Russian Treasures

4. THE DELUGE

We have no ink left—our representative from the Neighborhood Committee has confiscated the last of it. He’s been going from house to house begging for ink because the Committee has masses of paperwork and no writing materials. I didn’t dare refuse. He threatened a particularly harsh punishment to any would-be “saboteurs”—they wouldn’t have their cesspits cleaned out.

From now on, I’ll be writing in pencil.

There is a general strike across the whole of Russia, demanding that the Constituent Assembly assumes leadership of the country. The Bolsheviks continue to delay its convocation because they only got twenty-four percent of the vote in the election.

All the banks in the city have been closed since the end of October. Nobody can withdraw any money, and since salaries are not being paid, I have no idea what people are living on. Everyone is eating up whatever crumbs happen to be left over, and that includes the representatives of the new powers that be.

The Bolsheviks are biding their time, hoping that the revolutionary movement will assume worldwide proportions and capitalism will go up in flames so that the whole question of capital will become irrelevant. Here in Nizhny Novgorod, the only thing that has gone up in flames is a storehouse where the surgical spirit was stored, which was besieged by the “loyal sons of the working people.” A sight for sore eyes, these “loyal sons” in their unbuttoned greatcoats with Mausers in one hand and teapots full of alcoholic swill in the other.

When all of the alcohol had been drunk and all of the flour from the plundered provision storehouses had been eaten, the Bolsheviks headed to the banks and opened the safes. Their official objective was to check who had earned income and who had not. But in reality, they were just engaging in daylight robbery in the true spirit of the Wild West. So, I’m afraid that if my money hasn’t already been transferred to Argentina yet, there will be nothing left of it—it has all been confiscated for revolutionary requirements.

All of my friends were shocked when I decided to stay in Nizhny Novgorod with Nina.

Lubochka thinks I’m crazy too. “You could have caught the very last train out and escaped the revolution,” she said to me.

But actually, that wouldn’t have changed anything. Instead of getting stuck in Nizhny Novgorod, I would have gotten stuck in Moscow where the Bolsheviks have been shelling entire streets to crush the opposition.

Anyway, I couldn’t leave Nina behind. Strangely enough, I’m happy here. My feverish heart is untouched by all of the events I’ve just written about. It’s not only my Argentinean passport that makes me a foreigner here but also the fact that I have no interest in the fight over our bright future.

For me, the present is already bright enough. Nina and I stroll the snow-covered streets, the snowdrifts tower over our heads, and the birch trees, shimmering with the frost, form a guard of honor specially for us. Nina recites the poems of Alexander Blok, a popular Russian poet, and I sing Spanish tavern songs to her, shamelessly muddling all of the words and tunes.

We watch the revolution as if we are watching a movie, and we are happy that Mr. Fomin has disappeared from our lives without a trace.

Sofia Karlovna holds more terrors for us than the Military Revolutionary Staff. After all, she could admonish us about our behavior. Once she caught us sitting by the stove in an embrace, and that put her in complete disarray. Suddenly, she realized that I’m an even bigger threat to her than Mr. Fomin. After all, if I take Nina away with me to Buenos Aires, who is going to pay the old countess’s bills?

Nina finds it difficult even to think about leaving the country. She believes that if she stays in Russia, she will be able to prevent the confiscation of her mill.

“They can’t take away everything from everybody,” she told me.

I think they can, and that’s why I’m firm that we need to leave Russia as soon as possible and spend at least a couple of years abroad. Then we’ll have a better idea of what to do.

Nina and I have decided to wait until the railroad strike is over and then go to Petrograd for Argentinean visas. We’ll take Zhora with us and telegraph money to the old countess. (I dearly hope that I will be able to provide for us all.)

We haven’t discussed it with Zhora though. We don’t want to upset him with the thought of having to leave Elena.

Of course, all that I have written here is sheer bravado, an attempt to conceal my entirely justified fear of the coming deluge. Alas, I don’t have an ark and am not on terribly good terms with God.

Poverty means not having enough money, Nina thought. Destitution means having no money whatsoever and no food.

Initially, she looked for coins in her coat pockets, muffs, and purses. Then she searched through the library, remembering that in better times she had used banknotes as bookmarks.

The school was closed, and Zhora helped Nina rummage through the books. He climbed the ladder up to the ceiling, flipped through the pages of dusty volumes, sneezing and humming a Polish revolutionary anthem, “The Song of Warsaw”:

“Oh, damn this ridiculous song!” Zhora complained. “I can’t for the life of me get it out of my head.” But the next minute, he started whistling it again.

Nina had sold Vladimir’s gold watch to buy food, but she knew that it would only be enough for a couple of weeks.

“We need to tell our Osinki manager what it’s like here,” Zhora said as he looked through the Gingerbread Man, the Magic Goose, and other Fairy Tales. “He might be able to send us food from the village.”

