The Four Winds of Heaven (68 page)

“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.

T
hey 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.

He replied, quite easily, not looking at Sonia, “They're keeping me alive, if that's what you mean. And you? How are you managing?”

The woman raised finely penciled eyebrows: “I always manage, my dear, not exactly in the style to which you've accustomed me, but then again, survival is an instinct with me. Do you miss me?”

“I don't have time to,” he replied rudely, his gentle blue-green eyes turning to ice-blue shards. The set of his jaw became more pronounced. Sonia's posture had grown rigid, her breath came in quick gasps. She felt the blood flowing once more to her cheekbones, and thought: It is not possible. But of course it's possible! Men have mistresses all the time. Tears rose to her eyes as she vividly recalled her conversation with him in her parents' home, when he had told her about Kolya's mistress.

The woman said, tauntingly, “Are you ashamed to introduce me to this pretty lady, with whom you were discussing such heated topics?”

“We were discussing nothing of the sort. Baroness Sofia de Gunzburg is an acquaintance of long standing.” His face was set like stone, but he regarded Sonia, and his eyes softened, appealed to her—and held her. “Sofia Davidovna, may I present to you my wife, Elena Lvovna?”

Sonia had been prepared for anything but this. Yet, though her heart had leaped into her throat, she continued to stand upright, her features composed. She inclined her head, weighed down by her pompadour and topknot, and forced herself to smile, weak though it was. “How do you do,” she stated.

She saw the stare of open admiration on Mossia's face, and all at once she felt terribly sorry for him. Why had he married her? Clearly, he did not love this woman. She felt certain of that. War made people do such stupid, senseless things...

“You must call me ‘Lialia,'” Elena Lvovna said, placing a hand on Sonia's arm. “Lialia means ‘doll' in Polish. It was my professional name. You see, I used to sing at a cafe-concert in Kiev. My mother sang operetta, and it was she whom Mossia met first. It was a strange story, really, but so typical of my husband,” she said, glancing toward him. “He had won a fortune by being the only person at a horse race to bet on the winner. Naturally, this came about because of a mistake: Mossia had meant to place his bet on the favorite, as everyone else had. When his horse won he felt guilty, for this was money he had not earned. So he spent it on a magnificent house for all the actors and singers—and demimondaines, for there were many!—that he knew. He even hired servants. My mother went to live there, and so we met. Now I have become his own little doll, haven't I, sweet?” She eyed him with undisguised lust, as if to taunt him.

“I am certain that the Baroness had no desire to hear this long and ancient story,” Mossia declared abruptly.

But Sonia regarded him with the pure straight gaze of her gray eyes, and smiled. “On the contrary—I found it quite touching.”

“And did he tell you how he came to be put in prison? One of those Germans was drunk, and made improper advances toward me. Mossia didn't stand for it, of course. Isn't he... honorable?”

“Tomorrow I shall return with food for Gino,” Sonia stated. “My mother will be most pleased to add some things for you, too, Mossia Gillelovitch,” She nodded her head and placed her delicate fingers upon Olga's arm, “Come, my darling,” she murmured. “Our mothers will be waiting.” She took her brother's hand through the bars, and kissed it. Then she turned back to the Zlatopolskys. “Good evening,” she said graciously.

Mossia watched sadly as Sonia disappeared.

D
uring the period
of Gino's imprisonment, Sonia went to the jail each day with a basket of food. She always brought enough to allow her brother to share with Mossia Zlatopolsky, and she would often stop to chat with the young man in an amiable way, never forgetting to inquire about his wife. Once or twice she saw the voluptuous, flamboyant Lialia in the streets of Feodosia, and she replied to her ostentatious greetings with utmost courtesy. When Mathilde commented with horror upon Mossia's choice of wife, her daughter stopped her. “Hillel Zlatopolsky did business with Papa, and knew Uncle Misha in Kiev,” she stated. “If his son, who is a gentleman, has married this woman, he has probably done so after mature consideration, knowing her qualities far better than we do. We owe her the same graciousness that we would give to any friendly acquaintance, Mama.” She held her head high, undaunted by the fact that others of Feodosia society, such as the elder Madame Zevina, frowned upon her for speaking to this woman of dubious character.

One day, not long after Gino's arrest, Mathilde received a message from a distant relation, Hans Blumenfeld of Hamburg. Baroness Rosa de Gunzburg had been born a Warburg in Germany, and this young man was the son of one of Rosa's sisters. He was a lieutenant in the German army, however, and, as delicately as possible, was requesting permission to visit his relations in Feodosia.

“Gino is in prison because of the German occupants,” Sonia objected. “We should not receive this young man, considering his nationality and what his people are doing to ours.”

But Mathilde leveled her eyes at her daughter and replied, “He is a member of our family, and surely he is not responsible for Gino's predicament, Sonia. If we helped the Falkenhayns, why should we refuse Rosa's own flesh and blood? Had Gino been a soldier in Hamburg, I would have been most grateful to the Blumenfelds for inviting him to their home. He will have luncheon with us tomorrow.”