The Four Winds of Heaven Read online

  “I was counting on your customary heartiness to sweeten the dregs,” Afanassiev remonstrated. But he knew that his friend had not been himself for many months.

  Gino did not smile. He was feeling the weight of his youth, more strenuous to bear than old age. Regeneration had always taken place for him with a new dawn. Nothing that had occurred yesterday haunted Gino today. But since Olga’s death, his beliefs had been, if not shattered, at least shaken loose. He did not feel self-pity, but rather the absence of hope.

  There was a freezing wind moving through the troop carrier Don, and the men hugged their clothing tightly around them. A strong gust blew away Gino’s cap, and he was not quick enough to retrieve it. He pressed his hands to his ears, aching with cold. Afanassiev said, “Put your head inside your cloak.”

  But try as he might, Gino could not hide from the icy wind of the Black Sea. Soon he was shivering, and his teeth chattered. His cheeks rapidly grew red with fever, and he lay down, breathing raspily. “It’s going to be all right,” Afanassiev soothed, lying down beside him. “They say we are to stop in Constantinople. We can disembark if we can find someone there to take us off the ship, officially. Your family was in the diplomatic corps—don’t you have any connections in Constantinople?”

  Huddling inside his coat, perspiring profusely, Gino replied, “Yes, the former Ambassador to Turkey, Tcharykov. His wife was a friend of my mother. She is deceased now, but he is still in Constantinople—as head of the Red Cross delegation. I have no idea of his address, however.”

  “Someone that important can always be found,” Afanassiev said.

  A storm had swept out of the sea, but Gino was hardly aware of it, for a high fever shook him and made him delirious. Afanassiev bent over him, fearing pneumonia. But it had come on so suddenly! He covered Gino with his own coat, but soon he too began to shiver, and he crawled beside his friend, hoping to warm him with the heat of his own body. Hours passed. Finally there was an announcement that the ship was docking at Constantinople. It was the middle of the night. Afanassiev tapped Gino on the shoulder and said, “Tell me your message for this Tcharykov. I can write the letter for you.”

  “Thank you, Boris,” Gino breathed. He knew now how the young German officer, von Falkenhayn, must have felt, dictating his last message. Such gloomy thoughts would normally have elicited mirth in himself, at his own absurdity. Now he merely allowed his head to clear before composing the words to the former Ambassador of the Tzar.

  I am on the troop carrier Don, without funds, and I have become very ill. There is almost no food, and we are cramped. I may be taken from here by anyone who can officially vouch for me. We are headed for Gallipoli. Please help me. Thank you. Evgeni Davidovitch de Gunzburg.

  He could not sign, for he had lost consciousness when Afanassiev finished writing on the small, creased notepaper which he found in Gino’s coat pocket. He added himself, for the benefit of Tcharykov, “Baron de Gunzburg has lost his cap, and may have caught pneumonia resulting from a severe chill. I have written these words under his dictation. Sergeant Boris Ivanovitch Afanassiev, Seventh Regiment.” He gave the note to one of the men going ashore, begging him to attempt to locate this well-known Russian in Constantinople.

  Ex-Ambassador Anatoly Tcharykov was widowed, and lived in a sumptuous mansion on the Pera road. He felt, however, that the climate in Turkey was turning to sympathy with the communists, and had decided that since he could not reintegrate his own country, he would go to Rome. When the note arrived from Gino, he was in his study with his secretary, his wife’s nephew Yenudinia, packing the remainder of his collection of books. Georgi Yenudinia had long known the Gunzburgs, and was of the same age as the Gunzburg children. He had danced with Sonia at balls, had spent many evenings playing chess with Ossip during their school days. He was older than Gino, but remembered him warmly. When his uncle read the dirty, weather-beaten note, and handed it to Yenudinia, the latter exclaimed, “We must fetch him right now. He must be very badly off to appeal to us in such manner.”

