The Midwife of St. Petersburg (26 page)

She was aware of Natalia’s watching her.

“You look pleased about whatever he said,” Natalia commented with mock seriousness. “What could it be, I wonder?”

Karena smiled ruefully and proceeded to take a plate and serve herself breakfast. The strange exhilaration continued.

When Madame Yeva came down to the dining room, her mouth drooped and she looked pale. “I’m sorry to say I feel I’m coming down with the grippe.”

“Sit down, Mama, and rest. I’ll get your coffee and cakes,” Karena said.

Aunt Marta emerged from the kitchen, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. Yeva, who never showed herself without her hair neatly braided and pinned, looked as though she’d merely repinned yesterday’s braids into a roll at the back of her head. Karena suspected she’d been awake most of the night. This was a crucial time for her, as well as for her daughters, for she was only as secure as her gentile husband.

Colonel Kronstadt had been right when he upbraided Papa Josef for blindly throwing himself in the fire for Sergei and leaving Yeva and the rest of his family unprotected. Poor Papa! He must not have thought through all the consequences of his actions in his harried effort to save Sergei.

“Matvey, Grandmother, and Ilya are coming over from the bungalow,” Yeva said. “We are to have a serious meeting this morning about our future here in Kiev.”

Natalia exchanged glances with Karena. Aunt Marta sat down, dabbing her eyes with her white handkerchief, her black dress hinting of her funereal mood.

“It’s not possible,” Aunt Marta murmured. “How could this have happened?”

Uncle Matvey arrived first, while Ilya assisted his grandmother down from the carriage. With Papa Josef gone, Matvey was now head of the family, though it might be argued that it should pass to General Viktor Roskov. For Karena, it would always be Uncle Matvey.

When the others joined them in the sunny dining room, Madame Yeva, sitting very straight in her chair with her hands in her lap, looked at her daughters and then the others.

“I’ve been informed by the authorities that the Peshkov family is no longer in charge of the land. We must leave the manor house.”

Aunt Marta dropped her forehead against her kerchief and shed tears. Grandmother Jilinsky clasped her hands together and murmured in Yiddish. Natalia gasped. Ilya looked at his shoes in sober silence.

Uncle Matvey had been watching the response of the others. “I am leaving for St. Petersburg tomorrow to petition the czar and speak to General Roskov.”

“Of what hope is that?” complained Aunt Marta through her tears. “Will the czar even hear your petition?”

“I hardly have faith in that, my dear Marta, but that is where your brother-in-law Viktor is our ally. He will bring our petition before Czar Nicholas.”

“Mother, where will we go if we must leave the house?” Natalia asked.

“There is only one thing we can do, and that is perhaps the saddest part of this tragedy. I fear that, for a time, we must separate.”

There was an intake of breath, followed by Grandmother Jilinsky’s and Aunt Marta’s quiet tears. Karena sat without moving, trying to take it all in. Separation …

“We cannot all impose on Uncle Matvey with his little apartment in St. Petersburg, nor on Aunt Zofia, but Uncle Matvey has agreed to take me and Karena.”

“Mother!” Natalia cried, as though betrayed. “What about me?”

“Natalia, dear, you will be much better off with your Aunt Marta in St. Petersburg, to stay awhile with Aunt Zofia and Tatiana.”

“But so would Karena! She’s closer to Tatiana than I am.”

Karena’s heart beat faster. She was going to St. Petersburg. They would stay with Uncle Matvey, which she had desired ever since his arrival in early June, and she’d been asked to help him with his manuscript.

“I’m going to St. Petersburg, dear, to seek work as a nurse,” Madame Yeva told Natalia, “and Karena is needed to help your uncle complete his manuscript.”

And Dr. Zinnovy is nearby
, Karena thought.

Natalia appeared to accept the logic of this, but she looked depressed. “What about Grandmother Jilinsky and Ilya?”

Ilya walked over from where he’d been standing by the window and laid a tanned hand on his grandmother’s shoulder. She looked up at him and covered his hand with her own.

