Эльвира Барякина - Russian Treasures

Fomin looked at the continuous flow of people in faded bowlers, soldiers’ caps, and ladies’ hats apparently made of baize taken from card tables.

Refugees, damn it, he thought.

Until September, Fomin had still believed victory was possible, but when the head of the supply bureau had told him that there were no winter boots for foot soldiers, he had realized that the game was up.

The White Army couldn’t have managed without supplies from the Allies. Fomin talked many times with Lieutenant Colonel De Wolff, the representative of the British military mission. “Why don’t you send more troops?” Fomin asked him. “The Bolsheviks wouldn’t stand another month against the regular British army.”

“War is an expensive enterprise,” De Wolff said, shaking his head. “What will the British people get out of it besides tens of thousands of graves and a hole in the national budget? Russia has nothing to pay us with. Your industry is in ruins, and mining operations aren’t profitable without investments and long-term loans, which are huge risks. Bad climate and poor logistics will eat up any potential profits. You have to understand that the British are tired of war, and when all’s said and done, they couldn’t care less about the fate of the White Army. It’s a bitter pill to swallow perhaps, but it’s the truth.”

Fomin nodded. “I see.”

“Denikin’s government has already received large loans from us,” De Wolff continued. “The Whites promised us they’d be in Moscow by October, but it hasn’t happened. And Admiral Kolchak has been routed in Siberia. Our bankers are nervous. If you lose the war, they lose money. As for me, what I want to know is given that the United Kingdom and Russia are allies and we’re committed to a common good, should my country take part in killing Russian citizens? Do we really have the right to break into someone’s house if we think that something reprehensible is going on inside? I’m not so sure.”

Fomin understood him perfectly from the point of view of diplomacy, finance, and philosophy. If an enterprise is failing, the sooner you pull out the less money and authority you stand to lose. But close up, things looked very different. In Russia there and then, thousands of people were succumbing to typhoid due to a shortage of medicine. White officers had not been paid for six months and left the frontline in desperation so that they could feed their hungry children.

There and then, Fomin published lies in his newspaper, claiming, “The Allies will help us,” and that was all he could do for the White cause.

Fomin’s friends kept asking him these days where he was planning to go when he emigrated. Should he go to Switzerland to the wife he didn’t love and hadn’t seen for five years? But how would he get there?

No European country was keen to accept sick, penniless, and traumatized Russian refugees. So far, they were being taken to Crimea, the Greek island of Lemnos, Serbia, Constantinople, and the Princes Islands off the Turkish coast. The first evacuees were sick and wounded soldiers, then their families, and then the civilian personnel of military institutions. The remaining women and children were taken onboard for a fee.

At one time, Fomin had considered himself a big fish, a man to whom all doors were open, but he now realized that he was just another one of the countless “bourgeois” vainly besieging foreign missions and the Committee for Evacuation.

The White government officials were the last to be evacuated.

3

The best place in town to get the latest news was the Makhno Café, frequented by members of the so-called Black Horde, a formidable fellowship of profiteers. The café wasn’t so much an eating place as a gentlemen’s club and exchange market. You could buy all manner of things from soldiers’ undergarments to steel factory shares. So great was the influence of the Makhno that newspapers published currency rates under the heading “Café.”

It was an odd place, large and dirty with potted palms in every corner and a stove in the center. The waiters wore their hair neatly parted and kept their shirtfronts white and their nails clean. The waitresses wore fine jewelry. As the waitstaff flitted to and fro, customers would shout out for champagne and sunflower seeds.

Fomin went to his table, on which the word “Reserved” had been scrawled in chalk.

“Capri Salad with tomatoes and black olives,” Vadik the waiter informed Fomin. He was an old hand at the art of pleasing. “Fillet of plaice with grapes. Skewer-grilled shrimp with lemon.”

Fomin wasn’t listening. A young woman sitting at an empty table by the window had caught his eye. She looked strangely like Nina Odintzova.

Of course, it wasn’t her. This woman had her hair cut short and was wearing a dress that looked like a school uniform.

The woman was sitting sideways to Fomin with her legs crossed. Her folded overcoat, felt hat, and a small bag were on a chair next to her.

