The Four Winds of Heaven (24 page)

“Perhaps I remain static because the world proceeds, and I am withdrawn from its growing pains. When I think of St. Petersburg I am torn. Half of me feels tremendous relief to have escaped an unbearable life there without electricity or water. How does David manage? Or Uncle Horace, who is even older than Papa? And my daughter? But the thought of them brings guilt with it. A city without the basic comforts of civilization is no place for a young girl.”

“She has her father,” Johanna declared. She gazed at her friend, and Mathilde looked up and met her aquamarine eyes. They did not speak. Mathilde saw the fine golden pompadour, the slim, lithe figure in its gown of cerise silk. She said, “It is you who have not aged, Johanna. Sometimes, when I look at you, I become filled with fear. You are going to marry one day, and I shall lose you. At least, my hope is that you will marry a gentleman of Petersburg, so that we may continue to see each other. But it would not be the same—oh no, it would never be the same! I could not face the day without consulting you. You are my buffer, my warrior's shield. Without you I am lost, or worse, overwhelmed.”

“Most women would be speaking such words to their husbands,” Johanna said. “Surely the Baron would take care of you, my sweet, if, as you say, I should decide to wed.” She bit her lower lip and did not look up into Mathilde's face, which had fallen as though she had been slapped. She embroidered with steadfast motions, counting time with her needle's thrust.

Mathilde cried out, but in the muffled tone of someone horror-struck: “But Johanna! If you have indeed—found someone you care for—why have you said nothing to me? Why have you kept this hidden?”

Very calmly, Johanna de Mey said, “We are not schoolgirls, that we should run to each other with every detail of our lives. Yes, I have received a proposal of marriage. I shall not tell you—no, do not stare at me so with your enormous eyes—I shall not tell you his name.” Then, her own eyes softening, filling with moisture, she turned to her friend and seized her cold fingertips. “I shall not tell you, so that you may face him in society and not blush at his discomfort. For you see, I shall refuse his kind offer. I have no intention of becoming his wife.” She smiled, but Mathilde's face was still a ghastly white, her lips still parted in fear. Johanna de Mey rubbed her friend's fingers, then brought them to her lips and kissed them. “I am cruel to you,” she said. “For I should not have told you. Will you forgive me for my thoughtlessness? Will you, Mathilde?” And her voice began to rise with emotion.

Mathilde de Gunzburg nodded silently. And then it was Johanna who began to cry, sobbing aloud: “I am ashamed, so ashamed!” she cried. “Oh, please, forgive me!”

Surprised, and again serene after the reassurance, Mathilde stared blankly at Johanna. She placed a shy hand upon the other's shoulder. “No, it was I who have not been discreet,” she said. “There is nothing to forgive. Let us forget this discussion. You are not leaving. What else is important?”

“And that truly matters to you?” Johanna's beautiful oval face was bathed with tears.

Mathilde lifted her friend's chin in her own palm, and smiled with infinite tenderness at her. “Yes,” she murmured. “More than all else. I mean this with my whole heart.”

Suddenly, in a girlishly impulsive movement, Johanna stood and threw her arms about Mathilde's neck, covering her cheeks, her hair, her shoulders with hot, tremulous kisses. “Then all is well, all is well,” she murmured to the amazed Mathilde, who began to laugh, unused to displays of great emotion.

“Yes, of course,” Mathilde said, but she was pink with embarrassment and confusion. Then she gazed at the other woman, and her eyes shone with relief. “I am so glad,” she stated. “For if you were to leave—” And then she shook her head. “But I am supremely selfish! What have I to offer you, compared with marriage, position, and wealth? I love you, my dear friend, and I wish for your happiness. If you should meet another man, then you must not think of me. Think only of your own life. Life is too short. Look at my father, who is old today… You must never grow old, Johanna.”

Inexplicably, she turned away, her eyes filling anew with tears. It was then that Johanna de Mey placed her arms about Mathilde's waist, and held her close, not saying a word. The two women remained, embracing, for several minutes, until loud knocks broke into their silence, and Gino's voice came through the thick door: “Mama! We have stories to tell you!”

Johanna de Mey watched as her friend opened the door to the children, and sparks of triumph glinted in her pupils. I have nearly won, she thought.

“Come, Gino,” she said briskly, “take off your overshoes before you soil your mother's fine carpet. There are some cakes here, for all of you.”

I
t was now
the beginning of December. A second railroad strike had isolated St. Petersburg from the world, and the rest of Russia. Lolya Raffalovitch, the young schoolteacher, stood in her small apartment wearing men's trousers made of coarse peasant cloth. She brandished papers in her bony fist. “Witte has bowed to the landowners!” she cried, her eyes rimmed with red behind her spectacles. “You see? The peasants were to represent a large electorate, to vote in March for members of the Duma. And your precious Count Witte was going to present land grants. Now what? The gentry speaks, and suddenly it is their interests that are put first, and to hell with the peasants! Do you think that education will help them now?”

“We have agreed to go out,” Ivan cut in tersely. “When are we to leave?”

The schoolteacher regarded him and Anna, seated beside him, and thrust her chin out at them. “How soon can you be ready?” she asked.

“We do not need to take much with us.” Anna reached for Ivan's hand, and he squeezed it. “Give us twenty-four hours.”

