The Four Winds of Heaven Page 43

  Many hours later, she opened her door, and found to her surprise that it was twilight. She tiptoed into the drawing room but it was empty. She halted before her father’s study, and heard him cough. She smiled. Her hand was raised to knock, but she reconsidered, and resolved to allow him uninterrupted work. As she was about to walk away she heard a joyful laugh from inside, and a smile spread over her features: Mama was in there, with him. She turned to leave.

  In the corridor she passed her mother’s boudoir, and saw the flicker of a handheld candle from the room within. The door had been left ajar, and Sonia saw a form huddled upon the bed. She bit her lower lip, uneasily. Soft moaning reached her ears. She ground one fist into the other, and clenched her teeth. Resolutely, she headed back toward her bedroom.

  Sonia lay upon her pillows, and an absurd thought entered her mind. What would her father say if he learned that he had a grandson? She wept softly, then stood and dried her eyes. She went to her secretary, which she opened to find the small painting by Mikhail Botkin, and she took it in her hands. Silent tears flowed down her thin cheeks. Volodia… She thought of Ossip kissing Natasha, of his hurling himself from the rowboat into the lake, of Volodia holding her in the hallway of the Senate, where his father was arguing against hers. Then she reached farther back into the secretary and brought out a gold locket, which she opened. A young man, painted in enamels, laughed back at her with brilliant eyes. His hair was black and waved elegantly. Kolya…

  Perhaps Riri is the only grandchild that Papa will ever have, she thought. A piercing doubt filled her chest: Maybe he would, after all, have preferred the fruit of his enemy’s own children, rather than this barrenness.

  She fell asleep, her mind tortured by recriminations, by wavering faith and loneliness. The homecoming had not been sweet; it had reopened wounds the rawness of which had not softened, as she had thought they had during the long months away. She was twenty-five now, the age at which her mother had been carrying her inside her own body. She fell into uneasy slumber with her fingers clutching her flat belly.

  Chapter 16

  As soon as Sonia had become settled once again in her native city, she went to see her friend, Nina Abelson. Although it was fall, fast turning to winter, the normal brilliance of the social season was quite subdued. Apart from the few young girls who had turned seventeen or eighteen that year, and whose mothers gave them a small ball to allow them entry into a society from which most eligible young men had vanished, nobody organized social events. Most families had at least one member at the front, and could not consider dancing away the hours while their men were fighting for their lives.

  But, Nina said, there was a new fashion, and that was for girls to turn themselves into angels of mercy—nurses. “Everyone we know has become one,” she stated. “Naturally, there are those of us who are truly dedicated, and who are willing to go to the front, where the critically wounded are. Those soldiers who are able to withstand the trip to Petrograd are not badly off, some even convalescing. And many of the girls feel that the uniforms are flattering, and they enjoy flirting with handsome officers, bringing them flowers and goodies, writing letters for them.” She smiled and blushed, looking at her hands with sudden embarrassment. “But I am being cruel. After all, Sonitchka, they do perform helpful tasks. The men are glad to see a pretty face: it brightens their day. And perhaps I’m jealous. If I were not married, and tied to my home, would I not have joined their ranks?”

  “Perhaps not,” her friend replied, patting her hand. “I wish I could go to the front. But I tried nursing and I was a dismal failure. I faint when I see a bad wound, and so I cannot be useful. No, Ninotchka, I shall have to discover other means of helping in this wretched war. Are you doing… anything else?”

  Nina’s brown eyes flashed. “Yes,” she murmured swiftly. “But it’s against the law... so maybe you wouldn’t be interested.”

  Sonia began to laugh. “Something illegal? You, Nina? I can’t believe it!”

