Sashenka fought back tears and understood from the grim determination on Carolina’s face and her set jaw that she had observed their suffering of the past hours.
“Come and join us,” said Sashenka. The distinctions of mistress and servant vanished in a second, their power to save (or destroy) each other making them equals.
“Right,” said Satinov when Sashenka and the nanny returned. “You understand that whatever happens, I was never here. Vanya, Sashenka, the last time we ever met was at the Granovsky at dinner with my wife. We didn’t talk politics. I know nothing of your fate. You must book Carolina’s tickets and passes as soon as possible. Call the station, work out times, right now, tonight even.” He placed two identity cards on the table. “These are the papers for two orphans from the Dzerzhinsky Orphanage. Carolina must travel on her own papers but the children’s tickets will be in false names. There are constant inspections on the stations and trains these days. Sashenka, destroy the children’s passports—don’t leave them in the dacha!”
“Where should Carolina go?” asked Sashenka. “Could she take them home with her to her village?”
“They might find her even there,” said Satinov. “There’ve been a lot of arrests of Volga Germans out of Rostov. Carolina, you should take the Moscow-Baku-Tiflis train from Saratovsky Station. When you leave the train at Rostov there’ll be a message for you at the stationmaster’s office under your own name—it’s Gunther, isn’t it? Carolina Gunther? Either a person or a message. Afterward you must return to your village. All clear?”
Sashenka noticed that Satinov did not look his old friends in the eye as he departed, but he kissed her hand just as he had when they first met more than twenty years before and he hugged Vanya.
Pulling on his Georgian hood, he left through the garden just as he had come, and the gate creaked as it closed. Sashenka had known him since the winter of 1916, when they were all young. He had seen her at Ariadna’s deathbed, had been their best friend in the world. Now their relationship was ending—or perhaps it was metamorphosing. From being a friend, he might become the only family her children had on earth. Among this Russian nation of toadies and cowards, timeservers and snitches, he alone had shown the courage to remain a human being.
“Come on. We’ve got work to do,” said Carolina briskly, placing her hands on Sashenka’s upper arms and pressing. “But first we must eat. A clear mind needs a full stomach.” She brought out a tray of goat’s cheese, tomatoes and black Borodinsky bread with Narzan mineral water.
They did not turn on the veranda light but they fell on the food as if they had never eaten before. Time ground on slowly. Sashenka felt better now: she had a mission. She had to trust Hercules Satinov. He said her children would be settled with “kind people” but oh, how her heart was breaking! She remembered Snowy and Carlo’s births at the Kremlevka, the Kremlin Hospital, on Granovsky. Snowy, the first, had been easy: she had emerged with a head of blond hair and slept her first night on Sashenka’s chest…Now she talked endlessly about cushions and butterflies (she knew the names of Brazilian Blues and Red Admirals) and she hated eggs. Carlo needed his eleven strokes before he would sleep, and he woke up in the night and needed a cuddle. He hated yogurt and he had a collection of rabbits, and when his blood sugar ran low between meals he needed his favorite Pechene cookies, the ones with the Kremlin on the tin; and he always wanted to visit the new Metro stations with their marble halls and glass cupolas and ride on the trains…
Should she write these things down for these “kind people”? Could she tell someone? Who would know all this—except a mother? How could her children be happy without their mother? Sashenka began to shake again.
“Discipline yourself! We must be practical!” Vanya’s voice cut into her terror.
Sashenka contracted into herself as if she had been touched by a block of ice.
She could not write anything down and the children could take little with them—above all, nothing that linked them to their parents. There was no time now for sentiment, tears, guilt. Sashenka was a mother now, nothing more, just a mother protecting her cubs. She had to save them from the orphanages that Benya had described. When everything had been prepared, if there was time, then she could savor the presence of those living treasures, and talk to them a little. Then she could sob all she liked.
Sashenka found her food tasted of nothing. The garden might have been made of cardboard; the jasmine and the lilac and the honeysuckle smelled of decay; the pony, the rabbits, the squirrels, the rest of existence could rot for all she cared, if only she could be spared to bring up her children, if only they could be free to return to her…
“Vanya, we must talk carefully. This may be our last night together. But what do we tell them?” she asked, choking over her words.
“The less, the better,” said Vanya. “They must forget we ever existed. Snowy will remember more but Carlo’s only three. He won’t even…” He could not speak anymore. Sashenka took Carolina’s hand.
“Carolina, let’s pack their cases. We must find them warm things to wear so they are never cold.”
They went back into Snowy’s room and Sashenka started to hand the child’s clothes to Carolina. Each time, when she raised a little skirt or sweater to her nose, she inhaled the scent of hay and vanilla.
I gave the children life, Sashenka told herself, but I never owned them. Now they must live on without me, as if I never existed.
28
Old Razum the driver, last night’s booze oozing out of cratered pores, arrived at dawn to take Vanya to the Moscow station. He honked beyond the gate, and Sashenka came out in her mauve nightie. It was a cool, bright, bracing May morning. The dew on the grass sparkled like a shower of diamonds, and the roses were budding. The children were already up and Carlo was jumping on their bed.
“Mama, can I tell you something…”
Vanya had been drinking all night and was sweating vodka. Sashenka watched as he went into the playroom to kiss the children. She knew he had many things he wished to say to them: bits of advice, sayings, mistakes to be warned against, gems all fathers wish to impart to their children before going on a journey. But the children were overexcited and would not even sit on his knee.
“I don’t want to kiss Papochka, do you, Snowy?” Carlo pointed at his father, who stood there in his full NKVD uniform, boots, cap, three tabs on his red collar, leather strap and holster.
“We only want to kiss Mama and Carolina. Daddy’s a scary monster! Daddy will eat us up and spit us out!” shouted Snowy, skipping like a frisky lamb. They jumped around him, and Sashenka watched—tears in her eyes—as Vanya caught them each in turn and pressed his face, his lips, his nose against them, just for a moment.
“Ouch, Daddy, you’re all prickly!” cried Carlo. “You hurt me!”
“I don’t want to kiss your prickly face,” said Snowy. “Kiss my lovely cushion instead. Take it with you!”
“You want me to take your favorite?” asked Vanya, almost overcome.
“Yes, so you remember me, but promise to send it back, Papochka!”
Vanya’s lips trembled as he took the little pink cushion and put it in his pocket, then he grabbed Snowy and held her for a moment. “Let me go, Papochka! You smell all funny!” And she scampered off, jumping over the two neat little canvas cases that stood by the door.
Vanya marched out, tears streaming down his unshaven cheeks.
Carlo ran after him. “Papa! I love you here,” he said, “in my heart. Let me stroke you because you’re crying.” Vanya stopped and picked up his son, and Carlo mopped up the tears with his bunny rabbit.
“Why are you sad, Papa?” asked Snowy on the veranda.
“I don’t like going away from you,” said Vanya, putting Carlo down gently. “I’ll be back soon but when I’m away, if you ever wonder where I am, look up at the stars in the sky like I’ve shown you. Wherever the Big Bear is, that’s where I’ll be.”
Sashenka came with him to the door. He took her in his arms, lifted her up and squeezed her so tight that her slippers fell off.
“Marrying you…,” he could barely articulate the words, “…best decision…ever. Don’t worry, this’ll blow over, but if not we have our plan.” He turned to Carolina and bowed low.
