The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars

by Maurice DeKobra

  The obliging Tchekist spat complacently on the floor and concluded with his hand on the doorknob:

  “You must admit it’s awfully funny. Chapinski, who is so important, and who is walking around with a lump on his head all on your account! Ha ha!”

  And the door slammed behind him in unison with his Mephistophelian laugh.

  I was five hours away from my tragic end since it was extremely likely that the executioner would come for me before midnight. What hope had I that Ivanof would be able in so short a time to talk with Griselda and even so, that she would be able to save me?

  Without apparent transition, a stifling resignation settled on me. I felt as though I were under the influence of a powerful anesthetic. Stretched out on my smelly mattress I gave free rein to my unhappy contemplation of a sordid but unavoidable destiny.

  Is death really so terrible and are the Stoics alone free to await it without flinching? Is not our entire life a waiting-room where we fidget about until the arrival of the train which takes us to the Great Beyond? Should we not think each day when we awake that quite possibly tomorrow may come to collect our return ticket to heaven or hell? And, nevertheless, we always seem to forget that fact because we are carried away by the fortunate uncertainty of the fatal date. Ours is a strange frame of mind which makes us accept with a smile the inevitable finish although we would tremble with fright if we surely knew the allotted hour.…

  I awoke with a start. Someone had come into my cell and was tapping me on the shoulder. I had been sleeping so soundly that I had to open and close my eyes several times before I recognized my visitor. It was Chapinski.

  Had a stream of ice water struck me in the face I could not have regained consciousness more quickly. I stared at him in the yellow light which flickered through the corridor. He had a large Red star painted on his forehead.

  He was the first to speak in a low voice: “Séliman—we have exactly ten minutes to get out of Nikolaïa, a quarter of an hour to get on board the American yacht and thirty-five minutes to pass the limit of the territorial waters—”

  His words paralyzed me. I did not move.

  He took me by the shoulder. “Come on, what is the matter with you? Get up! If you don’t hurry, you will be shot, I will lose fifty thousand dollars—”

  “Chapinski? Are you telling the truth? I—I—you—”

  He literally pulled me out of bed and cried, “Well, look here if you want the proof!”

  He put his hand in the pocket of his leather coat and took out a roll of banknotes.

  Electrified by this unexpected return of fortune, I got to my feet. “Chapinski, help me to escape, and your future is assured.”

  He opened the door carefully and whispered, “Hurry, now!”

  He invited me to walk ahead of him, guiding me with his revolver, which rubbed in a friendly way against my back. In a subdued voice, he indicated the direction which I should take. The Red guard upstairs stood back to let me pass. Chapinski gave him an order in Russian. We crossed the deserted courtyard. The men on duty were talking behind an improvised tomb which seemed disconsolate because there were no dead bodies inside.

  “This way,” Chapinski whispered. We were in the street. Then he quickened his steps and whispered:

  “Now, Comrade, full speed ahead. I won’t be at ease until we are on the yacht.”

  My captivity and my lack of food had badly handicapped me from the standpoint of making a cross-country record through sleeping Nikolaïa, but on the other hand, my resurrection, so miraculous in its character, stimulated my weary limbs. With clenched teeth, prodding myself with my elbows, I desperately pursued the excited Chapinski. At last we went down a street flanked with low houses, and arrived on the docks. The coast was clear. There was nothing to be seen either to right or left. Two or three cargo boats glimmered in the harbor, badly lighted, and gently rocking on the waves. Far away the lights of the Northern Star proved that this was not a mirage.

  We went down a flight of steps to the boat landing. A figure came out of the shadows from behind a pile of empty cases.

  “Who is that?” I asked anxiously.

  “Ivanof,” replied Chapinski.

  The man approached. I recognized my former cellmate. When he saw me, he took me in his arms and kissed me in the Russian fashion. Dear Ivanof! Even now I think of him and thank him with all the fervor of a grateful heart.

  But Chapinski interrupted these affectionate demonstrations: “Where is the launch?”

  Ivanof answered, “It was supposed to be here at exactly ten o’clock.”

