The Four Winds of Heaven (58 page)

They regarded each other, sapphire eyes meeting in a blaze of anger and fear and hatred and love. She looked away first, tears streaming from her eyes. “I am so terrified,” she whispered. “But also, you are right. I am a shameless woman. For I am happy, Ossip. In the confusion and the danger, we shall have to remain here, shan't we? For the whole night perhaps?”

He turned to her and felt as though he were being pulled by a magnet. She extended her hands to him, her face full of hope, begging forgiveness, but he pushed them aside and fell upon her with urgent passion. She uttered one small, surprised cry, then fell back upon the cushions as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. Her hat slid to the side, and she mingled her fingers with strands of his hair. She could feel his own tears on her soft skin, and she pulled his face to hers, and kissed his eyelids. “Do not leave me,” she whispered. “Never go away from me, Ossip.”

They did not notice that Pavel had discreetly closed the thick velvet curtains of the small sitting room, that only a corner lamp was lit. They had not forgotten Petrograd, awash in chaos and fury. The passions of their city had merely added fuel to their own, and their frenzied love-making became tinged with the same hysteria that was shaking the capital.

Ossip and Natasha remained together through the night, in the safety of their private enclave. They embraced in total abandonment as the Petrograd Soviet of Workers met in the Taurida Palace, without prior warning, in derisive indifference to the Temporary Committee of twelve elected Duma members. They drank giddily from champagne coupes the following day, while Tzar Nicholas left army headquarters in Mogilev and boarded the train for Tsarskoe Selo. But a quiet knock disturbed them on March 14, and while Natasha, her lovely face crimson with embarrassment, pulled up the silk coverlet to hide her alabaster limbs, Ossip, with annoyance, bade Pavel enter. “We are sick to death of pâté de foie gras!” he cried in disgust.

The valet, pale in his black frock coat, declared quietly, “I thought perhaps that Monsieur and Madame should know. The Tzar has abdicated.”

Natasha turned to Ossip, and her face went suddenly white. He drew her protectively against him. “What else have you learned, Pavel?” he demanded.

“Just this, sir. The Temporary Committee has appointed a Provisional Government, under Prince Georgi Lvov. Its members are no surprise: Guchkov in charge of the War Department, Milyukov of Foreign—”

“My father!” Ossip cried.

“Yes, Monsieur. I said, no surprises. There is one: an Alexander Kerensky for Justice. He's the only socialist.”

“My God,” Natasha exclaimed, “now they will kill Papa!”

The two young people regarded each other, horror painted upon their features.

“No,” Pavel demurred politely. “Let me reassure Madame. The mob has been quelled. Her father has been returned to safety.”

“But you don't know… about my father!” Natasha gasped. Her teeth began to chatter.

“Madame needn't worry about anything,” the valet stated. He turned to leave, then apparently changed his mind and faced the lovers once more. “The Tzar,” he said deferentially, “has also abdicated on behalf of his son, Tzarevitch Alexei. So now it's up to the Grand Duke Mikhail, the Tzar's brother.”

“Thank you, Pavel,” Ossip intoned emptily, as the servant noiselessly slipped out. He looked at Natasha, took her hands in his. But he too was trembling, and goose bumps had spread over his entire body. Her eyes stayed glued to his, seeking a guidance that he could not give. He said, softly, regretfully, “We must go home, my angel. It is time.”

The first thing that Baron David said the next morning at breakfast to his son, was strangely anticlimactic: “The Romanovs have reached the end of the line, my boy. The Grand Duke Mikhail has refused Tzardom, and has passed the governing power to the Provisional Government.” He did not ask where Ossip had been until the previous afternoon, when he had entered the Gunzburg apartment with a haggard expression haunting his eyes. Too much had occurred for the mere comings and goings of his son to be of importance. Ossip wondered, his heart constricting with anguish, if Natasha had similarly escaped questioning. After all, she was a mother, and her own father had been held captive. More had been at stake in her case. But there was no way to find out. He could only hope, and now he wished he were a believer, so that he might pray.

Dear God, he thought, if you exist, which I doubt, please help Natasha through these days of confusion. And, he added tersely, help Russia.

