Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  'But you're not so certain.'

  'No, I'm not.'

  'I hope to God you're wrong, Vaslav.'

  'Believe me, so do I. Meanwhile, don't wait for me. I'll call you back in a few hours. But it is safe to say we probably will not meet today.'

  She slowly replaced the earphone. For a moment she just stood there gazing through the French doors at the sparkling, deceptively peaceful sea. It was June 28, a calm, sunny day all over Europe, but beyond the blue horizon, invisible storm clouds were gathering.

  The long summer of 1914 had begun.

  Few people in Europe and Russia believed the Archduke's assassination could trigger war.

  In Paris, the respected newspaper Le Figaro confidently declared: 'Nothing to cause anxiety'.

  The German Kaiser, Wilhelm II, was shocked by the news and thundered against what he thought was the most heinous of all crimes—regicide. He did not, however, believe it to be a preamble to war.

  Neither did King George V of England. With the typical British penchant for understatement, he confided in his diary: 'Terrible shock for the dear old Emperor.'

  Aboard the Russian Imperial yacht, Standart, another tragedy hit far closer to home, taking precedence over the events in Europe. The day before, news had reached the Empress that Rasputin, the monk, had been stabbed in the stomach, and the doctors' contention was that he could not possibly survive: the slash had exposed his entrails. Empress Alexandra, who had long believed that Rasputin was the sole hope for her haemophiliac son, was frantic with worry. While almost everyone on board the yacht secretly prayed that the mad monk would indeed die, the Empress prayed constantly for his life and received daily cables informing her of Rasputin's condition.

  In Livadia on the afternoon of June 30, after Senda and Vaslav both came to orgasm, they lay quietly in bed, catching their breaths. It was two days after the Archduke's assassination. The shutters were closed against the bright afternoon sun, and the bulky furniture lurked like murky purple shadows in the corners of the room. A hornet, trapped behind the open window, buzzed angrily, trying to escape its prison of glass.

  Vaslav lit a cigarette and smoked silently beside her, his eyes thoughtful, as though studying the ceiling. Senda reached for her champagne glass on the bedside cabinet and took a sip. She grimaced. It had stood there untouched for the last hour or so, and the fine smooth taste had gone flat. She was just pushing the glass away when Vaslav casually announced, 'I will be leaving for St. Petersburg in the morning.'

  'What!' Senda sat up straight and stared at him, the sheet falling away from her breasts. 'Vaslav, we've only just arrived here!'

  He looked at her strangely. 'Summer holidays are all very well,' he said, his voice assuming a brisk, businesslike tone, 'but my interests, and especially Russia's welfare, must take priority.'

  'Of course.' She looked at him steadily, not certain what else she should say.

  'There is little choice. The way I see it, if the Czar is as blind as those useless ministers of his, then I'll be forced to take it upon myself to try to convince him otherwise.'

  'Then he's returned to St. Petersburg?' she asked.

  He barked a low laugh, a plume of blue smoke escaping his nostrils. 'No, our revered "Father of all the Russias" and his family are still enjoying their cruise.' His voice was tinged with an acidity she had never heard him use before. 'Apparently the events in Europe aren't of consequence enough to justify his cutting their vacation short.'

  She was shocked. 'But he's the Czar! Surely, as our leader, if it's as serious as you fear—'

  'The Czar is weak, obstinate, incompetent, and misinformed,' Vaslav interrupted derisively. 'And his ministers are useless, puffed-up ostriches.'

  She stared at him. This was all startling news to her. She was not usually privy to this kind of information, and it was the first time she had ever heard a member of the nobility speaking less than favourably about the ruler. It did little to inspire confidence, and she was becoming quite alarmed.

  'So you understand,' he said, stubbing out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray, 'why we really have no choice but to return to St. Petersburg.'

  And Senda thought: We. Why do we have to return? Why not just you? What's this got to do with me? If war came, surely it wouldn't touch Livadia.

  But deep down inside, she knew that it had everything to do with her. She should have guessed his intentions the moment he had decided to cut the summer short and return to St. Petersburg. Wherever Vaslav went, she was to follow. It had never been put into words, but that was what he expected her to do.

  She, Tamara, and Inge were supposed to drop everything and pack.