  “It’s true,” the other replied earnestly. She took a swallow of tea. “You know that the government considers all prisoners of war to be traitors. ‘One gives up one’s life, but one does not give oneself up,’ is the motto. And in the camps our poor prisoners watch their French and British comrades receive packages from their homes, to supplement the food—but they receive nothing. So certain ladies have formed a committee to find out the number of Russian prisoners in each camp, and to obtain foodstuffs to be sent every month. There is an office to take care of administrative duties, and to purchase the items to be mailed. And centers have sprung up throughout the city where ladies go to make up packages and wrap them. The Baroness Sokolova chairs our committee, and we are short-handed. If you could join us, Sonitchka—”

  “Oh, but there is no question about it! I shall join tomorrow, of course!” Sonia exclaimed. Her gray eyes sparkled. “You see, my sweet, who is to predict that Gino might not, one day, be a prisoner too? I could not bear to think him forgotten, dismissed as worse than dead by our government. What an unspeakable injustice!”

  “I know,” Nina echoed gently. “I had similar thoughts. For if my Akim were alive today, he would be at the front, with your Gino…” Her eyes filled with tears at the memory of her dead brother. Her husband possessed a white paper.

  Sonia went to work for the prisoners of war. She helped for three hours each morning and three or four hours in the afternoon. With the old Baroness Sokolova and Nina, she weighed white beans, barley grains, rice, flour, and sugar, and placed them into individual bags; they would add tea, tobacco, and cigarette paper, chocolate bars, a bar of soap, and made as many packages as there were names on the list for a specified camp. A hired boy placed these parcels into huge cases and when a case was filled he would nail it shut and surround it with metal strips. The ladies would then inscribe the name and address of the camp in red paint on each of the four sides of the case.

  Sonia also gave time to another cause. On Thursday afternoons, she would accompany Baroness Sokolova to the Winter Palace, where the Tzarina had transformed an immense hall into an area for the production of gauze bandages. Against the wall stood machines of different sizes which men operated with hand cranks, unrolling gauze bands of all widths and lengths. They would bring them to the long tables where five or six women sat with readied scissors, to snip off the loose threads on both ends. Nina would stay home those afternoons, for she had a household to run, but Sonia respected the old Baroness who thought first of her duty and last of herself.

  One evening, when the young woman returned from her work for the prisoners of war, she felt particularly exhausted as Stepan helped her to remove her boots and cape in the foyer. Her tired gaze landed upon two hats and overcoats which looked unfamiliar to her. “These are not Papa’s and Ossip Davidovitch’s wraps?” she asked the maître d’hôtel, to check her assumption.

  He blushed, which was an unusual reaction for Stepan. “I beg your pardon, but these belong to two of the Baron’s guests… from Kiev, Sofia Davidovna.”

  “From Kiev? Not my uncle Mikhail Goratsievitch?” But the breath had stopped in her throat, and she thought wildly: He has reconsidered. He is coming to me, to beg forgiveness, to ask if I will marry him in spite of everything… Oh, God is indeed wonderful. He is merciful…

  She turned her face, radiant, tendrils falling about her forehead, grateful to Stepan for being the harbinger of such good news. But he averted his eyes, and the smile, so pure, so loving, died upon her lips. Her heart beat out of control, inside her throat. When she lifted her misty eyes, she saw the young man before her, the one who was not Kolya. She stood, in her war outfit of black velvet, her eyes wide and dazed, as he took her pallid hand in his and kissed the cold fingertips. “Sofia Davidovna,” the strong voice said, with evident cheer. “What a pleasure to see you!”

  She blinked, and took in the tall stature of this young man, the one who simply registered in her mind as “not he,” and saw his massive shoulder span, his thick cr
est of black hair, virile and untamed, and his blue-green eyes. “This time, I deserve a recognition,” he murmured, gently deprecating.

  “Mossia Gillelovitch Zlatopolsky?” she asked, with hesitation.

  “None other. Your father has been telling us of your noble effort for the war. I wanted to enlist, myself—”

  “Then why didn’t you?” she asked pointedly, regarding him with eyes that shone feverishly, and removing her hand. She turned red, but continued to stare boldly at him, daring him to answer.

  He replied softly, “I am of greater use to my country this way, Sofia Davidovna. You see, I am second in command, so to speak, in Papa’s enterprises. We provide the army with metal for weapons. Papa now owns several metal works—and sugar, and even textiles, which will make blankets—”

  “How comfortable for you!” she commented. “For one million rubles a year, you work for your father, who in turn makes a profit of many millions. And how you will be remembered, at dinners and luncheons! While my brother merely offers one insignificant life. You are a hero, Mossia Gillelovitch. I admire you.”

