The Four Winds of Heaven (31 page)

“I think that you are embroiling the children in matters that should not involve them,” she replied coldly.

“Papa is old. The presence of his young granddaughter would do him infinite good. I would think of your approval as a blessing, Mathilde.”

“But what an outrage…!” Johanna murmured, rolling her eyes in their sockets. “A little girl—”

Mathilde closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples. Her husband insisted, softly: “This is the most important task of my life as a Russian Jew. Would you deprive me of my children? Ossip will be in school, and Gino is too young. That leaves me Sonitchka.”

No one spoke for several minutes. Then Gino, who had perked up at the mention of his name, looked brightly at his mother. He was a tousle-haired boy of eleven, with apple cheeks and glowing eyes. Now he asked: “Mama, when will the Countess invite you to her home? Do you want to see it?”

Mathilde opened her eyes and said evenly, “But I shall never visit Maria Efimovna. It would not be proper. She paid us a great compliment by coming here, but she made me understand that it would be impossible for her to receive me. Her husband would never allow it. Ossip is a young boy, and for him an exception can be made. But our socializing has ended with the Countess's visit.”

Johanna de Mey lifted a corner of her mouth in disdain, and looked at David with unconcealed dislike. Only Sonia saw her, and for a few minutes blazing hatred filled the young girl's heart. “Oh, Mama, please!” she cried. “I promise never again to mingle where I do not belong! You know that I am not the least concerned with politics—”

Mathilde stood up, shaking. She brought her linen napkin to her lips, and steadied herself by holding onto the table with her other hand. “I cannot bear this chaotic discussion,” she whispered, and pushed back her chair. She began to walk away, and was caught by Johanna, who placed her thin arm strongly about Mathilde's body. The two women left the room, leaning upon each other.

“Do not worry, Papa,” Sonia said, and her pure young voice was fresh with confidence. “We shall win this battle.”

S
onia sat beside her grandfather
, frail and petite in this grandiose gallery where, below her, the most important personages of the nation were assembled. She wore a bonnet trimmed with white ermine and a matching woolen suit and kept her tiny hands encased within her fur muff. Baron Horace, more somber than ever, breathed heavily next to her, following the reactions on the faces of the Senators as his own son pleaded in the arena.

Sonia's cheeks were bright, and she thought: Papa has never spoken such moving, passionate words! How can one remain dry-eyed before him? She listened to the closing message, which David's voice conveyed with strength and urgency. He walked slowly before the members, clothed in his most elegant black suit with tiny white pinstripes, and Sonia's heart swelled with pride that he was hers.

“Honored Senators, I lay before you the plight of these impoverished women and children, most of whom were born in this capital, most of whom have never left it for a day in their lives. I place before you this image: torn with grief, bewildered and lost, a young woman and her babies arrive in the Pale, without means of livelihood, without knowing a single soul to whom to turn. Would you banish this woman, for the mere reason that she lights Sabbath candles instead of crossing herself before the Icon of Jesus? I think that your hearts would not allow you to continue this immorality, for you are good men, one and all, and each of you knows the true meaning of compassion. Justice, gentlemen. Justice to these unfortunates, to these insignificant women who can hurt no one, who are burdens to no one. I beg of you—”

All at once a commotion interrupted David's words, and Sonia squirmed in her seat to see where the noise had come from. Two men and a young boy were entering the hall, bearing a stretcher upon which lay a fourth man. They laid the stretcher down and helped the ailing one to a seat. There was something disquietingly familiar in this picture, Sonia thought. She stared below, fear gripping her. Her father had stopped speaking, and now the sick man rose, steadying himself upon the shoulder of the boy, and his voice, enormous and infuriated, filled the chamber:

“Fellow Senators! Will you be harangued by Baron Gunzburg, whose golden tongue buys him our top officials, whose honeyed images fall like a veil between you and reality? I heard about this proposal, and although I am weak and ill, I could not let you down. I came, disobeying the orders of my physician. I risk my life, dear friends, to oppose this man's folly: he seeks to fill this holy capital with Jews, who bring their pestilence and their meanness to our cities, who envelop us with disease, who foment trouble between our peasants and the government. Would we fall like other empires to the hands of the Jews? Would we be Prussians? Or French? Would we succumb to the rule of these Disraelis? No, for we are members of Holy Russia, and Jesus Christ protects us from the scum of the earth who seek to destroy us with their wiles and their hypocrisies! Let not the Baron take this first step into your souls— for with him come the hordes of Antichrist, to swallow us!”

Sonia sat immobile, her mouth white, her eyes wide with horror. She saw her father, tall and spare, and before him the massive sick man brandishing his gold-studded cane. She was so horrified that for a few seconds this face, distorted with red hatred, blotted out everything else in the auditorium. Then she glanced down and saw the young man upon whose shoulder her father's attacker leaned. She froze, and shivers passed over and over her spine as she made out the stocky, muscular form of Volodia Tagantsev, his brown hair waving, his brown eyes large and serious. A scream died in her throat, and she remembered the touch of his fingertips upon her cheek. A faintness overpowered her.

