Why is he bringing up Lenski? Karena tried to catch his eye with a glower. Lenski is the last person he should be discussing now.
“England is not backward politically like Russia,” Sergei grumbled.
“Russia is not backward.” Josef held his cup toward his sister Marta to refill with coffee.
“Not backward?” Sergei leaned forward in his chair laughing. “Come, Papa! In England, the poor are no longer bound to the landowners. The people who used to be serfs now own land. Did you hear me, Papa? They can buy and own land. Peasants are free. They have rights. They are no longer chattel.”
“Peasants can own land in Russia ever since Czar Alexander gave them the right in 1860,” Josef countered.
“In America, they call that sort of ownership nothing but sharecropping. The peasants can’t do anything more than grow their food on the land. In America, there is liberty to buy, sell, and travel. And you know what? Lenski says that Jews do not have to carry cards to show to policemen. Jews are free in New York. Lenski says they can ride the train, and they need not walk off the sidewalk in the gutter.”
Karena looked over at him, her fork in midair. “Jews can live in the finest areas of St. Petersburg if they bribe the right officials. And if someone important throws his mantle around you, you’re safe enough.”
Madame Yeva looked across the table at her.
“Who told you about bribing them?” Papa Josef asked Karena uneasily.
“Uncle Matvey. Tatiana says the same. Her letter tells of life in St. Petersburg. She even wrote that the czar will change the official name of the city to Petrograd.”
“She ought to know,” Sergei said wryly, “about bribing people, I mean. Uncle Viktor bribes everyone. A wise general is he.”
Josef lifted a hand in his direction to stop the family slander. “America,” he went on, “is another world, Sergei. Forget America. Forget England. You are Russian. Once you become a lawyer, you can buy land in St. Petersburg. General Viktor knows a man who will sell to you. I wish you were marrying the man’s daughter, Sonja. She will be very rich one day.”
“As for Jews in Russia,” Sergei persisted, ignoring his father’s words, “the czar may deny it to the British government, but he has a deliberate policy of persecution. When his chief man, Stolypin, was assassinated, did not the czar silently approve the pogrom against the Jews, even though the hysterical cry that Jews were to blame proved a lie?”
Karena remembered because the assassination had taken place at the opera house in Kiev with the czar and his daughters in attendance.
Sergei frowned. “Come, Papa, you know what I am saying. Czar Nicholas treats Jews and peasants worse than animals. At least his horses eat oats, and a veterinarian treats their ills.” Sergei pointed his hunk of bread toward Karena. “Karena knows this as well. The czar’s horses are treated with better medicine than the Russian peasants on the streets of St. Petersburg.”
“Sergei, you forget your manners,” groaned Aunt Marta. “Your bread drips butter on my tablecloth. One would think we had never taught your son how to behave, Josef.”
No one paid Aunt Marta any attention, and Sergei took a big bite of his bread.
Karena, indignant, carried on. “In Moscow, they’ll bring a peasant woman to have her baby at the medical school, then discharge both mother and baby in the dead of winter. Their grave is the snow.”
Sergei waved his bread in Madame Yeva’s direction. “Mother could tell us what the czar thinks of peasant women—especially Jewish peasant women.”
Karena looked across the table at her mother. Yeva had told her these facts and many more, but again, Josef held up his hand.
“Do you think I am a schoolmaster for nothing, my son? I know of such matters. And your mother knew these things before I met her—” Josef stopped, color coming to his protruding cheekbones. He smiled gently. “Ah, those were the days, Yeva, when we were young, were they not?”
Karena looked at her mother. Yeva’s eyes were on her cup of tea. She stirred slowly, deliberately. Her mouth was tight. “Yes, so long ago, Josef. One hardly remembers.”
Josef cleared his throat. “Marta, is there more tea?”
“Of course, Josef, a full pot. Here, Natalia, pass this to your papa.”
