Эльвира Барякина - Russian Treasures

“I’ll go to the captain now,” he said. “Fay, I want you to keep an eye on Miss Nina. She’s beside herself with grief. She could throw herself overboard.”

Fay cast a jealous look in Nina’s direction.

“You can go back to Novorossiysk if you want to,” she told Nina as soon as Sablin was out of the way.

Nina set off toward the gangplank.

“I can’t leave,” she tried to explain herself to the British sailors.

They helped her to get to the jetty strewn with abandoned possessions. Thick smoke billowed from the steamer’s funnel, and the anchor chain rattled as it was pulled up.

The Hannover set out to sea.

For a long time, Nina stood at the railing looking at the fiery glow in the waves of the gulf. The last transport passed, tugging an overcrowded barge behind it.

The crowd behind the barbed wire was thinning out. At first, people left one by one and then in groups. Soon, there was nobody left at the pier.

Darkness set in rapidly as the town struggled in its death throes. From time to time, the pink glare of an explosion flashed behind the dense clouds. The last defenders of Novorossiysk were desperately trying to hold the mountain passes.

Nina picked up an abandoned chocolate bar from the ground and unwrapped it. The smell and taste were like something long-forgotten. She struggled to understand what she had done and why she had refused to be saved.

I don’t need that kind of salvation, she thought.

There was nothing in her heart but a sort of dull apathy. Where should she look for Klim? What might have happened to him? She couldn’t bear to lose him again.

One of the abandoned horses came up to Nina and laid its head on her shoulder. It was trembling and snorting, and a purple point of fire glowed deep in the pupil of its eye.

Nina picked up her skirt, put her foot in the stirrup, and mounted the horse, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of the breeze on her bare knees.

“Let’s go home,” she said, touching the reins.

6

The town was in the grip of a pogrom. The streets glowed golden from fires, the low clouds were brown as coffee from the smoke, and the air was filled with flying ash and charred paper.

Nina rode slowly down the middle of the road. Ragged people ran by with bundles of leather jackets, shoes, and belts. People were breaking open crates right there in the street and pouring packets of hardtack, yeast, and starch into their knapsacks. It was beyond belief that all of this food had been kept in warehouses all this time while in Novorossiysk, people had been starving.

The earth trembled with the beat of thousands of hooves. Horses abandoned by the Cossacks had herded together, and bearded Circassians were chasing after them whooping.

Vorontsovskaya Street was empty. It appeared that everyone had taken cover in anticipation of the inevitable trials to come. Nina rode into the backyard, jumped to the ground, and froze in disbelief when she heard laughter inside the house.

She ran onto the porch and pulled open the front door. In the living room by the light of two candles, Klim and Fomin were sitting at the dinner table playing cards.

“I think I’d have made a good Provisions Commissar,” Fomin said.

Klim nodded. “I agree.” He caught sight of Nina and jumped to his feet, his face transformed. “Why are you still here?”

She rushed to him. “I couldn’t go without you!”

Klim’s hands were shaking as he took her tightly in his arms and kissed her. “Everything will be fine—you’ll see. We’ll go East instead. The Bolsheviks won’t be able to block the border with China, however hard they try—it’s thousands of miles long. We’ll find a way to get over it.”

Fomin cocked the little revolver in his hand.

“Nina, my dear,” he said, “you are distracting us from very important business. After you left, Mr. Argentinean and I decided to have a card duel. We thought it would be entertaining. The winner will die a quick and painless death courtesy of the last precious bullet in this gun. The loser has to wait to be hacked to death by the Red cavalry. I must inform you that your husband beat me.”

Nina froze. “Surely, you wouldn’t—”

“Mr. Rogov, if you wish, I can let Nina have your prize. Whatever you say.”

The reflection of the candle flame flickered on Fomin’s forehead, slick with sweat. The corners of his mouth twitched.

“There’s no need to look so frightened.” He laughed. “After all, you wouldn’t be apart for very long. The Reds will be here in a couple of hours, and they’ll kill the rest of us. Then we’ll meet in heaven and laugh over our memories.”

“Hands up!” shouted a clear boyish voice as a group of scrawny teenagers armed with rifles appeared in the doorway.

Startled, Fomin dropped the revolver on the tablecloth and raised his hands. A second later, he realized that the intruders were mere boys trembling at their own effrontery.

“What do you want?” Fomin demanded angrily.

He reached for his revolver, but the older boy pressed his rifle to Fomin’s chest while the second boy grasped the gun. “We need to talk about our father—Jacob Froiman.”

Fomin grimaced. “I see. Well, young men, have a seat.”

The older boy turned to Klim. “You must leave now. We have a score to settle.”

Klim grabbed Nina’s hand, and they ran outside. The sky above the trees was bathed in an orange glow.

“Who were those boys?” Nina whispered.

“The vanguard of Soviet power,” said Klim. “Come on. We need to find a place to hide.”

A rifle shot rang out inside the house.

1

No sooner had Sofia Karlovna boarded the dreadnought Waldeck-Rousseau than the nightmare of Novorossiysk fell away, and she found herself in France. She was given a five-course dinner and a cabin with a bath along with a now subdued and obliging Shushunov, who had gotten himself a place on the ship by passing himself off as her butler.

Although the ship was far from shore, clouds of smoke and the glow of fires could still be seen from the direction of the port. Sofia Karlovna wasn’t looking in that direction. The sea was calm, the clear sky was the color of lilac, and the moon was rising over the mountains like a worn cameo.

The evacuated cadets from the Alexander Military School lined up on the ship’s deck to sing a prayer. The old countess listened to their clear young voices and crossed herself.

Everything was as it should be: the mistress of the ball was bidding farewell to her guests and wishing them a good night. Now, she could rest while the servants swept up the rubbish and cleared the dishes from the tables.

2

A year later in Montmartre, Sofia Karlovna read in a newspaper that—following the tragedy in Novorossiysk—some Whites had fled and others had been taken prisoner. Many more, believing that they would be given amnesty, had taken part in a voluntary registration. All of those who had registered had been arrested. Some had been sent to labor camps while others—drafted into the ranks of the Red Army—had taken part in the bloodbath that was the Polish war.

The Poles had prevented the victorious Red Army from rushing westward, forcing the Bolsheviks to abandon their dream of the World Revolution. At least for a while.

Russian Treasures Book 1 White Ghosts Book 2 The Prince of the Soviets Book 3

Visit Elvira Baryakina’s website to learn more about Klim Rogov and Nina Kupina:

http://www.baryakina.com/en/

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Translated from Russian by Elvira Baryakina, Rose France and Simon Geoghegan

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Elvira Baryakina

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information, visit http://baryakina.com/en/

ISBN: 978-1-7325840-1-3