Look to the Wolves

by Look to the Wolves

The line kept repeating itself in his thoughts: If I’d known you were her friends…

  He hadn’t questioned Maltsev on it. Through – all right – lack of courage. Because one of the answers he might have given was – unacceptable.

  He’d cannoned off a tree. Rebounding – like a drunk – and Schelokov glancing round: ‘All right?’

  ‘Da, nichevo…’

  Picturing her in his mind. As if by doing so one might physically summon her to be there.

  ‘There it is, Bob.’

  The surviving wall was a slab of blackness darker than the emptiness around it; you could just make out the chimney, like the stump of a tooth up there. Flat, open ground; in daylight one might guess there’d be foundations detectable under the blanket of snow. But no letuchka here: nothing… He heard Schelokov ask Maltsev roughly, ‘What next? Climb up, come down the chimney?’

  ‘That way.’ Pointing with his free arm: ‘Over the ridge there, Excellency. About – half a verst from here.’

  Bob had closed up to them. He saw Schelokov swing Maltsev round – hands clamping on his shoulders, stooping to peer into his face. ‘In tents – or what?’

  ‘The old ruins there. The old house – I said… Tents also, but—’

  ‘Not this ruin.’

  ‘The old house. Much older. The people who were killed here – the man – they say he was born in it… No – that his father was. His father built this one, see – when he got rich somehow, or—’

  ‘I never heard of any other house. Or ruin. Damn sure Markov didn’t know of it either.’ Back to Maltsev: ‘All right – show us.’

  ‘Excellency – I said half a verst – it would be, from here straight to it, but it’s better we should go up through the forest and down on the other side of the ridge. So as not to leave tracks from here. She’s very – insistent, she–’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Solovyeva. She’s the mamasha now, since—’

  ‘Isn’t the doctor in charge? Karavayev, you said?’

  ‘Dr Karavayev died, Excellency. He had the typhus, too.’

  ‘No doctor now?’

  Again, the implication that there was only one of them. With the repetition, you had to accept it. Either Nadia or Irina, therefore. Spin a coin: heads you owned the world, tails—

  Unless Maltsev didn’t know they shared the name Solovyeva? If Nadia was using her maiden name, for instance?

  It wasn’t likely. In fact it was extremely unlikely. Clutching at straws…

  She might be alone here, Irina not here. Irina dead, for instance. After all, if a doctor could get typhus and die – and Dr Markov had contracted it, although he’d survived – extraordinarily, like this fellow… A nurse would be as vulnerable as a doctor—

  Schelokov was suggesting, ‘– go the shorter way. No time to waste – and nobody’s on our tracks tonight… Agree, Bob?’

  Sweating, inside his heavy clothes. Needing – needing desperately – that straw to clutch at. And – driving the brain hard, forcing himself to deal with this state of panic coolly, logically … For a start, it was conceivable that Maltsev might have had dealings with Irina, not with Nadia. If Irina was the matron now, her surname would be the one patients would be familiar with. They’d call her Mamasha, but any time her name was used it would be the surname. This truly could be the answer – because Nadia would be known to the patients as Sestritsa Nadia. Just as the two British girls had been known as Sestritsi Katya and Maria. And when you thought about it – facing it objectively instead of funking it as he had been – well, if one of them had been in line to become the matron, it would have been Irina, who’d been a qualified nurse when Nadia had only been in training. Nadia having been diverted into secretarial work, in the military hospital where they’d both worked in Moscow, hadn’t even completed her training at that time.

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes, I do agree…’

  About which route to take… Maltsev had been protesting, imploring Schelokov to go the longer way round. Schelokov had overruled him, told him to shut up… Adding now to Bob, ‘We’re not leaving much in the way of tracks, in any case.’

  *

  At that stage they hadn’t been, but shortly afterwards there’d been several hundred yards of open snowfield to cross before they were back under trees again. He realized that the longer, safer route would have taken them higher, in woodland all the way, in effect covering two long sides of a narrow triangle instead of this short base-line.