Lolya smiled. “Good. We shall be going in small groups —cells. There is no railroad so we shall go in carts and buggies. There will be four in our group: you two, myself, and Petya Orlov the printer. We shall leave in the morning; that way, no one will miss your fine ladyship until nightfall. And you are not to know where we are headed.” She grimaced sardonically. “Who can tell, you might have a sudden attack of fear, and warn the Chief of the Secret Police… Or are you still friends with him, Anna?”

“You know very well that Lopukhin has been replaced,” Anna answered angrily.

“I warn you—we shall be transporting munitions for the peasants. Just so you two don't think this is a pleasure trip for lovers. Petya is to be our leader. Don't cross him, Anna. He isn't an intellectual, like our Vanya here.”

“Lolitchka,” Ivan remarked with iron, “you need your reserves to fight the
burshuis,
remember, love?”

The girl ignored him. She said, “Bring a bag filled with woolens, it will be cold during the trip. And food. Anything will do: bread, cheese, vegetables. So we won't have to stop all the time to fill our bellies.”

“We shall be here then, tomorrow,” Ivan acquiesced.

“At ten. By then Anna's father will have left for work.” She looked at them again, and extended her hand, grudgingly. “Good luck,” she said more softly. Then her eyes bored into Anna's: “I must say, I expected you to back down,” she commented.

“I am not a coward,” Anna replied.

But outside, she took hold of Ivan's lapels and huddled close to him. “Vanya, I'm scared,” she whispered. “Scared of not doing the right thing, scared of being caught, scared of execution. Scared—of leaving my home, my father.”

“I know,” he murmured back. “I am thinking of the small farm we could still have if I go to him—your father —and ask him for your hand in marriage. It is not too late, Annushka.”

She shivered. “It is too late, Vanya. We have forgotten ourselves for a greater movement. How could we go back to our small comforts?”

“We shall be together,” he said, holding her.

She remained muffled in his coat, her red hair blowing in the December wind.

A
nna's
small bundle lay hidden beneath her bed, crammed with all the warm things she could assemble in a small bag, and some foodstuffs she had stolen from the pantry. She had gone into Ossip's room and taken some of his trousers, for it would be cold, and men and women dressed alike in the fighting cells. But now the dinner bell had sounded, and she thought: This is my last civilized meal, my last meal with Papa. Her bright brown eyes filled with sudden tears. Oh, Papa, she thought, and wrung her hands together. What am I doing? What will this do to you—and to the others? She suddenly felt like a very small girl again.

She hurried to the dining room, and all at once she was sorry that he would be there alone with her. For he would be the most hurt of all when he discovered her departure. He would never guess where she had gone. That was a relief, for her heart ached at the idea of his distress. He believed in the Tzar, in the promised Duma. She did not; but still, she could understand his loyalty in a way that she would never understand the Victorian prudery of her mother. Anna felt that she had always been a gaping sore in Mathilde's life, but that her father had respected and cherished her. Now he waited politely by the table for his twenty-year-old daughter to take her seat first. In his mahogany-colored coat of thick velvet, his thinning red hair looked dull, and his face was etched in tired lines.

“Good evening, Papa,” she said softly, as Stepan held the chair for her across from him. “You seem weary tonight.”

“We are attempting to take back control of the railroad, my little dove,” he replied, smiling at her. His pale blue eyes were filled with tenderness for her, and she felt as though a knife had been thrust into her stomach. “Not only the Ministries—also your grandfather, and his interests. You know that your great-grandfather was one of the foremost promoters of the railroads in Russia?”

“I had not forgotten,” she said.

“I have been thinking, Annushka,” David said after a pause. “I have heard that there are some specialists in Sweden who are working on ways to remodel burned areas of the face and body. I would like to see if perhaps one of them might not take a look at you.”

She turned very red. “That is silly, Papa,” she stated.

“No. If it is possible to help burn victims, then surely muscles—”

“You would be wasting your money, Papa,” Anna said abruptly.

“Think about it, my love. I am not at all certain that they could help, and it was cruel of me to raise your hopes—but I want to do all I can, the way we did for Ossip, when he fell ill.”

“But I am not ill,” Anna countered gently. “I am who I am. When I was a little girl, I would have given the world to be pretty, as Sonia is, or Tania, or Mama. But now that I am a woman, I find that there are more important things than how one looks in the mirror, or even to others. If a doctor could change my entire face, he still would find it impossible to erase what I have become,
because
of my face. He would be too late; and it would be meaningless to me now. I am happier than I have ever been, Papa.”

“Are you, little one? What do you do with your days? What do you dream of? There was a time when you would tell me, but lately…”

“Perhaps it is better this way,” Anna said. Her large brown eyes held her father's warm blue ones. “But promise me that you won't worry about me, not anymore?”

Puzzled, he smiled at her across the table. “I shall not raise the issue of the Swedish doctors, if it brings you discomfort,” he said.

“No, Papa. I want more than that. No worries, about anything to do with me. Remember what I have told you, about my happiness. I am very happy.”

He sighed. “While your mother is gone, I've had a lot to think about. I should like to give a ball, in your honor, on your twenty-first birthday, to show the world that I am terribly proud of my older daughter. Now what do you have to say to that idea?”