  Chapinski looked at his luminous watch and remarked, “But it’s already ten minutes past eleven. Why the delay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The silvery rays of the moon near the horizon spread an opaline efflorescence over us. I saw a hostile look on Chapinski’s face. He scrutinized first me, then Ivanof, and said:

  “This looks like a plot—to get me.”

  Ivanof took him by the arm. “Don’t be ridiculous, Comrade. Are you crazy? Don’t you suppose that we are just as anxious to escape as you are? Didn’t Princess Séliman give me all that money for you? So that you would save the Prince? All right, then why should you suspect any treason?”

  Chapinski apologized with a gesture. “You’re right. I always suspect everyone.” And turning to me he went on, “Please excuse me but if you had lived four years with the Tchekists, you would understand—and now our time is precious. We can’t stay here without running a great risk.”

  We watched the waves. The Black Sea shone beneath the gentle moonbeams. And no boat was coming toward the shore.

  “Perhaps they’re already here?”

  Ivanof shook his head. “No, I’ve been on the lookout. No one has come ashore. What shall we do?”

  Chapinski spoke to me: “Why don’t we hire one of the little boats which are tied up here, and board the yacht immediately? Every minute we delay increases our peril.”

  “Chapinski is right,” I said. “Let’s hurry. The Northern Star is anchored about fifteen hundred meters out and with two pairs of oars we can reach it in twenty minutes.”

  Ivanof agreed. We ran along the dock. Suddenly Chapinski pointed out to sea and exclaimed:

  “Look—the yacht is moving!”

  A thick cloud of smoke was escaping from the funnel, scattering sooty flakes on the phosphorescent waters. An awful feeling of despair came over us. Ivanof asked, “What does it mean?”

  “It means they’re pulling out. Look!”

  I seized Chapinski and Ivanof by the arms and cried, “There isn’t a minute to lose. We must rush to the signal station and get Lobatchof to put us in communication with the Northern Star. There must be something going on that we don’t know about. We are obviously the victims of a gross misunderstanding.”

  “Séliman’s right! Come on.”

  Lobatchof’s wooden barracks, with its two masts and its antennae, resembled a huge insect reposing on a rock at the extreme end of the basin. We ran. We had not lost sight of the yacht which really seemed to be preparing to go to sea.

  “If we fail to get aboard the Northern Star tonight, we are lost,” I said to Ivanof, who was puffing along beside me.

  “God help us—” he panted.

  We reached the station. Chapinski stopped and pointed to a ray of light between the closed shutters.

  “Lobatchof is there—thank God!”

  Ivanof had slipped up to the grilled door. Suddenly he motioned to us to approach quietly. A new surprise awaited us within the wooden cabin. Through the curtains we made out the figure of Madam Mouravieff. She was standing over old Lobatchof, who, seated at his operating-table, seemed to be awaiting her instructions. Chapinski, Ivanof and I immediately understood. We were flabbergasted. But the Tchekist quickly regained his calm and, clutching our arms, he whispered:

  “We are lost. Only one audacious move can save us. Follow me.”

  He brusquely pushed open the door. We dashe
d in. Madam Mouravieff turned around. Quick as lightning, Chapinski seized her and ordered:

  “Get a rope to tie her and a rag to gag her.”

  Ivanof and Lobatchof hastened to obey. I looked at Madam Mouravieff, a prisoner in the Tchekist’s arms. Her astonishment at seeing me only accentuated her rage:

  “Three men to one woman!” she exclaimed. “What cowardice! What disgraceful cowardice!”

  I replied, “You have never set us an example of loyalty, madam. That is a virtue which is unknown in Soviet Russia.”

  She tried to scream but Chapinski put his hand over her mouth and commanded:

  “Not so much noise, my pretty dove. We are in a hurry.… Ivanof, tie her hands and feet securely while I arrange this bit of cloth on her little viper’s mouth.… That’s it.… Make one more knot.… I don’t trust my lady Comrade.… Fine.… Séliman, help me carry her into Lobatchof’s room. Carefully now.… This way. One must always be gallant with pretty women, even when they spit in one’s face.”

