The Four Winds of Heaven (42 page)

“I did not want to be seen,” she stated. But he moved toward her, and took a seat next to her upon the floor. She held her hands out toward the flames, and there were blue circles under her eyes. A surge of compassion flooded him. He took her frigid fingers in his warm hands and began to rub them.

“It's no good, no good, Tanitchka,” he remonstrated gently. “No one is worth this self-destruction. Not you, sweetheart. For you are our bright bird, our peacock!”

But she shook her head. “Once,” she remarked in a dull voice. “I thought I loved you, Ossip.”

“And it was very nice, that pretense of love. I enjoyed the attention. But I knew it was not serious.”

“Was your heart ever broken, Ossip?” she queried.

He gazed deeply into her small pale face. “Yes,” he answered.

“And you have not loved since?”

“No,” he said, continuing to rub her fingers. “But then, I am a fool. I am afraid of life, afraid of hurts. Do not spend your days like me, Tania.”

She searched his face, and her eyes brightened slightly. “You all thought I was nothing but a selfish child,” she commented. “I am sure you were all correct in your estimation. Is that why he left me, Ossip?”

He shrugged. “Sweet, I do not know. In all honesty. Sometimes people think they feel one way, because of the magic of the occasion. Then they return to their natural habitat, and decide it was an illusion. I am certain that he did care, and that if he left, if he did this to you, it was only because he found himself lacking, and did not want you to feel cheated someday.”

They sat silently by the fire. Ossip suddenly turned to her, and she to him. He took her face in his hands, and kissed her lips. Her arms went round his neck and then dropped. He moved away. “It's not right,” he murmured. “But it's up to you. If you want me to marry you, I shall.”

She began to cry. “No,” she said. “We are both in love with other people, and we are too different. You are easy, I am driving. I would turn into a shrew, and you would grow more passive. Soon we would hate each other, always at odds. I need a dominating husband, and you need a girl who can live sufficiently for two, to bring you out of yourself. We are strange people, you and I.”

He caressed her cheek, and smiled sadly. “Jean was a very stupid man,” he said, and gazed into the fire.

They sat together for a long time, listening to the crackling logs, until their bodies grew numb. When he returned home, Ossip stopped to say good night to his sister, Sonia. Her door stood ajar, and as he raised his hand to knock, he saw her turned away from him, gazing toward her secretary. In her hands was a small framed painting, and he could not help straining to make out its subject. Even at a distance he could distinguish the five young faces etched upon the canvas, Volodia's, Sokolov's, Petri's, Botkin's, and his own. Ossip started. Where had it come from? He had never seen this painting before. He stood in the doorway of his sister's room, wondering why she had the portrait, thinking of the young companions one by one. Sonia had hardly known Sokolov, Petri, and Botkin. But Volodia—

All at once, he understood. He longed to enter the room and hold Sonia, as he had held Tania, but she sat mutely, turned away from him, thinking she was alone. Her sorrow was all the more eloquent for its privacy. Abashed, Ossip tiptoed away. But he could not forget the delicate milk-white hands holding the painting of his dear friend.

I
n the spring of 1912
, Gino, who was nearly seventeen, received several marks of “four” on his baccalaureate examinations, and obtained only a silver medal upon finishing the gymnasium. He would therefore not be granted entry into the University, but David, who had sensed a very healthy practical mind in his second son, decided to send him to a commercial school in Hanover, where Gino would be able to perfect his German. Since he was younger than most gymnasium graduates, this extra year could only benefit him, and afterward he might once again attempt the baccalaureate examinations in St. Petersburg.

Gino was not displeased with the situation. “I have done my best,” he stated, in his clear, strong voice. It was resolved that he would board with a family whom the Gunzburgs knew in Hanover. He was not afraid to leave the sheltered atmosphere of his own family life, and as he had not yet made his entrance into society he was not leaving behind any tearful young girls.