  Might have been better if they had, he thought. If one had known about that open stretch – and as a navigator, being trained to err on the side of caution… On the other hand, time was a vital factor. With – as likely as not – some cavalry force arriving at the farmstead tonight, and others – hordes of them – pouring south to invest the whole countryside… She – they – would have to be persuaded – somehow – to leave at once, and this wasn’t going to be easy. To persuade them to walk out, as it were, at the drop of a hat, leaving the letuchka and whatever patients were in it now. It might in fact be more difficult in Nadia’s case than in Irina’s – in Nadia’s circumstances now, having had her husband killed up on this front. Phrases from her last – final – letter came back to mind: such phrases as Russian to the last drop of my blood, and Face death in defence of everything that I love and value… And she’d written that even before Nikolai Solovyev had been killed.

  In contrast, Dr Markov’s observation: Letuchki have been obliged to abandon their wounded before this…

  There’d be ancillary problems too, though. Such as walking wounded. She’d want to bring them: but with about two hundred and fifty miles of countryside to cross – territory in which by now there’d be a great deal more Bolshevik activity than there had been a couple of days ago – well, to have any reasonable hope of getting through you’d need all your physical powers, mobility, endurance.

  ‘Excellency – we’re close now… Should I call to them, tell them who we are?’

  ‘All right.’

  They’d stopped. Maltsev called softly, ‘Hello, there! It’s Maltsev here – Ivan Ivan’ich Maltsev, bringing friends! Mamasha Solovyeva – two gentlemen here say they’re your friends!’

  Mamasha Solovyeva…

  Tall, slim, grey-eyed. That cloud of very soft, dark hair. The wide, full mouth and calm, unassertive manner… However much she may have changed: and bearing in mind that she may not know me from Long John Silver – in any case may not give a damn…

  Be here, my darling? Please – please, be here?

  They’d started forward again, down the snow-covered slope. There was a scent of woodsmoke. Stunted or half-grown trees here and there, but more or less open ground – which was probably how Maltsev had known where he was. Now, you could make out the shape of a tent: and other – tents, or ruins… A spark of light, then: it flared for a moment then faded into a steady, softer glow.

  ‘Maltsev? Ivan Maltsev?’

  Male voice: heavily accented Russian: or intonation, more than accent… Visible now: an odd-looking figure, down-slope from here, in line with the tent and against that radiance… Maltsev answered him – calling him ‘Ibraim’ – while some other person emerged from the tent, light spilling from the open flaps across patchy, half-melted snow. A woman’s voice then, as she straightened – shapeless, wrapped in a blanket probably – asking ‘Kto jhe oni?’

  ‘Druzhya, Mamasha!’

  ‘What friends, for God’s sake?’

  He didn’t recognize her voice, at this stage. If it had been Nadia’s he thought he would have. She wasn’t tall enough either. Didn’t mean Nadia wasn’t here – of course it didn’t… He called, ‘Irina? Remember Bob Cowan, Robert Aleksandr’ich Cowan, brought you out of Enotayevsk?’

  Two seconds silence: then, ‘It’s not – possible…’

  ‘It’s me, though – believe me… Is Nadia here?’

  Getting close to them, now, to the tent with the light in it – oil-lamp, or a candle. He
had an impression of low walls and sloping tent-like roofs – groundsheets or tarpaulins as roofing to makeshift shelters. The man – stooped, long-armed, with a physically crooked look about him somehow – was confronting Maltsev and Schelokov. Bob had stumbled past them and him, to Irina.

  ‘Irina—’

  ‘Robert Aleksandr’ich? Really you? I can’t believe—’

  ‘It’s amazing, I know. And for me, astonishing to have found you… Nadia is here, is she?’

  He had the impression of someone – old. Despite knowing she was in her mid-twenties… The darkness and the time of night, and the way she was dressed, of course… She’d given him her hand, rather tentatively. As he released it he was looking past her, searching the vaguely lit area near the tent’s opening…

  He heard her say – thought he heard her say – ‘No, you’re out of luck there, Robert Aleksandr’ich…’ Then before he’d had time to assimilate it – defences no doubt resisting, declining to accept it – she’d raised her voice, called sharply, ‘Ivan Maltsev! Come here, Maltsev!’

