Russian Treasures

23. THE OLD COUNTESS’S DIAMONDS

There was no point getting up before nine o’clock. It was still dark, and there was no electricity in the mornings.

With his hard-earned pay from his work on the Nizhny Novgorod Commune, Klim could afford half his breakfast: carrot tea and a piece of bread cut from a frozen loaf he had bought two weeks earlier for a hundred rubles. The other half—a slice of lemon, butter, and cheese—came courtesy of his generous cousin.

Lubochka smiled at his hesitation. “Are you ashamed to be taking gifts from me? Look at it this way—perhaps God is fond of you and using an intermediary to make sure you have lemon for your tea.”

“God must have a dubious sense of humor,” Klim said. “If He really wanted to send me provisions, He should have sent Admiral Kolchak with his White Army. After all, to judge by the Red propaganda posters, the admiral has seized all the food in Russia, including champagne and sausages.”

“At the moment, your Admiral Kolchak is stuck somewhere near the Ural Mountains,” Lubochka said as she poured herself a cup of tea. “He wouldn’t be able to get to Nizhny Novgorod in time for dinner, let alone breakfast.”

Klim left the house at eleven.

Perhaps it was true that everyone else in the world was descended from monkeys, he thought, or from Adam and Eve, but the Soviets must have had hamsters for ancestors. They were all constantly on the lookout for food and squirreling it away—if not into cheek pouches, then into bags and knapsacks.

Klim himself was no exception. There was a very good vegetarian canteen on the way to his newspaper office, and he usually dropped in when he could. The prices there might have been outrageous, but it was the only establishment in Nizhny Novgorod where you could eat without a union card or a special pass.

Unfortunately, the canteen was closed because it had been burglarized the previous night.

Klim decided to go to the Journalists’ House.

But he was out of luck. When he got there, he found an enormous queue of desperately hungry people, most of whom looked as though they could never have even read a newspaper article, let alone written one.

“Our oven isn’t working,” announced the cook, appearing on the porch. “It’ll be at least an hour before it’s fixed.”

There was nothing for it but to go into work.

It was awfully cold in the editorial office. Klim’s colleagues were already busy warming up homemade ink with their breath.

“Klim, you’re late,” said Zotov, a young man with a somewhat vague job description who always kept a watchful eye on his coworkers and informed his superiors about everything that went on. Anton Emilievich—who had a good nose for useful people—held him in high regard.

Zotov pulled a red pencil from his pocket and walked over to a large cardboard sign on the wall. On one side of the sign was the slogan, “Praise to honest workers.” Below was a list of all those who came into work before Zotov and left after he did. The other side proclaimed, “Shame on idlers and loafers.” Naturally, Klim Rogov’s was the first name on this list.

Zotov put yet another big black cross next to Klim’s name and announced that all of the editorial staff had to sign up for a volunteer workday.

“Where are you sending us this time?” Klim asked. “To a sweets factory?”

The office girls laughed. “You wish! We’re being sent to unload freight cars.”

“Then I’m afraid I’m busy.”

Zotov wasn’t sure he could force Comrade Rogov to sign up to compulsory “voluntary” work because not only was Klim technically a foreigner but also apparently personally acquainted with Trotsky.

With a determined look, Zotov set off to see Anton Emilievich’s office. He spent some time inside airing his grievances. As a result, Anton Emilievich gave his nephew a very public reprimand so that nobody should accuse him of nepotism.

“Klim, we have a team here. You behave as though you’re not part of that team.”

To hell with them, Klim thought and went off to the accounts department. He was more interested in when they would get the promised delivery of cabbage from the Journalists’ Union.

The woman in the accounts department told him that the cabbage would be coming in tomorrow. However, it wouldn’t be given to the journalists but to the guards outside the newspaper office. A machine gun detachment had been assigned to protect the Nizhny Novgorod Commune in case the Whites should take it into their heads to seize the newspaper.

Klim wasn’t at all in the mood for work. All he wanted was to go home and sit by the warm stove. Nevertheless, he went over to his place by the windowsill next to a frozen rubber plant, sat down on his broken-backed chair, and unfastened the top button of his overcoat. Today, he had to write a letter from a worker in a steel factory wishing Comrade Lenin a speedy recovery.

