Russian Treasures

17. THE MEANING OF LIFE

Klim was arrested at dawn. The Red soldiers entered the cathedral, kicked him awake, and ordered him to go with them. Nina wanted to run after them, but when she tried to get up, she fainted from the pain.

She came around to find Sister Photinia patting her cheeks. “There, there, my dear. Are you all right?”

Painfully, Nina attempted to sit up. Sunlight was pouring through the cathedral windows, lighting up the stone arches overhead, the enormous, solemn figures of the saints on the frescoes, and the mass of suffering humanity on the floor below.

Nina’s head was spinning. “Where’s Klim?” she asked.

Sister Photinia took off her glasses and wiped them with the hem of her cassock. Her face seemed blank and eyeless to Nina.

“The Whites have been on the march for two days,” the nun said without looking at Nina. “They got tired, and their attack got bogged down. Now, the station and the area around it has been devastated. Half the propaganda train was burned—a shell hit a fuel tank right next to it. So, you were very lucky, my dear, that you got away.”

Weak as she was, Nina felt a cold chill of presentiment. The nun’s face swam before her eyes.

“The Reds survived in the end,” Sister Photinia said. “Although, goodness only knows how they did it. I think they find it hard to believe themselves. After all, the Second Petrograd Regiment—including all the Chinese soldiers—deserted the battlefield. They boarded a steamer reserved for Trotsky, but they didn’t get away in time. They’re all going to be court-martialed.”

“Those scum deserve everything that’s coming to them,” said a soldier next to Nina who had lost an arm. “Good for Comrade Trotsky. He knows what he’s doing.”

There was a ripple of agreement among the wounded soldiers.

“Some of us are out there getting torn to pieces while others are hiding behind women’s skirts.”

“They should be given the choice: face a firing squad or go into battle and put their faith in God. Who knows? Some of them might even come out alive.”

Nina stared at the damaged, angry men around her. It isn’t enough that they have their own troubles, she thought. They want to compound others’ misery too.

For them, Klim was a traitor and a deserter. He had chosen to fight for Nina, not the Red Army, and, therefore, deserved to be executed.

Suddenly, they heard the rumble of carts and the neighing of horses outside. Sablin burst into the cathedral as pale as a ghost, limping hurriedly to the operating area screened off by some makeshift blankets hanging from a rope.

“Nurse!” he cried, putting on his overalls. “There are more wounded outside. We need to sort out where to put them.”

“But where—?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care!”

“Dr. Sablin,” Nina called. “What’s going on?”

A volley of rifle shots came from the street, and Sablin winced. The grumbling voices of the wounded died down, and the only sound that could be heard was a pigeon fluttering high up in the dome.

“Why are you all staring at?” Sablin shouted. “They’re executing deserters. Right here on Kafedralnaya Square.”

Nina bit down on her fist, and Sister Photinia gasped. Another volley of shots rang out. Sablin limped off without looking back.

Another volley came and then another. Sister Photinia stroked Nina’s hand. “You must pray, my dear.”

Nina looked at her wild-eyed. “To whom should I pray? No one is listening to us.”

“The Lord sees everything and helps all those who suffer,” Sister Photinia said in a firm voice. “Do you see that saint with a dog’s head? That is St. Christopher. A very handsome young man he was. He didn’t want the girls to tempt him, so he asked God to make him as ugly as a dog. Miraculously, God granted his wish.”

Nina pulled her knees to her chest. Klim had been arrested as a deserter for not taking part in yesterday’s battle, and that meant… oh, no… God, please, no!

Sister Photinia rose, shaking off the pieces of straw that clung to her skirt. “I’ll go and find out what’s happened.”

Nina stayed sitting up and awake until evening, unable to move a muscle. Her body felt frozen, and her scattered thoughts ran through her head like dry sand.

Here in Sviyazhsk, it felt as though they had all fallen through a hole in time and gone back to the Dark Ages, a time when it was considered an act of glorious righteousness to ask the Lord not for love and joy but for the face of a dog to prove one’s faith. If you didn’t believe in what you were supposed to and if you weren’t ready to kill or maim for that belief, then you deserved to die.

Sister Photinia had still not returned, but a wounded soldier who was able to walk brought news.

“Trotsky lined up all the deserters,” he said, “and ordered every tenth man to be shot as a warning to the others. The commissar announced that this method had been very effective in improving discipline in the Roman army.”

As night fell, Nina was still sitting and gazing into the flame of the oil lamp on the duty doctor’s desk. She felt as though the souls of the executed soldiers were roaming the cathedral among the rows of sleeping men. They hadn’t yet grown used to death. They might try to take a cup of water or say something to one of those still left alive. But their weightless fingers passed straight through these earthly things, and their voices couldn’t be heard.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Sister Photinia.

“Your young man is alive!” the nun whispered excitedly. “He’s at the station with the Chinese. He gave me this note for you.”

Her hands shaking, Nina took the piece of paper but could make out nothing in the darkness.

“He asked me to tell you, ‘Wait for me, and I’ll come as soon as I can,’” the nun said and put a small white feather into Nina’s hand. “He also asked me to pass on this gift for you, but I don’t really understand what it means.”

“What’s happening at the station?” Nina asked, tears of joy pouring down her cheeks.

“Trotsky has gone to Moscow. He ordered the train master to hitch up the remaining cars to a new engine, and off he went. Apparently, there’s been an attack on Lenin. He was seriously wounded by a terrorist.”

The Chinese saved me from the firing squad. They threw themselves at Trotsky’s feet and, with my help, informed him that they had only deserted because they hadn’t understood the orders they had been given, and if the last remaining Chinese interpreter is killed, their detachment will be totally unable to fight.

Trotsky took mercy on us, but he gave the order for Pukhov to be shot for failing to organize effective communication between the military command and his soldiers. The poor fellow didn’t even try to defend himself. He just stood there in front of a firing squad, barefoot with his shirt hanging out of his trousers, weeping silently. The revolution has betrayed him—its most loyal disciple, the man who loved it more than any other.

The Chinese were determined to take me with them. Ho, the new commander of the battalion, assigned two Chinese men to guard me, but Skudra had no intention of giving me up because he wanted me to write propaganda leaflets about the attempt on Lenin’s life. So, he also sent his soldiers for me, and while the command was deliberating what to do with me, the guards and I had a fine old time playing cards. As a result, I won myself a very nice pair of German binoculars.

On September 2, 1918, the matter was settled when Trotsky came back from Moscow bringing two Chinese interpreters, so I’ve stayed with Skudra.

Thinking back, my work at La Prensa newspaper seems like a distant dream. I remember Buenos Aires and our building with its gilded dome topped with the statue of Athena who represented the freedom of speech. The feisty editorial staff, the atmosphere of fervent competition—where are they all now?

I—like everybody else in Sviyazhsk—am in the business of building communism. There’s only one problem: we are trying to make a beautiful palace using plans for a city crematorium. Alas, it doesn’t even occur to my colleagues for a fraction of a second that there is something seriously wrong with their blueprints. The piles have been driven into the ground, the cranes are already lifting pipes over the building site, and it’s too late to start the project from scratch—the Bolsheviks have invested too much time, money, and effort into it. They’ll realize their mistake later when the red ribbon has been cut and the orchestra has struck up its triumphant fanfare. Only then will the Bolsheviks see that instead of a paradise for the living, they have built a palace for the dead in which they too are doomed to be cremated alive like poor old Pukhov.

I don’t dare state this obvious truth or try to prove my colleagues wrong in any way. The devil has given me the fright of my life, and I’m not going to forget our deal again. He is keeping his end of our bargain, so I must keep mine.

The most terrible events often become myths, and every myth needs a hero. The hero’s job is to perform miracles and suffer for the people. Rising from the dead is always a handy trick to have up your sleeve as well.

Lenin’s miraculous recovery from his recent attempted assassination has transformed him into a hero of epic proportions, and I’ve now become an expert at creating the myths that will fix him on this pedestal for time immemorial. I write that Lenin works tirelessly for the revolution day and night despite the hole in his lung. A man of his caliber and intellect is born only once every thousand years. Workers all over the world adore him, and delegates from villages flock around the Kremlin to pay homage to their great leader. His name will resound through the centuries, his achievements are immutable and immortal, and so on and so forth.

My Sunday school education and the time I spent serving in church as an altar boy has turned out to be of some use after all. I have developed a flair for writing panegyric material of an almost religious fervor. The thing that truly amazes me is that my over-the-top, ironic toadying is taken at face value and applauded as a resounding success. The more colorful and vulgar my turn of phrase, the more satisfied Skudra is with my work.

I never imagined that anything I ever wrote would be distributed to a hundred thousand readers, yet that’s precisely what is happening now. Yesterday, Skudra sent a courier off to Moscow with a manuscript of mine entitled The Great Leader of the Rural Poor. For my pains, I received the princely fee of two hundred rubles and a looted toiletry bag replete with a bar of soap, a box of tooth powder, a new toothbrush, and a Gillette razor.

The railroad station—or rather, what’s left of it—is overrun with children selling trading cards with pictures of Lenin on them. Some soldiers buy them for good luck in battle, others for good luck in their career, but most take them back home and pin them on the walls above their beds.