It was Nina, Fomin realized. She looked older, and her face had become thinner and her chin sharper.

“Duck in sweet and sour sauce,” Vadik murmured.

Fomin waved him away and walked over to Nina. “What a coincidence!”

She looked at him, started. “Oh… is it you?” She seemed pleased to see him.

Fomin held her hand in his coarse paw. “Good God, Nina—I never thought— How long is it since we last saw each another?”

“A little more than a year.” She smiled, and Fomin’s heart melted. “I thought you were dead. Your name was on a list of people who had been executed.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “How are you managing?”

Nina looked down, pulled her hand away, and hid it under the table.

She’s been through the mill by the looks of things, thought Fomin.

“Is Zhora dead?” he asked.

Nina nodded. “Everybody is dead: Elena, her parents—Sofia Karlovna and I are the only ones left.”

Fomin crossed himself. “May they rest in peace.”

He found out that Nina and the old countess had just arrived from Rostov, and that they had nowhere to go. Sofia Karlovna had gone to the French mission to negotiate their departure. Meanwhile, Nina was waiting for her in Makhno Café.

“Did you say that your mother-in-law is well-connected in Paris?” Fomin asked.

It would be nice to get to France with the help of the old countess, avoiding quarantine camps and the humiliating process of registering as a refugee.

“Where are you going to stay while you’re in town?” he asked next.

Nina shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve heard the hotels are full.”

“Why don’t you come stay with me?”

“How much are you asking for a room?”

Fomin laughed. “Nina, what’s wrong with you? Keep your money for yourself. The prices here are outrageous. An apple at Privoz Market costs fifty rubles.”

Nina was shocked. “Why so expensive? We came here by train and saw plenty of gardens around the town.”

“Nobody goes there for fear of the Greens.”

“Who are the Greens?”

“Partisans. Or rather, gangs of deserters evading the draft. They’re fighting everybody—the Whites and the Reds—and sometimes they come into the town from the mountains and kill the guards. So, you’d better get your papers ready if you want to go outside. Otherwise, you’re at risk of being taken off to counterintelligence on suspicion of being a supporter of the partisans. If you have money, you can pay your way out, but if not, the guards will flog you—and that’s the best that will happen.”

Nina grew pale. “But we don’t have any documents yet. Sofia Karlovna is hoping to get them from the French.”

“I strongly recommend you come to stay with me then. You’ll be safe in my house—I have reliable bodyguards.”

Nina looked him coldly up and down, and Fomin suddenly realized that she didn’t want him to get too close.

“What happened to that Argentine?” he asked bluntly. “Did he come back from Petrograd?”

“Yes. And then I married him.”

“Really? And where is he now?”

“He was killed two months ago.”

Sofia Karlovna returned excited and told them that she had met Colonel Guyomard and Colonel Corbeil, and both of them were very nice and friendly. They had promised the old countess to do everything possible to help her and her daughter-in-law get to France.

Fomin listened without taking his eyes off Nina.

She was somebody else’s fortune now, he thought, out of his reach because of his age, his post in the White administration, and his military duties. She would go abroad, and he would die here in Novorossiysk from a Red Army bullet or perhaps from a broken heart.

It seemed he was doomed to have his feelings unrequited—both by his motherland and by the woman he loved.

1

The sun beat down on Klim’s eyelids, unbearably bright. He felt as dry and scorched as a dead leaf, his body no more than an outline and a handful of dried-out veins.

He was aware of a terrible weakness and a tugging pain in his chest every time he took a breath. And what was that buzzing sound? Was it the sound of cicadas, or was it inside his head?

Suddenly, there was a roar like thunder, and a hot wind fanned his cheeks.

Klim opened his eyes and saw an armored train racing along the embankment in a cloud of dust, black smoke, and sparks. The rattling cars flashed by, and then all was quiet again, although the earth kept trembling as though beaten.

Klim tried to sit up but felt such excruciating pain that he fell back. Catching his breath, he tried again, this time more carefully. His tunic was covered with half-clotted blood. It was terrifying even to take a look at the gaping wound in his chest. Has Osip wounded me fatally? Will I recover, or am I done for? It took some time for Klim to realize that his lung had been spared, and the bullet to his chest had only damaged the flesh.