The Midwife of St. Petersburg

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “And Boris has been conscripted into the army—just as we expected. The soldier knocked on his door just a short while ago with orders. He leaves tomorrow with the company of soldiers that just arrived. He’s going to Warsaw. The captain told Boris they need a veterinarian at the front. The officers are coming home with Papa to supper!” She entered the house and slammed the door, causing Madame Peshkova to raise a palm to her forehead.

  Natalia continued excitedly. “The younger officer is Colonel Kronstadt, he’s at the school now—asking questions of Papa.”

  Asking questions! Karena glanced at her mother to see her reaction.

  Madame Yeva looked calm, as usual, refusing to be caught up in Natalia’s emotions. “That is no way to enter a room, Natalia,” she chastened.

  Natalia looked abashed and disappointed that her stunning announcement failed to have a greater impact. “Sorry, Mama, I have been running.”

  Madame Yeva continued mildly, “Do remember that you are a lady now, Natalia. You will soon be married.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Karena suppressed the grin that tugged at her mouth.

  “What is this about guests for supper?” Madame Yeva asked. “Sit down and explain yourself.” Their mother’s emphasis on guests, rather than on Imperial officers who were there to ask questions, was typically hospitable.

  Natalia lowered herself into the faded brown chair, then folded her hands and repeated her news like a child for her teacher.

  “I was on my way home with Madame Olga when we happened to see Boris across the market square. He had brought in bins of corn to barter and sell.”

  Karena could see that Natalia had not deceived their mother about a chance meeting with Boris. What Karena wondered was how Natalia had managed to slip away from the widow to talk to Boris. Madame Olga was of the gentry class, and Boris’s father was a peasant who had done well. Because of this, he had been able to afford having Boris attend the Russian Orthodox Virgin of Kazan school. Boris, unlike most peasants, could read and write and had excelled in his studies to become a veterinarian.

  “And suddenly I saw Papa across the street at the college. He was with an Imperial officer who looked familiar. And whom should he turn out to be but Tatiana’s fiancé, the colonel! Papa noticed me and called me over. He hastily wrote this.” She produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to Madame Yeva. “He told me to bring it to you at once. He also said to tell Aunt Marta about feeding two, possibly three, officers who are coming for supper.”

  Alex was asking Papa questions! Karena’s heart raced with fear. Why would he single out my father? Alex and Durnov must be suspicious about last night.

  Madame Yeva took the paper and walked to the window, where the light was brighter.

  Karena exchanged urgent glances with her sister and whispered, “Did you see Sergei?” Is our brother in trouble with the secret police? her gaze inquired.

  Natalia shrugged and crossed herself as she looked anxiously in the direction of one of the Orthodox icons displayed in the red room.

  Karena did not follow Natalia’s lead and cross herself. The tradition used so often by Natalia and Aunt Marta had lost meaning. Karena wasn’t sure what she truly believed. Was she a Jew? Was she a Russian Orthodox Christian? Was she both? Rituals were many and varied, but they did nothing to change her heart. Knowledge is what I need, knowledge of the true God and not merely religious traditions.

  Unlike Papa Josef and Aunt Marta, her mother held no sincere interest in the Orthodox Church of Holy Russia. Yeva had been raised in Jewish orthodoxy, but she had given up her Torah and her “Jewishness,” as she put it, to marry Josef Peshkov. She attended the Russian Orthodox Church with the family and was considered a Christian by her friends in the village. Aunt Marta, however, complained that Yeva did not cross herself enough.

  “No wonder we are born unto afflictions,” she often said. “The Virgin notices, Yeva.”

  “If I hadn’t consented to baptism,” Yeva had once told Karena, “I could not live outside the pale, and during pogroms, the mobs would think nothing of burning down your father’s home and fields.”

  Karena remembered the time she had first understood what it meant to be a Jew in Russia and Poland. She was frightened and angry to learn that there were only certain areas in Russia where Jews could live, go to school, and attend synagogues. Even then, there was risk of sudden Cossack raids. The soldiers or armed citizens would come bursting into the Jewish areas to beat, loot, and rape. The pogroms occurred frequently, with almost any excuse. Sergei, with sarcasm in his voice, had once said, “They have their pogroms like they have their special religious holidays. It is a wonder the Russian Orthodox Church doesn’t have Persecute-a-Jew Day.”