A
lexander Zevin managed
the entire hundred and twenty-five thousand acres belonging to the Gunzburg clan in the Crimean peninsula. This was the property which the patriarch, Ossip Gunzburg, had purchased in disparate lots throughout the region, so that its yearly revenues should go to the Dynins, relatives of his wife, Rosa. He had been tired of their pleas for money, and had devised this plan to rid himself of the nuisance of their demands.

The lots were comprised of wheat, barley, and buckwheat fields, salt mines and fallow ground; some of the land was extremely fertile, while in other areas it was arid. And some of the estate was cultivated by peasants who reaped part of the profits, while other lots were worked by men and women who were paid wages by the season.

But no longer did the Dynins enjoy the proceeds of this land. Upon the death of Ossip, his children in France had allowed their brother in Russia, Baron Horace de Gunzburg, to buy their shares in the Crimean property, and when he in turn passed away in 1909, his own children had inherited a great deal of land.

Once a year, Zevin would come to Petrograd to bring the account books and the actual cash revenues to David and Sasha. But Sasha was a city man, without much interest in the country; and David was already the squire of Mohilna, in Podolia. There was no need for the brothers to concern themselves with this land, which to them meant only additional wealth, welcome but hardly essential. No family members had ever desired to live on their Crimean land, even for short periods of time to investigate this part of their bounty, so no manor had been constructed for them. Zevin possessed a small house on the estate, but spent most of his time traveling back and forth among his workers.

When Sonia's health had begun once again to show signs of deterioration, Baron David at first thought of sending his wife and daughter to Mohilna. But he wanted them to leave the city soon, for political reasons as well, and Mohilna, though beloved by Sonia, had never been a favorite spot of Mathilde's. It was too countrified, and Mathilde needed to be surrounded by civilized gentry, at the very least. He could not bear the thought of her alone with an ailing Sonia and Johanna de Mey, with her bright eyes that detested him and were constantly searching for new flaws in his character. Then, late one night, he had thought of the perfect solution: to have Zevin arrange for Mathilde, Sonia, and Johanna to rent a house in one of the jewel-like Crimean cities which he, as overseer to the Gunzburg estate, would know intimately. David's family could then live on the proceeds from the harvests of ‘17, and the Baron would not even have to worry about problems arising in the mail system, whereby checks could be lost and his wife's comfort might suffer.

Zevin's mother resided in Feodosia, an agreeable, comely town with a harbor, and it was there that the estate manager located the house which he rented for the Gunzburgs. It was on top of a hill, overlooking the Black Sea on the most elegant avenue of all, the Catherine Boulevard. Mowed grass sloped down from it to the street, then came the railroad tracks, then the beach. The entryway was not through the front; a road wound toward the courtyard in back, leading to a garden and a porch, with an entrance to the foyer. The magnificent living room looked out to the sea, and before the street, a thick wall with an iron gate closed off the property. Only Sonia's maid of many years, Marfa, had come with them, and they had hired no other servants. Mathilde proposed to live quietly. It was still wartime, and in this community there would be no reason to entertain. As it was, they knew very few people.

Feodosia was an old town with Greek relics, including a fortress that had been erected by Mithridates. Sonia, who was anemic and still quite weak, was not able to enjoy many walks. But one day, after one of their own walks her mother and Johanna arrived in time for tea and greeted Sonia with lively faces. “We have met the most charming girl,” Mathilde exclaimed. “She will come to see you—we have invited her. Her name is Olga Pomerantz, and her mother is the leader of Jewish society here. Madame Pomerantz owns a wheat exporting business, and they say she runs it herself!”

“It hardly matters about the mother, my dear,” Johanna added quickly. “The daughter is a pretty child. She was a student at the University of Kharkov, but because of the troubled time, she has returned home, and has enrolled as a day student at the nearby University of Simferopol for the fall term.”

