Russian Treasures

5. INTRUSION

Dr. Sablin had not joined the strike. Every day, he continued to go to the Martynov Hospital, put on his white overalls, and perform operations.

The October coup had unsettled him completely. Everything that had formerly been considered good was now seen as counter-revolutionary. It was shameful to be rich and foolish to fight for your country, whereas looting and robbing were now regarded as a struggle for the interests of the people. Nowadays, public enemies were identified by those in authority in terms of their felt hats and clean fingernails.

“The Soviets have used up all the money,” Anton Emilievich said to Sablin one day. “The treasury is empty, and the Petrograd authorities are rejecting all requests for funds. They’ve given the order to find money locally. I presume that means there will be confiscations soon.”

“How do you know?” Sablin asked suspiciously.

Anton Emilievich showed him a typed copy of a decree on the confiscation of private property from bourgeois ownership. “We got this today at our editorial office. They have ordered us to publish it tomorrow.”

What am I going to do? Sablin wondered. What am I to make of all this? Every ounce of his sense of justice screamed out in protest. And yet, he thought, the people of Russia accepted the Bolsheviks. Or was that merely an illusion?

Revolutionary sailors had suppressed the Constituent Assembly, and the Bolsheviks had banned all strikes and mass meetings by the opposition. At their own meetings, they declared that they stood for the total equality of the people. “All means of production should become public property,” read the front pages of their newspapers. “From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs.” But these were the laws of primitive savages.

Most amazing of all was the fact that nobody was protesting. Instead, the people of the city prayed. At Candlemas, the religious procession stretched from the cathedral to Novo-Bazarnaya Square. Bareheaded, Sablin watched the huge crowd breathing out clouds of steam as it shuffled along.

Church banners fluttered, and the snow squeaked under thousands of feet. Austrian prisoners of war, looking even more miserable than usual, approached the procession to beg for bread. “For the luff of Christ—”

The Bolsheviks had declared that religion was the opium of the people, and the priests in the churches prayed for peace in the country while at the same time pronouncing an anathema against “those who act unlawfully and oppress the Christian faith and the Orthodox church.”

Sablin learned about international events from Lubochka—she told him that the Germans were demanding significant territorial concessions and reparations. If these demands weren’t met, they were threatening to continue their advance into Russian territory. Leon Trotsky, the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, had ordered the army to be disbanded and the Bolsheviks to refuse to sign a peace treaty in the hope and anticipation that the German proletariat would overthrow the Kaiser and reverse all of his greedy demands.

“But then the Germans will invade and occupy us,” Sablin kept saying to himself and tried to figure out what an honest man should do if that became the case.

Sablin stepped onto the porch and brushed the snow from his felt boots. Klim opened the door to him. He had only come indoors a minute earlier and hadn’t had time to take his overcoat off.

“How are things at the hospital?” Klim asked cheerfully.

Sablin didn’t answer. He was looking for Lubochka, who had failed to come out to greet him. Where is she? he wondered. Has she gone to another party?

Klim took a bottle of champagne from the inside pocket of his overcoat and put it on the table beneath the hall mirror. “A present for you, doctor.”

“Where did you get it?” Sablin exclaimed in amazement.

“I discovered a horde of treasure.” It seemed that Klim was slightly the worse for drink.

He was the only person Sablin knew who wasn’t taking the political situation seriously, and his nonchalance irritated the doctor. What sort of time was this to have a love affair with an officer’s widow? What were the two of them hoping to gain? What were they planning to live on?

There was a knock at the door, and Klim and the doctor exchanged glances.

“I think it must be Lubochka,” said Sablin as he pulled the bolt.

But instead of his wife, a group of armed men stood on the porch.

“We’re the Committee for the Hungry,” announced a tall, round-shouldered man in a pince-nez. “All houses belonging to the bourgeoisie are subject to official searches. We are looking for weapons, spirits, and other surplus goods.”

A faceless, bustling crowd streamed into the hall. Cabinet doors slammed, chest of drawers creaked, and shoe brushes and shoehorns clattered to the floor.

“Who has given you the authority?” Sablin shrieked and stopped short when the head of the gang pointed a revolver at his face.

“Are you a doctor?” he asked. “Do you have alcohol, morphine, or cocaine?”

The blood had drained from the man’s pale face, and his nose was shapeless and desiccated. He moved jerkily, his pupils were dilated, and large beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

A drug addict, thought Sablin. The type who can kill without a second thought.

“We have nothing of that sort here,” Sablin said in a shaky voice and suddenly remembered the unfortunate bottle of champagne.

Klim, still in his unbuttoned overcoat, was watching the intruders with his arms folded over his chest. The bottle was gone; evidently, he had hidden it.

