The Four Winds of Heaven Page 55

  His mother regarded him with only a hint of a twinkle in her blue eyes. “So,” she stated, “you have changed your mind. Very well, my son. But you will not be able to do anything right away. Even near Dzhankoi, in the north of our peninsula, the Whites who are attempting to hold back the bulk of the Red forces are nothing like the regiments you fought with against the Central Powers. And, like Sonia, you are an organized person who likes life divided into black and white. I’m afraid, Gino, that right now our world is in shades of gray.”

  He smiled sheepishly. How well she knew him, as did Ossip, his brilliant, cynical brother. They shook their heads over him, but he was aware of their pride in him, and even of a certain envy for his strong opinions and ideals. In a woman, such staunchness could sometimes be seen as rigidity—had he not often heard people speak thus of Sonia? Yet in him it constituted manliness. He blushed, thinking of Olga Pomerantz. He had begun to help her—and Sonia too, naturally—to try to improve her stenographic skills. The young woman could now decipher the symbols perfectly, but needed to increase her speed in the transcription of dictation. It had fallen upon Gino to read to her, and to Sonia, from articles and novels of his selection. One evening his sister remarked quite casually, “Why is it that we are now being deluged with passages of love scenes, while before you were intrigued by archaeology and chemistry?” Overcome by embarrassment, he had not replied. But he was finding it more and more difficult not to see, before his mind’s eye, the pure hazel gaze and the yellow curls, that look of intense interest which so moved him, when Olga Arkadievna listened to his stories of the front, or to his dreams and hopes. Suddenly it occurred to him that she had become the personification of those dreams and hopes, that when he wished for the purification of Russia, he visualized his country as a woman resembling Olga. He was happy, but also frightened. What if, guessing at his feelings as his sister evidently had, she turned her beautiful eyes away from him completely?

  In April, as if out of nowhere, a troop of Red soldiers came into Feodosia on the run, heading for the harbor. “The Germans are coming!” they cried. Gino said to his family, “That’s absurd! Trotsky signed the peace treaty at Brest-Litovsk only last month—” and his handsome ruddy face brightened with shame— “and while the rest of the Allies are still fighting valiantly for their honor, we Russians are officially at peace.” But in spite of his words, the following day two or three German soldiers straggled into Feodosia, then a few others, and, to the consternation not only of the resident population but also of the White and Red partisan groups, finally an entire battalion arrived. By then, the fleeing members of the Red Army who had alerted everyone had already escaped by ship. And, not two days later, Olga appeared at the Gunzburg house, her heart-shaped face full of tears, and knelt by Mathilde’s chair. “They have taken over the Crimea, although in the capital their emissaries have recognized the communist state. Now they are in Mama’s office confiscating her goods for their own people.”

  “My sweet, they cannot be worse than those Bolsheviks who were there before,” Mathilde replied soothingly, patting the girl’s thick curls. “Maybe they will even be better mannered. After all, these Germans are doing what they’re told, as occupants do, but they will not kill us, as the Reds might have.”

  “Olga Arkadievna is right, Mama. No matter how disgracefully the communists behave, they are usurpers, not invaders. I shall go to your mother’s office,” Gino exclaimed. “I shall tell them that if they send one grain of your wheat to their accursed country, I shall fight them for it! Your mother may be an exceptional woman of business —yet still, she is a woman, and this is a man’s affair. I have fought the Germans before—”

  “Gino, don’t be a fool,” his mother stated. But the young man hastened to his room, ignoring her, and dressed in his discarded Russian uniform. Reemerging onto the porch where his mother and Olga sat huddled in apprehension, he noted, with a sudden surge of cockiness, that Olga’s eyes were full of admiration and gratefulness. That was all that he had needed. He stood tall, defying his mother and rendering her helpless with his determination. He had fought many battles for the sake of his country’s honor. This one was for Olga’s sake alone.