During the summer, Gino, Sonia, and Mathilde made the voyage to Hanover, and settled him into his new place of residence. Before returning home, Mathilde took her daughter to Paris. It was there that she said to Clara, her sister-in-law, Misha de Gunzburg's wife, “Something must be done about Sonia. I cannot penetrate her facade of composure, but I know something is wrong, Clara. She does not seem to be able to laugh anymore, to enjoy.”

“I have a marvelous idea!” Clara cried. “You know how, every autumn, Misha returns to Kiev to supervise the sugar campaign on our estates. Toward the end of November, I plan to join him there, and I should like to invite Sonia to come along with me. Would you permit it, Mathilde?”

Mathilde nodded, and her features lightened. “How kind of you, Clara!” she exclaimed. “A change of atmosphere would do her infinite good. She could meet new people in Kiev, where your family knows everyone. I can stretch my stay in Paris until November, and when you and Misha return to your home here after the season, I can send a maid to fetch Sonia and bring her back to Petersburg.”

After the pogrom of 1904 had completely destroyed Misha and Clara's mansion in Kiev, they had moved to Paris where the two of them spent most of the year. Clara had given birth to a son, Sergei, in 1910. But Misha had inherited his father-in-law's sugar factories, and, like the other sugar manufacturers of Kiev, he liked to be present during the harvest each year. Usually the factories ceased their work by the New Year, and the Gunzburgs could return to France with their minds at ease.

This year, Misha departed for Kiev in September as he had planned, and when Mathilde left Paris in November Sonia and her Aunt Clara made the final preparations for their trip. Clara examined Sonia's wardrobe, which consisted of both simple and embroidered blouses, one morning suit of navy blue, two afternoon gowns, two evening gowns, and one ballroom outfit. Clara thought that a second suit could be added, and took her niece to Creed's, where they selected a dark-green corduroy with a matching toque brightened with a pink ribbon. Clara furthermore decided to order for Sonia a pair of slippers from Hellstern, the finest ladies' bootmaker in Paris.

In Kiev, Misha spent most of the day at the office, and Clara was grateful for the company of her niece, only ten years her junior. Sonia found the Mother City of all the Russias quite charming. Her mood was lighter than it had been for months, and she stood before the full-length mirror in the guest room of her uncle's apartment and examined her reflection with mounting pleasure. There was no Tania to contrast with her now, and Sonia approved of her slenderness, her daintiness, her small feet and hands, her oval face with its large, almond-shaped gray eyes, her high cheekbones and thick, raven hair. Her breasts had grown fuller, her complexion translucent. She was not as beautiful as her cousin, but she was certainly not unpleasant to behold, she decided. It was the first time in years that she had actually given thought to her appearance. Sonia was not vain, but now she touched her topknot and smoothed out a tendril, and began to laugh. It was a shame that Ossip was not with her.

The day following Sonia's arrival in Kiev, there was an inauguration ceremony for a new dormitory at the Jewish Children's Hospital. The entire upper crust of Jewish society, of which Clara's family, the Brodskys, ranked foremost, was congregated in a large hall, and Sonia was introduced to some forty ladies and gentlemen, whose names she desperately tried to remember. When the champagne was passed around, after the Rabbi's blessing, a sturdy male voice resounded near Sonia, and made her start. “Sofia Davidovna de Gunzburg!” she heard, and when she wheeled about, a tall massive young man stood behind her. She had seen that face before, somewhere, the mane of black hair and the blue-green eyes that sparkled intelligently in the square face. She smiled uncertainly.

“You do not remember me,” he said, and shook his head with mock reprobation. “Moissei Gillelovitch Zlatopolsky—‘Mossia'! We sat together at your aunt's dinner party years ago, when we were barely out of childhood,” he explained. Sonia brightened. “My sister Shoshana was most rude to you,” he added. “My sister, the ardent Zionist. You cannot have obliterated her from your memory!”

“It was just before the pogrom,” Sonia said. “Later, I often thought of what your sister had told me.”