“Ilya’s leaving us,” Grandmother said.

Karena looked at him quickly. He explained, meeting Karena’s gaze. “Like Boris, I’ve been conscripted into the army. Word has come over the telegraph that war is declared.”

“Oh, Ilya, no.”

“I haven’t much time,” he said. “Another wave of conscripts is moving out today. The army’s been hauling men in for duty all summer.”

Karena stood, and he walked slowly across the floor, his hands outstretched. She clasped them, and in the silence, Grandmother Jilinsky could be heard sobbing quietly.

Karena and Ilya left the dining room, and the family meeting went on without them. Together they walked slowly out the front door and onto the porch. Karena held on to the post, gazing off toward the fields, thinking how they now took on a lonely, forlorn appearance.

“Strange,” she said after a moment, “how things change so drastically when one least expects it.”

“Yes. I’ve looked at those wheat fields all summer and never thought much about them. Then something happens that threatens to take them away, and now they look more precious than ever.”

She turned and looked at him. So many of her loved ones had slipped through her fingers: Papa Josef, her brother, Anna. The family was separating, and while they anticipated the separation would not last for long, who could be certain?

And now Ilya.

He joined her in watching the wheat bending in the wind. His lean, tanned face looked grim and haggard for such a young man.

She tried to ease at least one of his burdens. “Do not worry about Grandmother. I’ll not let anything happen to her if I can possibly prevent it. We’ll make room for her somewhere, somehow, even if she has to sleep in my bed.”

“Thank you,” he said in a tight voice. “It will be all right.” But they knew, in reality, it would not be all right. Nothing would ever be right again.

“Let’s walk,” he said.

They set out along the wagon road between the wheat fields. The morning sky was clear toward the steppes, as though stretching outward without limit. The steppes brought images of Cossacks, of brilliant horses and horsemen, soldiers, and thousands of the czar’s Imperial Cavalry. Kronstadt—Colonel Alex Kronstadt. She glanced at Ilya, feeling guilty for dwelling upon him now.

“What do you think of him?” he asked.

Ilya’s question surprised her. He walked along, trying not to raise dust, and Karena hurried to keep up. So much had happened in the last few hours, her feelings seemed unable to recover.

“Colonel Kronstadt?” she asked, curious.

“Yes. What do you think of him?” he repeated, a thoughtful tone to his voice.

She looked straight ahead. The last thing she wanted to do was to hurt Ilya.

“He knows the Roskovs—Aunt Zofia approves of him.”

“Your father’s sister?” he sounded surprised by that, so she guessed he had not known about Alex knowing the family.

“Yes, evidently it was the general who arranged for Kronstadt’s transfer from the cavalry to the Okhrana.” She added, “Tatiana claims they will soon become engaged.”

He was silent for a minute. “His relationship with the Roskovs could benefit your family.”

Ilya paused on the dusty road and looked at her, lines of worry tightening around his mouth.

“I fear this war will do Russia more harm than Germany,” he said. “We are not prepared for a long war, and though many say we will be home for Christmas, I see the clouds gathering for a long and dreary storm.”

Karena could sense the bleak winds of war and shuddered.

“The czarina is of German blood,” Ilya continued. “Some say she surrounds Czar Nicholas with Germans … spying for her and the starets.”

“You don’t think she is for Germany?” she asked, incredulous.

He shook his head. “Who knows? I am only a country peasant.”

She smiled at him. “You are teasing me, Ilya. You have so many long conversations with Uncle Matvey. You should have an idea what the war will bring to Russia.”

His self-abasement vanished. “Trouble, so Uncle Matvey also believes. The Bolsheviks are not patriotic. They would just as soon see us worn out on the battlefield so that the czar is weakened. Anything to end his rule.”

“That the czarina is German should not sway the czar from his alliance with France, should it?” she questioned.

“The czar and Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany are cousins, but Russia will fight for her ally France. Great Britain, too, may join us, making an entente.”