  Shrill, commanding…

  Now she’d noticed Schelokov. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Schelokov.’ He’d bowed. Bob told her, ‘Major Boris Vasilevich Schelokov. A good friend. He was with Letuchka syem when they were here, and he offered to bring me to find you. I couldn’t have got here without him, either… Irina – tell me, please – where’s—’

  ‘Maltsev.’ Hunched – in profile like this more of an old crone than young woman as she faced Maltsev – whose attitude was cringing… ‘Came across the hillside, did you?’

  ‘They made me, Mamasha. I’m sorry, very sorry – I tried to explain to them – your orders—’

  She’d slapped him. Shrilling into his face: ‘D’you want us dead? You fool, damn fool—’

  ‘Mamasha – I was obeying you, I wouldn’t tell them anything although they—’

  ‘He’s telling the truth, Madame.’ Schelokov tried to intervene. ‘We forced him to bring us – Commander Cowan having first convinced him of our – bona fides—’

  ‘Get out, Maltsev. Go away – and don’t come back! I told you – didn’t I – if ever you came that way again – didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘Mamasha, I tried not to, I tried hard—’

  ‘Ibraim.’

  ‘Mamasha…’

  ‘Get rid of him. I don’t mind how, but see he goes… Hear that, Maltsev? You’ll have no more meals here – that’s final, I won’t change my mind. Go away, stay away – d’you hear?’

  Bob tried – ‘We did make him bring us, Irina. We told him we’d kill him if he didn’t.’

  ‘Ibraim!’

  A grunt, as Ibraim shambled towards Maltsev. Tartar driver, Bob guessed. Irina muttered, ‘He’s been a constant danger. Hanging around just so we’ll feed him. I’ve told him to go a hundred times. Others go, only this one clings… And he was a Bolshevik – which we didn’t know when we took him in…’ Raising her voice again – Maltsev was backing away – ‘I mean it, Maltsev – clear out, I don’t want you here!’

  ‘Excellencies—’

  ‘Irina—’

  Schelokov’s hand on Bob’s arm: ‘Leave it, Robert Aleksandr’ich. If I were you. It’s not our business.’

  ‘That’s true enough. What you’ve come here for, God knows… Come in the tent here, anyway – you can sleep here tonight if you want – we’ll give you a meal, then–’

  ‘Irina – where’s Nadia?’

  ‘Nadia.’ Facing him – her face a whitish blur in the darkness… ‘Yes. Nadia, you’ve come for. Of course, you would…’ She’d shrugged, turning back to the tent. ‘She’s with my brother, that’s where she is, she’s dead.’

  *

  He’d whispered to Schelokov – to the deep commiseration in his eyes – ‘May not be true. She’s—’ he’d touched his temple. Having to reach for something, and her imbalance being – to him anyway, at that moment – so obvious, in her brutal tone, some kind of personal triumph in it… He wished he’d warned Schelokov earlier. He hadn’t because he’d counted on Nadia being here. Despite the anxieties, it had been effectively beyond the scope of one’s imagination that she would not be.

  Schelokov’s hand on his shoulder for a moment, gripping hard. Bob shook his head, muttered, ‘I’m all right…’

  Needing time to think. Establish a perspective, a frame of mind to cope with this – beyond the immediate, instinctive reaction which was to tell himself that Irina was lying, that it simply could not be true.

  She’d taken the candle from inside the tent and led them to a sort of lean-to shelter. Pine-branches served as roof-beams, slanting from the ground to the top of a five-foot wall of earth and stones and supporting a tarpaulin. There was a portable stove emitting some warmth from a residue of hot ash, and bits of old groundsheet to sit on. She told Schelokov – stirring the ashes and adding some pieces of wood – ‘This was a ward. We cook and eat here now. Only seven patients left. When they’re gone, it’s finished.’

  ‘When they’re gone where?’

  ‘Back to their duty. Where else?’

  ‘Their duty. Quite.’ Frowning… ‘But – the Volunteer Army – on this front, anyway—’

  ‘You’re not suggesting the reverse is permanent?’ She looked and sounded contemptuous. ‘You – a senior officer, to suggest—’

  ‘I’m thinking of here and now, Madame. The problem of finding duties to return to.’ He looked away from her – at Bob, who seemed as remote from them as if he might actually have been alone – or have thought he was. Or – praying… Schelokov turned back. ‘What about you, then? When in your view you’ve finished here?’