Karena nibbled her bread and considered Sergei’s words. Karena had seen Jews and peasants treated like scavenging dogs by soldiers and the gendarmes. In certain instances, Jews were forced to ride in a train’s baggage car, along with the unwashed peasants and wanderers. She’d heard people were packed so tightly they sometimes suffocated. And when the train pulled into a station at short stops, they were forbidden to get out to buy food or relieve themselves. Sergei had told her the Jews could not get off in any of the towns because “the good gentry did not wish for their offensive presence.”
“Enough of this talk,” Josef said. “Things are not so bad as you say.”
“Not on our land,” Sergei countered. “But many landowners flog the peasants just as the Imperial Navy flogs their sailors.”
“That was years ago.”
“They still do it, Papa. Little has changed since Czar Alexander’s reforms. You are one of the few landowners who treat your peasants as humans. What Mama does with her medical skills here in the village is unheard of elsewhere in Russia. Lenski says anyone can murder a Jew and it is called an accident!”
Yeva spilled her tea. Josef frowned. “You are upsetting your mother, Sergei.”
“I am sorry, Mother. But you know these things.”
“Yes, I know them, Sergei. But such talk does not make for a pleasant breakfast,” Madame Yeva said quietly.
“Murder is never a pleasant topic, whatever the time of day. And it doesn’t matter who commits it, either. Murder was committed by Policeman Grinevich. They hanged Professor Chertkov just three weeks ago.”
Karena tightened her fingers on her napkin. If Papa Josef asked him how he knew … To her relief, he merely scowled and shook his head.
“Professor Chertkov was a decent man.”
Aunt Marta winced. Karena looked at Natalia. She sat very still, her brown eyes large and watchful as she ate. She’d hardly spoken this morning. She’s most likely worried about her own Jewish roots and the persecution that might yet come.
Karena looked at her plate, setting her fork down. She would choke if she ate another bite.
“If you wish to keep speaking this way, you will bring us all down to the grave,” Josef stated.
Sergei leaned toward him, an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “Ah, come, Papa. You are a member of the local zemstvo. We have a right to discuss political matters with you. It is your duty to bring our complaints before Czar Nicholas.” He grinned.
As a land manager, Josef had been chosen by his community to deal with problems of local or provincial administration. Once a year, such men appeared in St. Petersburg, where the Duma was held, and they would send their complaints to the czar. “Our complaints might just as well have been ferried off on the wings of pigeons to who knows where,” members of the zemstvos bemoaned.
Czar Nicholas was an autocrat and refused to acknowledge complaints. Indeed, a complaint could be considered outright rebellion, deserving of imprisonment. Although the czar had in a time of revolution permitted a Duma to form, he’d done so with great reluctance and then ignored the body. The Duma could not make laws or change an injustice, and it became merely a platform to protest the czar and czarina. When members became too critical of the autocracy or of Rasputin, Czar Nicholas often closed it down and sent the delegates home, infuriating the Duma members even more.
“Seriously, Papa, I don’t agree with the Bolsheviks on many issues, and I don’t accept their tactics, but what are we to do when the czar is deaf and dumb to making reasonable changes in Russia? Who has answers to our problems, except the revolutionary leaders?”
“Uncle Matvey says the socialists have no real answers,” Karena spoke up. “Their changes are all merely external. It�
��s men’s hearts that need a revolution. Uncle Matvey’s beginning to think there really is a Messiah who will be born and save Israel.”
Sergei groaned. “He doesn’t believe that. I’ve talked with him. It’s all that study he’s doing on the ‘Zionist movement’ of Theodor Herzl. Uncle Matvey discusses the idea of a savior out of intellectual curiosity, that’s all. If we are to be saved, we must have a revolution.”
Josef’s fist came down on the table and rattled the glasses and plates. “Silence!”
There was silence.
A minute later, when Josef was calm again he said, “I will remind you, my son, that there is little I can do about all your complaints. While the czar has permitted the Duma and the zemstvo to exist, he has granted us no authority and will not meet with us.”
“You see?” Sergei crowed. “My very point, Papa. We’re nothing but his puppets.”
