I felt weak with hunger, as if an animal sat inside me, slowly and steadily gnawing from my guts to my stomach. I rummaged through any cupboard, shelf or pot in the deserted garrison but found nothing save some mouldy pulses and rock-hard bread: in my despair I soaked both in rainwater until there was only pulp; I devoured it, but it gave me stomach cramps. Whoever stayed in this town would starve: hunger finished war’s dirty work, undermining your body once the spirit was broken. The Russians ruled the town like a trinity of fire, destruction and death.
Three days after the battle I heard a knock on my door, which I had barricaded with our table and chairs. The hour of curfew was close and I was just about to chop a carrot for some thin soup – I had dug for it in a corner of a vegetable patch in the garrison, like a squirrel looking for last autumn’s acorns. I halted, knife in hand. The garrison gates had been taken for fuel and the rest of the building was beginning to serve as firewood. I had lit a fire using cladding from the stables. Who could this be? Dusk and even the early hours of the night were still light, which made it hard and very unwise to break the curfew imposed by the Russians. What was my visitor doing out so late in the day? I hid my carrot and grabbed the knife harder.
‘Who’s there?’ I hissed, my ear close to the door.
‘Marta Trubach?’ a man asked. ‘I have word from Caroline Gluck. It’s about Johann.’
Johann! Was he alive after all? I thought of my neighbour’s cries and, even more terrible, the silence behind her door afterwards. I moved the table and chairs aside, hiding the knife in the folds of my skirt when I looked at my visitor. Outside stood a haggard man: for many Sundays I had filled his bowl with the rectory’s soup at lunchtime and had sometimes given him a forbidden second helping.
‘What is going on?’ My eyes swept the landing behind him. He seemed to be alone, as he, too, looked around carefully. The Russians had their own sense of humour, liking to cut ears and noses off hapless folk they caught in the street, or else branding them like animals. I had also heard stories of caps being nailed to heads or burghers who had had to run the gauntlet.
‘Johann is in the town hall. That’s where the priest’s wife found him. He is badly wounded and she’s not sure he’ll last the night. But he calls for you in his fever.’
My husband was alive. I hesitated for a moment: the town hall lay on the other side of town. Curfew was almost upon us and Marienburg’s ruins swarmed with Russian soldiers. Despite General Sheremetev’s strict orders, they raped anyone in a skirt, be it a seven-year-old girl or a toothless grandmother. But had I ever thanked Johann for showing me love and respect after Anton had denied me either?
The man slipped away. ‘I’ll be on my way. I hope you see Johann again before he dies.’ He hastened down the narrow flight of stairs and then out of the garrison.
Johann had taken me, and loved me, as I was. I wiped my face and hands, twisted my long hair into a hasty bun and wrapped myself in the cloak that he had given me shortly after our wedding. Underneath, I wore a long linen skirt and a belted, sleeveless tunic which I had embroidered with a pleasant floral pattern during my long, lonely evenings. Even if it was for the last time, and if God protected me, Johann should see me neat and pretty. He had given me some peace in life. Perhaps I could do the same for him before he died.
It was the least I owed him.
21
Marienburg was eerily empty. Afternoon had given way to a pale dusk, but the air still reeked of vodka, gunpowder and smoke. The roads and alleyways were torn open and I ran whenever I could, avoiding the worst potholes and hiding behind smouldering ruins. If I saw no one, I told myself childishly, then no one would see me. I held my cloak tightly to me so it wouldn’t flap and give me away. Soon, I found myself close to the town hall and felt relief: just one more dash and I’d be with Johann. I pressed myself against part of a blackened wall: all seemed quiet. I took a deep breath and prepared for the last spurt across the open square to the town hall and makeshift hospital. I set off – and was jerked back, smashing into the wooden wall.
‘Look what we have here!’ Three Russian soldiers grinned at me, forcing me against the timber. Their uniforms were dirty and torn and made up from all sorts of clothing, stolen, found or given – who knew? They all had teeth missing and the one who held me wore a dirty eyepatch. Pus seeped from the wound beneath and his hair was caked with mud and blood. The stench of sweat and shit coming from them made me retch.
‘Let me go, you pig. I have to go to the hospital,’ I spat at him in Russian.