  We deposited the helpless Madam Mouravieff on the bed, carefully locked the door and returned to Lobatchof, who, very much disconcerted, listened to Ivanof’s explanations.

  Ivanof then presented me to the retired officer:

  “Prince Séliman—Gregor Dimitriévitch Lobatchof, ex-captain in the Imperial Navy.… My friend is the husband of the Princess Séliman who owns the Northern Star.… But for the love of God, Comrade, explain to us what Mouravieff was doing here.”

  “My friends,” began Lobatchof, “I will tell you everything because my fate is now leagued with yours. Either we are all going to die or we will all escape alive from this hell-hole.”

  While he was talking, he was already manipulating his keys to get in touch with the operator on the yacht. He went on:

  “This evening, at about ten o’clock, I was going to bed when a woman entered the cabin. Her authoritative attitude, her confident way of speaking, alarmed me. She introduced herself. I was at once disturbed on your account, Ivanof, and on that of your friend. My anxiety was well founded for Irina Mouravieff declared without preamble:

  “ ‘I know that you have sent a message to that foreign yacht which is anchored in the harbor of Nikolaïa. I also happen to know that that yacht belongs to the Princess Séliman, the wife of a political prisoner who has been condemned to death by the Tcheka at Moscow. So I want you to send the following wireless immediately.’

  “I protested. Mouravieff replied:

  “ ‘Orders of the Tcheka. If you refuse, I’ll order your arrest this very night.’

  “I had no alternative but to obey. She then read me the following lines which she had written on this piece of paper—Prince Séliman, read them, please.”

  I leaned over the crumpled scrawl and deciphered in a loud voice, “Princess Séliman, on board the Northern Star: Madam, your husband will be returned to you safe and sound at noon tomorrow at Batoum. Return there without delay. Ivanof.”

  Ivanof exclaimed, stupefied, “What! She already knows that I am mixed up in this business?”

  “She knows everything,” Chapinski interrupted, “but let’s not lose any more precious time in bickering. Lobatchof, are you in communication with the yacht?”

  “No. Not yet. They don’t answer my calls.”

  While Lobatchof continued to send his wave through the night, Ivanof explained:

  “I understand. She was trying to kill two birds with one stone: namely, to get the yacht away from Nikolaïa so that we would have no chance of safety and also to put an embargo on the Northern Star by means of the torpedo-boats of the Red fleet which are stationed at Batoum.”

  Lobatchof, his right hand on his key, acquiesced.

  “That’s just it, because at the moment you burst in, she was ordering me to get into direct communication with the commander of torpedo-boat destroyer Number V Fourteen attached to the Soviet flotilla of the Black Sea. Ah! The yacht is answering—silence!”

  We all three crowded around Lobatchof, who was adjusting his receiver. He transmitted some words. The clicking of the key in the silent cabin was sending forth our fervent appeal. Then a stop. One minute. Two minutes passed—an eternity! We interrogated Lobatchof with our eyes. He motioned us not to move. Suddenly he took a pencil and inscribed, letter by letter, the operator’s reply. It was in English: We are sending motor boat immediately.

  Neither Ivanof nor Chapinski understood English. They questioned me. I translated the message.

  My two comrades gave vent to cries of joy. Lobatchof stood up. He asked me, with all the courtesy of an old officer of the Imperial Russian Navy:

  “Might I presume to beg you, my dear Prince, to take me with you? Of course, provided my flight on the yacht will not too greatly shock the Princess to whom I have not yet had the honor of being presented?”

  I seized the ex-officer’s two hands and replied:

  “Commandant! My wife will be only too happy to have you on board, you who are our savior!”

  While he was thanking me, Chapinski said to Ivanof, “Let’s go and make sure that our pretty dove is still properly bound and gagged. It would be bad if she should escape in the next five or six hours.… As for you, Comrade Commandant, I advise you to put your wireless sufficiently out of commission so that they will have to get an expert to repair it.”

  “You are right. With Madam Mouravieff around, one can’t take too many precautions.”