  She had easily adapted to life in the sun-drenched villa by the sea, just as she had quickly grown accustomed to the adoring crowds, the abundance of luxuries, and a way of life few people in the world could sustain. Now the perfect summer was shattered.

  She thought savagely: I'm not his toy. I'm not his plaything. He can't order me around like one of his servants.

  But she knew he could, and that was what filled her with a sudden burst of anger and self-disgust. In many ways, she had less freedom than his servants.

  They returned to St. Petersburg within a day of each other, Vaslav and the Princess on the Danilovs' private train, and Senda, Inge, and Tamara in a first-class compartment on the regular express train.

  For the first time since their affair had begun, Senda was truly miserable. She knew she was being selfish, but she couldn't help herself. Didn't he realize that her first responsibility had to be to Tamara? That she had promised her daughter a vacation, had sent her to Livadia, and that, because of him, something she could not possibly explain to the young girl, they had been forced to cut the summer short? He was too self-important, altogether too autocratic to think of anyone's needs but his own. He was the same way in bed.

  The world revolved around Vaslav Danilov.

  It was the nineteenth of July before the Imperial yacht steamed into its home port. Even then, the Czar refused to heed the Prince's warnings. However, the Imperial household had calmed down; the Empress's prayers had been answered, for Rasputin, who she believed was blessed with miraculous healing powers, proved to his countless enemies that this was indeed so. Despite his massive injuries, he rallied and pulled through, and the Empress was convinced he was more sainted than ever.

  Ten days later, the Austro-Hungarian artillery sent the first salvos of shells across the Danube, disregarding the white flags of truce fluttering from the rooftops of Serbia's capital.

  The shelling had begun.

  And with it, war.

  Chapter 19

  The instant Senda stepped out onto the balcony to join Inge and Tamara, the sweltering heat hit her with the intensity of a blast furnace. Inside, the heavy drawn curtains and the lofty ceilings kept the rooms cool, but outside, the summer sun broiled the city and baked its buildings. It was the afternoon of August 2, and below, the quay along the Neva was wall-to-wall people; she could see that the crowd of tens of thousands was packed even more densely around the Palace Bridge. Everyone waved banners and shouted and cheered. Strangers kissed strangers. People danced little jigs with partners they had never seen before. Vendors, attracted by the crowds, sold iced lemonade and fruit drinks. Excitement was at its most feverish pitch.

  Horns blasted and tooted on the Neva. The river swarmed with a flotilla of steamers, yachts, sailboats, rowboats. Anything, it seemed, that could possibly float had been launched, and each craft was dangerously overloaded with spectators and flew at least one Russian Imperial banner.

  It was as if there were an impromptu festival and all of St. Petersburg had joined in the celebration.

  Suddenly a ripple of excitement swept the crowd; the banners waved and dipped with renewed vigour. Unbidden, a massive tidal wave of cheers rolled through the spectators and echoed up to the hot midsummer sky.

  Inge reached down and lifted Tamara high so that she could get an unobstructed view above th
e balustrade. Senda drew up beside them. 'It's the Czar and the Czarina, I think,' she said, squinting into the distance.

  'See, child?' Inge told Tamara. 'There is the father of your country. See how people love him?'

  Tamara wiggled in Inge's arms until she faced her mother. 'It's exciting, Mama! Is it Easter again? Does it mean we're going to colour eggs?'

  Senda couldn't help laughing. 'No, angel cake, it's not Easter.' She tousled the youngster's hair and then her eyes and voice took on an implacable sadness. 'It means war, I think.'

  'It looks a lot more exciting than Easter!' Tamara breathed, bobbing her head. Her eyes were shining.

  Now the crowd began to chant as one: 'Father! Father! Lead us to victory, Father!'

  'I wish we were closer,' Tamara said with a frown. 'I can't see much. They're so far away.'

  'If you look closely at the bridge, angel cake,' Senda said pointing, 'the woman in white with the big picture hat is the Czarina, and the man in uniform beside her is the Czar. I think those are the four young Grand Duchesses behind them.'

  In unison, as though commanded by an unseen conductor, the crowd of thousands upon thousands suddenly began to sing the Imperial anthem, its lyrics set to the final rousing crescendo of the 1812 Overture by Tchaikovsky: 'God save the Czar, Mighty and Powerful, Let him reign for our glory . . .'