‘To the hospital? Are you a nurse? I have a burning sensation that needs an urgent seeing to,’ he laughed, and forced my hand between his legs. I snarled at him like an angry cat, but he covered my mouth with his filthy hand, forcing up my head. ‘Of all the girls I’ve seen in this damn’ town you are for sure the prettiest, all clean and nice. And none of the others have complained.’
He forced me against the wall; my cloak slipped and splinters dug into my neck and back. I wriggled and tried to scratch him, going for his face and hands with my nails.
‘Damn it, Andrey, hold her. She’s a wild one. Juri, you go and look out for Sheremetev’s men. I’ll go first, I spotted her,’ he grunted, pressing my fists above my head and shoving his tongue in my mouth. He reeked. I felt bile rise in my throat and bit his lips as hard as I could. He shrank back, cursing and shouting. I tried to break away, but he caught me by my hair and yanked me back. Pain shot through my scalp and I burst into tears when he forced me against him, wrapping my loosening hair around his fist.
He slapped me so hard that my head was thrown to one side, straining my neck; my vision blurred. I felt him tear my tunic open and rip my skirt off.
‘Breasts like a wet-nurse and legs like Menshikov’s mare,’ he crooned while his friend grabbed me from behind. The man with the eyepatch lifted me up and forced my thighs open, digging his fingers into them. My tormentor’s breeches hung around his knees and he pushed into me with a single hard thrust. I screamed until my voice cracked. His accomplice turned my head and forced his tongue into my mouth. The first man thrust and thrust, laughing, swearing and digging his fingers into my backside. These would be the last moments of my life, I thought, the world closing in on me. Everything was erased by blinding pain. Then I heard Juri the lookout scream, ‘Guards!’ and he ran away as fast as his bow legs would carry him. The two others howled with fury when a crop hit them hard over their heads and shoulders. Horses neighed and voices shouted; the one who had been raping me stumbled backwards, his eyepatch torn off and blood and pus trickling down his face. I sobbed and curled up against the wall, so as to not be trampled by horses’ hooves, covering my head with my arms: how many men there were I couldn’t say for all the shouting and cracking of whips. A guard gave one of the marauding soldiers an uppercut, before grabbing them both by the hair and thundering their heads together. Their skulls crunched like gravel underfoot. It sounded like music to me.
‘Stand to attention!’ the guard shouted, himself straightening up. ‘For the General Marshal Boris Petrovich Sheremetev. Standing orders decree rape is punishable by the whip and hard labour.’
I made myself as small as possible, gasping and wiping tears, snot, blood and dirt off my face. Both my rapists tried to stand to attention. Hooves hit the cobblestones as a black stallion circled us. By the dying light of the day, I peered to see the face of the rider who towered high above us: the legendary General Sheremetev.
He sat straight on his shiny leather saddle: his silver breastplate sparkled in the evening sun and his fur-lined coat was fastened with a diamond-studded miniature portrait. I squinted to look at it more closely: it showed the face of a man. A blue sash ran across Sheremetev’s chest, but he wore no hat and was clean-shaven. His stallion reared as he ordered, ‘Cut out that man’s tongue and catch the one who made it away. Thirty lashes each with the knout should do.’
Ignoring frantic protests, the guard grabbed the already disfigured man by the ja
w, forced his mouth open and cut out his tongue at the root. The sight of him throwing the piece of pink, bleeding flesh in the dust made me gag, but I loved it all the same. ‘If you survive the knout, you can fry your tongue for dinner. If it was up to me, I’d add your cock to that stew,’ the guard told him.
My rapist held his throat with both hands, gargling, his eyes wide with shock. Blood spurted from his mouth and his knees buckled. Well, now he knew what pain felt like, writhing like a worm, I thought, and almost wished the guard would act on his threat and castrate him, though thirty lashes with the knout should see to that. The troop of guards mounted again and Sheremetev was ready to carry on. I tried to straighten up, but pain shot through my lower body and I cowered again. I couldn’t walk. How should I make it to the hospital? Johann had died by now, I feared, but I still wanted to reach him. Perhaps if I just waited for the men to leave? I tried to give them a weak smile as if I was fine, when the guard said, ‘What about the girl? We can’t leave her behind. It’s too dangerous.’