  “Sonia!” It was her father, Baron David, coming toward them, his face bewildered and angry. He turned to the young man, and stopped in his tracks.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “My daughter—is not herself, it seems. Sonia! Mossia Gillelovitch and his father, who are in the process of transferring the headquarters of their enterprises to Moscow, have come to see me about the Judaica books. They are our honored guests. They have made me an offer, on behalf of the University of Jerusalem, which has not yet been constructed but is in the offing. Their presence is an honor to us and you will please treat them with respect.”

  “There has been no problem, my dear Baron,” Mossia stated. “Your daughter is correct in her appraisal of my situation. I am certainly getting off more lightly than your son, who is in the army. But it was not I who decided to stay, it was our government who decided for me. As for my salary, it is large, doubtless. But I do earn it. My hours are long and arduous, and business is good.” He said to Sonia, “Is the precise amount of my earnings truly that well known about the nation, Sofia Davidovna?” His eyes twinkled merrily.

  Had her father not been present, she would have turned aside in embarrassment and fury. But now, calmly, she met his gaze and replied, “My cousin, Tania Halperina, resides in Kiev, you know. She has always… paid attention to such matters. I believe it was from her letters that I learned this fact, which is neither my business nor hers.”

  “But Tania is not one to notice such details,” Mossia stated with a wide smile.

  All at once, Sonia laughed. “That is true,” she commented. “And Sioma, her husband, is only a third son, and tightly supervised by his father. You, however, are trusted by yours, and given free rein. The Halperins are not unduly fond of you.”

  “Probably not. My father is my friend. In that, and in many things, I am a lucky man. Although the beautiful Tatiana is a lucky asset for her husband that cannot be equaled in rubles.”

  Sonia’s eyes crinkled with mischief. “But you, Mossia Gillelovitch, would not part with your rubles for a wife— correct?”

  Once again, a shocked David exclaimed: “Sonia! What has gotten into you?”

  Mossia Zlatopolsky was laughing, his head thrown back. “I am pleased,” he said, “that your daughter has remembered one of our last conversations in the Jewish hospital of Kiev, three years ago. It was to that she was referring.”

  Sonia left her father with their guest and went into her room to prepare for dinner. Her dreadful misery had seeped away with the immense good humor of young Mossia Gillelovitch. Yes, she thought as she repinned her hair, he is charming in his way. He is truly a man. And she thought, suddenly blanching: He reminds me of Gino, and of Volodia. For, like them, he exudes self-liking, which is most different from arrogance. He is comfortable with himself. She clasped a string of pearls modestly about her neck, pinched her pale cheeks for color, and went into the sitting room.

  Supper was simple, but it was animated by the presence of the two men from Kiev. Hillel Zlatopolsky sat on Mathilde’s right, stroking his dapper Vandyke beard. His suit was elegant but subdued. His son sat between Sonia and Ossip, dominating them with his largeness and his sonorous laughter. Only Johanna de Mey seemed distracted, her eyes shifting from point to point along the table, picking at her food with ill-concealed nervous tension. She did not like the fact that Baron David, at the head of the table, was the focal point of the visitors’ attention.

  “What has happened to your sister, Shoshana?” Sonia asked of Mossia.

  “It is because of her that we are transferring our business to Moscow,” he answered. “After she was expelled from school—when you met her—she insisted upon studying for her baccalaureate examinations at home, on her own, without even the benefit of a tutor. Papa gave in, and she passed with brilliant marks. But not too much later she met Yosif Persitz, of Moscow, and became his wife. Or, should I say, he became her husband! Shoshana does things her own way. Her household is the first in that large city in which they speak Hebrew night and day. We spoke Russian at home.”

  “What? Not French?” Johanna cried.

  Mossia smiled. “No, Johanna Ivanovna. My mother, in particular, is very modest. Her family was bourgeois, not aristocratic.”