  'Ooooh, Mama! It's so pretty! Do you know the words? Can you sing it too?'

  As the emotional crowd sang on and wept during the last three stanzas, Senda could only shake her head in disbelief. Her lips were tight and white, and her body was tensed, as though she was confronting some hidden horror.

  'For the confusion of our enemies,' the crowd sang, 'The Orthodox Czar, God save the Czar . . .'

  'God save their souls,' Senda murmured, and Inge glanced at her sharply but said nothing.

  Senda glanced out over the swelling crowds one last time. It was too much. Praying for death and destruction, calling upon God to help achieve it. It was ridiculous and disheartening. If they wanted to pray for peace, that was one thing. But war? There was no point in watching these fools beg for their own destruction.

  She went back inside, but the voices followed her. There was no escaping their thunderous praise for the Czar, and God, and Holy Russia.

  Suddenly she began weeping, but not out of any surge of patriotism. She wept for the foolish foibles of silly men.

  That night, as the Russian Imperial banner flew alongside the French tricolour and the Union Jack, a violent mob attacked the German embassy in St. Petersburg. Suddenly anything German in Russia was suspect and hated. When she heard the news, Senda sat down with Inge and said quietly, 'You're German, Inge. How do you feel about all this?'

  Inge's cornflower-blue eyes lit up. 'They are behaving like foolish children!'

  Senda nodded. 'I quite agree. But ... if you feel you have to leave and go back to Germany . . .' She left the sentence unfinished.

  'Why should I want to do that?' Inge asked in surprise.

  Senda shrugged. 'You were born in Germany. The Russians are suddenly so rabidly anti-Teutonic. Perhaps you have family or friends . . . I just thought . . .'

  'I have no other family and my place is here with you,' Inge declared loyally. 'I don't care if you're Russian or Swedish or Japanese. Unless, of course . . .' She hesitated and studied her hands. 'Unless you mind that I am German.'

  Senda clasped Inge's hands warmly. 'Me mind? Goodness no! Inge, why should I? You're . . . well, you're Inge!'

  And from that moment on, they were friends for life.

  On the thirty-first of August, another tangible sign of Russian loathing for all things German was proven when the capital's name was officially changed from the German, St. Petersburg, to the Slav, Petrograd.

  For the next few days Inge was quiet, tight-lipped. When she took Tamara to the park or along the quay, she avoided speaking to anyone, other nannies included, lest someone notice her German accent.

  Always keenly aware of other people's sensitivity, Senda shrewdly spoke for Inge when she was with her. And since Inge was suddenly afraid to even go out to do grocery shopping, Senda hired a day maid named Polenka to do such chores; Polenka's husband, Dmitri, became Senda's chauffeur. Vaslav had bought her a new car, but she soon stopped using it. Gasoline had to be conserved, and although it was easy enough for high-placed people to obtain it, and through Vaslav her supply could have been endless, Senda preferred to travel by horse-drawn coach. She also knew that flaunting such luxuries might be asking for trouble in the long run.

  At first, most Russians were convinced the war would have a swift outcome in their favour. How could it be otherwise? they rationalized. Victory shimmered so tantalizingly near that they felt they had but to reach out and pluck it. The Russian Army was, after all, a colossus the like of which the world had never before seen—the British press went so far as to call it 'the Russian steamroller'.

  And a steamroller it was, albeit an ineffectual, outdated one. During the war, fifteen and a half million men marched on behalf of Holy Russia to fight her enemies. However, the predicted swift victory proved elusive. Except for her sheer numbers of seemingly limitless troops, Russia was not prepared for war.

  For every Russian mile of railroad tracks, Germany had ten.

  Russian troops had to travel an average of eight hundred miles to the front; German troops travelled no more than two hundred miles. The Russian railroad system was in such a shambles that on one occasion a troop train travelling from Russia to the front took twenty-three days to get there.

  German factories spewed out weapons and ammunition around the clock. Russia was so short of ammunition that her artillerymen were threatened with courts-martial if they fired more than three rounds per day.