Indeed, the following afternoon, Marfa announced a Mademoiselle Olga Arkadievna Pomerantz, and a young girl entered the living room. She was of medium height, with short, waved strawberry blond hair arranged in curls. She wore a suit trimmed with muted gold braid and her elegant high boots glistened in the sunlight. Yet the small round pink mouth was natural, the coral cheeks were un-enhanced by rouge, and Sonia thought: She belies what they say in Petrograd about provincial girls! Olga Pomerantz is most attractive, and fashionable, too. Yet she is very young! She touched her own thick hair in its traditional pompadour and topknot, and felt singularly spinsterly and old.

“Madame Zevina is acquainted with my mother,” Olga said simply, taking a seat at Sonia's bidding. “I was so pleased when she told me of your presence. It was dreadful, what happened—the Tzar abdicating and all. Mama is the most strong-willed person I know—but still, I did not want to leave her alone here, and remain alone myself in Kharkov. Nevertheless, it has been rather lonesome.”

“Your mother appears to be quite a legend in this town,” Sonia commented with a smile.

“Oh, yes! Papa died most unexpectedly, while dressing one morning. And Mama simply took over. She always knew what Papa did: his dealings with the farmers, the estate owners, the shipping executives, the foreign clients… Now she goes to the offices, and turns a better profit than Papa ever did. We are great friends, Mama and I. But we have little time to spend together.”

“I am sorry,” Sonia said, her large gray eyes taking in the eager young girl before her. How old could she be? Nineteen, twenty—at most? Yet there was depth within her, Sonia thought. “You must come to visit us, then,” she added, brightly. “I do not wish my mother to be so concerned over my welfare. I was ill some years ago, and weakened during some work that I was doing in Petrograd, for the war effort. Mama and Juanita—Johanna Ivanovna, her companion—should visit the sights, and go out more frequently. If you came for tea they would deem me in fine company, and everybody would be satisfied. Will you come?”

“Of course,” Olga replied. Then, as Sonia paled as she began to rise, she held her in her chair with a swift movement of the arm. “I can pour tea as well as anyone in Feodosia,” she declared, and the green sparks in her hazel eyes shone merrily.

The Pomerantzes owned the most luxurious mansion on the Catherine Boulevard, and soon the Gunzburgs and Johanna were invited there to suppers and teas. Madame Pomerantz, Nadezhda Igorovna, was tall and sinewy, with large gray eyes that peered shrewdly at those around her. Her black hair refused to stay tamed in curls and coils, and she absolutely abstained from wearing hats, even though this was not an accepted practice. She was vivacious and somewhat loud, her voice a tremulous alto, quite stirring. Feodosia permitted her her eccentricities, for she was an enfant terrible, frank, honest, disarmingly forthright. Her daughter Olga was as gentle as she was rough.

Nadezhda Igorovna took to Mathilde with instant affection, and brought her from room to room, pointing with mock horror at the lack of refinement of her furnishings, which were singularly devoid of personality. She did, however, possess the most remarkable Persian and Indian carpets that Mathilde had ever seen, but there were no vases, no flowers, no knickknacks, and no paintings or photographs upon the walls. “I cannot spend my energies decorating,” she said, throwing her hands into the air in defeat.

“I could help you,” Mathilde suggested, hesitantly. She felt drawn to this woman who ran her affairs like a man, and suddenly she felt proud of her own talents. “Perhaps my only gift lies in arranging rooms. It isn't much of a gift, like Johanna's in music, or yours, dear Nadezhda Igorovna, in business affairs. But I have always loved the feel of upholstery, the play of gentle colors one upon the other. I would not impose my taste on you, though.”

“But you must! I insist! What good would you be as a friend, if you could not help me with this blessed house? Ah, I have asked Olga, but you know the young: they lead their own lives, and plan their own futures. You will help, then?”

“I should do so, gladly,” Mathilde replied with a smile.

“Mama has never asked me to help her,” Olga whispered to Sonia. “To tell you the truth, she laughed at the notion of spending money on what she calls ‘the trimmings.' Even when Papa was alive, she hardly cared. But it appears that your mother's charm and excellent taste have changed her mind.”