Karena watched her father with sympathy. Sergei constantly argued politics, but Papa Josef remained a stalwart defender of the royal family. She admired her father for having tried early on to make social changes. He’d joined with the other zemstvo members outside the Winter Palace when Nicholas Romanov became czar after the end of the repressive regime of his father. The zemstvo representatives were mostly from cultivated families, members of the nobility, landlords, and those who had made money as speculators and entrepreneurs.
The zemstvos had carried a petition asking Czar Nicholas to grant Russia a constitution. Nicholas utterly refused. But while disappointed, the zemstvos, unlike the Bolsheviks and other radical parties, did not desire to end the House of Romanov, nor did they want war with the autocracy. They preferred a peaceful path to freedom, in stages.
Papa Josef sighed and looked at his son. “You lack patience, Sergei. Eventually the zemstvo will tackle more general problems, like taxation, the infrastructure, and so on, and will engage in politics. Now it is not possible. Czar Nicholas considers such reforms detrimental to the cause he believes has been entrusted to him.”
“Yes, Papa, safeguarding the supreme right of autocratic rule,” Sergei said sarcastically. “To preserve sovereignty for his son. Patience, you say. Patience for what? to await the autocratic reign of his young son!”
Debate didn’t flourish just in the Peshkov home, it was everywhere and growing, though reserved for the inner rooms of Russian homes. It was plain to see the nation was divided. Perhaps they were already in civil war—a war of ideas, a cultural war that was as real as any battle, yet without bullets.
“Already my head is aching, and the day, how long and hot it will be,” Aunt Marta said. “Can we not eat in peace at least?”
“Peace, peace,” Sergei teased, “when there is no peace.” He looked at Karena. “Another verse from Uncle Matvey. He’s becoming quite a reader of the Scriptures. There can be no such peace, my sweet aunt. Not as long as the despot keeps us in chains.” He looked at Josef. “Papa, you think that ignoring Russia’s condition will make it better?” He shook his head slowly, with marked determination. “Remember when we were children, Karena? Natalia?” He looked at his sisters. “Both of you would cover your heads with a blanket when you were afraid a ghost might come into the room at night.”
Karena smiled at Natalia.
“You thought you were safe under the blanket. A true ghost would rip the blanket from your hiding place and get you.” He cracked his knuckles. Natalia jumped, Sergei grinned, and she picked up a piece of bread as if to throw it at him. A warning look from Madame Yeva stayed her hand.
Aunt Marta moaned, shaking her head. “There are no manners in this house, none. Tatiana puts you all to shame.”
Sergei began to mock Tatiana, picking up a glass with his little finger extended, dabbing his napkin against his pursed lips, and twittering.
Natalia laughed at her brother. “Ah, but what beautiful gowns she wears to the opera,” she said with a sigh. “And what a dashing colonel is committed to her in Aleksandr Kronstadt.”
“Colonel Kronstadt is not committed to her,” Karena said flatly. “He’s becoming engaged to her to please Uncle Viktor.”
“Oh, don’t even suggest such a thing, dear,” Aunt Marta said.
“Yes, Karena,” Madame Yeva said quietly. “You don’t want to start a chain of gossip. Words can sometimes do more evil than an outright attack.”
“Gowns,” Sergei said loftily, hand at heart, “will turn to ashes, my charming ladies, but politics is the mother’s milk of change! We may think we can go on living our lives without becoming involved, without making a decision about whose side we are on for Russia’s future, but we are wrong. More bloodshed will come.”
“I forbid you to keep company with Lenski,” Josef said.
Karena knew that Josef had forbidden this many times over.
“Papa, be logical. Whether you want a revolution or not, it will come. Even if I never see Lenski again, it must come. The time is ripe. The autocratic rule of the czar is coming to an end. His actions against the people of Russia must face the sword of ideas.”
“Talk of peace, Sergei, dear,” Aunt Marta said. “The more we speak words of peace, the more we reinforce the good that is all around us until, eventually, good will prevail.”
“Pardon my saying so, and I love you dearly, Aunt Marta, but I have never heard such rot. Try speaking good words to the stinkweeds in your herb garden and see if they’re choked out by your sage and peppermint. The stinkweeds will take over if you don’t attack them—tear them out by the roots.”