She began to breathe in small gasps, to regain her strength, and when at length the room came back into focus she sat still. Then, to her horror, Volodia turned his face toward the gallery, and she saw his glance encounter her and witnessed his momentary trembling at the sight of her. Their eyes held. But in hers was such a complete, unadulterated rage and hatred that he took a half-step back, as though stricken. She rose from her seat and turned quickly upon her heel, her grandfather's shocked gaze upon her back. Before Baron Horace could utter a word to hold her there, she had run from the gallery, down the stairs, and toward the majestic doors of the Senate. There she halted, breathless, and let her face sink into her hands.

Dry sobs shook her. She heard rapid footsteps approaching but did not look up. Nothing mattered now, her father had lost, and life would never be the same. A male voice said, “Sofia Davidovna! It is not as you think! He is my father, and an ill man. I did not come here to support his views, only to support his body, which is failing. You must believe me—”

Her hands dropped to her side, and she stared into Volodia's earnest face. Her own features were drawn into a grimace of pure horror. “Don't ever speak to me again!” she cried at last.

“But I have done nothing!” Volodia replied, his voice strong and defensive.

“You? You have the gall to come to me, after your father has destroyed mine, after he has crushed his heart? You are a worm, Vladimir Nicolaievitch. I hope that Ossip bars you from our home!”

“You are being melodramatic, and childish,” Volodia argued. “This is but a single battle of many. Each of our fathers has won some, lost others. But why should you turn away from me, when I am your avowed friend?”

Hot tears streamed down Sonia's cheeks. “Go away,” she pleaded, the harshness leaving her. She resembled a very small girl. Her frail body trembled uncontrollably. In desperation and frenzy, Volodia took a step toward her, and waited. She appeared not to notice him anymore, so wracking was her grief, so alone did she feel. She wept, and wrung her hands, and her pathetic face wrinkled and reddened. He took a second step, firmly placed his arms about her shaking form, holding her against him. When she did not protest, his hand reached to her hair, and he smoothed it with calm fingers. “Don't break your heart, little one,” he whispered, “there must be a solution…”

When she looked up into his face, he nodded, and repeated, his words stronger now, and more determined: “There must be a solution!”

S
onia felt
a pain in her chest from the scrawled signature, “Anna,” as she put the letter down on her secretary. She stood still, her mind disquieted. Her sister did not want to see her, but was constantly in the company of a stranger, the Persian woman. Anna did not appear to love Mama any longer. Anna was bitter; Anna tried to be funny—Anna's mood could not be gauged. Yet she had a friend, and was involved in a life that brought her peace. She, Sonia, was selfish to be jealous of this friend, for Annushka had only made one other friend in her life, and that had been Ivan. Now she had a new friend, and this time she seemed to have chosen well. Anna had sent a portrait she had made of Dalia Hadjani, and everybody, even Johanna, had declared that she looked distinguished and well bred. Now this woman had undergone a tragedy, and Anna was helping her. It always felt good to help, Sonia thought.

Yet there was a strange note to this letter, Sonia mused, though she could not explain her anxiety. She put the letter away to be answered later that week, after she had read it to her Papa and spoken to him about Anna's adamant refusal to see them. She had an odd sensation that Johanna would, for once, take Anna's side. For with Anna removed, the vocal opposition had been drastically reduced in the Gunzburg household, and the governess appeared much happier.

“No, thank you, Marfa,” she told the young servant who had come to the door. “I am truly not hungry for tea today.”

“
Y
ou do not seem
to realize the danger into which you are placing yourself,” Volodia said to his sister. “If Papa—or Mama, for that matter—so much as suspected that there was the slightest courtship between you and Ossip, he would send you away. Every time he comes to supper, I am afraid for you. You are both so reckless, Natasha!”

She tossed her head and shrugged impatiently. “But you are so solid, my love! Ossip is like quicksilver, and so am I. I shall not do without him. We belong together. We laugh at the same silly things, we like the same plays and are bored by the same people. You must convince Papa to invite him for the summer to the Tambov. I could not bear to be away from him for two and a half months! Papa likes him—he really does! He does not think of Ossip as a Jew, but as your friend!”

“As my friend, perhaps. But never, never as your lover! And life is not merely a matter of plays and people, and silly jokes, Natasha—you are not a child! You are nearly eighteen! Puppy love is fun, but don't play at Romeo and Juliet with someone who would give his lifeblood for you at the least encouragement—and Ossip would, I know. He would defy his family if you would let him!”

“Then I shall let him! You belittle me, Volodia. I love Ossip. I would leave all of you, even you, even Mama, to spend my days with him forever! And you would begrudge me two and a half months? Papa would not refuse you your friend. And I promise you to behave, and not give away my feelings for him. I swear it to you, Volodia.”

“Even if Papa allowed me to invite Ossip, do you think his father would allow him to accept? It was not amusing in the Senate, Natasha.”