I froze. Sheremetev looked down at me. ‘Get up, girl,’ he said curtly. I swayed and felt blood trickle down my thighs. Embarrassed, I tried to cover myself with my tunic.
Sheremetev got off his stallion. The world blurred as the tall man came towards me. He tilted my face towards the white night and cursed again, then took off his dark green cloak and wrapped me in it. I had never felt anything as soft and ample. The fur lining caressed my skin and I buried my face in it, suddenly sobbing. Sheremetev mounted and reached out for me. ‘Give her to me. She is too hurt to get on by herself. As for those three rapists – fifty lashes each, twenty-five of them on their cocks.’
He placed me behind him on his horse and I held on to him. Sitting astride like that was painful but I leant against his back. The uniform cloth was scratchy; silent tears ran down my cheeks when I buried my face in it. I heard the soldiers plead for mercy, but in vain, as the guard lifted his arm for a first round of lashing. I turned my head to see as much as I could of it.
‘Hold on tight, girl,’ Sheremetev said. ‘We’re riding back to my camp.’
I heard my rapists scream until we were well outside the remnants of the town walls: the guard was doing his work properly. Was there some sort of justice at work on my behalf for once? When I took a last look over my shoulder at life as I had known it, smoke billowed out of the garrison’s ruins. The first flames devoured the last of the walls and the watchtower. The fire turned the sky a rosy shade of ash and made the horizon glow, giving Johann a hero’s send-off. There was no way back there for me, but once more God in His wisdom and mercy had let me live, I understood, just before I passed out.
22
Somebody gently patted my cheeks and lifted my legs; blood rushed to my brain and I came to, looking into the worried but friendly face of a young man. He raised my head by the nape of the neck, dabbing my face with a cloth soaked in spirits.
‘Do you remember what happened? You are in General Sheremetev’s tent. He has saved you from . . .’ he said in a soft Ukrainian lilt, and stopped suddenly, blushing. I meekly raised my hand.
‘I know,’ I said, and looked down, which made him blush even deeper. It was the sort of thing one was unlikely to forget. Was this the person who had stemmed the bleeding, washed and wrapped me in the general’s cloak once more? I tried to sit up but felt so dizzy that I grabbed his arm to steady myself.
‘I have to go,’ I said, trying to stumble to my feet. ‘I have to see if my husband is still alive.’
‘You are going nowhere. Marienburg is in flames. The people are all fleeing. Sheremetev will be here any moment and he wants to see you strong and healthy. When did you last eat? Are you hungry?’
I couldn’t care less about what the Russian wanted, but my stomach growled and I remembered longingly the carrot I had peeled hours earlier. What had happened to it? ‘I am starving,’ I said. The guard left the tent and when he lifted the waxed cloth that served as a door, afternoon sunshine flooded inside. How long had I been asleep?
I took a good look around: the floor was covered with layers of rugs. Their patterns reminded me of fabric I had seen in Vassily’s storerooms. A desk was drowning in scrolls and maps, and one of the three chairs around it was buried underneath a throw made of shiny, dark furs. I had never seen anything like them: were those sable skins? Next to my foldable campaign bed stood a chest studded with slate and iron bands. It was locked with a bar and chain: was that the war chest? Just then I spotted a tray of leftover food on the floor, right next to my bed. Had Sheremetev sat here, eating, watching me in my sleep? The thought troubled me, but I bent down and sniffed at the food like a dog. Some wine was left in the brass goblet, a slice of cumin bread was untouched and half of the white, succulent meat still attached to the bone of a chicken leg. I smelt the crispy skin covering it and felt ill with hunger; I couldn’t wait for the guard to return. Instead I lunged at the tray. I gulped down the wine and stuffed the bread into my mouth, crunching the cumin between my teeth. The white meat melted in my mouth, which was just as well, as I didn’t take the time to chew. I almost choked with embarrassment when I heard laughter at the entrance to the tent. I looked up, my lips and chin covered with cumin and crumbs, holding a chicken leg in my hand and with my face red from lack of breath.
Boris Petrovich Sheremetev’s skin was tanned and shiny, as if he had just had a shave. As befitted the victor of Marienburg, his uniform was freshly laundered and pressed, and his long black cloak had a big white cross embroidered on its back.