  Recently, with assassination attempts on members of the czar’s government, the hatred against Jews had increased once again. The autocrats blamed the factory strikes and violence of the Bolsheviks on the Jews, who were all Bolsheviks, according to the propaganda. “The Jews control all the money in Russia and Europe. They are plotting to take over the world and run all the banks.”

  It infuriated Karena. For every rich Jew, there were ten gentiles who were just as greedy and godless.

  Their mother didn’t share Natalia’s excitement about dinner guests. She lifted her fingers to massage her forehead. The sight brought a surge of sympathy to Karena. She watched as Yeva read the message, wondering what her father had said.

  Madame Yeva sat down slowly in the nearby chair. The color faded from her face, leaving a sickly pallor. Karena went to her side.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  Madame Yeva shook her head and quickly folded the paper, stuffing it into her apron pocket. She drew back her shoulders.

  “Is it the soldiers?” Karena asked, daring to persist, noting her voice was tense. “I saw them this morning. They arrived early on the road. They requested land on which to camp and food for their soldiers.”

  Yeva looked up at her. “You said nothing about it at breakfast. You should have mentioned this to your father and Sergei.” She stood.

  Karena tried to sound casual. “It was after I left the table, Mama. After Papa told me about the letter from St. Petersburg—Petrograd. I went out for a walk …”

  Yeva caressed her daughter’s arm and moved over to the window again. She tapped her pince-nez against her wrist and stared out thoughtfully. Again, Karena exchanged worried glances with Natalia. Natalia didn’t know about last night, though she did know Sergei secretly attended Bolshevik meetings.

  Natalia had sobered, but excitement remained in her eyes. “Do you think the officers coming here with Papa have anything to do with Policeman Grinevich being attacked last night by revolutionaries?”

  Madame Yeva turned sharply toward Natalia. “Who told you about Policeman Grinevich?”

  Then her mother knew as well. Josef must have mentioned the ugly matter in his message.

  “Boris told me. The news is all over town.”

  Madame Yeva turned toward Karena. “Did Colonel Kronstadt speak of Policeman Grinevich to you?”

  “He was on his way to the village to meet a Major-General Durnov of the Okhrana,” she admitted quietly.

  “Colonel Aleksandr Kronstadt will soon become engaged to your cousin,” Madame Yeva said in passing. “We will have to wait and see. His presence may be to our benefit. Let us hope so.”

  Aunt Marta came into the room from the kitchen. She had little of her younger sister Zofia’s outward beauty. Marta was tall, with the same blue-black hair. “Did I hear you mention guests, Yeva?”

  “Colonel Kronstadt is coming,” Natalia told her.

  “The chief gendarme Grinevich was attacked last night by outside revolutionaries,” Madame Yeva said. “Imperial officers will be here for dinner.”

  “Oh my,” Aunt Marta cried.

  Outside revolutionaries? Karena glanced at her mother. Calling those involved last night outsiders was deliberate, Karena thought. Did her mother guess t
he truth?

  Yeva paced. “Sergei will get us all into trouble. ‘Whoever guards his mouth and tongue keeps his soul from troubles.’ ”

  Karena recognized the words from the book of Proverbs.

  “We will receive the officers with honor and feed the foot soldiers, as requested. We have no choice.” Madame Yeva looked at each of them, confirming her instruction.

  Natalia cast Karena a smile, apparently far less concerned over the purpose behind the visit than the meeting itself. “It could be entertaining,” Natalia suggested. “Wait until we write Tatiana about how we had Alex to ourselves for an evening.”

  Karena was aware of more serious implications. This would not be a social call, as her sister wished, but an interrogation into their whereabouts last night and any connections they may have with the Bolsheviks. She and Sergei would need to watch every word if they were to keep their lives. One slip, and they would be arrested and hauled to Peter and Paul prison for further questioning. Fear hovered like a hungry hawk, menacing her every move. God of Abraham, help us, she prayed. Then, uncertain which faith was appropriate, she added, Jesus, have mercy, amen.