  Mathilde bit her lower lip, regarding Olga sideways. What chance was there for them, for those two comely, good young people, who were learning to find love in an atmosphere fraught with dangers and difficulties? Love. It had not occurred between her and David, not for her; and her three older children had suffered and lost. Tears rose to her eyes when she thought of Anna and little Riri, of Ossip and the Tagantsev girl, and Sonia’s broken engagement… She wanted to say: Don’t even try, Gino, Olga. But instead she sighed, her hand still on the girl’s head.

  Gino was not quite certain of what he would do, once in Nadezhda Igorovna’s office. He knew only that he was outraged, that he had fought these people, and that they had broken a treaty. When he entered the wheat exporter’s office, and saw two men bending over her account books, his anger rose. “Get out!” he said in short, clipped tones.

  Two heads flew up, two common faces regarded him with open-eyed astonishment. He, Gino, did not choose to remember the son of General von Falkenhayn, who had died in his arms with such bravery, whom for nights he had imagined having shot from his own rifle. They stared with disbelief at the red-faced young sergeant before them, and when he withdrew a gun from his holster threateningly, the older man clutched his companion with fear, and exclaimed; “Nein! Bitter” They were both dressed as civilians, and pointed at their garb to explain that they possessed no weapons.

  At that moment voices broke out behind Gino, one of them the resonant alto of Nadezhda Igorovna Pomerantz, others harsh Teuton voices. Gino heard only Nadia, crying out, “Gino! For God’s sake—” He felt something sharp prod him in the area of his ribs, and saw that he was flanked by two German officers with bayonets. “I told you, Frau Pomerantz, we wished for no trouble,” one of them stated. Nadia shook her head, saying, “But this is merely our friend, who got carried away—” Her black hair, as always, was messy and badly pinned, and she appeared distraught and surprised by all this commotion. Gino looked at her, his clear brown eyes shining with both youthful abashment and courage. He saw that she seemed about to upbraid him, and talk to him as his mother had—and yet she was proud, for a young Russian had dared to come forward, no matter how foolishly. “Ach!” she spat out, and looked away. She was a strong, willful woman, but suddenly words failed her totally.

  “We simply can’t allow this,” the senior officer declared. “We’ll have to arrest him for disturbing the peace.”

  “You would dare?” Gino cried, in his perfect German. Now he turned to the colonel, and his eyes blazed with passion. “It is you who have broken the peace, the peace of Brest-Litovsk, the—” But he was being forcibly led away. His eyes encountered those of Olga’s mother, who stood motionless in her office, her brow wrinkled with anguish. Her face was harsh, and as Gino was marched off, he could not help being pursued by that haunting look, which signified so much, and which would never have been leveled at him had this woman not known that her daughter cared for him. She understood the brashness of his action as a Russian and as the man who loved Olga.

  He threw off his guards and walked away proudly, between them, to the Feodosia jailhouse. He had accomplished no good, had perhaps jeopardized Nadia Pomerantz’s relationship with the Germans. He knew that he had appeared ridiculous in his bravado. But thinking of the heart-shaped face of Olga Arkadievna, he did not regret what he had done, any more than he had regretted his charity toward young Lieutenant von Falkenhayn. Gino de Gunzburg was not one to rehash a past action. What was done, was simply done with.

  He was thrown into a large cell with a dozen other men of all classes and ages. He was the only one in uniform. Looking into the corridor through the bars, he thought of Olga, and wondered if she would come to see him, if she would be angry or worried. The glow which he had felt was now giving way to a more realistic annoyance, an
d apprehension. He remembered Sonia’s letter about Ossip’s imprisonment at the Fortress. Of course, his mother had no money now, no influence, and he had threatened enemy civilians with a gun, whereas his brother had merely taken some photographs in a military zone. So absorbed was he in these reflections that he was unaware of his companions. But he could feel somebody tugging at his jacket from the back, and presently a voice inserted itself into his consciousness: “Baron! Baron, aren’t you going to recognize me?”

  That voice! He wheeled about, his face alert, and encountered a most shaggy young man whose expression, both shrewd and humorous, brought him back to the trenches. “Vassya?” he said doubtfully. The other shrugged lightly, as if to say: You should know me without confirmation, shaved or not, after all we’ve been through… Gino began to laugh. “Vassya! What luck, finding you here!”