  But Anatoly Tcharykov shook his head. He had never particularly liked the Gunzburgs. His wife, Vera, had befriended Mathilde years ago, when Baron David had worked under Vera’s father, Ivanov, at the Ministry of Education. Tcharykov had always felt excluded by the intimacy between his wife’s family and the Gunzburgs. Now he declared, “It is the middle of the night, and you and I are planning a departure. There is much to do. Tomorrow morning, you can go to the boy’s mother. She and his sister are residing in one of the hotels nearby. They can do more for Gino than we can.”

  “I could go to find them now,” Yenudinia offered.

  “I am paying you a salary,” his uncle replied coldly, “and it is late. I want you here, with me, and not out in the streets. The ladies are sleeping now, in any event, and would not wish to be disturbed until the morning. What is the rush? He will not die overnight. We have numerous problems to contend with; Gino de Gunzburg is only one of many. Do not argue a moot point, my boy.”

  Georgi Yenudinia remembered the quiet evenings when Mathilde Yureyevna would calmly listen to his plans, would encourage his ambitions. He thought of pretty little Sonia, a woman of thirty today, who would not even have considered him as a suitor, for his parents had not left him rich. He had gone to work for his Uncle Anatoly, and was accustomed to his sour moods and tightness of spirit. He missed the gentleness of his Aunt Vera, and of friends of hers such as the Gunzburgs, in whose house he had been treated graciously and kindly. But his uncle regarded him with his piercing black eyes, demanding submission. Yenudinia folded Gino’s note and placed it neatly upon his uncle’s desk, reminding himself to bring it to his uncle’s attention right after breakfast. Then, sighing, he resumed his packing of the leather-bound volumes into padded crates.

  In the troop carrier Don, filled with men and horses, Gino shivered and perspired, next to Afanassiev. During his moments of clear-headedness, the old glow of hope and life came to his brown eyes, and he would stir at each new sound, hoping that the soldier who had promised to deliver the message would be bringing back Tcharykov. At length, toward morning, the man did return, but alone. He told Gino that he had located Tcharykov’s house and had brought him the note in person. Yet no one had ventured to come back with him to the transport. “He will come in the morning,” the soldier said, afraid of the look in Gino’s eyes. The rich mahogany tint had faded from them, and he stared at the messenger as though he were invisible.

  When the sky became golden with the rising of the sun, an officer appeared among the men in the third hold, and announced that the Don was about to lift anchor toward Gallipoli. He made a tour of his passengers, and halted by the moaning form of Gino lying supine on the cold wooden planks, his breath a loud, troubled rasping. “This man needs immediate care,” the officer declared, and sent for a gurney. They lifted Gino upon it, and the officer stated, “The Dobrovòletz is docked in this harbor, and is bearing Cossacks to the island of Lemnos. Take him there, and tell the authorities that he is to go to the French Hospital at Lemnos. He suffers from pneumonia, and cannot survive in such cramped quarters, adjacent to beasts.” Afanassiev could not bid his friend farewell, for the young Baron was not sufficiently conscious of his surroundings. But Afanassiev thought, grimly, if that bastard Tcharykov arrives now, searching for him, he will know how to find me, because of the few words I added, identifying myself. But if he comes later, the Don will be gone. He looked at the sun, white gold in the sky of the Bosporus, as Gino’s gurney was carried out of sight.

  Georgi Yenudinia had not slept well, and as he drank his thick Turkish coffee with his uncle, he coughed and asked, “Don’t you think that now is the time to attend to Gino de Gunzburg? I could fetch him myself, off the Don…”

  “No,” Charykov answered, crossly dismissing his nephew’s pleading eyes. Georgi had always been such a homely lad, so sweaty and gangling and unappealing. A man to be crushed and disregarded. “You will go to the Hotel d’Angleterre, where, I believe, M
esdames de Gunzburg are staying. Bring the note to them.” He thought bitterly of his wife’s father, Minister Ivanov, who had shown such familiarity to Baron David, the Jew in his fold, while regarding his own son-in-law, Anatoly Tcharykov, with relative lack of favor. The notion still galled the former Ambassador, and he glared at his wife’s nephew with particular distaste. Sniffing audibly, he said, to quell the faint stirrings of his own conscience, “The young man has obviously survived two wars. A slight chill will not kill him. Was he not the most stalwart among the Baron’s brood?”