  “So. Now I am a miracle worker?” Aunt Marta complained. “Am I Rasputin the starets that I am able to feed them? How many? Three? Four? A dozen?”

  “Three,” Yeva said. “But there will be foot soldiers as well. Mush will be good enough for them, and maybe some cabbage soup.”

  “They say there are three officers. Who can believe it until they walk in? The hens, they are barren, I tell you. The hens, they do not lay eggs enough to feed so many. For breakfast, I had hardly enough for Josef and Sergei. And now am I also to feed at least three Imperial officers?” Aunt Marta crossed herself. “They will be starving. They always are. What am I to do?”

  “Let them eat cake,” Natalia quipped.

  Aunt Marta cast her a scolding glance.

  “Natalia, do be serious,” Madame Yeva said.

  “Don’t mind her,” Karena said lightly. “She has been studying the French Revolution.”

  “Revolution? What about hens? I will need eggs, Yeva,” Marta insisted.

  Karena wondered why this summer had opened the door for pessimism and discontent in so many hearts. Even the hens had become a subject of hopelessness for Marta.

  “Then we will make cabbage soup,” Yeva suggested absently, still pacing and rubbing her forehead.

  “Oh, Mama,” Natalia groaned. “Peasant food! Where is our social pride? And with Tatiana’s handsome Colonel Kronstadt here? I will blush when next I see her if we serve him cabbage and onions.”

  “I am most sure this will not be the social call you imagine, Natalia. And you have grown spoiled. Cabbage soup on the table of the hungry would bring praise to the saints.”

  “But peasant food, Mama! And for the czar’s Imperial officers? Colonel Kronstadt is the son of Countess Shashenka.”

  “Imperial officers or peasants—who cares?” Aunt Marta said. “They are all trampling beasts, but one thing I know,” she said and tapped the side of her head. “Russian officers of His Imperial Majesty expect many eggs and much bread. And vodka. I expect they will want butter these days too. Who can please such men? I do not feel these Imperial servants of the czar will appreciate my special cabbage soup, though I admit my onions add a special zest. Ah well. I shall do my best,” Aunt Marta said, turning her shoulder toward them. “It is all the czar can expect of me, some eggs. But”—she shook her finger toward Natalia, who smiled fondly at her—“there will be no cake.”

  Natalia jumped to her feet. “Oh, but we must have little cakes. For Boris, if not for the czar’s officers.” She looked pleadingly from Marta to her mother. “I will not see him for a long time!” she pleaded.

  “Then you persuade the hens to lay me six more eggs,” Aunt Marta told her. “I cannot make cakes without eggs.”

  Madame Yeva held up her hand to show the discussion must end. “Do what you can, Marta.”

  “We can borrow eggs from Uncle Matvey and Grandmother Jilinsky,” Karena suggested. “They usually have more than they need. I am on my way to deliver his medicine. I shall ask.”

  “Yes, why did I not think of it?” Aunt Marta said as she headed back toward her kitchen. “I lack adequate time to prepare this meal, so hurry, Karena,” she called over her shoulder. Soon pots and pans rattled, and the prized family glassware tinkled precariously. Karena and Natalia exchanged glances and held their breath. Thankfully, the glassware that was to be shared between them when they married remained unbroken.

  “Natalia! I need your help,” Aunt Marta called, and Natalia went to the kitchen.

  When they were alone again, Madame Yeva hurried to Karena. The pallor on her high cheekbones was a warning.

  “Your brother—”

  Her mother tried to make her voice sound normal, but the attempt was unsuccessful.

  Your brother. It was always Sergei. Sergei, who had once again managed to bring heightened concerns to the family.

  “Sergei is with Ilya in the fields. Go to him. Tell him to come home at once. It is his father’s command. It is most important.”

  The dismay in her mother’s eyes confirmed Karena’s worst fears.

  “And Policeman Grinevich?” Karena asked in a low voice.

  Madame Yeva closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. “He has broken ribs and a concussion.”

  Karena shuddered, remembering.