Sonia smiled, and the two young women, arm in arm, followed their elders into the living room. There, the maître d'hôtel served them an excellent tea. Only Johanna de Mey remained silent. But as soon as they had drained their cups, while Olga promised to pick up Sonia for a conference that evening at one of the lecture halls in town, the Dutchwoman hastened her farewells and insisted upon walking ahead of the Gunzburgs for the short trip from the Pomerantz house to their own. Mathilde called out to her once, and, more faintly, a second time. Then, shrugging slightly, she took her daughter's arm and strolled home, discussing with gentle laughter Nadezhda Igorovna, and with enthusiasm her daughter Olga. Once, Sonia thought with a pang of surprising envy, I was just like her: fresh,
moderne,
interested in everything. And Kolya loved me, and before him Volodia Tagantsev. But now, what is there to love in me? I am nearly twenty-seven, and my idealism has worn, like old silver. She said, “I never thought the Tzar would give up, did you, Mama?”

“Hush,” her mother admonished, trying to retain her pleasant mood. “Do be a lady, Sonia, and leave politics alone…”

Once in their house, no sooner had her daughter gone into her bedroom than Johanna de Mey greeted Mathilde, her golden hair flecked with gray streaming down her back. She was already undressed, and in her peignoir, displayed a thin figure in apricot silk. “That woman is odious!” she cried, and clenched her hands together. “How
could
you, how could you, Mathilde?”

Shivering slightly, her friend replied, “How could I what, Johanna? What have I done?”

“What? You have encouraged the familiarity of a preposterous person, a person unfit for you! She is coarse and crass, and has no friends. No wonder she grovels so for your friendship!”

Mathilde raised her eyebrows and tilted her magnificent head to one side. “So,” she stated calmly. “It is only the friendless who deign to care for me? Really, Johanna, your jealousy is most, most unbecoming. You resort to wounding me. But why? Because I have found the presence of somebody else agreeable to me? Can I no longer have other friends, Johanna?”

“You are cruel!” Johanna cried, and tears sprang from her eyes onto her meager cheeks. She rubbed her hands drily against each other. “Nadezhda Igorovna is not a lady.”

“That is where you are mistaken, and fooled by the exterior,” Mathilde countered. “She is admirably educated. I can tell that she has been speaking French from the cradle. She knows mathematics, poetry, what have you, far better than I. She seems tasteless only where she has not cared to give vent to her most excellent taste. And I like her. She is sophisticated but unworldly, and that is a rarity. Even my mother would enjoy her,” she added, with a proud straightening of her back. “I shall accept her friendship with gratitude. We are not at home, Johanna. Her daughter has befriended mine, it is wartime, we are strangers. I will not reject one of the first ladies of Feodosia.”

Johanna's almond-shaped eyes glistened and widened. “And if I reject her?” she whispered.

“You shall have to be discreet about it. I shall not lose this newfound friend because of you. Good night, my dear.” Mathilde inclined her head, and turned toward her own bedroom. Johanna de Mey remained in the hallway, her shoulders slumped and her hands dangling at her sides.

G
ino cast
down his ration of dark bread and dried beef with a gesture of frustration. He had never been very facile with words. Now they failed him totally. He regarded little Vassya, the cowherd, his corporal, who had been promoted to sergeant, with irritability. “I am not against the Provisional Government,” he finally said.

“Then it is the commissars you oppose,” Vassya countered.

“Yes. Yes! What have they to do with this army? With this war?”

“We are tired of the war, Baron,” Vassya smiled ironically. “Oh, I do not like the communists, this Lenin and his Presidium, which is no better for us than the Tzar. To me, the All-Russian Congress of Soviets simply means Lenin and Trotsky. And that's not even their right names, mind you. And the Presidium just wants to take my father's grain away to feed the Party, as they call themselves, without paying him in rubles and kopecks. No, we peasants do not like the Communist Party. But it looks as though your Kerensky—your Provisional Government—cannot do anything about them. Kerensky and Prince Lvov, they just ignore the communists. But they have ordered commissars for us, and that's what we have to check us from their side; and then the communists have given us our soldiers' committees, which are supposed to check the officers from our side. But tell me, Baron, what are we really to do if we're attacked? Go to Kerensky's commissars, or to the soldiers' committees? Who's to tell us what to do or where to fire? I want to go home, and tend my herd, and make sure my father won't be robbed by all of them put together! That's where we differ, you and me. You still want to fight.”