But it was impossible to send messages when neither telegraph stations nor postal offices were working. The horizons of their world had dwindled drastically. Nobody visited their friends anymore—there was no food to share, and spare rooms were locked because there wasn’t enough firewood to heat them. People had begun to live like nomads camping in an icy desert: it was as though a vast tundra separated one house from other.

Sofia Karlovna appeared in the doorway, a gray paper leaflet in her shaking hand. “The Bolsheviks have issued a new degree,” she said.

Nina read through it:

The Bolsheviks informed the townsfolk that they were seeking to prevent the bourgeoisie from engaging in illegal trading in wine and wouldn’t let them make drunkards out of the people. An announcement that those who disobeyed the order would be arrested was printed in bold lettering.

“Why should we care?” Nina asked, but the old countess cut her short.

“We have a full wine cellar. In 1914, when the government had issued a prohibition law, I ordered the wine cellar to be bricked up.”

Nina looked at her brother. “Go find Klim and bring him over. It looks like we’re going to survive the winter in style.”

Sofia Karlovna gasped. “What are you up to?”

“Alcohol is the only reliable currency in this country,” said Nina. “We’ll get plenty of food in exchange for a bottle of champagne.”

“But they’ll put you in jail!”

“Let them catch me first.”

Seeing her brother off, Nina made a sign of the cross over him. Every time one of them went out onto the street, it felt as if they were being sent down a rickety mine where there could be a landslide or a gas explosion at any moment. The city was full of Red Guards who believed that harassing passers-by was just another way of advancing their struggle for the rights of the working class. It was useless to complain about them to authorities because they always sided with the hooligans.

When Nina returned to the library, Sofia Karlovna was still standing at the window that was blocked out by the drifts of snow.

“Your previous admirer, Mr. Fomin, turned you into a market trader,” she said without turning her head. “I thought it was the most horrible thing that could ever happen to you, but I was wrong. Now, you have made friends with Mr. Rogov, and you are ready to become a criminal. There are certain things you should know about Mr. Rogov’s past. Do you know what caused his mother’s death? An abortion! She had an affair with an Imperial Guard’s lieutenant, became pregnant, and tried to conceal it from her husband. I hope you realize that all this has affected her son’s morality.”

Nina wrung her hands and bit her tongue. Sofia Karlovna is Vladimir’s mother, she reminded herself. And I owe him everything I have.

“What do you see in that man?” the old countess asked sadly.

“He loves me for who I am,” said Nina. “But you don’t.”

Nina heard a rustling sound from outside, and the rime on the outer pane suddenly blazed into light. Klim had made it a habit of always “digging out the sun” before he came indoors.

She dashed to the hall, trembling with joy. Klim and Zhora came in, their cheeks flushed with the cold, and Nina hurried them down into the basement.

Klim scrutinized the brick wall covered in frost. “I used to work for archeologists in the desert,” he said. “We were looking for broken pots and ancient skeletons, but I think it’s much more interesting to look for wine.”

Nina found a couple of hammers, and Klim and Zhora began breaking down the brick wall. Their blows were so loud that it felt as though they would destroy the building. Finally, the wall gave in, and the bricks spilled onto the concrete floor.

The dusty bottles were lined up on the shelves, and the glow of Nina’s lamp reflected and multiplied in their dully gleaming sides.

Zhora whistled appreciatively. “Wow!”

Shivering with cold and impatience, Nina read the labels: Moёt & Chandon, G.H. Mumm, Louis Roederer.

Klim put his arms around Nina. “We’ve hit the big time.”

“Sofia Karlovna is convinced that we are criminals,” Nina said.

“That’s nothing compared with what Lubochka says about us,” Klim replied. “She called us fools who had frittered away my father’s inheritance.”

“Don’t you regret anything?”

“Only one thing. I should have come home for you much earlier.”

Later that day, Klim and Zhora brought back two baskets—the day’s takings. Nina couldn’t believe her eyes. There were smoked sausages, oranges, and chocolates.

Sofia Karlovna grumbled for a while that it was outrageous to feast when so many people were starving, but Klim tempted her with a small glass of liqueur.

“I remember this bottle,” the old countess said. “It’s a real Bénédictine from the Abbey of Fécamp—I brought it back from Normandy. See the label: D.O.M.? It means ‘Deo Optimo Maximo’—‘To God, most good, most great.’ You should kneel to drink such a wine, and here you are lapping it up by the glass. Shame on you!”

Soon, her cheeks were flushed pink and her mood softened.

“Here, my dear,” she said, pouring red wine into Nina’s glass. “Bourgogne ought to be drunk with époisses cheese, but what can we do if we don’t have any? Drink up. It’ll be a long time before you’ll ever get another chance to try the favorite wine of d’Artagnan and Aramis.”