  Last but not least, Russia was a behemoth which sprawled across two continents, reaching from the Baltic Sea in the east to the Pacific Ocean at its westernmost border. Its very size and geography made it impossible for the Allies to help. A German blockade of Russian seaports proved swift, effective, and strangling: during the war, Russian imports dropped ninty-five per cent, and exports ninety-eight per cent. In Great Britain, ports docked 2,200 ships a week, but due to the blockade, Russian ports docked a mere 1,250 ships annually.

  To make matters worse, Russian military commanders hated and distrusted one another, and rations were scarce, sometimes nonexistent.

  Meanwhile, in Petrograd the rounds of sumptuous balls, glittering nights at the opera, ballet, and theatre, and midnight champagne suppers continued as they had while the city had been called St. Petersburg. And Senda Bora danced and dined with the most noble of Petrograd's elite, while conquering role after role on the stage of the hallowed Théâtre Français. Her admirers were legion, and her life of astounding luxury had become taken for granted. She was now in Society with a capital 'S'. And to paraphrase the trite old phrase: Society danced while Russia bled.

  But Russia seemed to have an endless supply of fresh blood.

  The battles and bloodshed dragged on.

  Chapter 20

  Despite the war, perhaps because of it, Senda's career skyrocketed. Entertainment took people's minds off the seriousness of countless battles won and lost and the terrible loss of human life. For the next three years she basked in the adoring public limelight; virtually overnight, she enjoyed that fickle and most elusive celebrity status of being thrust to the uppermost of ivory towers and becoming a living, breathing legend.

  With her beauty and talent she seduced audiences and critics alike. Each of her performances received more lavish praise than the last, and every time the curtain descended on the final act of one of her plays, a contest between herself and her fans ensued: they were determined she break all records for the number of curtain calls.

  During a matinee performance, when her hairdresser had come down ill and stayed home, a long wave of her red hair escaped her hat, and it was deemed a new style and suddenly became all the rage.

  When it wa
s learned she had a daughter named Tamara, the newspapers reported that six out of every seven newborn girls christened in one week in Petrograd were named Tamara.

  Everything Senda said or did was seized upon, dissected, imitated. Madame Lamothe's cash register sang the happiest tune it ever had because Senda's clothes were scrupulously copied. So was her manner of walk and the way she held her head. She even made a short silent film—Romeo and Juliet— and thousands flocked to the cinema week after week to see her flickering image captured on the silver screen. Because the sole achievement of a stage actress could be measured only by the duration of a live performance, it was the one accomplishment Senda felt would outlive her; indeed, at the time it was considered a cinematic milestone, since most stage actresses snubbed the screen. Seventy years later, it was still a cult classic.

  To her adoring public who flocked to her plays, she was to Russia what Sarah Bernhardt had been to Europe and America—the nation's foremost theatrical star and beauty, a national treasure, the brightest jewel in the glittering Czarist crown.

  But her life was too full for public appearances to play more than a minor role. Inge was marvellous with Tamara, but the child needed a mother, and Senda lavished time and love on her daughter—time which was in shorter and shorter supply. For every hour she spent onstage, a hundred hours were spent in rehearsal. When she was not rehearsing or acting or spending evenings with Tamara and Inge or Vaslav, she was studying. The few hours she had left to herself were likely to be Sunday afternoons, and these, as it turned out, became legend.

  Countess Florinsky had been right: it was inevitable that Senda should hold a salon. She had never given it a thought or deemed it important, and it started simply, accidentally really, with a few theatre friends dropping by; soon, to drop by Madame Senda Bora's was the fashionable way to spend Sunday afternoons. Her salon was reputed to be the finest and most interesting not only because her friends were accomplished celebrities but also because she had an unerringly keen instinct for sniffing out newcomers with as-yet-unproven talent. It was circulated that her salon was all the rage due to sheer snob appeal, a rumour invariably heard from those not invited. If Senda's salon was elitist, it was only because she gravitated toward scintillating, brilliant conversationalists, people she could learn from. And her friends were among Russia's most interesting and accomplished artists, composers, musicians, dancers and writers. Among her circle of friends, most of whom were fated to become famous the world over, she listened and learned, fussed over them and entertained them, and it was said that every man who met her was to fall under her spell.