The Four Winds of Heaven Page 52

  “Complaining cleanses the soul,” Nadia Pomerantz asserted. “Besides, it does no harm. It’s better for the system than boiled barley.”

  Mathilde and Nadia were dining together in what had been the Gunzburg sewing room, but which had been clumsily converted into an all-purpose room by Sonia. Before going with Olga to a stenography lesson at the home of the Rabbi, she had prepared a pot of split pea soup with a hambone to flavor it for her mother and Nadia. There was so little time now, with the marketing and cleaning chores, to attend lessons during the afternoon. From an original class of five, the membership had dwindled to two: Olga Pomerantz and Sonia. But for Olga the necessity was not as pressing as for her friend. Nadia’s careful management of her husband’s business had included savings in Simferopol, while the Gunzburgs possessed only the remnants of the proceeds of the harvest of ‘17. Sonia attacked stenography as she had once attacked the difficult problem of Russian and French versology, and more recently, the problem of cooking. She had culled from her prodigious memory visions of the cooks at Mohilna preparing their own meals, which were simple but substantial. Soups and cereals, and thick bread, and milk. Anna had always enjoyed this food, heavily laced with garlic and lard (which the girls had not known was forbidden to them); Sonia had found it coarse. Now she found it quite bearable, and added the hambone without compunction: it was practically the only meat she could afford to buy, and her mother had never adhered to Kosher laws. God, Sonia reflected grimly, would simply have to forgive her. But she flinched at the notion of what her father would have said to her, his long, gaunt face saddened by disappointment. Papa, Papa, we must survive, she answered him in her mind.

  Each day the single Pomerantz servant would take the coach with the young women to the Rabbi’s house in a more modest part of town. But that evening, when they emerged with their books, the servant seemed more agitated than usual, and addressed his young mistress as soon as he saw her approaching. “Olga Arkadievna,” he said hoarsely, “there is news of much danger. A ship is expected tomorrow from Trebizond, where people are dying of the plague. And another one is going to dock, bearing nihilists who have said that they will murder all the burshuis in Feodosia.”

  “Then we must go home at once and barricade ourselves,” Sonia declared. “Come, Olga. Your mother is at our house. And you, Fedia. It will be better if we all remain together.”

  Her eyes, wide and gray, met Olga’s, and Sonia squeezed the young girl’s hand. The servant cracked his whip, and the coach started to move. Sonia said, “From the height of our hill, we should see the entire harbor. If the ship is carrying the plague victims, you may be certain that the soldiers on board will not go docilely into the quarantine building. They will more likely go on the rampage, and contaminate us all. Juanita has a medical book that I want to scan, for the plague is so uncommon these days that I cannot remember how the doctors handle it now.”

  “Johanna Ivanovna is a nurse, isn’t she?” Olga asked. Sonia merely nodded. She was thinking of the nihilists and of New Year’s Eve, so closely behind them. If only she could be reassured, at least, that Ossip was safe in Odessa, and that Gino was secure in one place, and not on the move… What with Mathilde’s weakness and Johanna’s hysteria, it was good to know that Nadezhda Pomerantz would be with them.

  She and Olga and the servant, Fedia, went resolutely into the Gunzburg house, and called Johanna, who had been in her own quarters. It was Sonia who spoke, and as she did so, her eyes remained riveted to her mother’s face, as if daring Mathilde to break down. But her mother merely uttered a single cry, and was silent. Johanna fetched her medical book, and she and Sonia flipped feverishly through its pages to the entry on bubonic plague. Sonia placed cold fingers upon Olga’s arm, and sighed. “It’s curable,” she murmured, and she saw Nadia nod grimly at Mathilde, whose eyes were dark with fear. “Now please,” she added, “it is essential that we keep our strength, and that you sleep as well as you can tonight. Olga, Fedia, and I shall work on the house. Tomorrow, we shall all need our wits about us.”

  Johanna de Mey regarded her with almond-shaped aquamarine eyes, which shone with complete detestation. But Nadia Pomerantz exclaimed, “I have two stalwart arms, and intend to help you. Do you small girls think to treat me like an old lady?” Mathilde half-rose, then sank once again into her chair. Her expression mirrored defeat and exhaustion. I would only be in the way, her eyes told Sonia, and her daughter nodded, uncharitably. They understood each other, and Sonia sighed.