The resulting letter was as full of emotion as a passionate love poem. If Lenin had only known how many fervent lines Klim had dedicated to him, he might have shown his gratitude by issuing Comrade Rogov the pair of shoes he needed so badly. But how would the great and glorious Soviet leader ever find out about the heroic labors of a humble journalist?

There was a flutter among the female members of staff as the military instructor, a handsome man in a fur hat, came into the office. The newspaper workers sat themselves down in a circle to listen to him. Klim noticed that the proofreaders were wearing lipstick. Where do you even get ahold of lipstick these days? he wondered.

The instructor read out “Order #4 of the Military Affairs Committee”:

No one came forward to say they knew any revolutionary songs.

“Then we shall write down the lyrics,” ordered the instructor.

But this was impossible since the ink was still frozen.

“Then we’ll learn the songs by heart,” he declared.

By the time they had gotten to the second verse, the military instructor was also shivering with cold. “That’s all for today. Any questions?”

The proofreaders raised their hands.

“If the authorities don’t allocate us firewood to heat the editorial office,” Zotov interrupted, “I shall resign and go to the frontline.”

Zotov was just bluffing, of course. But it would be good, thought Klim, if the bluff paid off and something was done about the heating.

As night fell, the editorial staff went home. On his way back, Klim visited the Journalists’ House again. People were still queuing in front of the closed doors.

“When are they going to open the canteen?” Klim asked.

“We don’t know.”

“Why are you waiting then?”

“Just in case.”

A grubby-faced street boy came up to Klim and winked at him. Klim needed no further explanation. He was to follow the boy to a side street where a citizen keen to keep a low profile would be waiting to do business with him.

It was a good thing these days to look young and healthy and, therefore, well-off. The street boys who worked for the bagmen would pick you out of the crowd and take you to where you could buy coveted supplies: buckwheat, bread crumbs, or even birch logs for the fire. Those who looked shabbier had to rely on the canteens because all of the markets had been shut down. At the same time, anyone who looked wealthy ran a greater risk of being knocked over the head in a dark alley. So, Klim followed the boy with no idea of what was waiting for him around the corner.

“Sofia Karlovna! Can it really be you?”

The old countess put her finger to her lips. She gave the boy a tip and waited until he had dashed off before shaking Klim by the hand.

“There was a Cheka man standing in the queue,” she said. “He was the one who searched our house. I was afraid he might recognize me if I went any closer. Tell me, how are you?”

Though the old countess had aged considerably, she still cut an impressive figure in her worn moleskin overcoat, velvet hat, and white headscarf. She was pulling her bags along using a child’s sled.

“Nina and I have been looking for you everywhere,” said Klim.

The old countess’ face lit up. “So, Nina is still alive? I lit a candle in her memory after I read in the newspaper that poor Zhora and Elena had been shot. I thought the Cheka had killed Nina too.”

Klim told her everything that had happened.

“So, you helped her escape arrest?” the old countess gasped. “You must come and visit us. I live with Anna Evgenievna now. Do you know her? She’s a wonderful lady. There aren’t so many of her kind left these days.”

Sofia Karlovna and Anna Evgenievna lived in what had once been the cook’s room with a window half-buried in the ground. The mansion had been turned into a barracks, and now, there were three-tier bunk beds in the princess’ former apartments.

One corner of the old ladies’ room was hung with icons, and another with portraits of sons killed in the war.

Anna Evgenievna looked ill, her neck puffy and her body swollen with dropsy.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, bowing to Klim.

The old countess lit the gas lamp.

“Fortunately, the temperature here never drops below fifteen,” she said. “Our neighbor’s oven is right next to our wall. He’s a senior quartermaster of the Red Army. As you can imagine, he’s not very happy that we get his heat for free, but he can’t help it.”

The old ladies earned their living mending and patching the Red Army soldiers’ clothes.

The pair barely ever went out, so their only source of food and news were their new “tenants.” Surprisingly, the ladies had retained the elegant standards of former days and kept their room spotless. The floor looked swept, the door handles polished, and their room was fresh with the scent of pine essence.

Once Klim had laughed at Sofia Karlovna and her old-fashioned ways. Now, he saw that her exacting standards allowed her and her friend to maintain their sense of dignity.

Klim brought a log from the yard and helped saw it up so that the old ladies could heat water and do their laundry.

“Thank you so much!” Sofia Karlovna said. “It’s very difficult for us to manage a saw.”

She went to see Klim off to the gate. The city was lit up starkly black and white under a full moon, and the snow crunched beneath their feet.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” the old countess said quietly. “Anna Evgenievna is dying, you know. These days, I look at the people as I walk around, and I have a feeling that all of us are heading toward death. I went to the cemetery yesterday and saw so many familiar names on the grave crosses! The cream of Nizhny Novgorod society is gradually making its way to the Peter and Paul Cemetery, leaving nothing behind—no descendants and no property. We’re not simply dying. We’re disappearing without a trace. How old are you, may I ask?”

“Twenty-nine,” Klim answered.

“And I’m sixty-five. I’ve lost everything—my husband, my son, and my house. I shall never have any grandchildren. I am quite destitute, and my life is passing me by. But I want to live! Tell me, what are you going to do next?”

“We’re going to leave the country this spring,” Klim said. “Nina, Dr. Sablin, and I.”

“Where to?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“You need to go to Novorossiysk,” Sofia Karlovna whispered excitedly. “I’ve heard from the senior quartermaster that the Allies’ ships are in the harbor there. If you take me with you, we can go to France from there.”

Klim was embarrassed. “We don’t have any money for the journey,” he explained. “And to be honest, I haven’t the slightest idea where we are going to get any.”

Sofia Karlovna took a small velvet bag out of her pocket and put it into Klim’s hand. “These diamond earrings were my mother’s wedding gift. I think you can get a lot of money for them.”

“But how can I—”

It was unbelievable: the old countess had never been fond of Klim, and now, she was entrusting him with the last of her possessions.

“Just take them,” she said. “I don’t need any oaths or promises from you. I still don’t approve of how you live your life, but you haven’t deserted Nina, and I can tell that you belong to the nobler class of person.”

The day was a fortunate one indeed—the electricity was still on after seven that evening.

“There’s no call for rejoicing,” Marisha said gloomily. “All it means is that the Cheka wants to search somebody’s house.”

But Klim, Nina, and Sablin weren’t listening to her. They were too excited by the news of the old countess.

“I wonder how she managed to hide these earrings?” Nina asked, turning over the glittering diamonds. “And she told me she had nothing left.”

Lubochka called them to dinner.

At home, Uncle Anton didn’t lecture anyone about “team spirit” as he did at the office. He even allowed himself to criticize the government.

“Do you think that forced labor and food requisitions were invented by the Bolsheviks?” he asked as he poured sour cream sauce over his potatoes. “Nothing of the kind. That’s exactly how the grand dukes of Moscow used to tax their subjects in the Middle Ages. It was the territory rather than the individual that was responsible for paying tax, and the local authorities had to work out who would do the work and what to pay. Back then, the only way to avoid paying taxes was by serving the grand duke. Now, being a member of the Bolshevik Party works the same way.”

“Papa, please eat up,” Lubochka said. “Your food will get cold.”

Klim was irritated by their chatter. He couldn’t wait to go to his room and think about how to sell the diamond earrings. Where could he find a buyer, and how much could he get for them? And how could he keep himself safe from the Cheka agents who were out to trap people selling gold and precious stones on the black market?

Suddenly, they heard the sound of footsteps in the street and a loud knock at the front door. Klim froze at the sound. It must be a search!

His first thought was how to hide the earrings. He stood up, but Lubochka stopped him. “Sit down, please. Marisha, go see who it is.”

Klim passed one of the earrings under the table to Nina. If the Cheka found one of them, perhaps they could save the other? Nina put the earring into her stocking.

Klim’s nerves were strained to breaking point. Marisha rattled the door bolts, and then he heard a deep male voice and the creak of footsteps on the floorboards.

“What’s going on in here? Some sort of party?” asked a red-faced man, appearing at the door of the dining room.

It was Petrovich, the military man who had been Klim’s partner at the card table.

“Osip!” Lubochka cried and threw her arms around the newcomer’s neck.