  Five minutes later, the three Russians and I went out of the signal station on to the jetty. The lights from the yacht were in sight. Hope relaxed our strained nerves like a hot bath. Lobatchof, with his trained sailor’s ear, was the first to detect the noise of the motor across the quiet waters.

  “The launch is coming.… They bear no light, probably out of caution.… But look out there, that streak of foam in the moonlight.… That’s it.”

  Soon the little white boat turned at the entry to the basin and ran along the jetty. There were two people on board; two black silhouettes, that of the pilot and, doubtless, that of the captain of the yacht. I did the honors at the iron ladder.

  “Ivanof, you go first. Now, Commandant, it’s your turn.… And now you, Chapinski.”

  They all three jumped into the boat. I slid in, in my turn, ready to thank the captain of the Northern Star. But two arms were stretched out to greet me. A voice, trembling with anguish, murmured:

  “Gerard!”

  I recognized Griselda. So intense was my emotion that I allowed myself literally to throw myself at her. My heart was bursting with joy. My eyes were filled with tears. The thrill of this resurrection to life and to love ran through my entire body. I clung to Griselda the way a shipwrecked sailor clings to the rescuer who has just snatched him from the arms of death. I hugged her so tightly that I almost took her breath away, inhaling that dear rediscovered perfume, delighting in the unforgotten fragrance of her soft hair. Then I felt her lips press close against mine. She kissed my mouth passionately, filthy as I was, in spite of my eight days’ growth of beard, in spite of my bushy head of hair.… And her kiss gave me back my lost confidence in myself.

  While I crushed her little hands in mine, she ordered the pilot to return to the yacht. My three comrades were seated forward in the boat. They were too discreet to speak. The prow of the launch cut through the milky water and cast up phosphorescent drops on either side.

  “Gentlemen,” I finally said, “we will make the introductions on board the Northern Star, when we have reached that floating asylum, where the laws of western civilization hold full sway.”

  It was a short trip. We were soon on the deck where Mr. and Mrs. Maughan gave me an enthusiastic welcome. The captain took my three companions to their respective cabins, and, acting on their advice, made straight for Constantinople. They were in as much of a hurry as I was to get outside the limits of the territorial waters and to escape the eventual persecutions of a patroller of the Red fleet.

  Griselda’s bathroom was a little terrestrial paradise f
or me. While I shaved with Maughan’s Gillette, Griselda, sitting near the mirror, listened to a brief account of my adventure. At last, she said:

  “Gerard, I have never undergone such a nervous strain in all my life! The first wireless worried me enough. I really believed you were seriously ill in Nikolaïa. And the thought of you, alone, without proper care, abandoned in that Caucasian village, upset me so that I counted the hours between Trébizonde and Nikolaïa. We came in sight of the port at eleven o’clock in the morning. I sent our friend Maughan ashore with the launch. Imagine my surprise when I saw him coming back twenty minutes later with a filthy-looking Russian who had begged an audience with the Princess Séliman. That man, who had all the appearance of an escaped convict, then gave me such a vivid description of your adventures and your condition that I was completely overcome. When I learned that you were incarcerated, exposed to the vindictiveness of a Russian revolutionary and in danger of being shot that very evening, I almost fainted. But you know that I always face danger rather well. Ivanof’s information was too precise to leave any doubt as to its verity. I accepted him as a faithful ally and relied entirely upon his advice. He explained to me that your only chance lay in buying Chapinski’s conscience with fifty thousand dollars. I told him that I would gladly give ten times that to save you. He went off in the launch and came back the same evening about six o’clock with Chapinski. While the latter waited on the deck, Ivanof came to my salon and summed up the situation in two minutes:

  “ ‘I have succeeded in tempting the local Tchekist delegate.… I told him that if he could bring about the Prince’s escape you would give him fifty thousand dollars. He accepts your proposition on the one condition that you facilitate his escape to some foreign country!’

  “Naturally, I promised to do it. He added:

  “ ‘Where are the dollars?’

  “ ‘I have them all counted out in this napkin,’ I replied, ‘only one thing bothers me. If I hand them over to Chapinski now, what guarantee have we that we will ever see him again?’

  “Ivanof explained unhesitatingly: