Russian Treasures

15. SVIYAZHSK

Sablin took a hip flask of diluted medical spirit out of his pocket and took a sip. His eyes widened. That’s some strong stuff! He had been drunk every day now for more days than he could count.

Lubochka had seen him off to war in the time-honored fashion: she had shed a few tears, hung an amulet around his neck, and made the sign of the cross over him. “Take care!”

Sablin had no intention of taking care. He was determined not to offer any help to the Bolsheviks. Let them shoot him—he wasn’t afraid to die. The medical spirit was effective not only against infection but also, thank God, against his instinct for self-preservation.

The Bolsheviks had not taken Sablin to Kazan; instead, they had put him ashore on the peninsula of Sviyazhsk, home to a number of ancient monasteries and their suburbs. The monks had all been driven out, and the buildings were now being put to use as hospitals and soldiers’ barracks.

“Choose any unoccupied house,” the commandant told Sablin. “You’ll have to set everything up from scratch. They’ll be bringing in the wounded soon, so get ready. You’ll need to go to the railroad station for supplies and find some assistants as well.”

Sablin wandered aimlessly around the empty streets for a while, occasionally shading his eyes to look up at the golden crosses of the churches and the St. Nicholas bell tower with its ancient clock. The watchman—an old man in bast shoes—showed him the convent, prison, and school building. The whole place had been completely devastated and was utterly filthy.

Rounding the mayor’s house, Sablin went up onto the cliff and looked out over the river. Dozens of boats were heading toward Sviyazhsk.

“God almighty—” Sablin muttered.

He reached for his flask again, took a sip, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

One by one, the tugs, ferries, and rowboats reached land, and soon, the area around the pier was flooded with servicemen and refugees who began streaming up the wooden stairway. The air was full of shouts, the clatter of weapons, and the whinnying of horses.

A little nun wearing spectacles darted around the crowd asking, “Is there a doctor here? Where can I find a doctor?”

“This man’s a doctor,” the watchman said, pointing at Sablin.

The nun came running up to Sablin, grasped him by the shoulders, and then recoiled in shock. “But the man’s blind drunk!”

The soldiers had begun bringing up the stretchers with the wounded. Mechanically, Sablin counted the bodies wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Ten, twenty, thirty—

“Are you a doctor?” a breathless nurse asked him. “Where can we take people?”

Sablin looked at her vaguely. “Go to the school building. It’s not far from here. Hey, old man,” he called to the watchman. “Show them the way.”

I’ve no medicine, no staff, and no equipment, Sablin thought.

All around, people were shouting, “Morphine! Water! Where’s the doctor?”

The nun approached a young man holding a dead woman in his arms. “I’ll just get my Matrona from the ferry, and we can get going,” the nun told him and ran downstairs.

The man laid the woman on the grass near the fence, took off his long overcoat, and spread it over her.

“Klim, is that you?” Sablin asked in amazement, staggering toward him. “What are you doing here? And who’s this?”

He bent down over the woman, studied her sallow, drawn face, and gasped as he recognized Nina Odintzova.

“The doctor in Kazan said she has peritonitis,” Klim said, his voice shaking. “He promised to operate on her, but then he ran away.”

Sablin slapped at his cheeks, trying to shake himself out of his drunken stupor. He took Nina by the wrist. She barely had a pulse.

Peritonitis, damn it! Sablin thought. What am I supposed to do about that with nothing but a penknife?

“If you have a horse,” he said, turning to Klim, “you must take Nina to the railroad station. Apparently, there’s a hospital there, and they might have what you need for an operation. Otherwise—God help us, man, you can see for yourself.”

Klim grasped Sablin’s hand. “We do have a horse. Doctor, come with me! You’re a surgeon—you—” He fell silent, his shoulders drooped, and his eyes were desperate.

Sablin surveyed the wounded.

Call yourself a doctor? he thought. You’re nothing but a rotten swine. You haven’t lifted a finger for days; you were drunk all yesterday and the day before that. By this evening, there will be more than a dozen dead, and it’ll all be your fault.

The medics kept bringing more and more stretchers, and boats scurried to and fro across the slate gray river. The crossing was only just beginning.

The nurse ran up to Sablin again. “Doctor, there are no mattresses in the school. Who’s in charge here? Is there anyone responsible?”

Sablin pulled himself together. “You’ll have to be in charge for now,” he told the nurse. “I’m going to the station to get everything we need for the hospital.”

All the way to the station, Sablin exasperated Klim with his nonstop chatter. “Let’s pray they have an operating room there. Good God! What am I supposed to do without a surgical nurse and assistants? My hands are shaking from the drink.”

Sister Photinia urged the horse with her whip, and the wagon moved swiftly on, bouncing over the potholes. Klim held Nina’s head on his lap. Her temples were cold, and her forehead beaded with sweat. He kept his fingers under her ear where he could feel her pulse, but every now and then, it seemed to him that everything was over.

What if Nina dies? Klim kept asking himself. What am I going to do?

Should he find the wretch who had killed Nina and pay him back in kind?

Dear God, what do you want from me? he prayed silently. What sacrifice can I offer? Please don’t take my Nina away! And if you still need me to do something in return, let me know what. You know me. I’m a man of my word.

The remnants of the Red Army were now crossing the Volga and gathering near the bridge on the west bank of the river. Every single depot, warehouse, and workshop was packed with soldiers who had no idea what to do or where to go.

The hospital at the station was so full of patients that some of the wounded had even been left lying in the woodshed.

“Go and see Trotsky!” the paramedic yelled at Klim. “If you’ve got a complaint, make it to him.”

He told Klim that Leon Trotsky, the newly appointed People’s Commissar for Military and Naval Affairs, had arrived at the Eastern Front after the fall of Simbirsk. Despite all of the propaganda efforts, Russian soldiers were far from eager to fight another war, and Trotsky had assumed the function of Head of Persuasion for the Red Army.

The chances of being granted an audience with the People’s Commissar for Military and Naval Affairs seemed about as likely to Klim as securing an appointment with the devil himself. It was even more ridiculous to hope for any help from Trotsky. Nevertheless, Klim left Nina with Sister Photinia and Sablin and forced his way through the nervous crowd surrounding Trotsky’s special propaganda train decorated with red banners and the slogans, “Long Live the World Revolution” and “Victory or Death.”

Soldiers pressed toward the sleeping car, and the line of Latvian riflemen was barely able to hold back the sheer mass of human flesh that weighed against them.

“What the hell is going on?” the soldiers swore angrily. “We’ve had no rations for two days.”

A disheveled young officer ran along the line arguing with the soldiers and trying to persuade them to leave, but nobody paid him any attention.

“To hell with the lot of you!” they cried. “We’ve had enough. Let Trotsky come out and talk to us himself.”

Suddenly, the sleeping car door clanked open, and a short, wiry man with a pointed beard stepped down onto the footboard. Without a word, he glared at the anxious faces through his rimless pince-nez. The cries of the crowd subsided.

Trotsky unbuttoned his leather overcoat, flashing the scarlet lining, and rolled up his sleeves as though preparing to take on an arduous yet familiar task.

What a buffoon! Klim thought, eyeing the commissar.

“We could have held onto Kazan,” Trotsky began in slow, fearsome tones. “The city was abandoned in a state of panic. And what, may I ask, was the cause of this panic? The bourgeoisie had sabotaged the country’s economy and its network of communications, supplies, and transport. You felt cut off from the rest of the world. You thought help would never come. And you began to think our cause was lost. Am I right? But never forget, the Russian proletariat is on your side. The Red peasants won’t let you starve. Tomorrow, you shall have bacon, boots, matches, and tobacco.”

Comrade Trotsky was a great propaganda specialist. He didn’t blame the retreating soldiers for the catastrophe unfolding around them. Instead, he explained his version of events to them and promised them that tomorrow, all would be well.

The faces in the crowd brightened as they stood listening, spellbound.

“The workers of the world are closely following everything that is happening here on this section of the front,” Trotsky thundered. “We have a radio mast that can receive signals from the Eiffel Tower in France, the Nauen transmission site in Germany, and, of course, Moscow. We send back the most important news for immediate publication in the world press. What will the workers of Liverpool think of you? What shall we report to the dockers of Marseilles? Are we going to have to tell them that Russian workers are cowards ready to betray them at the first sign of failure? Or will you show them that the world has yet to see more steadfast warriors for the happiness of the international proletariat?”

Suddenly, Trotsky jumped off the footboard, headed toward Klim, and grasped him by the shoulders.

“Brother!” he exclaimed. “You and I need freedom. The Bolsheviks have given us freedom, and we must not allow the landlords and capitalists to turn us back into slaves. Tell me, who are you?”

“I’m a journalist from Argentina,” Klim began. “My wife is very ill—”

Trotsky looked at him with keen interest. “So, you’ve come here to report on revolutionary events? Can I see your press accreditation?”

Klim put his trembling hand in his overcoat pocket and took out a colorful document in Spanish. Trotsky examined the elaborate handwriting and the large red seal.

“I need your help, sir,” Klim said. “You have a hospital car in your train—and doctors—”

Trotsky gave the paper back to him, embraced him, and raised his voice to speak to the crowd. “You see? The people of Argentina are with us. They are keen to hear the outcome of our struggle, and they have sent their correspondent to us. Of course, we shall show them solidarity. We shall help our Argentinean comrade in every possible way.”