‘Well, that’s a good sign, girl, if you are hungry,’ he said, grabbing another bottle of wine from the table to refill my goblet. ‘Drink. It heals and helps you to forget. Believe me, I know what I am talking about. Next to a battle lost there is no greater misery than a battle won.’
He pulled up a chair close by, crossing his legs in their tight breeches and high, shiny boots. I eyed him from under my lashes: he was older than I had thought. The dark hair at his temples was sprinkled with white and his wrinkled, scarred face reminded me of the dry, brittle earth of our Baltic summers. Deep lines were carved from his nose, which was as bent as an eagle’s beak, to the corners of his thin lips. It wasn’t a mouth that smiled easily.
More chicken, bread, pickled fruit and sour gherkins were brought by the young Ukrainian; Sheremetev and I ate in silence, until I dared to ask, ‘Why did you save me, General Marshal?’
He looked at me warily. ‘I don’t know. I have seen it happen a hundred if not a thousand times, what happened to you today. Perhaps I am just tired. I have not been home for three years. Who knows? We’ll see.’
He leant forward, locking his fingers, as if deciding what to do with me. I shrank back. Sheremetev laughed. ‘No worries, girl. I have never forced a woman to do anything she didn’t want. What’s your name?’
I felt ashamed: without his help, I’d be dead, torn to pieces by those animals in the alleyways of Marienburg. ‘Marta,’ I said, wrapping the cloak tighter around my bare shoulders in the torn tunic.
‘Get some more sleep and then let’s decide what should happen next.’ He was making to rise when the flap was flung open and the young Ukrainian shoved aside by the tall, rangy man who entered the tent.
‘Stay, Sheremetev,’ the stranger said. ‘Don’t we always enjoy each other’s company?’ His hair was ruffled and the same colour as the coat of a stray dog, a dark, dirty blond. His features were blunt, almost like the dolls’ faces my father had carved from a log for my sisters and me. A steady, curious smile lurked at the corners of his thin-lipped mouth, and his eyes were so dark, you could hardly tell the pupil from the iris. Sheremetev sighed: ‘You again, Menshikov. Haven’t we discussed this already? I have agreed that you have the first pick.’
Seeing me, the stranger placed his hands on his hips and blew out his cheeks. ‘Sheremetev, you old devil. A girl in your tent! Now that’s a first. Have you finally forgotten that hag of a wife of yours? And are you not much too noble for th
is sort of hanky-panky? Who is she? Well, well, to the victor, the spoils, say I.’ The newcomer grinned and placed his hands on Sheremetev’s shoulders. The taller man’s fingers were covered with rings from their base to the first knuckle; gemstones broke the sunlight into prisms. Meanwhile, Sheremetev’s guard had steadied himself. Indeed, he stood more rigidly to attention than I’d thought was possible.
‘What do you want, Menshikov?’ Sheremetev said wearily, but he rose, standing between the new arrival and me. He wasn’t as tall as Menshikov but carried himself with pride. I sensed the guard’s concern; sweat glistened on his forehead, but Menshikov laughed. ‘The usual things. To eat, dance, laugh and love,’ he said, dropping into a chair that almost buckled under his size and weight. He eyed me shamelessly; I huddled into the cloak and lowered my eyes. Sheremetev went to gather some maps. ‘Do you want to take these with you?’ he asked, but Menshikov brushed this aside. ‘Forget about your maps, they are only good for lighting a fire. I have the best ones in my tent and will send them over to you later.’
‘Too kind. I wonder what you’re doing with all these maps if you can’t even read, Alexander Danilovich.’
‘Careful, Sheremetev,’ Menshikov said, sounding only half playful. ‘But let me get on with the important business here, will you?’ He tugged on the cloak, which I clutched in front of my breasts. ‘What’s your name, girl? Where did Boris Petrovich find you? I thought my soldiers had scoured every corner of this godforsaken town looking for pretty faces. Open that cloak so that I can see more of you.’
I met Menshikov’s gaze stonily and wrapped the cloak even tighter. ‘And who are you to stare at me like that? Do you really think I’d show you my body like a whore? Never. You’ll sooner see black snow.’ Who was this man to walk into a war hero’s tent and behave as if he could take what he wanted? I looked at Sheremetev to see if I had gone too far, but he coughed lightly to hide his laughter, studiously reading a map.
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