The Jewel of St. Petersburg

  “Valentina!”

  She stopped, one foot on the bottom stair, acutely aware of her untidy appearance. She had thought to reach her room unseen. “Yes, Papa?”

  He was standing in the doorway of the drawing room, his face flushed. He was in full evening dress and in his hand he brandished a glass of champagne, which he jabbed in her direction, sending golden spills down his white waistcoat.

  “Valentina, it’s late.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “At the hospital, at St. Isabella’s.”

  “Till this hour?”

  “There was an emergency. An accident in one of the factories.” She wasn’t any good at lying.

  He viewed her uniform with distaste. “So you cleaned it up with your apron, by the look of you.”

  “No, Papa.”

  She didn’t want to provoke him, not this time. The smile that wouldn’t leave her lips was not for him, but he was not to know that, so he advanced toward her with an amiable expression. His gait was unsteady.

  “I have something for you.” He fumbled in his pocket and eventually produced a letter folded small. “From Captain Chernov.”

  She wanted to turn, to run up the stairs, to fling herself on her bed and refuse to allow Captain Chernov anywhere near her mind. It was too full of someone else. Her fingers hung at her side.

  “Take it, girl.”

  “I don’t want it, Papa.”

  “Take the damn letter.”

  It hovered between them, pale and insistent. Her fingers didn’t move.

  “I’ll read it tomorrow, Papa. I’m too tired tonight.”

  “I’d like you to read it now, in front of me.”

  She didn’t look at him. She stared at his black patent shoes, the spiky lights of the chandelier reflected back at her from their gleaming surface. She held out her hand and he thrust the folded paper into it. She let it lie there.

  “Read it, please.”

  Slowly she opened the letter and words in a bold black hand reared up in front of her eyes, but they remained a blur. She refused to focus on them.

  “Well?”

  She shook her head.

  He took the letter and read it aloud. “My dearest Valentina, . . .”

  “I am not his dearest.” Her voice came out low and disconnected.

  Her father didn’t notice.

  “My dearest Valentina,

  I took the liberty of calling on you today but you were not at home. I hope you are well and not inconvenienced by the military presence that is patrolling the city, dismantling street-barricades and breaking up unruly gatherings. Don’t worry, dear Valentina, I am making it my personal mission to keep you safe during these troubled and troubling times.

  There is to be a grand imperial ball at the Winter Palace and I would be greatly honored if you would accompany me to it next Wednesday evening.

  Thank you for the delightful pleasure of your company the other evening.

  Yours devotedly,

  Stepan Chernov.”

  Her father nodded and his contentment spread pink streaks across his cheeks. His chest swelled. She could see he was pleased with her. “You’ve done well, Valentina.”

  “Papa, I know every father wants his daughter to make a good marriage.”

  He raised his glass to her. “Indeed they do.”

  “So I understand that you intend the best for me.”

  “Good girl.”

  He stepped forward and draped an arm around her shoulders, and the image of her list flashed through her mind. She thought of how easy it would be to make her father forgive her at last.

  “But Papa, please don’t force me into—”

  He laughed and tickled her cheek with the corner of the letter. “Hush, child, hush.” He came close and kissed her cheek.

  “Papa”—she moved away and pulled her cloak tight around her body, isolating herself from him—“please inform Captain Chernov that I’m sorry, but—”

  “Nicholai, are you ever coming back in here?”

  It was a woman’s voice, light and faintly slurred. It issued from the drawing room and was followed by a soft enticing laugh and the chink of a bottle against a glass. It was not her mother. But her father showed no sign of embarrassment, and his dark eyes gleamed with amusement as he observed his elder daughter. He patted the back of her wrist where she clutched the edge of her cloak, an affectionate fatherly touch.

  “Don’t look so shocked, Valentina. It’s how marriages work. When you and Stepan Chernov are married, you’ll soon get used to the idea, like your mother did. No, don’t—”

  But she was gone. Up the stairs two at a time, leaving him with his letter and his woman.