  “Luck indeed,” he said ironically. “Baron, if our luck persists, we’ll share the same grave. Why’d they put you here, the bastards? And—what’re you doing in uniform? Have you joined the Whites?”

  “No, not yet. I... stormed the offices of a friend of my mother, to get those Germans out of there. It was all very dramatic—worthy of my brother Ossip, and not at all like me. But—here I am. And you?”

  “Came here to do some livestock trading, and they grabbed my merchandise. Wouldn’t stand for it. D’you think they’ll kill us, Baron?”

  “I think they want to make sure that we feisty ones remain out of the way while they do as they please,” Gino said with bitterness and anger. Then, more gently, almost as if to a child, he said reassuringly, “But I don’t think death lies in our cards.”

  “Your Papa’d be right proud of you, standing up to them,” Vassya said warmly.

  “I’m not so sure. He might find the entire matter absurd. I suppose it is, too.” Gino paused and shook his head, memories flooding his mind. “Do you remember when I asked you if you had a girl, and told you I’d never had one? Well—I do now, sort of. If she ever considered me, she probably won’t, after this....”

  But a third person had come up to them, and Gino stopped, glancing at the stranger with quick appraisal. He was a young man, under thirty, with powerful shoulders and a massive head of black hair. His clothing was somewhat threadbare but well cut, and he possessed blue-green eyes that Gino liked. “I beg your pardon,” the stranger now cut in, addressing Gino. “I must ask you—your friend here calls you ‘Baron,’ and I couldn’t help overhearing you speak of a brother called ‘Ossip.’ You yourself are in a sergeant’s uniform. Are you, by any chance, a Baron Gunzburg, of Petrograd?”

  Taken by surprise, Gino nodded. “Yes. I am Evgeni Davidovitch de Gunzburg. I was in the army, and Vassya here was one of my men, until he too became a sergeant. Now we are friends. But you? You know my brother? Have you seen him?”

  “I have not seen him since the early months of 1916, when my father and I had the pleasure of dining at your home,” the young man declared. “It was there that I met Ossip Davidovitch. I had met your sister before—Sofia Davidovna. The first time was in Kiev, when we were children; the next… when she visited there as a young woman. My name is Mossia Zlatopolsky—Moissei Gillelovitch Zlatopolsky. I have heard of you, and knew your cousin, Tatiana Alexandrovna Halperina, quite well.”

  “Then it was through your father that Papa sold the Judaica to the Palestinians,” Gino said slowly. He smiled, shook the other’s hand. “Vassya,” he said, “this is a family friend, Mossia Zlatopolsky. A strange ‘friend’ to be sure, for his father is actually my uncle’s friend, and but for your insistence upon still calling me ‘Baron,’ we might never have encountered each other. Are you living in Feodosia?”

  “Not really,” Mossia said. “My family had to leave Moscow rapidly, because of the troubles. The cases containing the Judaica barely had time to arrive, in fact, before we had to depart without them. They were confiscated by the Bolshoviks. We went first to Kiev, where we had lived so many years, and Papa picked up some of his best sugar beets. Then we went south, waiting to see whether the Reds would come this far, or whether we would be able to recuperate some of our enterprises. So far, the sugar beets are the only remnants of what was once a great wealth. Have the Gunzburgs suffered similar losses?”

  Gino sighed. “My father is dead,” he said simply.

  Zlatopolsky regarded him thoughtfully, his blue-green eyes filled with compassion and understanding. “I am glad to have had the opportunity to meet him,” he murmured. Gino felt a distinct liking for this man and saw that Vassya, who was naturally cautious, had confidently settled his small, sturdy form between them. Gino drew a measure of comfort from the presence of both men.

  But now a strong, clear female voice reverberated in the passageway. “That’s all right, we shall find him,” Gino heard, and his features suddenly lit up with joy. He grabbed Mossia’s arm, and cried, “It’s her! My sister, Sonia! I wonder...” He did not finish his thought. He simply hoped that Olga would be with Sonia. But he looked at Mossia, and fancied that a strange green light had passed over his companion’s eyes. Then he squinted to make out the people that were coming toward them.