  “I believe so,” Yenudinia said. He averted his eyes from his uncle and gulped the last swallow of coffee. “I am going now,” he said, rising. He grabbed his hat and cane and ordered the landau. When it came to the front door, the young man stepped inside and said to the coachman, “The Hotel d’Angleterre, quickly, please.”

  In the coach, Yenudinia felt guilty. He had heard of Mathilde’s presence in Constantinople, yet he had not called upon her once, concentrating instead upon packing for his uncle. He had seen her and Sonia in a tea room, with another family from Petrograd whom he had vaguely known as a young man. He had stopped, shocked by Sonia’s emaciation, at the grayness of Mathilde’s hair. They had been dressed in long gowns, out of style and shiny with wear, and Sonia’s hair had been discreetly knotted at the top in the fashion of 1908. Yet, strangely, this style became her, and her intense thinness served to emphasize the delicacy of her bone structure, the largeness of her clear gray eyes. He felt regret; once, as a student, he had thought that he loved her from afar. And, orphaned so early in life, he had found a serene solace in the person of Mathilde Yureyevna, his aunt’s friend. To see them this way pained him, and he hid from them thereafter. His uncle had lunched with the two refugees following Yenudinia’s encounter, but he had not repeated the courtesy. After all, the Tcharykov fortune was intact, the Gunzburgs destitute.

  Yenudinia found Sonia alone in the dining room of the Hotel d’Angleterre, and she rose, greeting him on the tip of her small toes, like a girl. She smiled, and a pink color flowed into her cheeks. “How delightful,” she declared. He could not restrain his own answering smile, thinking that she had changed so little from their youth in Petrograd— Petersburg then—when she would greet all her guests thus, with the gracious head tilted becomingly in its topheavy coiffure. “Mama has gone for a breath of fresh air, with Madame Kholodny,” she added. “Have you taken your breakfast, Georgi Petrovitch?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, blushing, thinking of his mission. He could not look into her oval face, so unlined still, so alive with perception, or she would read his guilt. He fumbled with his breast pocket, and removed the crumpled note, clumsily. Sonia was watching him with narrowed eyes, wondering. He cleared his throat. “We have received news for you, Sofia Davidovna,” he said. “It is extraordinary, actually. A true coincidence, your still being here at this time. You see—” And he could not continue under her gaze. He gave her the note, and watched her eyebrows quirk with mystification. He mopped his perspiring brow.

  But she turned on him, blue sparks in her eyes, and cried, “This message is dated yesterday! What have you done about this, Georgi Petrovitch?”

  He coughed delicately. “My uncle thought it best to wait till morning, so that we might consult you and Mathilde Yureyevna. We... I...”

  “What kind of consultation did you expect? My brother is in dire straits, and you dared to wait and risk his life? You have wasted precious hours. But what am I saying? We must go at once.” She rushed to the table, found a piece of writing paper, and scrawled a rapid note to her mother. Then she wrapped herself in a thick shawl, took her bag, running toward the door. She turned back and regarded Yenudinia. “Are you coming?” she demanded.

  The young man followed, his large knuckles cracking as he bent his fingers inside each other in his nervousness. He was frightened of Sonia, of her white fury, of her determination. He ran ahead of her to the landau, tried to help her inside, but she pushed him off and climbed in by her own efforts. He did likewise. She said to the driver, “The Bosporus harbor, please. Leave us at one end, we shall find our way.”

  But at the port, they were confronted with a long line of transports, ship after ship of Russian Whites evacuating their country. Sonia clamped her fist to her mouth, and fought back tears of frustration. “There are caïques for rent,” Yenudinia suggested lamely. “You know—Turkish rowboats. We can row past the ships, and go along the harbor, noting the names of the ships as we pass alongside them at the back.”