  HER DIRTY CLOTHES LAY ON THE FLOOR, JUST AS SHE’D dropped them a thousand times before for the maid to pick up. But this time when she looked down at the soiled uniform lying like a dead person on the carpet and pictured the clean one hanging crisp and ironed in her wardrobe, she frowned. She stooped, picked up the dirty clothes, folded them, and placed the pile neatly on a chair for Olga to find when she came in. The little things. They made a difference. She was noticing them now.

  It wasn’t until she was curled up in bed, hugging her knees, that she allowed her mind the luxury of slipping away. Her eyes closed and immediately she was on a different pillow, in a different bed, in a different life. Her body ached for Jens, a sharp driving ache that drew out a raw moan from her throat. The heat of him was still inside her, making her thighs restless, unable to keep still.

  She had no idea it would be like this. The wanting. The recall of his every touch. His lips so tender on her breasts, his hands caressing and coaxing till her body became his instead of hers. The desire to please him, to taste him, to own him. Her lips claiming him. Her body and soul so in thrall to him that lying here on her own was like being only half a person, having only half a life.

  “Jens,” she whispered into the darkness. “I’ll never be able to give you up.”

  Not even for Katya.

  Twenty-three

  SNOW FELL IN CURLING WHITE SHEETS, BILLOWING FORWARD in sudden bursts of violent energy, then retreating like an army gathering its troops before the next attack. The roofs and roads glittered white and the city that had been created out of a dingy swamp so many years ago by Peter the Great looked as graceful and elegant as one of the tsar’s own swans.

  Arkin did not notice its beauty. It was the dark police uniforms that held his attention. They were gathering in twos and threes on street corners, their eyes watchful as wolves. He hadn’t expected them yet. They had moved fast, which surprised him, and they were nervous. The Raspov apprentices were on the march, stomping through the streets, noisy and rowdy as boisterous dogs let off the leash, chanting the slogans he had taught them, shouting and waving their handmade banners.

  “Give us justice!”

  “United we fight! United we win!”

  “We demand a fair wage!”

  “Victory for the workers!”

  Again and again their united voices shouted out the words that were dearest to their hearts, “Give us bread! Khleb!”

  Scrawny skeletons, that was all they were, a jumble of skin and bones inside coats too thin to keep out the Russian winter. So young and yet so resigned to their fate. It angered his heart. It had taken all his persuasive powers to convince them that they could change the terrible conditions in their foundry if they worked together. Flat white faces had stared back at him at first with helpless, hopeless eyes.

  The person who helped him put fire inside their hungry bellies was Karl, the engine driver’s young son who’d collected the crate from the train with him. Only sixteen and already he understood.

  “Comrades, things can change,” Arkin had told them. He was standing on a box in the icy yard of the foundry, and he could feel their excitement mingling with the snow that blew in their faces. “You can change them. You workers are the ones with the real power—if
only you have the courage to wield it.”

  “Brothers,” young Karl had shouted out, “listen to our comrade. We are treated worse than rats by our masters. Yesterday Pashin lost half his hand, last week Grigoriev lost the skin on his neck. Who will be next?”

  “The hours are too long,” Arkin declared. “Mistakes are made.”

  “No safety at work,” Karl added.

  “No right to complain.”

  “No water. It’s hot as hell in there.”

  “Do your masters care?” Arkin punched a hole in the white air with his fist.

  “No,” the young voices shouted back.

  “So let’s teach them to care,” Karl yelled.

  That was when they started to march. Ivan Sidorov had stood at the foundry gates, eyeing him with respect. He looked a very different figure when he wasn’t drunk and sprawled over a table, a man Arkin could use. Sidorov was the one who’d gathered the apprentices together for him in the yard. They exchanged a look, that was all. It was enough.

