The Four Winds of Heaven (75 page)

When they reached Madame Solovéichik's vast house, it was filled with boarders, but the woman did not have the heart to turn the Gunzburgs away. She arranged for a cot to be placed in the alcove where Gino had slept before, and now Mathilde slept there while Sonia made do with the sofa in the dining room.

That spring, the young woman began to make arrangements for their departure. Simferopol had changed, and the absence of Gino and the Pomerantz ladies made her heart ache dully. She was growing more discouraged than ever in her life of twenty-nine years. Always she had thought: Wait until tomorrow. But now she thought only to live through today. She wondered what would be best for her, and decided that when they reached Constantinople, she would wire her Uncle Misha for a visa to Switzerland for Mathilde, and one to France for herself. He had connections, and would be able to help her to find a position of some sort. She would work in Paris: there were bound to be more opportunities there than in Lausanne, and she desperately needed to earn her living. But at what? Stenography? The tutoring of languages? Misha would have to counsel her.

Mathilde did not suffer from Sonia's scruples. She thought of her elderly mother, of the hills of Switzerland, of her beloved Paris, and once again her face became the unlined face of a trustful child. Her home had never been in Russia. When Denikin resigned in March and General Wrangel was made Commander in Chief of the volunteer White Army, which now consisted of only seventy thousand men, she did not think of a dying Russia, nor of Gino's probable anguish over his country. She thought instead, as troops were sent to the Crimea from Novorossiik: I shall see my boy again, if not here, then in Constantinople. And we shall all escape together.

But one evening, after supper, Mathilde's face swelled into strange blotches. Sonia had never seen her mother like this, and when she touched her forehead it was burning. Quickly Madame Solovéichik helped Sonia to settle Mathilde in her bed and they sent for a doctor. Madame Solovéichik said, shaking her head, “I hear there's been an outbreak of cholera...”

Sonia would not listen. She sat by her mother, feeling the racing pulse. She could not die!

“You will be the first one to catch it,” the concerned old woman said.

But Sonia glared at her with outraged eyes. “Leave if you will,” she whispered. “If Mama is ill then I must help her to live through this. Mama cannot survive alone.”

When at last the doctor arrived, he bent over Mathilde and said, “Cholera isn't all that we've got here in Simferopol. I'm afraid there's also an epidemic of typhus. Your mother has the typhus. She will need medication three times a day—” he wrote down the name of the drug for Sonia— “as well as fresh milk with every meal. The problem is that we have no milk here in Simferopol. And there is not sufficient medication for everyone; our patients can only be given two doses a day.”

Sonia did not know what to do. Mathilde's fever was so high that she was sometimes delirious in the days that followed the doctor's visit. The young woman would hear her mumbling names: David, Anna, and then piteously, “Johanna, Johanna...” It was unbearable.

Twice every day Sonia rushed to the pharmacy which sold the drug. One morning she nearly collided with an earnest young man who said, “My father has cholera.” That afternoon the pharmacist told her that the father had died. One after another, victims of the diseases succumbed. Meanwhile, there was Mathilde, writhing in her small cot in full view of all the boarders at the house of Madame Solovéichik.

When Sonia's hope was about to give out, Ekaterina Zevina came to the rescue. It seemed that a farm delivered a quart of milk a day to her family, because she did not reside in the city proper. “I can give you one cup for Mathilde Yureyevna,” she offered kindly, and Sonia thought: Now the worst is past. My mother will live.

But then the problems became worse. Sonia could not come to fetch the milk until after she had stood in line for fresh food, or there would be none left. By then it was nine o'clock, and the hot Crimean sun beat ruthlessly upon the young woman's head as she walked the twenty minutes to the Zevins' house. She had to walk the same distance back, and discovered that during the return trip the sun had soured her milk. One tiny cup, so difficult to obtain, so essential—wasted! Sonia sat down in the Solovéichik kitchen and wept helplessly, too tired to feel angry. The next morning she wrapped the bottle in an old shawl, and it did not sour. But the fourth time the shawl was no help against the scorching sun. Mathilde could not drink the milk, and Sonia sank into despair.

On the tenth day, a crisis was to occur for which the doctor had prepared her. Mathilde's temperature would drop radically to far below normal, putting a strain on her heart. It was during this period that many people died: their hearts simply could not withstand the shock. That night, Sonia remained awake by her mother's side, watching her face. Oh, God, do not take her yet, not yet, she thought. She has lost so much, and I have failed her. I did not protect her with enough compassion. I was angry when she could not cope. I wanted her to be different, less good and gentle, more like me, hard and selfish… Oh, Mama, please, please…

A dreadful pallor came to Mathilde's face and her eyes opened for a second or two. She looked at her daughter without seeing her. In those pathetic blue eyes shone a plea, the same kind of plea that Sonia had seen whenever Mathilde would whisper, “David, David… Anna!” It was, Sonia knew, a plea for forgiveness, and she could not stand to think of its implications. She began to cry, sobs escaping her as she went to Mathilde and started the vigorous heart massage which was the only hope the doctor could offer for her mother's survival.

Sonia spent the night alternately administering cold compresses and rubbing her mother's chest until her arms ached. She had become an automaton battling against fate. When the first fingers of dawn stretched across the horizon, Mathilde still breathed. Sonia's back hurt so badly that she could not raise her neck to hold up her head. Her hands trembled so much that the wet cloth slipped from them onto the floor. The crisis was over.

That evening, Alexander Zevin came to Sonia and declared, “Your papers will be ready soon, and I have made arrangements for your departure from here to Sevastopol.” Sonia stared at him, dully. He had expected tears, a sudden, emotional outburst. But the young woman merely nodded. She could not weep, could not speak. She would flow wherever the tides washed her up, from now on. Her mother had survived the ordeal. But the Russia of her bones, of her blood, had not. Everything would soon be over.