  She merely nodded, scanning the horizon. He helped her down, and they rented a caïque as he had suggested. She would not let him pay for the boat, but pressed her own coins into the hand of the man who pushed their vessel out into the Sea of Marmara. Yenudinia began to row, steadily, until he had gone beyond the length of the transports, and then he changed his route and paralleled the harbor, behind the ships. They rowed steadily for several hours, but none of the ships presently docked bore the name Don. Tears sprang from Sonia’s eyes. “Take me back, Georgi Petrovitch,” she asked. “And then go home to your uncle. I shall walk on the pier and question the soldiers. I do not need you anymore, and besides, your arms must ache. Anatoly Kirilovitch will wonder what has become of you.” She smiled through her tears, and he was moved. All his life pretty women had made it known that they could live without him, but none more eloquently than Sonia, now.

  He left her after they returned their caïque, although he lingered by his landau, half expecting her to backtrack in distress. But she had already forgotten his sorry existence. Her hair disheveled with the sea wind, she walked at a brisk, British pace, stopping one soldier after another. Each one shrugged, said he did not know, or told her that the Don had sailed earlier in the morning. At length she encountered a sympathetic dock official who confirmed this statement. The Don had left for Gallipoli, and she had missed it.

  Now Sonia sat down on a large flat stone and began to weep. Oh, Gino! she cried, where are you? And can you ever forgive us, for what we failed to do? I failed to protect Olga, and now I have failed you again, when you called out so desperately…

  She walked off the pier, wearily, her feet hurting inside the old boots. There was a carriage at the side, for passengers, and she hailed it and returned to her quarters at the Hotel d’Angleterre. She entered just as Anatoly Tcharykov was departing, and she brushed past him rudely, her eyes glistening with tears. “Leave us alone!” she said to him. “For that is precisely what you did to Gino. Now he is God-knows-where, en route to Gallipoli, while you pack your precious books into cushioned boxes. Go away, Anatoly Kirilovitch. You are no longer our friend.”

  Her mother did not utter the words of polite retraction the former Ambassador was expecting. In her stern silence, she echoed her daughter’s utter condemnation. Tcharykov replaced his hat upon his head, thinking: Those damned Jews. Thank God that something has happened to take them down a peg in their arrogance. He strode away in outrage.

  On the island of Lemnos, chaos reigned, for the Russians were taking over control from the British. Some straggling members of the families of important officers of the White Army had been sent ahead of the convoys and troops, and some of the women had become nurses at the French Hospital, which needed assistance. But, after some strenuous weeks, many of them were now leaving the island at their husbands’ insistence. Generals and their men were flooding the area, and needed to be reorganized after the massive evacuation from the Crimea. It was time for the women and children to think of a permanent move, and British and French ships were beginning to transport these branches of Russian families in exile to their own home ports. Although most of the White volunteer army had gone toward Gallipoli, troops were being disembarked each day along the way, adding to the frustration of the officials who attempted to keep track of all who entered as well as exited from the ports.

  In Lemnos, a very sick Gino was transported to the French Hospital, where he was at once put into a clean, cool b
ed. He was barely conscious of the white-clad nurses who hovered over him, feeding him broth or taking his temperature. He could not breathe, and experienced panic each time he attempted to force his lungs to function. “Pleurisy,” the French doctor said, shaking his head.

  A young nurse, wiping her brow, sat down for a quick cup of tea with her companions. The oldest of the nurses, a robust Frenchwoman, asked, “So it’s for tomorrow, my dear?”

  “Yes,” the young one said. She pushed strands of black hair behind her cap. “My daughter and I are taking the ship to France.”

  “And the general? Will he be following?”

  “My husband will remain here with his troops, until he can join us,” she replied. She looked tired, but her skin was remarkably rosy, the perfect background for her eyes, which shone like lapis lazuli, a deep blue. She smiled. “This training has been most useful, Madame Trévin. Perhaps I can find work in an infirmary of some sort in Paris. Andrei is not well. It will fall upon me to earn our living, and we gay flowers from Petersburg were singularly unprepared for adversity. You must despise us now that our regime has been torn down.”

  “No, my dear, we are only sorry. It is always sad to see whole lives crumbling, though we nurses have borne witness to that phenomenon since we nursed our first patients. Look at that helpless old man with both legs in splints. And the young Baron over there, for instance. Pleurisy. And such a fine-looking young man. We still can’t predict if he’ll pull through.”