  The following evening, the five women and Fedia were as well prepared as they could be. They crouched uncomfortably in the darkness of the living room, fully clothed and ready for flight. They could see the porch before them, then the cultivated garden which had been untended since Marfa’s departure, and at the bottom of the hill, the wall with its small gate. There were ten steps leading from the porch to the garden. Below the property stretched the haven. The garden wall was flanked by a wide path which led through the back courtyard to the rear door, which was the principal entrance. If the nihilists came through the garden, Fedia would quickly unbolt the back door, and the Gunzburgs and Pomerantzes could run out through the courtyard path; should the attackers make their way from the back, the women and their servant could escape through the porch and down the hill. Now they huddled together, in total silence, listening.

  The panorama of the harbor stretched before their eyes. Late in the afternoon, they had seen a ship dock, and now it was lit up like a festival of lanterns below them. They heard cries, but in the distance. Then the cries came nearer, whoops of celebration common to sailors who had finally arrived in port. The cries died down. Mathilde sat still, her eyes shut to the sight, thinking of David’s final moments, of her darling, Ossip, so cynical and delicate, killing the two soldiers. Sonia thought of nothing but the ship in port. Her fingers were laced together, her jaw tightly cemented. Nadia and Olga had their arms about each other, and Johanna de Mey stood near the back door, her body like the blade of a dagger, thin and sharp.

  Far off, a church bell tolled, and in the dark living room every pair of ears made out ten chimes. One more hour had passed. Beads of perspiration rolled from Nadia’s brow, and Olga touched it with her handkerchief. Then, the five women and the man were startled into suspended animation. Olga’s hand remained in midair, poised before her mother’s brow as the unmistakable sound of heavy boots reverberated from the porch. Without a word, they raced on tiptoes to the back door where Johanna had been keeping her vigil. But now the boots resounded here, and a knock pierced the sickening silence. Johanna cried out: “Who is there?”

  The voice that replied was indistinct, blocked by the heavy wood of the door. “Gino,” it said.

  Wide-eyed, Sonia regarded her mother, whose mouth opened. But Johanna reiterated, tersely, “Gino? Gino, Who?”

  Now a stranger sound came to their ears, the sound of joyful laughter. “Juanita!” the outdoor voice exclaimed. “Open quickly, it is cold!” Sonia grabbed her mother’s arms and shook them, tears of relief and amazement streaming from her eyes. Mathilde uttered a sob, and rushed to the door, which she unbolted, and a young man with a mustache, in khaki uniform, stood before them, tall and broad and empty-handed. His mother threw herself into his arms, and his sister flung her slender form upon his side, clinging to him. He felt himself pushed inside, where no lamps were lit, and where a pretty young girl with short blond curls and an older woman with disheveled black hair were crouched near a middle-aged peasant.

  “What on earth is going on?” Gino exclaimed, but his sister clamped her hand over his mouth, and dragged him down. She told him, in as few words as possible, about the ship from Trebizond and the other, full of nihilists, which they had been expecting. Gino shook his head. “But everything’s all right,” he told them. “I was in town. Yes, there is a shipload of sailors here, but they are not from where you think, and they are not nihilists. Haven’t you noticed that your street is lit? I knew how to come, from your letters, and when I
saw no lights in the house, I came to the back. Actually, this was the easy part of my journey. I had to make so many detours, it feels as though I have traveled throughout Russia. I was robbed of all I own, including Grandfather’s ring, at the station in Kursk. Then, near Kharkov, the rails had been removed. But Mama, I am so desperately hungry and thirsty!”

  “You mean—you are certain that we are safe?” Sonia demanded.

  “Yes, yes. For today, at least. But please, I am so hungry, and dirty and smelly—” But his eyes had rested upon Olga, and in his exhaustion he extended his hand to her. “I have forgotten my manners,” he said. “I am Evgeni Davidovitch de Gunzburg.”

  “Gino!” Olga said. “We know all about you. My name is Olga Pomerantz, Olga Arkadievna, and this is my mother, Nadezhda Igorovna. We are friends, although naturally you would have no idea who we are.”

  “But I do!” Gino cried. “My sister has written of you.” He turned now to Nadia, and bent politely over her sinewy hand. But it was the young girl who captivated his attention. His brown eyes looked her over from top to bottom, with obvious delight. “Friends…” he murmured. “I cannot believe it. After all those days and nights, I am home, and there are friends. But you have not heard—the Bolsheviks in Petrograd have disbanded the Constituent Assembly. Can you believe that it is now January 20, and that I left the army before the New Year? A week’s journey has taken me three times that long.”

  As he spoke, his weariness giving way to a hysterical energy, Sonia brought him hot soup, and bread, and tea. He paid no further attention to protocol, but bit into the bread with relish, and even slurped his soup. His mother sat beside him, her large sapphire eyes full of mist. Sonia stood behind him, her hands upon his sturdy shoulders, and Olga Arkadievna sat on the floor, by his feet, casting her hazel eyes onto his animated, virile face. It was Nadia Pomerantz who turned the lights back on, one by one, in the Gunzburg house.

  Chapter 20

  The Ashkenasys of Odessa had always been the most important Jewish family of that city, which opened onto the Black Sea and was separated from Rumania by the Dniester River. They lived in a two-story house on the Boulevard, which was a large avenue bordered by tall trees and a park, and they had been renowned not only for their wealth but for centuries of eccentricities. Their house, a veritable manor, was the first building on the Boulevard, and it was there that Ossip and Stepan were given lodgings when they arrived, hungry and out of money, from Petrograd. Siegfried Ashkenasy owned a bank and was related to the Gunzburg family through his wife, a cousin to Baron David. As the Bolsheviks had not taken over Odessa, the Ashkenasy bank was still operating as an independent enterprise, and Ossip was given a position as assistant to his cousin Siegfried.

  Odessa was actually the most southwest part of all the Russias, and one of the last regions to be reached by the Red Army. In March, Trotsky had signed a separate peace agreement with the Central Powers at Brest-Litovsk, and not long after that the Bolsheviks had begun to call themselves the Communist Party. Yet there were many groups that did not adhere to it. A volunteer army, the White Army, was gaining strength in the south. The independent Cossacks of the Don and Kuban areas opposed communist domination, and General Kornilov’s most faithful officers were entirely dissatisfied with the peace terms of Brest-Litovsk; many former members of the disbanded Constituent Assembly, mostly Social Revolutionaries, felt that they had been illegally shunted aside when in fact the national electorate had actually selected them to rule the country. It was from these three groups that the White Army drew most of its fighting force. The ineffectual last months of the Romanov dynasty had shaken the faith of most Russians; they looked, rather, to a strong parliamentary system.

  The Red Army encountered other difficulties apart from the resistance of the Whites. The peasants, it appeared, were not altogether pleased with communism either. Only the poorest found benefits to the new system, for the others did not want to give their hard-reaped produce and their livestock to city dwellers. The Red Army was not in a position to pay these wealthier peasants for their bounty; and so, frequently, to obtain food for the urban communities, the communists were forced to send the Cheka to the villages to collect meat and vegetables, fruit and grain. And nobody liked the Cheka, which murdered to obtain what it claimed to need.

  By spring of 1918, therefore, the communists, who were also moving the nation’s capital from Petrograd to Moscow, had many matters to deal with, and had been delayed in spreading their power all the way to their southwest border. But at the time when the thaws occurred, when buds began to appear on the trees facing the Ashkenasy manor on the Boulevard, a perceptible shiver began to ripple westward, so that the residents of Odessa looked with sudden fear over their shoulders, and started to pack their bags. One morning, Siegfried Ashkenasy appeared in Ossip’s office at the bank and announced that he, his wife, and their children had booked passage to Marseilles on a French ship, and were departing the next day. The young man regarded Siegfried with astonishment. No, I must not be surprised, he told himself. Why should they think of me, when they have never considered anyone outside their immediate family? Why should it occur to them to take me with them? They have already let me into their house, and they have offered me a paid position in their own establishment. So, courteously, Ossip wished his cousin a safe voyage, and thanked him for his generosity. He watched Siegfried withdraw all the Ashkenasy savings from the bank, and fill a deep trunk. Then his cousin said, “Take good care of our house, my boy. It’s the best in town.” Ossip thought: Yes, and that is why you feel so conspicuous in it, for if the Reds come, they will loot it first.