After dinner, Osip and Lubochka went to their room and talked for a long time. Nina tiptoed to their door several times and returned to the dining room pale and anxious. “I can’t hear a thing.”

Marisha had cleared away the dishes, and Anton Emilievich had gone to his room, but Nina, Klim, and Sablin were still sitting at the table.

Klim remembered the Russian folk tale about a little house that stood in the middle of a field. A mouse, a frog, and several other animals lived in the house, but one day, a bear stopped by, and all of the inhabitants of the little house froze in horror at the intruder. Would the bear destroy everything, or let them live happily ever after? The story ended with the bear trying to get into the little house and pulling it down.

Klim tossed the salt cellar from hand to hand. Who would have thought that Osip and Petrovich were the same person? And how on earth could Lubochka have fallen in love with such a character?

The doctor looked as though he had been slapped in the face. Klim imagined himself in Sablin’s shoes, and the very idea of being betrayed by his wife—the dearest person of all—made him feel sick. Up until now, whenever he had seen marriages and affairs come to an end, he had always thought that it was simply a part of life. But now—looking at his friend crushed with sorrow—his blood ran cold.

Finally, Lubochka stepped into the dining room. “Klim, come here, please.”

Just as she spoke, the electricity went out.

Osip’s tired face glimmered in the light of a single church candle. Lubochka stood behind him looking at Klim and smiling.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Osip said. “Lubochka tells me you’re her cousin.”

“I am,” Klim said warily.

“She also mentioned that you’re a journalist, and you’re good with people.”

“That’s about right.”

“And she tells me you’re well-traveled. Which countries have you been to?”

“Persia, China, and Argentina. And I did a tour of Europe when I was a child.”

“I hear your wife escaped arrest,” Osip said, his blue eyes piercing Klim. “Is that true?”

Klim flinched and shot a glance at Lubochka. Why had she told Osip about that?

Osip ran his hand through his close-cropped gray hair. “Lubochka told me the Cheka wanted to arrest your wife because of her brother,” he said. “The devil knows what to do with the pair of you. If your wife is innocent and we put her in jail, she’ll be a burden on the state. But if we allow her to remain at liberty, she won’t forgive us killing her brother. And she’ll try to sabotage us—”

Lubochka put her hands on Osip’s shoulders. “If you arrest people just to be on the safe side, the whole city will be in jail in no time,” she said softly. Then she turned to Klim. “Look, we have a proposition for you. There are two thousand sailors in the city, and they have nothing to do all winter. The Regional Executive Committee is going to open a special university for the sailors, but we need very special professors who can deal with—well, you know—general populace.”

“What do you want me to teach them?” Klim asked, surprised.

“We want you to keep them busy,” Lubochka said. “You can tell them about faraway countries and teach them to wash their hands before eating.”

“It’s very important work,” Osip said. “Comrade Lenin has told us it’s essential to raise the cultural level of our troops. If you agree, you’ll be given the highest category of food ration. After you’ve completed a trial period, of course.”

Klim hesitated. “So, you don’t mind if Nina and I stay here for a while?”

“What is it to me?” Osip shrugged. “This house isn’t mine anyway. It belongs to the city’s Executive Committee.”

“Just as I told you,” Lubochka said, winking at Klim.

Back in the dining room, Klim closed the door and told Nina and Sablin what had passed between himself and Osip.

“I have an idea,” he said under his breath. “I’ll suggest that Osip organize a train with a propaganda car, and as soon as the waterways become navigable in spring and the sailors go back to their ships, I’ll ask him to send the train to the frontline to help spur on the Red Army soldiers to heroic deeds. We will sign up to be propagandists. That way we’ll have a car to ourselves, and the scoundrels in the Cheka won’t dare touch us.”

Nina looked at Klim with shining eyes. “Do you think Osip will agree to help you?”

“I don’t see why not. He seems to think I have the gift of setting soldiers on the right path.”

Sablin smiled wryly. “Poor Lubochka—imagine if she knew what we were up to.”

“So what?” Nina said in a dispassionate tone. “She treats us like a peasant woman treats her chickens. She feeds us with one hand and pulls out our feathers with the other. And all just to feather her own bed.”

Sablin sighed. “Yes, I know.”