“You two and the cook shall go and sit in the dining room,” the man in the pince-nez ordered them. “If we hear so much as a squeak from you, you’ll be wearing my rifle butt instead of your teeth as dentures.”

Then he turned his face toward Sablin. “If you’ve been lying about the alcohol, I’ll shoot you on the spot.”

The members of the Committee for the Hungry darted past, carrying piles of towels, hunting boots, and crystal vases. Sablin felt a cold draught at his feet from the doors that had been opened. Feathers from ripped pillows floated in the air, and all of the family’s papers were scattered around the dining table: birth certificates, diplomas, and bills. Marisha sobbed quietly.

Just so long as they don’t find the champagne, Sablin prayed.

The man in the pince-nez told a young lad with a rifle slung over his shoulder to watch the arrested.

“How old are you?” Klim asked the lad.

The guard didn’t even look at him but carried on picking his teeth with a matchstick.

“You look about nineteen,” said Klim. “Are you a worker? You certainly don’t appear to be a bishop. But you do go to church, I assume. Have you heard the commandment ‘Thou shalt not covet’? ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant or maidservant, nor his ox nor his ass, nor anything else that is his.’”

He’ll get what he’s asking for now, thought Sablin. What a time to start preaching!

The lad threw the matchstick on the floor and wiped his chapped lips with the back of his hand. “Comrade Scherbatov says the priests are liars. We have to confiscate everything and then share and share alike.”

“That’s a great idea,” Klim agreed. “Let’s share. You’ve had your rifle for a while; now it’s my turn.”

The lad smirked. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?”

“So, you don’t want to share after all, do you? Then how did you end up with this lot?”

“The factory closed, and there was nothing to eat. And here they pay us.”

They heard footsteps on the mezzanine floor and a voice shouting, “Hey, look what I’ve found!”

Sablin’s heart sank. The man in the pince-nez slowly entered the dining room holding a portrait of Nicholas II in his hands.

“Who is the owner of this?” he barked, shifting his gaze from one face to another. “Well, well, well—it seems we’ve found ourselves a nest of monarchists.”

“It’s mine,” said Klim abruptly. “Put it back and leave it alone. I’m a foreign correspondent and have a right to take historical souvenirs abroad with me.”

The man was caught by surprise. “A foreigner? Why is your Russian so good?”

“I went to a special Russian school.”

“Show me your documents!”

The Argentinean passport perplexed the raiders. Klim started talking through his hat about some Foreign Press Committee and how he knew Lenin personally and would instigate criminal proceedings against the wrongdoers.

“What are your names?” he asked in a stern voice.

The man in the pince-nez pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. “We’ve got other fish to fry. Let’s go, boys!”

The gang poured out into the street. The doctor bolted the door and leaned his back against it. He was drenched in sweat.

“I don’t get it,” he moaned. “Shoot me on the spot, but it’s beyond my comprehension.”

“It’s all as clear as day,” muttered Klim. “That scoundrel holds some petty government position. He hasn’t received his paycheck, so he’s decided to try to squeeze something out of the bourgeoisie. The rat knows he won’t be punished. Nobody will stand up for the bourgeois. As for being a foreigner—who knows? For all he knows, perhaps I have shaken hands with Lenin.”

Klim took the illicit bottle from his inside coat pocket. “Have some wine, doc. You’re looking a bit peaky.”

He put on his scarf and buttoned his overcoat. “I’ll go to Crest Hill and spend the night there. Don’t open the door to anyone and burn that portrait of the Tsar. Tell Lubochka not to leave the house alone, especially at night.”

But when Lubochka came back, she wasn’t alone. Osip Drugov had walked her to her porch, saluted, and disappeared into the blizzard.

She stood in the ransacked hall, looking around in shock. “What happened here?”

Sablin, exhausted and drunk, appeared in the doorway with a bottle in his hand. “Good evening, sweetheart. Would you like a drink? Klim brought us champagne and managed to hide it under his overcoat while they were searching the house.”

Slowly, Lubochka undid her headscarf and let it drop to her shoulders.

“I’ll ask Osip to get us a certificate of immunity or something,” she said in a trembling voice.

“We’ve had visitors today,” said Nina as soon as Klim entered her house.

“Who?” he asked.

“Our friends the comrades. Who else?”

Nina’s house had been trashed as well. Klim had been wrong: it hadn’t been a private raid but a premeditated campaign.

“Did they find our wine?” he asked.

Nina shook her head. “If they had, we wouldn’t be here. But they’ve taken all our valuables and almost all our clothes, and they’ve stamped our documents. Now, none of us can leave Nizhny Novgorod without their permission.”

“But why?”

“The rail strike is over, and the Bolsheviks can’t let the bourgeoisie run away just like that. They can’t do without their class enemies to blame for their own blunders.”

Zhora came into the hall too.

“That’s for the best,” he said. “We can’t just sit around anymore. We have to fight.”

“They’ll kill you, you little fool!” Nina moaned. “If you’re not afraid for yourself, at least think of Elena and me.”

She turned to Klim looking for his support.

“I’ll go to Petrograd,” he said, “and ask the Argentine ambassador to help me get you all out of Russia. He won’t turn me down since I’m well-known in Buenos Aires and have important connections.”

“Only rats desert a sinking ship!” cried Zhora. “I won’t go without Elena. What am I going to do in Buenos Aires? Do you want me to become a street sweeper instead of a student? I don’t know a word of Spanish.”

“Sometimes people have to make difficult decisions,” said Nina in a whisper.

Nina, Klim, and Zhora sat side by side in front of the fireplace until midnight. Klim tried to coax some heat out of the meager embers with the poker. The lurid reflection of the glowing coals flickered across his gloomy face.

How can I go with them? Zhora thought. What am I going to tell Elena?

What if Klim didn’t keep his word and didn’t take them away to Argentina? Maybe he had had enough of the Bolsheviks, and his trip to Petrograd was just an excuse for him to escape?

Zhora understood him perfectly well though. At first, Klim had seen the Bolshevik coup as an amusing adventure worthy of a couple of wry articles in his newspaper, but now, he had realized that it was no joke anymore. Klim was not foolish enough to take responsibility for so many hungry mouths, especially now when he had neither a job nor his father’s money.

The more Zhora pondered about their situation, the more he prayed that Klim would never return from Petrograd. We will be fine, he thought. Nina is smart, and she will find a way to manage our situation.

He was sure that there would be an anti-Bolshevik rebellion soon, and the usurpers would be overthrown. Everything would be just fine. University, marriage to Elena, and a brilliant diplomatic career—that was the future that awaited him.

But it was painful to look at his sister. She was sitting pressed close to Klim, and it seemed she was too afraid to move.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be in Petrograd,” Klim said. “And I have no idea if I’ll be able to write to you. But I promise I’ll come back for you. Whatever it takes.”

Nina nodded and looked at him, her eyes full of tears.

“You won’t leave me alone tonight, will you?”

As they left, Zhora remained by the fireplace, feeling shocked and ashamed. Nina was about to spend the night with a man whom she wasn’t even married to. Klim may have been a good man, and she may have been deeply in love with him, but this was scandalous.

Sofia Karlovna appeared in the doorway with a flickering church candle in her hand.

“I knew that something like this would happen,” she said. “First, your sister had a relationship with Mr. Fomin and ruined her reputation, and now, men see her as nothing more than a strumpet. They will lie to her saying that they’ll marry her, but they are only really after one thing.”

“Times have changed,” Zhora replied in an unsteady voice.

But Sofia Karlovna just shook her head sadly. She picked up the portrait of her son that had been thrown on the floor by the raiders and dusted off the cracked glass over the photograph.

“See, Vladimir,” she said, “what kind of a woman you have brought into our house.”

Klim insisted that Nina did not come to see him off at the station.

“You’ll only be asking for trouble with the Red Guards,” he said. “What if they ask you for your documents?”

She stood on the porch and watched him tying his suitcase onto the sleigh.

Anton Emilievich, in his enormous fur coat, was already waiting for Klim in the driver’s seat. On finding that his nephew was about to leave for Petrograd, he had decided to join him. He intended to travel on to Finland, which had declared independence from Russia and the Bolsheviks in the nick of time.

“You’ll have to forgive me, old man, but I can’t live in this chaos,” he had told Klim. “I’ll sit out the revolution in Helsingfors. I have friends there.”

Klim went up to Nina. Her eyes were swollen with tears, and her lips were trembling.

“Promise you’ll come back,” she whispered.

He embraced her and put the key to his house in her hand. It was next to useless because after the raid at their house, Lubochka had ordered that a new steel-enforced front door be installed.

“What is it?” Nina asked.

“It’s the key to my heart,” Klim said, smiling. “At the moment, I have nothing else to give you.”

“Hurry up, or we’ll be late!” Anton Emilievich cried.

Nina made the sign of the cross over Klim.

“Go inside, or you’ll catch your death of cold,” he said, trying to lead her to the door.

But she stood trembling in the wind until his sleigh was out of sight.

It had been impossible to get tickets for a sleeping car. The Bolsheviks had issued another decree abolishing all classes on the railway thus making all passengers equal.