Aunt Marta shrugged in surrender and turned to Natalia to discuss her day at the college. When no one responded to Sergei’s words, he smiled triumphantly and returned to his food.
Karena caught her father’s gaze upon her. He leaned toward her across the table. It was his way to come close when he wished to speak seriously, as though by leaning forward he could hold her attention.
“Daughter Karena, you must be very strong this morning.”
The table became silent. She gripped her fork.
“I seem to disappoint Sergei with my lack of boldness. Now I must also deliver news that will disappoint you.”
Karena felt the gaze of those at the table. Papa Josef took an envelope from his black frock coat pocket and held it for a moment before setting it on the table with a tap of his finger.
She caught several of the words on the envelope: “St. Petersburg … Medicine and Midwifery …” Her heart turned to mush.
He cleared his throat. “Daughter, you will not be attending the Imperial College of Medicine this year. I know you have been hoping all summer to do so.”
Silence tightened around the table. Sergei stopped eating and looked quickly in her direction. Aunt Marta plucked at her collar. Natalia took an oversized bite of cheese, and Madame Yeva looked down at her plate.
Karena did not move. None of them yet knew that Dr. Zinnovy had agreed to come to her aid. She managed a smile.
“Something wonderful has happened, however,” she said. “I met Dr. Dmitri Zinnovy yesterday in town, and he’s assured me that he’ll work with Dr. Lenski to make my enrollment possible.”
Madame Yeva dropped her spoon with a clatter and stared at her. “What is this, Karena?”
She began describing Dr. Zinnovy’s visit to check on Anna’s condition, avoiding mention of the fact that Karena had ridden home in his carriage, as well as the reason Anna had ridden a horse. “… and when he finished with Anna, he wrote about a doctor he recommends for her.” She reached into her skirt pocket for the folded paper and passed it to her mother.
Madame Yeva was tense and silent. Karena took her alertness for concern for her patient Anna.
Sergei stared into his coffee cup.
Papa Josef cleared his throat. He smoothed his mustache with one finger, looking troubled. “That is all very fine, Karena. If Dr. Zinnovy can use his influence to help your admission to the medical school, that is good news. However,” he said and glanced at Madame Yeva who sat stiff and silent, �
��I’m afraid there are serious things happening now. War is breaking out between Russia and Germany, and Czar Nicholas has promised military help to France. These are dangerous days, and we cannot have you in St. Petersburg.”
Sergei started to argue, but Josef laid a hand on his arm for silence.
“But, Papa,” Karena protested, “St. Petersburg will be safe. And I shall be staying part of the time with Uncle Matvey. Cousin Tatiana also wrote last month that Aunt Zofia and General Viktor will spend the coming year in St. Petersburg. I can visit them and shall have all the care I need. If anything, I shall have too much care and not enough independence.”
“Independence?” Madame Yeva raised her golden brows, concern in her eyes.
“Mama, you know what I mean,” Karena hastened. “War or no war, I shall fare well enough.”
“War with Germany—a stupid mistake,” Sergei said, anger in his voice.
“Papa, I am not afraid of war,” Karena interrupted her brother.
“Not afraid of war! Then you have much to learn, Daughter.”
“I mean, it does not make me afraid to go to St. Petersburg.”
Professor Josef held up a palm and looked at her sternly. Karena knew that look and stilled her tongue. Even Sergei’s fork stopped, and Natalia held her glass of milk midway to her lips, looking at Karena with sympathy.
“There is always next year, Karena,” Josef said.
Next year. If I hear “next year” one more time, I think I shall scream. For three years now, I have been told next year, next year—
“And there are, well, other reasons.” Josef cleared his throat. “Our financial situation has not been the best this year. What money we can spare now for higher learning must go to Sergei, as firstborn son. He will be returning for his third year at the university.”
“Do not place the blame on me, Papa,” Sergei argued, lowering his fork. He shook his head. “I do not want to be a lawyer. I have said so many times.”
“Too many times,” Josef stated. “You talk so convincingly, my son, that you are well fitted to be the best of lawyers.”
The Midwife of St. Petersburg Page 10