  WORD SPREAD FAST. As THEY SWUNG PAST THE SHOE FACTORY on Strechka Ulitsa a string of young boys burst out, still in their leather aprons, and hurled themselves into the Raspov crowd. Apprentices from the Tarasov toolmaking factory swelled their numbers to well over three hundred, marching shoulder to shoulder and shouting their slogans. Behind them strode Sergeyev, his arm still in a sling.

  “Good work,” he commented to Arkin.

  He nodded a greeting. “How’s your wife?”

  “Concerned about how today will turn out.”

  “Tell her we are rolling a stone downhill, gathering speed. Nothing can stop it.”

  Sergeyev clenched his fist in agreement, but he looked tense and tired.

  “Go home,” Arkin urged. “Your arm is clearly bad today, my friend. These apprentices hardly need us now that they can scent victory.”

  “Hah! They are blind to the battles ahead.”

  “This is just a skirmish, Sergeyev. It’s a beginning. Let them have their day of glory.” He studied him with concern. “You go home. Tend to your wife.”

  To his surprise, Sergeyev clapped him on the shoulder, gripping it hard. “Good luck, udachi, comrade.” He peeled back from the line of marchers and was gone. Instantly the place at Arkin’s side was taken by the lanky figure of Karl, a grin on his young face.

  THEY FLOODED INTO THE RAILWAY SIDINGS, AN OPENING windswept soulless place where rail carriages were shunted to die. Boots stamped on the ice-packed earth. Arkin listened to them and felt his blood quicken. It was the sound of the feet of Russia on the march. Not even the tsar on the imperial throne would dare to slaughter these innocents. He felt hope, hot and liquid, surge through his gut at the thought of the future for Russians.

  “Arkin, good man, you’ve fired up their young minds.”

  It was Father Morozov. He grasped Arkin’s hand. Snowflakes had settled in a halo on the priest’s tall black hat, diamond sharp, at odds with his shabby coat.

  “This is my young comrade, Karl, from the Raspov foundry. He has already proved he is one of us, valuable to the cause.”

  The priest held out his hand in welcome. The boy took it, dipped his head over the gloved fingers, and pressed them to his lips. “Father,” he murmured with respect.

  The simple gesture annoyed Arkin intensely, but he gave no sign. Didn’t they realize? That was exactly the kind of automatic subservience the Bolsheviks were trying to eradicate. There was no place for religion in the future of Russia, where all would be equal. No obeisance, no knee bending. Not even to God.

  “Are they coming?” Arkin asked urgently.

  Morozov smiled. “Da.”

  “When?”

  “They’re on their way now.”

  “Good. They’ve kept their promise.”

  Karl looked from one to the other. “Who? Who’s coming?”

  “The rail workers,” Arkin informed him. “This depot has gone on strike in support of the apprentices.”

  “It’s starting,” Karl said quietly. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  The boy straightened his back and puffed out his bony chest. “Comrade Arkin, Comrade Father, I am proud to be a part of this great—”

  “They’re here!” a voice in the crowd cried out. “The rail workers are here!”

  Immediately the air filled with eager shouts, and a phalanx of about a hundred or more men in navy caps and work jackets crowded into the sidings, fists punching the air.

  “Father,” Arkin murmured under his breath, “give thanks to your God from me.”

  The priest closed his eyes and smiled. One of the rail workers, a big burly man with a voice to match, climbed up on a rusting flatbed and launched into a rallying speech that swept the apprentices into a frenzy of excitement. Not even the icy curtain of snow could chill the heat that roared through their veins or the anger that built into something as hard and sharp as the Admiralty spire. Arkin was satisfied with his morning’s work.

  “Horses coming,” an apprentice near the back called out.

  They’d sent in the army. The apprentices and rail workers were slow to react, but Arkin leapt up onto the steps of a decrepit carriage. “Get ready. Troops are coming.”

  From under jackets and coats, iron bars suddenly appeared. The sound of hooves grew louder, clattering over cobbles, until the veil of snow seemed to part like the Red Sea to reveal the platoon of scarlet uniforms on horseback, capes flying out behind. They halted and spread out in a long line, blocking access, leaving no chance of escape.

