Days of Winter (21 page)

He was fighting in the knee-deep mud of Verdun. The Germans were leaving their corpses on the field to disintegrate. Yesterday he had passed by the body of a German still in uniform, the hands and face were fleshless, the skeleton exposed. …He had seen a group of French soldiers devouring the flesh of a horse. God, oh God, strike us dead and be done with it … we’ve turned into savages.

In May of 1918 his unit moved on to another hell. …June was no different. July was unbearably hot. Soldiers fainted in the fields, their faces sunburned and raw. Rubin’s only joy was the letter written by the hand of his daughter, her fingers guided by Magda:

“Dearest Papa, I’m three years old today. Mama shows me your picture. I love you, Papa. Your daughter, Jeanette Hack.”

Then he read Magda’s letter, “Dearest Rubin, It’s impossible for us to realize what you’re going through. …We pray for the end of the war. …I dream of you and miss you every moment … Solange sends her love. …As always, Magda.”

In August Edward Goldstein found a comedy Magda was interested in.

On November 9, the first day of rehearsal, the Kaiser abdicated. Two days later the Armistice was declared. London was filled with people celebrating as the whole free world rejoiced.

“How long will it be before Rubin comes home?” Magda asked Alexis at dinner that night.

“It may take some time.”

“Why?”

“There are always mopping-up operations, Magda. The soldiers don’t just head for home.”

“I can’t stand it … if that bastard Maurice gave a damn, he’d see to it that Rubin came home at once.”

“That wouldn’t happen even if they were on good terms.”

“Why?”

“Because the wounded usually return first. Then the prisoners of war have to be relocated. Many men are needed for disbursements. …”

“What you’re saying is Rubin might not be home for months—”

“It’s possible, I’m afraid. …”

In her room that night, Magda cried out her frustration … and her gratitude … for Alexis. …

January 1919

Opening night was tense, as usual. There were all the chronic fears. …Would the actors remember their lines? Would the audience laugh at the right times? Would there be jeers … or cheers?

Tonight would be her real test as an actress. Magda Charascu was to star in a play for the first time. After tonight, she’d know for sure. …

But everything that could go wrong did. When the curtain rose she tripped on her way from the desk to the window where she was supposed to be looking out, awaiting her lover. As she leaned against the window pane it fell over into the snow, with her following it. When she finally climbed back into the room, she was covered with fake snow. She brushed herself off, angrily, but she did it with such a comic flare the audience thought it was intended, and a roar went up. Next the leading man had forgotten—incredibly but true—to button the front of his trousers, and when he bent down to propose marriage … well, the audience was in hysterics. Getting up, a lamp fell over … again laughter. The maid brought in a box of roses sent from another suitor and when Magda read the note she fluffed the lines in such a way the audience was convinced she was the best comedienne to come along since … heaven knew when.

When the play was over, Magda was in a state of shock. She had, she was certain, made an ass of herself. But the cheers continued as the curtain rose once again. The cast bowed in unison, but when Magda came out alone the bravos were ridiculous.

Back in her dressing room, exhausted, she said, “I think we played to an audience of idiots.”

Alexis laughed. “You were brilliant. If you can only remember what you did and said, this is going to be the comedy of the season.”

Magda looked back at him, then back over what had happened, and back at the performance, and began to laugh. And every time she tried to say something to Alexis, she doubled over; she couldn’t stop. Finally, holding her stomach, she said, gasping for breath, “I couldn’t possibly have done it if I’d tried. …I was so awful, I was funny. And all the time I thought they were laughing at me. Once I was so angry I wanted to walk off the stage or scream back at them … but they were laughing
with
me.”

“Of course, because you did everything with such finesse. You were so serious they thought it was part of the act.”

“Oh, Alexis, what would I do without you?”

He tried not to think about that, because when Rubin returned …

That night Magda gave the cast a party at the Savoy. She never allowed Alexis to pay for her parties. For Magda it was a thrill to spend the money. She spent it faster than she received it. There were charities, gifts for Solange and Jeanette … a new jewel … a new fur. She threw money around like confetti on New Year’s Eve. She seemed to live to be extravagant. Tonight she wore a dazzling white full-length Russian ermine. She was, after all, a full-fledged celebrity. She had earned her status, her fame.