Trotsky ordered his aides to take Klim and his sick wife to the hospital car and mounted the footboard again.

“We pledge our allegiance to the Republic of the Soviets. We are prepared to defend the revolution with our lives. Forward to Kazan! Hurrah!”

“Hurrah!” came the exhilarated roar of the crowd.

It seemed to Klim that he could hear his pulse beating in his temples. Not a single person on the railroad platform had the faintest notion that the paper he had shown to Trotsky was a certificate confirming that Klim’s overcoat had been made at the studio of Mr. Tréjean on Florida Street in Buenos Aires.

Trotsky’s attendants laid Nina on the table under the circular ceiling lamps, and Klim brushed a moist strand of hair from her forehead.

“Do you realize who’s going to be operating?” Sablin asked, coming up to him. “Gabriel Mikhailovich! Even a luminary like him has been mobilized.”

Klim turned his head and saw a haughty-looking old man in a white coat.

“Anyone who is not authorized to be here must leave immediately,” the old man snapped.

The nurse pulled at Klim’s sleeve. “We’ll call you in later.”

He went back onto the platform and was distracted by a huge crater in the middle of it.

“The Whites dropped a bomb on the station, hoping to destroy Trotsky’s train,” explained Sister Photinia, coming up to join Klim. “But they missed.”

He nodded without looking at her. She placed something heavy down next to him. It was the satyr statue. The twine had come undone, and the long silver nose and beard protruded from the sackcloth.

“You forgot this,” Sister Photinia said. “It was so heavy that I could barely carry it.”

“Thank you,” Klim said.

“Well—” She hesitated. “Dr. Sablin has arranged for some medical supplies from the hospital to be sent to the wounded back at the monastery. Matrona and I will deliver them.”

“I see.”

Sister Photinia patted him on the shoulder. “Get in touch with us if anything—well, you know—”

Klim was making an ant run along a blade of grass. Once it got to the top, he turned the blade upside down and made it start over again.

What are they doing with Nina now? Klim thought. Have they cut her open?

It was hard to imagine that such a thing could happen to a live human being. It was unbearable to admit that Nina’s fate was in the hands of people who were largely indifferent about whether she lived or died.

Klim heard the sound of footsteps on the platform but didn’t turn his head. Were they coming to tell him it was all over?

No, it was only some sentries and medical orderlies.

All Klim could do now was put his trust in God. The surgeon operating was called Gabriel, like the angelic messenger, and that was probably a good sign.

As a teenager, Klim had served as an altar boy in the church. The high-school boys liked to make an impression, taking the collection bowl around the left-hand side of the church where the female parishioners stood. The service boys were allowed to join the priests behind the altar screen to gain a “better understanding of the church service,” but it was there that Klim had parted company with the Orthodox faith once and for all. One day, he had caught the priest taking snuff on the quiet. On another occasion, he had seen the deacon polishing off the last of the sacramental wine. After that, Klim and his friends took to sneaking the occasional nip from the bottles of altar wine themselves.

Klim wore a cross around his neck like an amulet and generally spoke to God in a familiar tone. He grumbled at him when something was wrong and went to church when he needed something. It didn’t matter to him whether the church was an Orthodox or a Catholic one.

Now, Klim felt as though everything he was going through was a punishment for his lack of faith back then. He was experiencing that fiery torment that his divinity teacher at school had promised awaited all lapsed believers.

Again, Klim heard rapid footsteps behind his back and felt himself tense in anticipation.

“So, what have we here?” Trotsky asked, pointing at the satyr peeping out of the sackcloth.

“It’s nothing—” Klim said. “A souvenir. I bought it at the market.”

Trotsky squatted down and gazed at the sculpture. He and the satyr looked rather alike: both had a broad forehead and a similar style beard, only one had no pince-nez, and the other lacked horns.

“Well, well, Comrade Argentinean,” Trotsky mused. “Perhaps you could let us have your souvenir? I think we might be able to use it for propaganda purposes.”

Klim nodded. “Sure.”

“And one more thing,” Trotsky added. “The doctor told me that your wife needs to stay in the hospital car for some time. I don’t want you to be left without anything to do, so we’ll provide you with some socially useful work. Seeing as you’re a journalist, you can write us leaflets about the dangers of religious indoctrination. Comrade Skudra will explain to you what you need to do. He’s a great expert on propaganda. Come with me, and I’ll introduce you to one another.”

Klim rose to his feet, overcome by the unexpected and joyful news. Nina had survived the operation.

He had asked God for a sign as to how to repay him if Nina’s life were spared, and now, Klim had his answer: he was now to write sermons denouncing God’s divinity for these devils in the Red Army. He felt sure that the Almighty was enjoying the irony immensely.