded to board the train. Ivanov was to share a cabin with ten other men.

  ‘Thank you, nurse,’ he said to the young woman who showed him to his bunk. There was something familiar about her. It was nothing he could pinpoint; more like a feeling that hovered just beyond the reach of his consciousness. Sensing Ivanov’s eyes on her, the nurse reddened and ducked her head.

  ‘You look familiar,’ Ivanov said by way of explanation.

  The nurse lifted her grey eyes and smiled self-consciously.

  He was about to ask the nurse her name when the door of the cabin opened and in stepped an elderly lady with steel-grey hair. The nurses straightened and stood to attention.

  ‘I am the Grand Duchess Vladimir,’ she told the men. ‘My train will transport you to Moscow where you will be admitted to hospital. My nurses will see to it that your needs are fully met.’ She smiled unexpectedly. ‘Each one of you is a hero in our eyes and we hope to repay a small part of our immense debt to you by ensuring you have a safe and comfortable journey.’

  ‘What utter garbage,’ one of the soldiers muttered after the grand duchess had left. ‘While we die in the trenches and our families starve at home, them lot eat caviar and compete over which one of them is working the hardest for the war effort.’

  ‘Don’t complain,’ said the soldier in the bunk below him. ‘For the next two days, we’ll be resting between clean sheets and eating proper food.’

  Ivanov rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He could not shake the thought that somehow he knew the nurse. He was still thinking of her when the train jolted and left the station. Soothed by the carriage’s rhythmic rocking, he soon fell asleep.

  Marie followed the grand duchess out of the cabin, letting the door close softly behind her. She had agreed to join the hospital train in the hope that looking after the soldiers would help take her mind off her grief. Transferring from the officers’ hospital at Tsarskoe Selo had been no use. She felt Alexei’s presence everywhere. On a rare visit, she stopped at the library and spent a wretched hour staring at the same page without comprehending a single word. The one time the librarian approached her, she had burst into tears, frightening the old man. Staying in Petrograd or escaping to Narva also proved futile. Every stall, street corner, theatre and building reminded her of Nikolai and Pyotr’s absence.

  Finally, she had contacted the Grand Duchess Vladimir and volunteered to join her train. She had thought her volunteer work at the hospital would have equipped her for what she was going to find at the front, but as soon as she stepped off the train and looked at the ghostly faces, she knew nothing could have prepared her. More than anything, she found the way the soldiers stared at her so openly disconcerting.

  She remembered a piece of advice the grand duchess had given her as they readied the carriages to receive the soliders. ‘These men have been separated from their sweethearts for a long time,’ she’d said. ‘It’s only natural that the first young girl they meet is going to remind them of their lover. Be kind, but brisk.’

  Marie hadn’t detected any lust or love in the Cossack’s eyes when he stared at her, but still, the scrutiny had made her uncomfortable.

  34

  Moscow, June 1916

  Clouds of steam rose from both sides of the train, briefly obscuring those waiting on the platform.

  ‘We’re here!’ one of the soldiers said excitedly. ‘Moscow!’

  Pressing his face against the small grimy window, Ivanov searched the crowd outside.

  The grand duchess entered the cabin, followed by two of the nurses.

  ‘Gentlemen, you will be alighting shortly. There are carts and carriages waiting to transport you to the hospital.’

  Stepping off the train, Ivanov sat down midway along the platform with his back against a wall. Orderlies and nurses with Red Cross armbands rushed about, lifting and carrying the worst of the wounded to the waiting motor-ambulances. Scanning the faces rushing past him, Ivanov wondered anxiously whether Marina had received his letter in time. He saw the grey-eyed nurse, who had come into his carriage on the first day, help a wounded officer off the train. He had only seen her that once, yet he still felt that he knew her from somewhere. He watched as she helped the officer to a wheelchair and placed a blanket over his lap.

  Puzzled, he shook his head and looked away, his eyes falling on a slim woman walking among the wounded. Wearing a printed scarf and clutching a toddler to her ch
est, she stepped carefully between the outstretched limbs, her eyes scanning each face hopefully.

  Marina!

  A well of emotion surged inside him, pressing at his chest. He whispered her name. ‘Marina.’

  At the same moment, the woman’s body went rigid and she turned her head. It was impossible that she would have heard him yet as if by instinct her eyes sought and found his. A cry burst from her lips and she rushed towards him, not so careful any more where her feet landed.

  ‘Lyova!’ Dropping to her knees, she showered his face with kisses. ‘Lyova, Lyova, Lyova!’ She repeated his name with every kiss. ‘My love, my heart. I was so worried I would never see you again.’ Tears pooled in her eyes as she traced the scar on his cheek. Taking her wrist, he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them.

  Pressed between the two adults, the little boy started to protest. Pulling away, Marina turned him around and, for the first time, Ivanov beheld his son. The boy had inherited his mother’s brown almond-shaped eyes. Sitting on his mother’s lap, he stared shyly at his father.

  ‘I named him after you,’ Marina said, then murmured to her son, ‘Meet your papa, Leo Leonovich.’

  The toddler wriggled in his mother’s arms. Marina placed his small feet on the ground and the child took a few steps then fell onto Ivanov’s leg.

  ‘Careful you don’t hurt Papa,’ Marina said with a laugh and gathered the child back into her arms. ‘Where will they take you?’ she asked.

  Ivanov shrugged. ‘I think they said Golitsyn Hospital.’

  ‘I’ve been doing a little volunteer work there. I’ll be able to visit you.’

  ‘What about the children?’

  ‘You’ve been away nearly two years. The children have grown. Tanya is almost a woman. She’s been a great help.’

  ‘We will have to start considering a suitable match for her,’ Ivanov teased.

  ‘There will be plenty of time for that after the war.’ Her smile dropped and her face grew serious. ‘For now we need to concentrate on getting you back to health.’