“Come,” Mossia said. “Let me show you our hospital. We can catch up on each other's lives as we walk along.” She accepted his arm. They began to walk out of the reception hall, and Mossia took her to a large room where little children lay in iron beds, convalescent children, sick children, dying children. Mossia said nothing, and Sonia too was silent, until they reached a tiny room with three cots, two of which were empty. In the third rested a toddler with a sallow complexion, whose breath was labored.

“Why is no one with him?” Sonia whispered. She sat down on the edge of the cot, and took one of the boy's tiny hands in her own. It was icy.

“He is two and a half years old, and will not live till tomorrow,” Mossia said. He stood behind Sonia, and placed a solid hand upon her shoulder. She turned her face to him, and he saw the unspoken grief. “At least we have the best physicians, and all has been done that could possibly be accomplished,” he said. She stood and took his arm, her eyes full of tears.

On their way back to Clara and Misha, Mossia spoke to Sonia of his work. He had obtained two degrees from the University of Moscow, in literature and in law. Now he was his father's chief manager. His father was one of Kiev's most important sugar manufacturers and headed other businesses as well. “And you have no wife yet, no children?” Sonia asked. It struck her that this solid, compassionate man should be protecting a woman and a family. Perhaps the vision of the child dying alone in the stark white hospital bed had raised this thought in her mind.

He began to laugh. “Oh, no, and I have no intention of acquiring any at the moment!” he said. “You see, I work long hours, and when my duties are over, I play. My father trusts me, and pays me a tremendous salary to run his vast enterprises. I have invested some of it, but since I am only twenty-two, the rest I spend as I see fit, and that is for my pleasure. Kiev is a gay town. Someday I shall surely take a wife, and treat her like a queen. But for now I propose to enjoy my youth. I am not an exemplary person, Sofia Davidovna. But at least I spend only what I earn, and first I give my all to my duties.”

“You are very honest, and that is rare,” Sonia declared. She smiled at him. “I have known many young men in Petersburg, and most spend their fathers' rubles, not their own, and think nothing of it. My brother is twenty-five, and I should not have assumed that you would be already wed. Twenty-two is still very young to be married.”

Sonia was amused by Mossia Zlatopolsky, and felt comfortable in his presence. So many new faces, such pressure to greet strangers by name! His familiarity reassured her. He brought her back to her aunt and uncle, bowed, and departed. He had work to do. “He is a brilliant young man,” Misha said. “I would not say the same of the one who is coming toward us now. Solomon Moisseievitch Halperin. A weasel in man's garb.”

“That is true,” Clara said to her niece in an undertone. “The Halperin family is very wealthy. In fact they are the guests of honor here tonight, as they financed the new dormitory. But they are crass, nouveau riche. They have donated funds not out of goodness, but in order to ingratiate themselves with their betters. It is said that Solomon—Sioma—the third son, wishes to marry a Baroness Gunzburg, so that his status may be elevated. And he has spotted you, my dear.”

A lanky, pockmarked young man with reddish hair was approaching. “Baron, Baroness,” he crooned, bowing. Misha greeted him stiffly, Clara barely allowed his lips to skim the top of her hand. A shiver of revulsion passed over Sonia. Just as Mossia Zlatopolsky had inspired her with confidence, this man filled her with distaste. He was standing before her, his watery eyes upon her, and she reddened.

“The city of Kiev speaks only of your arrival,” he said to her, and she tried desperately to summon the courtesy not to draw away from him. His breath was sour. She made a perfunctory half-smile in response. “We shall most certainly encounter one another at a soiree or an afternoon tea,” he added. She felt as though he were undressing her with his stare, and she inclined her head. He clicked his heels in military fashion, and wheeled about. Sonia turned to Clara and Misha, and her uncle began to chuckle. “He will not eat you,” he said softly. But she could not suppress the feeling of revulsion from the very pit of her stomach.