His sister was sprawled elegantly on her chaise longue, regarding him with her deep blue eyes. Suddenly she sat up, her face quickening. “Volodia!” she cried. “I have the most wonderful idea—an idea to foil the suspicions of a veritable spy! What if Mama were to make this a family invitation? You don't dislike Sofia Davidovna, do you? I like her very much, although I don't think she approves of my love for her brother. But if she were invited along—she is to have her debut soon, isn't she?—then no one would think to watch me and Ossip! The group would be larger, and you and Sonia would both be our chaperones. Don't you see?”

Volodia had gone chalk white. His hand, on the side of her chaise, gripped the soft silk more tightly. He said, “I suppose that is a possibility. But Sofia Davidovna is a willful girl. She won't want to go.”

“Ossip will convince her,” Natasha said. “They are close, aren't they? I am convincing you, am I not?”

Volodia smiled grimly. “You have your ways, Natasha. I shall broach the subject to Mama, then. She liked the Baroness very much. Perhaps she will succeed in persuading Papa. After all, Ossip has come to supper several times, and he does know him now.”

Natasha clapped her hands, and then, impulsively, threw her arms around her brother's neck. He began to laugh sheepishly. “No wonder Ossip is a besotted fool!” he declared. Then he stood still, remembering the feel of Sonia's young, frail body in his arms. Now he did not laugh. Perhaps it was dishonorable to try to trap her this way, through Natasha and Ossip… He thought for a moment of her grieving face, turned to him in fury—and then he made up his mind.

“
I
am tired
of being used,” Sonia said to her brother. “First there is Anna, who does not want to see me, but who wishes instead that I find ways of persuading Mama not to go to her this summer. And now you, Ossip! I shall not tell Mama that I would like to go with you to the Tagantsevs. The fact is that your behavior over Natasha is shameful! The daughter of that dreadful man—”

“It is always Papa, isn't it, Sonia?” Ossip shot back, his eyes flashing angrily. “What about me? Don't I have feelings? I have a heart, and Papa has a cause. How can you place his damned cause above my feelings?”

“You are selfish in your indulgence. Papa thinks of the Jews,” Sonia replied. “You were not at the Senate. You didn't even care! You would much rather not be a Jew at all, wouldn't you?”

Clenching his fists, Ossip nodded, his face flooded with color. “That's right!” he cried. “I don't believe in God, or why would he have allowed me to be crippled as a baby, or Anna to be deformed? If I believed, then I might choose the faith that suited me. But I am stuck in a religion that excludes me from what I want in this world. If Papa accepts the Jewish way, it is because he is strengthened by a firm belief. I am not. It's as simple as that. I'm as good as the next man, but because of a religion in which I do not believe, I am barred from certain privileges, and, what's more important, from openly courting the woman I love, and who loves me! Is that fair? Tell me, is it?”

Sonia's small face constricted with pain. “I wish that you believed,” she whispered.

“So do I. It is far easier to live when one's faith is intact. But you are perfect, Sonia, untouched by hurt. You have reason to cling to a God. I stopped listening to Papa's litanies when I was still tied to my special crib. Mama does not believe, either. She was not happy as a child, and so she, too, had reason to doubt the existence of a fair-minded God. Only those who are unscathed can still believe.”

“I am not so unscathed,” his sister murmured. “You don't know me so well.”

“I would like to,” Ossip said. “You are a secretive person, Sonia. I share myself with you, but you only take, you do not return confidences. Sometimes I am ready to give up with you. And sometimes you make me furious, for you are rigid as an oak tree, when you should be a willow.” He looked at her closely. “What is wrong with Natasha?”

“Natasha has everything, and I believe she would share it all with you. I see no harm in her intentions. But it's impossible! Don't you see? You are not realistic, Ossip. Is any woman worth hurting so many people? If Natasha were Jewish—or even if she weren't, but was the daughter of another man—then I would be happy for you, and would do anything to help you. Don't you
see?
”

Ossip passed his tongue over his dry lips. “All right, Sonia,” he said. “Why don't you give me the chance to see? Come with me to the Tambov, then she and I will see if we truly do love each other, seeing each other in the same house day after day. Perhaps you're right, and we are merely being children, playing at love. There is attraction in forbidden fruit. There is also attraction in memory, from visit to visit. We have never been together sufficiently long, or sufficiently frequently, to see whether our feelings would survive the test of a life together. Won't you help me make up my mind? Then, if I reject her, you will feel that you helped set me free of this obsession; and if I don't— you will feel that I gave myself every chance, that I was not an impulsive adolescent!” His blue eyes pleaded with her. “Won't you do this for me, Sonitchka?”

She stood before him, her hands together as in prayer. She nodded slowly. “All right,” she replied. But her voice was almost inaudible. She cleared her throat. “You are a weakling, Ossip. I love you more than anyone on earth, but you are weak. I will do this for you, but in your place I would not have to ask. It is good that Natasha has spirit, for you lack it.”