All of this makes Nina and me laugh. Not very wholesome laughter, it’s true, but there’s no other kind to be had at the moment.

Nina is still in the Cathedral of the Assumption. She’s getting better and has already been out to join me on walks to the bluff overlooking the river. In spite of everything, she wants to go back to Nizhny Novgorod and find Zhora. I’ve tried to talk her out of it but to no avail. She just gets upset and takes offense when I do.

“If you had a brother,” she said, “would you leave him behind?”

I realize that we have to find Zhora, but I’ve been reading newspapers from Nizhny Novgorod. The situation there does not sound promising.

What is this? Some sort of mass hysteria? A witch-hunt? Nina and I are bourgeois by definition. We’re exactly the type they’re out to kill. We need to stay away from the cities, particularly Nizhny Novgorod, where someone might recognize us, but nothing will stop my stubborn Nina.

All that remains for me to do is to take each day as it comes and try to be happy as I can for as long as I can. The Whites have stopped attacking Sviyazhsk, which is a blessing. Trotsky has brought back plenty of medicine and food, and my beloved is safe for the time being. What else could I hope for?

Yesterday, I was on my way back to the station when I saw dark clouds on the horizon and heard the sparrows making a frantic commotion in the bushes. A storm was coming. I hurried along hungry, penniless, and helpless, head over heels in love with my woman. I was already dreaming of the next time I would be able to sit with her on our windy bluff, admiring her beauty and secretly thanking God for all his blessings.

I got soaked to the skin on my way back to the station. Half-blinded by the rain and out of breath, I found shelter under a canopy and stood there wiping my face with my hands and shaking the raindrops out of my hair. And blow me down with a feather if I didn’t feel just fine! I felt on top of the world.

Two little girls were standing there with baskets full of mushrooms. They looked at me, and I imagine they were trying to guess what this bedraggled soldier was feeling so happy about.

Nothing special, little ones. I’m just reveling in the true meaning of life.

Sviyazhsk was swept by an epidemic of a particularly virulent form of influenza. Dr. Sablin was one of the first to fall ill and was sent back to Nizhny Novgorod. The disease spread so rapidly that soon the number of influenza patients far exceeded the number of wounded.

Klim almost died from the disease, but it did, however, save him from the fate that befell his colleagues during the storming of Kazan. On the way, the ship carrying the propaganda boys hit a mine and sank with no survivors.

The Bolsheviks had transported naval guns down from the Baltic Sea and shelled the Whites who were helpless to retaliate. All they had were light field guns with half the range of the Red’s artillery. The Czechs and Slovaks boarded their trains and left Kazan, and the city was immediately taken by the Baltic and Black Sea sailors who were greeted with rejoicing in the outskirts and silence in the deserted streets of the city center. Thousands of civilian refugees had left with the Whites as they retreated. The Red Volga Flotilla and the troops moved east up the Kama River, and the camp at Sviyazhsk gradually dispersed.

Klim wondered why the Red Army, which resembled nothing so much as a horde of bandits, was succeeding in overpowering the Whites. Did the Whites really have no resources at their disposal to defend the Volga region?

It seemed that this was indeed the case if only because he and others had chosen to work for the Bolsheviks or to remain neutral. Some had made an informed choice while others had simply followed the crowd. The fall of Kazan was a natural consequence of this.

Sister Photinia managed to get Nina and Klim on board the hospital ship Death to the Bourgeoisie, which was bound for Nizhny Novgorod.

“Oh, you poor things,” she sighed, looking at them sadly.

When the steamer was about to leave, she smuggled the village fool Maxim on board. He had agreed to carry a heavy bundle onto the ship in exchange for a piece of hard tack.

“Take your devil away with you,” Sister Photinia whispered into Klim’s ear. “I don’t know if it really is an exhibit from a museum as you say, but it’s brought nothing but misfortune to Sviyazhsk. It’s a good thing we didn’t throw it into the river—it would probably have killed all the fish as well.”

The hospital ship sailed out of the harbor to a chorus of sirens from the other steamers. Nina and Klim found a place to sit down at the side of the boat, which was lined with sandbags. To the right of them was a machine-gun nest, and to the left were boxes of ammunition. Hidden behind their backs was the satyr carefully wrapped in cloth.

Klim was still suffering from a terrible migraine after his bout of influenza. The only thing that soothed it was to lay his head on Nina’s lap and have her smooth his brow and stroke his head while he gazed up at the curls on her cheek, which reminded him of the curlicue flourishes of traditional Russian Khokhloma folk designs.

We are making a very bad decision going back to Nizhny Novgorod, thought Klim. But they didn’t have any other option. They couldn’t leave Zhora behind.