  Panic started. It flickered from boy to boy, quick gasps and nervous shouts, but they took their lead from the railway workmen. They regarded the sabers with wide eyes as each soldier held his sword out in front of him, its blade flat to the sky. Snow settled on them as if to soften the threat.

  “Disperse immediately!”

  The order came from the captain at the head of the line. He sat astride a magnificent stallion that was eager to charge, its forefoot scraping at the dirt, raking through the trampled snow. The rider fixed his gaze on the rail worker on the flatbed.

  “Disperse immediately!” he ordered again.

  Arkin moved. He threaded his way through the apprentices and emerged at the front of them, nearest the soldiers.

  “The boys are doing no harm.” He spoke calmly.

  The captain glanced at him, and something in what he saw made him stop and look again.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “A comrade of the apprentices. Captain,” he said sharply, “do not provoke trouble here today. We do not want bloodshed.”

  The captain’s mouth curved at one side, revealing a satisfied smile. “Don’t we?”

  “No. These young boys are—”

  “—dangerous.”

  “No. They are voicing their dissatisfaction and demanding to be listened to.”

  “We want justice,” Karl insisted at his side. He was clutching an iron bar with his two fists.

  “Then, young troublemaker, justice you shall have.”

  With no warning the captain stretched forward and flicked his saber through the air. A faint whistle, that was all. Arkin was fast, but not quite fast enough. He yanked his young friend back on his heels, so that the saber strike intended to open up the boy’s pale throat just caught his nose and split one side of his nostril. Crimson spurted down his chin.

  The railway workers surged forward. Angry words were hurled at the horsemen. Tempers flared. Metal bars and tools were brandished until the demonstration was on the edge of violence. It was to avoid exactly such violence that Arkin had involved the apprentices in the first place, but now he dragged Karl back from the front line. He inspected the boy’s face. He was holding a hand to his nose, blood twining around his fingers, but his eyes were on fire. Fury, not fear, was making his arm shake in Arkin’s grip.

  “Get behind the railway workers,” Arkin ordered. “Prepare the apprentices to give support.”

  The boy disa
ppeared. Snow fell heavily in dense white veils and voices grew louder. The Hussars’ attack, when it came, was lightning fast. The horses sprang forward, sabers scything right and left, silent and brutal. Screams rang out in high-pitched voices, and the snow on the ground turned crimson as feet skidded under hooves. Metal bars crashed down on the troops, crushing bones and twisting heels out of stirrups until uniforms vanished under a mass of workmen’s boots. Yet the sabers continued to strike with expert skill, again and again, laying bare a back, slashing open a cheek, a throat. Charge, regroup, charge. Even the snow in the air turned scarlet as the horses wheeled in formation up and down the railway siding.

  Arkin snatched Sergeyev’s small pistol from under his coat. Six times he took precise aim, six times slamming a bullet into a scarlet chest. The strikers fought back with fury. Horses crashed to their knees. Helmets fell to the ground. Arkin threw himself into the battle, dodging blades, parrying blows, all the time working his way nearer to the tall blond captain on the devil-black stallion.

  Arkin found Karl’s body. His young eyes were wide open, staring up at the falling snow, but glazed and lifeless. Flakes settled in his lashes and melted on the warm eyeballs like tears. Arkin broke the neck of the soldier standing over him with his saber still dripping on the snow and dropped to his knees beside the boy. He closed the young eyes. Nothing was sacred in this world. Not even the innocents. He snatched up the saber and with a roar of rage went to work on the scarlet uniforms.

  THE WOMEN WORKED HARDEST. VALENTINA QUICKLY became aware of that fact. In St. Isabella’s Hospital the women worked hardest and were paid the least, yet they didn’t complain. They just treated the male nurses with a deference Valentina felt they didn’t deserve and the doctors like gods incarnate.