A wave of intense exhaustion passed over her delicate features, and Sonia closed her eyes. The room began to swim. She put out a hand toward Zevin, to steady herself. But the blackness, nevertheless, engulfed her. She fainted.

B
ecause of the
chaos which had spread throughout Russia, particularly in its southern regions, the Gunzburg women did not receive their final travel papers until August 1920. In fact, simultaneous with their departure from Simferopol came a diplomatic move from France which greatly reassured them about the possibility of going there from Constantinople. The French government, on August 12, recognized General Wrangel's troops as the de facto government of Russia. But the Whites were at their wits' end. The city of Sevastopol was in their hands, however, and it would be safe to leave from there as planned.

The final details of the voyage were left to Zevin. He arrived one evening at the house of Madame Solovéichik, and drew forth a large purse, from which tumbled onto the table a coin of twenty French francs, some German marks, Serbian and Rumanian change, several shillings, and a goodly amount of Turkish currency. “Our Russian money is worthless abroad,” he explained. “But in Constantinople you will be able to change any foreign currency.” He smiled modestly. “In preparation for your trip, I have been collecting any coin which came my way. I hope that these will be useful to you.”

Then, stemming Sonia's flood of thanks, he told them that a ship was scheduled to leave from Sevastopol for Constantinople within the week. The exact date of departure was still unknown, but as soon as he learned it Zevin would arrange for someone to drive the Gunzburgs to the train station for the three-hour ride to Sevastopol. He advised them to leave Simferopol three days before the ship's departure, so that they might have two days in Sevastopol to see to any unfinished business with their papers.

It was not until the morning of the eighteenth of August that Zevin learned the date of the ship's departure. It was to leave on the twenty-third. Sonia purchased their tickets at once, thinking that she might be spending Russian currency for the last time. At noon, Zevin reappeared, announcing that a peasant would drive them to the station that very evening, and that he would accompany them on the train, to protect them. They would be able to rest in Sevastopol the next day. He had arranged for the two women to stay with a family he knew in the city.

During the afternoon Sonia packed their belongings and a supply of food for the train ride. She was grateful for the work, which kept her from thinking. After supper, a small thickset man arrived, saying that he was Zevin's man, the one who was to travel with them. He heaved their luggage onto his wagon, and the two women climbed aboard. The lone horse began the journey to the train station, as the moon glistened over the rooftops.

Mathilde recalled her wedding voyage in the winter of 1883, her first glimpse of this Russia which they were now abandoning, perhaps forever. She had loathed it then, in its immensity, in its grandiosity. Now it no longer cowed or terrified her. Too much had happened to her. She thought wryly: You are an old relative of whom I once was frightened, but now I am sorry to have to let you go. You have been part of me, even while I denied you.

At the station, the Zevins clustered around the two women. But their driver was impatient and did not wish to tarry for farewells. Sonia embraced Ekaterina one last time, then went in search of their guide.

He had pushed their bags into a compartment, and in order not to lose him in the gathering crowd the two women hastily followed. After considerable effort, they joined him and took their seats astride their luggage. It was eight forty-five when the engines started in motion. Mathilde saw Sonia's sudden look of anguish as she turned to the window, and she laid a hand over her daughter's thin fingers. They did not speak.

The journey lasted ten hours instead of three. The Gunzburgs shared their boiled eggs and fruit with their companion, grateful for his presence which seemed to shield them against potential thieves. Nobody slept. At length, at three the next afternoon, the overcrowded train pulled into Sevastopol, and the uncomplaining peasant found a cart to take the women to the home of Zevin's friends.

They were a simple family whose house was already full, but they gave Mathilde a mattress and allowed Sonia to sleep on the dining room table. Their guide was set up with a sheet thrown over the balcony. But exhaustion had drained all three, and they slept on their makeshift beds as soon as they had eaten supper with their hosts.

Sonia rose early the next morning and cooked some food for their voyage by ship. Great numbers of White soldiers were in the city and she resolved to search for her brother Gino before they set sail. First, she took some papers to the necessary officials for signing, and there asked if anyone knew where General Kutepov's division was stationed. No one could answer her. She felt discouraged, but not defeated. After all they had suffered and survived, she would not be defeated, not now and not ever again.

She walked out into the sunshine, a diminutive woman weighing less than eighty pounds. She was totally unfamiliar with Sevastopol, but her footsteps took her along the harbor docks, and whenever she encountered a White officer, she would stop him with her question regarding Kutepov. She walked and walked, until her feet ached so that she could hardly continue to lift them. But if Gino were anywhere near the city, and they departed without making contact, she would never forgive herself.

Late in the afternoon, Sonia passed before a row of shops. In her weariness and disheartened condition, she nearly bumped into a lady strolling with a little girl. Sonia lifted her gray eyes to the woman's face, a hasty apology upon her lips. Instead, the words choked her. Her eyes took in the black hair with its loose tendrils, the high color, the regal yet graceful stance. She said, “Natalia Nicolaievna.”

The woman blushed, hastily touched her forehead, and her deep blue eyes became sapphires, points of brilliance. “Sofia Davidovna,” she replied. There was a softness in her voice, and yet embarrassment. She quickly motioned to the little girl, saying, “This is my daughter, Lara. Lara, this is Baroness de Gunzburg, a friend from Petrograd.”

“How come we never saw you there?” the girl asked, with childish impudence. Then she blushed, resembling her mother, and added, “I am pleased to meet you.”