  Ossip was very annoyed, and also frightened. He was a baron, and the house which he occupied now, alone with Stepan, was magnificent. The bank was all but dismantled, and the Ashkenasys had taken everything of value. The Reds would march into Odessa, head for the first house on the Boulevard, find there the older son of Baron David de Gunzburg, and not believe that he was nearly penniless. They would murder him in cold blood, especially if it was known that he had killed two members of the Petrograd garrison in his father’s house. But what could he do? Where could he and Stepan go?

  Ossip had learned that the most savage fighting was occurring between Red and White forces in the Ukraine, just midway between Odessa and Feodosia, where his mother and sister had taken refuge. He could not reach them or even get a message to them. Maybe they, too, have managed to escape to France, he said to himself. And what about Gino? Would he have joined them, or would he have thrown in his lot with the White Army? There was no way to know. Ossip felt totally disheartened. What had happened to Natasha? Was he alone, left to die at the hands of the Reds, with only Stepan as his friend? It is useless to hope, he thought. All that we had is gone. My family, my country, my wealth, my position—and most of all, my love. In his agony, he sat down and wept, his head in his hands.

  Stepan had recovered, and was serving him, as always. It never occurred to the maître d’hôtel to ask any question whatsoever. He especially did not ask when and if he would be paid. Ossip accepted his sevices, but once or twice, in despair, he broke their unspoken pact of decorum and said, “I own nothing, Stepan. Please bear with me, if you can. But if you can find better…” He had not continued. Stepan’s eyes, so proud and dignified, had quelled his words in his throat. He is a gentleman in his heart and in his manner, Ossip thought, whereas Siegfried, for all his wealth and status, was a boor.

  Shortly after the departure of the Ashkenasys, Stepan appeared in the doorway of the immense hall where Ossip, alone, was drinking his morning coffee. “There is someone here to see you, Ossip Davidovitch,” the maître d’hôtel said. “I beg your pardon, but although he did not give me a name, he regarded me in the most peculiar way, as if he knew me. And I felt certain that I had seen him before. But it is most bewildering. He asked for Siegfried Evgenievitch, and told me he came from the Provisional Government in Samara on the Volga.”

  “Those are mostly the represe
ntatives of the disbanded Constituent Assembly, who have set up some kind of headquarters there, I believe,” Ossip commented. “But I know none of these men. Perhaps one of them knew Papa, when Milyukov was in charge of Foreign Affairs…”

  “Shall I ask the gentleman to come in?” Stepan asked.

  Ossip shrugged. “Why not?”

  The man who entered the room took but one look at Ossip, and his face brightened at once. He was clothed modestly, not fashionably, but his hair was very fair and his eyes so green that they seemed to reach right inside Ossip’s memory, so that he too sprang from his chair with a cry of recognition. “Vanya!” Ossip exclaimed. And the other said, “Ossip! What are you doing in Odessa?”

  Stepan, in the process of respectfully removing himself, stopped, and regarded the newcomer with raised eyebrows. “Ivan Aronovitch Berson?” he asked softly.

  “Indeed!” the green-eyed man stated. “Then… you are Stepan! I thought so, but…”

  “I shall fetch you some tea, sir,” the maître d’hôtel declared. “Or coffee? Ossip Davidovitch is having his morning coffee.”

  “I’ll take whichever is already made. Coffee would be wonderful, Stepan.”

  The two young men sat next to each other at the table, and Ossip lit cigarettes for them both. Leaning forward, Ivan Berson said, “You know, I had no idea you were related to the Ashkenasys. I had come to ask your cousin to lend our organization some financial support. I’ve been sent to prepare the people of Odessa for the arrival of the Red Army, and to obtain what reinforcements I can get. Did you know that I had been elected to the Constituent Assembly, and would be serving now, if…” His sentence died in midair. “I saw Gino, a while back, at the front,” he added.