The newspapers reported everything she wore … everything she did. …Invitations to her parties were a sure sign of status. Her companionship with Count Alexis Maximov was always played up, and Alexis thought, if only what the gossip-mongers hinted at were in fact true … what a happy man he would be.

The Maurice and Phillip Hacks were furious. What an everlasting curse she was, this Magda Charascu who had come into their lives. …There was no choice but to try to ignore her flagrant exhibitionism. …There was nothing else they could do. Each one of her triumphs brought new lines of worry to their faces. How long …?

By March Rubin still hadn’t returned. His letters seemed stilted and evasive, and Magda was frantic with worry. Everyone else was coming home. Why wasn’t Rubin?

One day she found out. Anne excitedly handed her a letter from him.

“Thank you,” she said, ripping it open.

My dearest Magda,

Please don’t be upset, but I am in Calais. If I sound inarticulate, it’s because I still can’t believe the war is over. A week has past since I received orders that I could go home. Forgive me for not letting you know sooner, but I think I was afraid at the last moment something might go wrong and my orders would change. The army does that to you.

There was something else too. …I’m afraid I’ve withheld the truth from you, but now I must tell you what’s happened. On November 10 I was wounded by a piece of shrapnel. I deliberately asked not to be sent home then because I looked so awful. For months my head was in bandages. I’ve lost about twenty percent of the vision in my left eye, and my upper lid is paralyzed and partially closed. There is a scar on my cheek which has faded, but not entirely. It has taken a long time, but now I’ve learned to live with these injuries. I am, after all, one of the fortunate ones. What’s so strange is that I survived the worst battles, but the day before the Armistice I was wounded. But, my dearest, the worst of my illness is now behind me, and I should finally get to London within the next few days. I’ll be sent to the out-processing center near London before being discharged.

With all my love, Rubin.

Trembling, Magda started to cry. All she could think about was Rubin coming home. His wounds were forgotten; her mind refused to believe that Rubin could be changed. He still had his vision. And a scar made a man more attractive, more exciting. Still … she cried for his pain … and out of relief. He was finally coming home.

She jumped out of bed and ran to Jeanette, picking her up, smothering her with kisses. “Your papa’s coming home,
ma petite
… your papa …” She carried Jeanette into Solange’s room. “Rubin’s coming home. …I can’t believe it.” She handed the letter to Solange, who read it, tears of gratitude in her eyes.

“Thank God,” she said, “he’s coming back to us at last.”

That night Alexis looked at the face of Magda with special love. The long years of waiting were written in her eyes, and her face was radiant with anticipation. But for Alexis, it was hardly a night for rejoicing. Rubin was coming home and he was losing the only thing he’d really ever wanted. …But Magda had never belonged to him and perhaps that made the parting even more painful than the end of a physical love affair. In the years since he’d known her, he had pretended each woman he’d slept with was she.

Taking up his glass of wine he said, “I have an announcement to make. Tomorrow I shall leave on a much deserved holiday.”

Magda looked at him. She knew how much he felt about her, and now he was sending himself into self-imposed exile. Trying to keep her voice matter-of-fact, she said, “You do indeed, my dear Alexis, certainly after what you’ve put up with from me for so long. …Where will you be going?”

“To my villa in Cannes for a while and then on to Monte Carlo. …After that, who knows?”

“There’s no place like Monte Carlo,” Solange said lightly. “I used to love it. …When will you be leaving?”

“In a few weeks, I expect, or sooner. …”

Magda nodded, swallowed, and said, “Yes, well, I’m giving my notice to the producer tomorrow. …I want to give all my time to Rubin—”

“That’s very sensible. …I know he’ll be pleased with your decision. …”

Solange put in quickly, “I think we should all drink to … to new beginnings.”

Rubin’s train was due. Magda walked nervously back and forth at Victoria Station. Solange sat, holding Jeanette on her lap.

“Magda!”

