“But we must be careful,” she said, her expression a mixture of defiance and fear.
He let the silence stretch between them.
“It must have been hellish. The war, I mean,” Field said.
Natasha smiled again. “Papa sometimes seemed so stiff to others. So formal. But he was just a bear. That’s what we called him.”
“He came home as soon as the war was finished?”
“He was in St. Petersburg with his regiment during the revolution. He escaped home and told people what he had seen, but no one believed him. Everyone thought he was exaggerating. He was frightened and silent and we did not know what to think or do. You know?”
“I understand.”
“When the Bolsheviks arrived, the killings began in Kazan. They rounded up people of consequence—many friends. Landowners, army officers, university teachers—they put them into basements and shot them, or forced them onto barges on the river and blew them up.”
Her face had gone white. “Papa did not want to go, but he knew there was no choice.” Natasha closed her eyes. “So far. You have no idea. No one can ever imagine. By camel, across the Steppes, for months. Huddled up as we crossed Lake Baikal by sledge, the air so cold. No money, no food, no kindness. And after all that he had seen, Papa so . . .” Her voice trailed off, her eyes tight shut.
“You reached Vladivostok?”
“It had fallen to our side, but we knew it could not last. There were so many rumors. We had to force father to leave. We had to convince him it was hopeless and we must flee while we still could.” She shut her eyes again.
The waiter came with two cups and a jug of coffee on a silver tray. As Natasha opened her eyes, Field examined the figure on the bill and pulled some money from his pocket.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it is expensive.”
“It is no matter. I’m no longer poor.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Richard. I do not—”
“Yes, but—”
“It is not important.”
The coffee was in a silver jug and Field poured it, spilling some on the white linen tablecloth. He handed a cup to her. “Did you leave with Lena? You were friends?”
“We were at school together in Kazan and then St. Petersburg, but I had come home to help on the farm.”
“They say St. Petersburg is beautiful.”
“Of course, it was . . .”
“What kind of girl was Lena?”
She did not answer immediately. “Lena liked to laugh. At school she was very funny. She always tried to make a joke of everything. She was popular, quite forward with boys. Not intimidated, but . . .” Natasha stopped again in midsentence.
“You traveled here together?”
“No.” Her voice was firmer now. “I said people thought Papa was stiff, but he was the kindest man I knew, gentle, and he left for us. He did not want to go, could not imagine a life without Russia, but he could see that there was no future for us—so many friends being killed, so brutal. What could we do? But it was so hard for him to leave. Lena’s father was prouder and more stubborn. He was really a stiff man, inflexible, and he would not leave until the last moment. They had a big house, very beautiful, with gardens that had taken so many years to build and a long lawn that ran along the banks of the river. They were quite rich and the father would not go. Papa went to see him. On our way, after we’d left, we went to the house, but Lena was playing in the woods and Papa would not let us come in. I remember Papa walking out, across the snow, back to the sledge, still in his uniform boots, shaking his head. Lena’s father was standing on the steps of the veranda and I could see all the way down to the frozen river and it was a clear day, blue sky, sharp and beautiful. I saw Lena’s mother in the window, looking out at us. She was so frightened and I felt afraid all over again.”
There was another long silence. “But they left?” Field asked. “In the end.”
“Only just in time. They were warned by a friend from Kazan that a mob was coming, and we later heard that the Bolsheviks burned the house down an hour after they had gone. But they left in such a hurry, and the father would not believe it would be for long. He did not want to escape, just hide for a few days, he thought, because the White Army was coming. And it was true: the Whites were close and the city was freed by General Kappel a week later. We knew about this and asked Papa, but he wouldn’t turn back. He understood. He did not want to go, could not bear to leave, but he understood. It was finished. He knew that it was all finished and our life was gone forever.
“Lena’s family lost everything. They came back to the house, but there was nothing left. The Bolsheviks had stolen so much and burned, and they had attacked some of the servants who tried to defend the house. Lena and her family were left with nothing, and then they had to go. The journey was even harder for them. Her father . . . he killed himself on the Steppes. Her mother died also on the journey, and the brothers turned back. She had to fend for herself and her sister. She was a brave woman.”
“And it—”
“When she got here—a long time after us—she was different, as though a light had gone out, do you understand?”
Field nodded.