  They had come together, and the contrast between them struck Vassya most, for he had met neither girl before. The first was truly a girl, taller and stronger than her companion, like the sapling of a young oak. She must have been nineteen or twenty, with a heart-shaped face crested by blond curls, cut fashionably short. Her eyes were hazel, her nose up tilted, her color hearty and golden. She was clad in a sea-green afternoon suit, that revealed stockings and boots. The other was a lady, lovely and proud, with an oval face of pure white complexion, enormous gray eyes circled by thick black lashes, and pale lips below an elegant nose. Her hair was black and very thick, and probably, when she took it down at night, it came cascading to her knees. A timeless lady, dressed in black, to Vassya she was as beautiful as the carved face of a cameo brooch. Was she eighteen, or twenty-eight? He wondered. And then he thought: That isn’t the Baron’s girl. He’ll be choosing the good strong blond, who is like him, made of the earth, not a woman as breakable as a china vase... I’d be afraid to touch her.

  Gino, in his excitement, cried out: “Olga! You came!” and his brown eyes widened with joy. The girl came quickly to the bars of the cell, and took the hands that were offered to her. Her face, full of concern, eloquently conquered the last traces of reserve that remained between them. She raised one of his hands to her lips.

  “Gino, Gino,” she said, “we were sick with worry!” The basket of bread and cheese remained forgotten at her feet. She smiled, a trembling smile, and he knew then that she loved him as he loved her. They remained absorbed in each other, staring through the bars of the cell, and Sonia discreetly looked away from them. But as she turned, her wavering gaze landed upon Mossia Gillelovitch Zlatopolsky, and she was so surprised that her hand flew to her breast and her lips parted.

  It was he, smiling quietly, who broke the spell by uttering a low chuckle. “I’m so sorry I gave you such a start, Sofia Davidovna,” he announced. He did not seem to know exactly what to say, and she did not help him. A flood of color had risen to her cheeks, and she regarded him as though he were an apparition. “Is life very difficult for you?” he asked at last, softly, looking at the thinness of her. “I... heard about your father. I am so sorry, Sofia Davidovna.” He realized that he had just uttered these very words, and shook his head at himself. “You look lovely,” he added sincerely. “More so, in fact, than when I saw you in Kiev, and then you were resplendent in your Parisian finery. Anyone can look elegant at a reception. But at a jail...” His eyes twinkled at her.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded in a low voice. “Is your family in Feodosia?”

  For the first time since she had fastened her gaze upon him, at her Uncle Misha’s mansion in Kiev in 1904, she saw him turn away from her entirely, as if in the throes of embarrassment. She was struck by a dreadful idea: perhaps his father, whom he loved so, had been killed,
or had died, as her own had. Or had he committed a real crime, so that now he stood ashamed, he who had always seemed poised and self-possessed? Or... had something happened to Kolya Saxe, something he did not want to tell her? She cleared her throat, and smiled tentatively, and when he turned back he saw that this smile was joyful and proud, illuminating her translucent skin, brightening her eyes. Her haunting eyes...

  “Mossia Gillelovitch,” she whispered, “I must tell you that I have mended my broken heart, and that you needn’t feel afraid that I shall fall apart again, as I did in Petrograd. That business is done with as far as I am concerned.”

  Her soft-spoken words were suddenly echoed from behind her, “What is this ‘business’ that is ‘done with,’ may I ask?” she heard, and, outraged that someone had overheard her private declaration, she wheeled lightly on her toes and stood face to face with a young woman. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, bewildered at the lack of good taste of this person. Her echo, so to speak, was tall and willowy, with hair of a most unusual color, a burnished amber surely helped by henna. It rippled down the woman’s back, unpinned and unrestricted as a schoolgirl’s. Her eyes were black, her complexion olive, her wide, full lips rouged. She looked thirty, possibly a year or two older. She was not beautiful, but she was striking and very impressive in a dress of soft red wool. Nothing about this woman was understated. Ignoring Sonia completely, she turned to Mossia and addressed him in a voice that was both low and raucous, not unlike that of Nadia Pomerantz. “And how is my beloved?” she asked archly.