It was Rubin’s voice. Magda turned. …

A stranger was coming toward her. He was holding out his arms. It couldn’t be Rubin, could it? Was this the man she had said good-bye to back in 1914? It didn’t seem possible. He had changed completely. Magda couldn’t hide the shock she felt. He was so thin, his uniform hung from his body. Lines of pain and suffering were permanently engraved on his face. The scar was deep; the damaged eye made her feel ill. His hairline had receded. …

In spite of his letter, Magda was totally unprepared. Still, his joy at seeing her was so affecting she began to weep. He kissed her over and over again, whispering, “Magda, Magda … how I’ve waited for this day. …”

She clung to this stranger, responding numbly … and thinking, in spite of herself, Dear God, is this the man I married? … the wonderful lover I met in Paris …? the Rubin I hoped and prayed would come back …?

Calling on all her acting abilities, she tried to rally to the occasion. “Welcome home, Rubin. …Darling, it’s been so long.” Taking him by the hand, she took a deep breath and said, “Now come and meet your daughter!”

“Give your papa the flowers,
ma petite
. …Go to papa,” Solange urged. The child knew and loved only the
word
“papa.”

Holding out the bouquet, Jeanette walked toward the stranger … her “papa.” “Welcome home, Papa. These are for you.”

Bending down, Rubin drew her to him and held her close against him. In all his life there had never been a moment like this, nor would there ever be again. God had surely spared him to know this joy … this gift of love. …

“We’ve missed you, Papa … we’ve got a surprise for you. …Why are you crying …? Are you sad?”

Rubin fought the tears as he looked at this tiny Magda … his daughter. …“No, my darling. I’m crying because I’m very, very happy.” Kissing her, he turned to Solange. “Still slim and beautiful as ever, Countess. …”

“And you, Rubin Hack, are the most beautiful sight in the world.” She could say no more.

Quickly, then, they walked to the Rolls and drove home.

Rubin could not believe it. Home. He was
home
. Slowly he went from room to room, holding Jeanette’s tiny hand in his. It was as though he were seeing it for the first time. There was so much he couldn’t remember … so much of what he had left. The paintings seemed more brilliant, the flowers more beautiful. He had forgotten what comfort was. A bath seemed a luxury he’d never known.

His old suits hung on his body like sacks. And when he looked at himself in the mirror, the face of a frightened stranger stared back. He was freshly shocked at his image. The scar looked even deeper and more discolored. He wanted to bury his reflection.

Then came the surprise—Deborah and Leon. The two brothers embraced like children who’d been apart for a very long time.

“Well, Leon, we survived.”

“Yes, Rubin … we were the lucky ones.”

Leon had been home only a week, after four long years of internment.

To Rubin the whole evening seemed unreal. The homecoming seemed more than he was prepared for. He couldn’t adjust; even ordinary things seemed foreign. To sit at the head of his table, near his child, and look across at his wife … to taste the flavor of good food … to be with Leon and Deborah. …Everything good seemed to be a mirage, which would vanish in the night … disappear like a vision of heaven … or hell. …

Later, when Leon and Deborah had left, Rubin’s feelings of alienation increased. The gentleness of the night seemed intimidating. As he lay in bed, he felt that he would never take anything for granted again.

Soon Magda was beside him … a moment he had dreamed of … yet somehow dreaded. …He was embarrassed by his body. …He felt that it was no longer an instrument for love-making. …The reflection of his face stared back at him … mocking him, taunting him. Now, at last, he was afraid to touch Magda for fear he would fail. He turned, took her in his arms … but it was no good. …Quickly he got out of bed and went into the bathroom, where he sat wiping away the perspiration. Face it. He was impotent.

Magda lay alone in the dark. She realized that the man she had waited for had been left somewhere on the fields of Flanders. Rubin Hack was as lost to her as if he were dead. She had seen the change today … tonight only confirmed it. …Even with Leon, Rubin had seemed vague and withdrawn, as though his mind was in another place.

When he got back into bed, he said, “I’m sorry, darling … coming home today was more than I was prepared for—”

“I understand, Rubin … believe me, I understand.”

He was grateful that she couldn’t see his face.

Eventually, they managed to fall asleep, each body a stranger to the other.

The next morning Magda went in to see Solange. She sat down on a blue satin chair.