During the days that followed, Sonia managed to sort out all the Brodsky relations, and cousins of cousins. There were Clara's two brothers, Alexander and Aron. Alexander had seven children, one of which, a daughter, Moussia, was married to a rather stern young man named Ilya Saxe. Both Brodsky brothers and their wives and children entertained often, and made Sonia welcome. There was also Aunt Guitele, the widow Augustine Feodorovna Brodsky, quite elderly and half blind, but of great heart and intelligence. Clara was most fond of her, and visited her frequently.

Aunt Guitele had been widowed for a long time, and lived with her only son, Max, who was thirty-three and a bachelor. Max was small, thin, with fiery red hair and sharp features. His nose was aquiline and pinched, his lips thin, adorned with a red mustache; his ears were large, and his blue eyes pale, far paler than those of Baron David. There was an aura of ill health around him, although he was actually quite healthy. Each time that she saw him, Sonia was struck anew with the shock of his almost ludicrous physical defects. She had never witnessed so much ugliness concentrated in a single individual. But he was touching to watch interacting with his mother, never allowing her to cross the street by herself because of her poor eyesight, bringing her small gifts, always showing his respect and affection for her.

Max was extremely talented. He played the piano beautifully and composed his own pieces, but he never wrote them down, always improvised anew. His mind was crammed with extraordinary inventions: mechanical objects, household products, ideas for women's fashions. In his head, he would improve his inventions and perfect them. He often spoke of his creations but never submitted any of them for patenting, or had them constructed once he had worked them out. As soon as one was completed, his thoughts would jump to another, and disregard the first.

He was immensely wealthy, and did not work. He did not play cards, or chase women, or spend nights drinking with his men friends. He read, played the piano, thought about his inventions, and escorted his mother around Kiev. His cousins all liked him and had nicknamed him Maxik the Red.

Clara Lazarevna de Gunzburg admired Aunt Guitele Brodsky and frequently took Sonia to visit her. But most of the time, Maxik, after a few courtesies, would lead Sonia toward the piano, and begin to improvise. “What beautiful melodies!” the young woman would exclaim. “But why don't you write them down?”

“Oh, I am far too lazy,” he laughed.

“But it is criminal to let go of tunes that are so lovely!” she cried in dismay. “All that emotion! And the expertise!” He teased her about her intensity, and they would launch into other discussions, for he was full to the brim of opinions, and was well read, if somewhat stubborn.

Clara's niece, Moussia, her brother Alexander's daughter, had married the older son of the Saxe family, sugar plantation owners like most of the Gunzburgs' acquaintances in Kiev. Clara was very friendly with Moussia's mother- and father-in-law, Svetlana and Maxim Saxe. He was a tall and slender man with white hair and a distinguished manner, and though his wife was small, plump, and more provincial in appearance, her quiet good nature endeared her to many. As Maxim Saxe was growing old, he no longer managed his prosperous business. But it was not Moussia's husband, Ilya, who had taken it over, for Ilya was too indolent; it was Ilya's younger brother, Karl, who was known to his familiars as Kolya.

Kolya Saxe was thirty-three years of age, like Maxik Brodsky. Unlike his brother, he put in long hours administering the sugar refineries, and sometimes, when Sonia and Clara came to tea, he was not there. He came in later, his footsteps resounding in the hallway outside, quickening as they approached the drawing room. When she heard them, Sonia would feel a flush spreading over her face and into the roots of her hair. He was tall, imposing of stature while slim of hip, and his hair was black and wavy. His mouth was full-lipped and his large teeth were white and perfect, but above all his eyes magnetized her, for they were fluid black, the irises indistinguishable from their pupils. Sonia, who loved true beauty, was enchanted by him: he was surely the most pleasing man she had ever seen. She followed his movements with her eyes, enjoying his slightest gesture as though she were watching a thoroughbred horse cavorting around a field, or a ballerina executing steps of remarkable difficulty in the most graceful and unaffected manner.