  “The attack last night was most bitter,” Madame Yeva whispered. “I’m desperately afraid Sergei will be blamed. Grinevich may identify Sergei. This is your father’s chief fear.”

  Karena’s mouth went dry. Her heart beat faster, and her stomach felt sick. He was there. And so was I.

  “Let’s hope the men involved wore masks,” Madame Yeva murmured to herself. “They do when they beat someone—if it is planned. It’s all horrible. They must have planned to get Policeman Grinevich.”

  She looked at Karena a long moment. “There was a full moon last night,” she said thoughtfully. “Let us hope Sergei was not there, but I have no such confidence, Karena. We both know him.”

  Karena bit her lip. I am merely keeping back what will bring her more pain. Dr. Zinnovy warned me to keep silent. If anyone understood the risks, it was Dr. Zinnovy. In this situation she would follow his advice.

  “Mama,” she whispered, “tell me, please, what was in the message Natalia brought from Papa? What did he say?”

  “Policeman Leonovich telegraphed the authorities in Kiev last night after the attack on Grinevich. There was already a company of soldiers riding this direction on their way to Warsaw. Your father expects more arrests.”

  More arrests. Fear jumped to Karena’s throat. If they questioned Sergei, what would he say? Could he convince them he was not there? Would he even try? And what about herself?

  “And now some of these very soldiers will billet here on Peshkov land,” Madame Yeva said. “Matters are turning severe. Your papa is very worried.”

  “Then the officers are coming here to interrogate us?”

  “Most assuredly, they will ask questions. Your father wants Sergei prepared to deny he was at the meeting last night. At any and all costs.”

  “Have they arrested anyone else? anyone who may have seen who was at the meeting?”

  Madame Peshkova’s lips tightened. “It is too soon to know, but we must take precautions. Josef has a plan to try to protect Sergei. I can tell you no more now. But all this is very serious, and your father may pay a heavy price.”

  Karena looked at her for a horrified moment. She nodded in silence, then hurried into the front hall, anxious and uncertain. She caught up her blue headscarf from the hall table, intent on finding Sergei. Afterward she would go to the bungalow to tell Uncle Matvey the dark news.

  A plan to protect Sergei … What could it be?

  ELEVEN

  Winds of Change

  Karena left the manor house and hurried down the porch steps and across the f
ront yard toward Uncle Matvey’s bungalow. The wind kicked up, and she felt the warmth embrace her. Straight ahead, she could see the bungalow with peasants hard at work in the surrounding fields and, in the distance, silos and barns silhouetted against a clear August sky.

  She did not see Uncle Matvey sitting out on the porch as he often did when writing, nor was Ilya about; perhaps he was still with Sergei in the fields overseeing the peasant workers. In a few days, most of them would be conscripts in the army and be replaced by their fathers. The older women worked alongside the young girls; they lived in thatch huts on the other side of the field where a small river flowed. The women worked a communal plot of land where they grew their food and shared it according to the mouths to feed in a particular family.

  Individual ownership and thought were not prevalent. The concept of the rugged individualist was not part of their culture. They worked alongside their men, bent over for hours, uncomplaining, their blue head scarves reminding Karena of faded cornflowers.

  Karena was used to the sight of the peasants working long and hard days and thought little about it, though Grandmother Jilinsky wondered with a shake of her head how they could endure. “If I bent over for more than five minutes at a time, I would not be able to straighten again.”

  Karena reached the field nearest the bungalow and saw Sergei, who looked her way and waved. She beckoned him to come. He walked toward her carrying a sickle over his shoulder.

  She waited, breathing the fragrance of earth and ripened wheat.

  He came up, taking out a kerchief to wipe his face and neck, soiled with harvest dust and sweat. He slapped at an insect.

  “Sergei the farmer,” she teased, knowing he balked at the notion. “You should take over the lands after Papa. You could marry Anna and have many children.”

  He laughed, showing white teeth. He always seemed to know when she was teasing him. “Papa wants me to become a lawyer, remember?” he goaded back. “The only thing I like about farming is eating the harvest. It is you who will stay here and marry Ilya and have many children. But I am full of rebellion. ‘Sergei the radical!’ ” His brown eyes were humorously challenging.