  ‘The same, of course.’ She dropped the poker beside the stove. ‘My duty. Another letuchka – or base hospital. Whatever’s wanted.’

  The candle was in a tin, the tin’s flapped-back top acting as a reflector, to throw its small pool of light whichever way one wanted it. She’d set it down on a wooden crate serving as a table, and now sat between it and the stove, pulling a bit of the groundsheet under her. Looking up at them then, from one to the other, her eyes glittery in that pale-yellow glow. Her eyes were green, Bob remembered, but no colour was noticeable at this moment. Like chips of glass, colourless in her dead-white face – sharp-chinned, triangular in its cowl of blanket. He remembered having thought of her as having a face like a cat’s: and Nadia’s quiet statement, They’re a little crazy, you know…

  He wondered if she might be lying, about Nadia. Whether he dared hope she was. She’d been intensely possessive of her brother, jealous of Nadia and – towards the end of the Enotayevsk expedition – suspicious of his own relationship with her.

  She might well lie, he thought, to keep them apart. And it would account for that tone of voice: the brazen and brutal lie, wielding it like a club.

  Schelokov was saying, point is, dear lady, we came to find you and escort you out to safety. I mean your letuchka, all of you. The Commander here came to us at Dr Markov’s letuchka – we were near Karlovka, and as you’ll remember – from the time you and Markov’s people were together at Bogodukhov – he had some British nurses in his team?’

  Bob cut in: ‘Was it typhus?’

  The cat’s eyes burned at him. ‘I presume you’re asking me about Nadia?’

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘A chemodan. She and our matron and the driver of the dvukolki – on the day we were leaving Bogodukhov. There was a hamlet close to us and they were on their way to say goodbye to some old people who’d obstinately refused to leave, and taking them some rations we could spare. Bolshevik guns happened to range on the crossroads just at that time.’

  A chemodan, literally meaning a suitcase, was the colloquial term for a particularly heavy-calibre shell or mortar.

  ‘Was she killed outright?’

  ‘Blown to pieces. All three. The horse and cart as well.’

  Her eyes were fixed on him, doubtless watching for reaction. But she’d
told the truth, he thought. You could tell, sometimes, it was just obvious.

  Except—

  Nadia – dead?

  ‘You’d heard of my brother’s death, I suppose. Saw your chance, eh?’

  He frowned. ‘As it happens, Irina – and as I think I heard Major Schelokov telling you a minute ago – we came in the hope of getting you out ahead of the Bolshevik advance. Dr Markov and the others were extremely worried for you. They’d waited as long as they could – in fact they’d hung on much too long, one can only pray they’ll get through… I’d been sent up to get the British nurses out, and they told me you’d disappeared up here—’

  ‘And you knew my brother was dead, so—’

  Schelokov intervened: ‘Why did this letuchka not pull out of here when you were told to?’

  ‘What d’you mean, told to? Who’s supposed to have told us?’

  ‘Army headquarters in Kharkov. They’d taken over your administration, hadn’t they. Orders certainly were issued – Markov knew of it, and he’d had his. That’s why he was expecting you.’

  She shook her head. ‘Never had such orders. To move down here from Bogodukhov – yes. We came down with a cart-load of our own patients and found Letuchka syem had left others here. Including some who’d died in the interval between their departure and our arrival. But perhaps we’d moved here by then.’

  ‘So the despatch rider would have found that place deserted – no indication where you’d moved to?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have left a change-of-address notice for Bolsheviks to find, would we!’

  ‘So it might have been assumed you’d anticipated orders to withdraw…’

  Bob asked him, ‘Did I hear you ask whether she’s coming with us?’

  ‘Hadn’t got quite that far.’ Glancing round at him, Schelokov winked. ‘Still a few patients here – we’d established this much, and—’ he turned back to her… ‘How long before you’ll be ready to leave, would you say?’

  ‘Leave – with you?’

  ‘It’s what we’re here for. And frankly, the sooner the better, because—’

  ‘Did you know she had it in mind at one stage not to marry my brother?’