“Let the bourgeoisie enjoy the comforts of the third-class car,” their propagandists said.

But there weren’t even any third-class cars. The train consisted of red boxcars with notices on their sides proclaiming, “Capacity: eight horses or forty people.”

The passengers took the boxcars by storm. The train stood high above the platform with no steps, but Klim was one of the first to manage to get inside. Someone gave him a leg up, and then he helped others load their luggage and pulled in the other passengers, most of them were so-called bagmen, small traders who carried their goods in burlap bags.

In the center of the boxcar was a small stove surrounded by plank beds. The passengers sat on them packed as tightly as herrings in a barrel.

“Close the door!” the bagmen yelled. “There’s no room for any more!”

The door banged, they heard the rasp of the lock, and then everybody began to examine the cuts, bruises, and torn clothes they had received in their rush to board the train.

It was only now that Klim noticed there were no women among them. That made sense. No lady worthy of the name would ever have been able to brave the crush to get onboard, let alone countenanced traveling in a boxcar without a lavatory.

I can’t imagine Nina here, Klim thought. How on earth will I get her to Petrograd when I get her visa?

Anton Emilievich was still panting for breath. In the struggle, somebody had elbowed him in the ribs and winded him.

“At least I’m in one piece,” he said as he examined the torn handle of his suitcase. “I never thought I was capable of such behavior. Isn’t it incredible how suddenly everyone forgets their upbringing and thinks only of themselves? When I used to meet my neighbor on the stairs, we would bow to each other and let each other pass, ‘Please, after you!’ And now just look at us all like pigs fighting to get at the trough.”

The train set off, and the passengers began to unwrap their food and take out their tobacco pouches. Soon, the boxcar was filled with pungent smoke. Klim was lucky to have gotten a place next to a wall perforated by a string of bullet holes. An icy breeze came through them, but at least it was refreshing.

Now, everything in the boxcar—clothes, luggage, and faces—were covered with a white film of dust.

“That’s flour,” Anton Emilievich whispered in Klim’s ear. “These bagmen are carrying food to Moscow and Petrograd—the food shortage there is much worse than in Nizhny Novgorod. The boxcar is shaking so much that some of the dust is escaping out of their bags.”

Klim looked around him at the stern, bearded faces. The Soviet press liked to paint these bagmen as weak, cunning idlers, but nothing could be further from the truth. Those political pen pushers sitting in their offices would never understand what it took to travel across the country in a crowded boxcar carrying heavy bags and risking one’s life on a daily basis. Bagmen were the only people now providing the hungry cities with the provisions that the Bolshevik government was so spectacularly failing to supply.

When the train stopped, the passengers refused to open the door of their boxcar. They could hear the soldiers outside striking the sides of the train with their rifle butts and threatening to throw a grenade under the boxcar.

“There’s no room!” cried the passengers.

They passed out a kettle through the little window under the ceiling to the local boys, asking them to bring boiling water, and paid them with a dried crust of bread.

The passengers amused themselves on the long journey with gambling, scurrilous jokes, and stories about the stationmasters at the different railroad stops—which of them were kind and which of them were corrupt, tight-fisted brutes.

Gradually, the voices subsided. Surrounded by the snores of his fellow passengers, Klim buried his head in his folded arms and dozed, daydreaming sleepily about the previous night.

Nina’s room had been warm. The green glow of the lamp had been reflected in the porcelain horses on her chest of drawers and the mirror tiles on the glass door of her closet.

For Klim, a sense of desperation—as though before a fatal step—had been mingled with the warm, aching joy of holding Nina in his arms. He had felt the gentle touch of her finger on his unshaven cheek and heard her voice.

“I’m drawing your portrait with my fingertips,” she had said. “Here’s your cheekbone, and your eyebrow… and now, your murderer’s earlobe—”

“Why murderer’s?” Klim had asked.

“They say that people with adherent earlobes like yours are capable of the most terrible things.”

Nina had known that Klim had no choice but to carry out the plan they had concocted, but despite herself, she had reproached him for being able to leave her even for a short while.

Klim had blamed himself too, but for other reasons. He should have gotten Nina out of Russia that autumn and away from all of that danger and uncertainty.

“You’d be better off drawing me big muscles,” he had said, trying to distract her. “I’m afraid that soon I’ll be as skinny as a rake, living on these Soviet food rations.”

“I won’t,” Nina had refused. “A man should be athletic but lean. Good breeding implies elegance.”

I was insane to have removed myself willingly from that paradise, Klim thought. I should have stayed with Nina even if it meant death—at least we’d have passed away together.

He dozed fitfully as the wheels of the boxcar intoned, “You have to, you have to, you have to.”