Sadness filled her mind. Russia shuddered under its national load. Was the trumpet sound of war the beginning of victory, or did it herald worse tidings to come? The summer of discontent was coming to its end, but what would take its place?

War, loneliness, and fear rode on the winds of August.

The next few days passed quietly, but Karena could sense the ominous tension hovering over her.

Uncle Matvey had already left for St. Petersburg to petition the czar, and by now, Sergei should have reached Kazan. Sergei would tell the Roskovs, no doubt through tears, all that had happened and his unwise part in this bitter outcome.

Ilya and Boris had said their sad good-byes, then marched out with the conscripts toward Warsaw. Little remained of the army’s encampment along the creek except vacant, smoothed areas and dead campfires.

The peasants were quiet and watchful and remained at work in the wheat fields, but they knew of the arrest of Schoolmaster Josef and were grieving for the Peshkov family. They worried about who was going to manage their work now that Ilya had marched off to war.

The unhappy word had made it to the fire circles of the families as they gathered to eat their supper, how the Peshkov family had been ordered to leave the manor house. Such callousness was cause for mourning. The wheat lands had been reclaimed by the Imperial government, and a new bourgeois family, outspokenly loyal to the czar, would be coming to Kiev within the month.

As August came toward a close, Aunt Marta recovered sufficiently from her trauma over her cherished brother Josef. She came to the dinner table with a wan smile, holding a letter.

“It’s from Zofia. Sergei is safe and keeping out of the public eye for a time.”

As expected, Aunt Zofia, always generous with her older sister’s requests, invited them all to come for an extended stay until the matter of Josef was known and the fate of the land decided. Whatever happened, Zofia and Viktor would keep a roof over her relatives’ heads during the bleak winter of 1914–15 that lay ahead.

Aunt Zofia, referring to her amity with the czarina through Rasputin, would also make an appeal for Josef.

“Zofia is most confident,” Aunt Marta said. “The rainbow crowns our vale of tears. Rasputin, she says, has held out a glimmer of hope that all will be satisfactory in the end. Zofia finds comfort through him. The czarina, too, is absolutely enthralled with his special spiritual gifts.”

“So unwise,” Madame Yeva said.

“She claims Rasputin is able to bring wellness to the little czarevitch, Alexei.”

“Uncle Matvey suggests we change Rasputin’s name to Balaam and bring him a donkey,” Natalia said.

Madame Yeva smiled ruefully, but Aunt Marta blinked.

“Balaam?” she repeated. “And a donkey?”

Natalia looked at Karena, and they laughed.

“It’s in the Bible, Aunt Marta.”

“Well, Zofia says we will have much opportunity to see and hear the starets for ourselves,” Aunt Marta said. Her brown eyes narrowed, as she seemed to suspect Karena and Natalia of teasing her. “And you, Natalia, can tell Rasputin yourself that you think he should change his name to Balaam.”

The shadowy mood that they had brought with them to the table passed into one of shared optimism. Whether based on fact or mere hope, their last meal together for some time turned into one of cheer.

The next day, Aunt Marta and Natalia, with two trunks packed and a third, larger trunk filled to overflowing with precious family objects from their years in the manor, departed for St. Petersburg.

T
oward the end of September, the night wind took on a chill that told Karena the harvest season was well over and winter was on its heels. The manor house was too quiet, with many invading memories carrying their baggage of joys and regrets.

Karena was anxious to depart Kiev for St. Petersburg, but Madame Yeva appeared reluctant. She was waiting, she explained, for a letter from Uncle Matvey, informing them that a different apartment in the same building, which had one extra room, had indeed become available. The occupant, an American journalist who was covering the revolutionary riots of the factory workers, was soon to leave for Warsaw and had offered it to Uncle Matvey while he was away. The only trouble was, the American had not yet left, due to difficulties with his official papers. There was some mention of changing apartments, but Uncle Matvey had so many research books and boxes of writing materials that a temporary change would be too burdensome.