  “And yet, Russian as you feel, you are a Zionist, Hillel Israelovitch,” David remarked. He took a second helping of parsleyed potatoes. “I must admit that I cannot understand that. If you love your country—and I can see that you do—then why are you at the head of so many Zionist organizations that are purchasing land in Palestine? Why prepare to leave a beloved country?”

  “Ah, but times are bad, my friend,” Hillel Zlatopolsky replied, smiling. “I am a Russian, yes. But Palestine is for all Jews, not merely Russian ones. The German Jew is persecuted, so is the French. One day, these Jews will have a choice: either to stay and fight for their freedom, as you would advocate, or to leave for a land composed of their own kind, where they will be able to sleep nights without fear of pogroms. Palestine constitutes a necessity for the poor Jews, the ones who cannot buy privileges as, you will admit, we can. I am not even certain that I would leave Russia myself—but I would want to have such an option left if my businesses floundered. My daughter will go, I am certain, for she believes the Jews have suffered so much that they deserve to live in a country where they are the majority. Can you blame her?”

  “But Papa cannot believe in the need for a Palestine, when he is spending his life trying to better Russia herself for the Jewish citizen,” Sonia interposed. “We must have a nationality. What if all the Catholics demanded their own state, or the Orthodox?”

  “Dear Sofia Davidovna, the Catholics can turn to Rome to resolve their crises. At least you can agree with me on this point,” Hillel Zlatopolsky said with a smile. “I am attempting to convince your father to sell us the Judaica, rather than let it go to the University of Pennsylvania, for one important reason. Many scholars in America will read the marvelous collection of works in Chaldean, Aramaic, Assyrian, Arabic, and of course Hebrew; many will peruse your father’s Bibles and Talmuds, his rarest of manuscripts. But a Jewish state needs his books. It needs them the way a house needs its foundation. In Pennsylvania, young people will use it as research. But in Palestine—what can I say except that the most intricate and ancient masterpieces of the Saints’ works, handcrafted by medieval monks, belong to the Vatican, and I would like to see the works of our faith in the homeland of our faith.”

  “And your wife does not feel slighted by the amount of time you spend on behalf of Palestine?” Mathilde asked.

  “Oh, no,” her guest replied. He rested his gaze upon her lovely, full face with compassion.

  After supper, Ossip and Sonia served tea to Mossia on one side of the sitting room while Johanna, Mathilde, the Baron, and Hillel Zlatopolsky sat on the other. Sonia was amused, watching her brother and the young man from Kiev. They represe
nted such opposites that it was funny just to watch them—one so slender and elegant, the other so massive and strong. But she could not help feeling embarrassed in the presence of this man who must, surely, know of her humiliation. When Ossip had to leave them to dress for a ball, to which, in these lean times, he was rarely invited, she turned to Mossia, her eyes wide, and murmured, “I am sorry for my behavior earlier. There was no excuse. But—” and she blushed deeply—“the maître d’hôtel said that we had visitors from Kiev, and….Tania is not the only person I know there.”

  His greenish-blue eyes, surrounded by short but thick black lashes, gazed deeply into her own. “I understand,” he answered. Then, as he saw her mortification, he continued: “It would be better for me to be honest, Sofia Davidovna. Yes, I am painfully aware of what happened to your life— and worse than that, I know the reason. But you have no need ever to feel ashamed, either in front of me or in front of anyone from Kiev. Kolya Saxe—yes, I shall be insensitive and mention his name—did himself a grave disservice by not marrying you. His reputation suffered enormously. Besides, women like that never follow through. This one—forgive me. I shall not continue to torture you with matters better left unsaid.”

  “No, no, you must tell me,” she pleaded, her face drained of color. “What happened to the girl?”

  “First of all, Sofia Davidovna, she was hardly a girl. She was a married woman. Her husband learned of the… liaison… and left town with her. She had far more to lose than Kolya. Kolya, I am sorry to say, was a coward.”

  “So now—why… why?” she asked in a whisper, leaving her thought unfinished. She could not restate what she had thought earlier, that now he could return, make up for the time they’d lost… She could not, for he had rejected her in favor of someone else, a married mistress, an older woman who was no longer even a part of his life.