The Jewel of St. Petersburg

  DID I DO WELL, MAMA?”

  “You did very well, dochenka, my daughter.”

  “Will Papa be angry with me at home because I called that other man Papa?”

  “No. He will kiss you a thousand times.”

  “So why are you crying?” Her small hand chafed her mother’s. “Don’t cry.”

  “Hurry! We must be quick. We have only an hour.”

  “For what?”

  “To leave Petrograd.”

  Forty-two

  VALENTINA STOOD INSIDE THE FRONT DOOR, EYES CLOSED, listening. Two dark-skinned boys were sitting on the floor in the hallway playing cards for cigarette butts, but they were so intent on their game that they spoke little. They didn’t disturb her. A narrow bed had appeared in the alcove under the stairs, and a bald man lay on his back within it and snored. Not even he disturbed her because she was concentrating. Listening hard. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself by waiting outside.

  Minutes ticked past. She held her breath as though she could slow time by doing so, but she could feel the weight of Jens’s watch in her pocket, its hands moving relentlessly. She was listening for military boots striding up the path, her mind tense with each rustle of wind, each rattle of the gate. She knew she would not hear Jens until his hand touched the door.

  Minutes ticked past.

  There was the faintest sound of something on the step outside. Her fingers went to the lock and turned it, letting the door swing open a crack and a cold whip of air rush in, and then she threw it wide so hard it rebounded off the wall behind. The boys on the floor looked up with interest. Jens stood there, tall as ever, but his skin was pulled taut over his cheekbones and his eyes sunk deep into dark sockets. Covering the lower half of his face was a thick red beard.

  “Valentina.” It was a whisper.

  She drew him to her, over the threshold into the hallway, and he kicked the door shut behind him. She held him, unable to speak, her heart clamoring against his, and she felt his arms around her, hard and unyielding. She wanted him so badly her body started to shiver.

  “Valentina,” he said again into her hair, as if it were the only word he could remember.

  Her body wouldn’t let go of him. She was aware of the watch in her pocket and time like a traitor racing away from them. But still it wouldn’t let him go.

  THE BAGS WERE READY ON THE BED, TWO LARGE AND ONE small. She’d packed them weeks ago, mostly with canned meat and packets of oats and dried fruit, but also matches, candles, a blanket, socks, and an extra wool sweater for each of them.

  “We will be traveling light,” she had told her daughter. Lydia had sat cross-legged on the reindeer rug and clutched her train to her chest.

  Alone in their room, Valentina stripped Jens’s clothes from his body. Eight months in the same clothes.

  “I stink like a dead boar,” he muttered.

  She kissed his chest. “You smell good enough to eat.”

  He laughed but it was a tight sound, and she knew those muscles had been long unused. Unlike the muscles of the body, which were thick cords down the length of his thigh and across the width of his chest, but that was all there was of him. No real flesh. Just skin and bones and twists of muscle. She tried to imagine what it had cost him to keep his body and his mind ready for escape while on the edge of starvation, but she couldn’t. He washed quickly and she scrubbed his back, trimmed his beard with scissors, and didn’t stop long enough for him to shave. In minutes they were out of the house and walking briskly down the icy pavement, their daughter’s hands in theirs. Lydia kept nudging her father’s leg with her shoulder to make sure he was real.

  “The Bolsheviks have taken over the railway stations,” Valentina told him, “so we daren’t risk trying for a train.”

  “We walk,” he said. “All the way if we have to.”

  “To where?”

  “To China.”

  Her mouth dropped open. He was watching her, smiling at her reaction, and she knew that with this man she would walk to the North Pole if she had to.

  “China it is,” she said.

  “Where is China?” Lydia asked.

  “At the end of Russia where it falls into the sea.”

  “Not far?”

  They both smiled at her. “You’ll have to walk fast,” Jens said, and she nodded, speeding up her small steps.

  It was in the next street that they saw the first roadblock, manned by figures in gray with wide red armbands and nervous jittery rifles. Valentina felt her spine stiffen with dread, but Jens didn’t break stride as he turned smoothly down a side road and doubled back to try a different approach. Each time it was the same. In every direction. Each time they were forced to retreat. Lydia sheltered in the folds of her parents’ long coats and stopped chattering to her father about how she had learned to play poker from the boys downstairs. After an hour Jens stopped in the shadow of a church, its onion dome a dull amber under the overcast sky as ashes from last night’s fires still swirled in the wind. They rested their packs on the ground.

  “Jens, we’re trapped. The travel permits are worthless here.”

  “The soldiers here are hard-bitten Bolsheviks. They’d take no notice of a signature on a form if they decide it’s their job to put a bullet in one of the oppressors. It’s too risky to use them here.” He leaned against the wall for a moment, turning his head as though to check the other end of the road, but it meant she could no longer see his face. “Why did he agree to release me?” he asked.

  Her mouth went dry. She laid her head against his shoulder. “Does it matter?”

  For a long moment he said nothing, and Valentina felt a weight like lead in her chest. Then he rested his bristly chin on her head and released the breath he had been holding.

  “No, my love,” he said softly, “it doesn’t matter. As long as we are together.” He kissed her forehead. “And now let’s move.”

  “Where?”

  He tilted her chin so that her eyes met his. “Do you really think I spent eight months in that stinking cell thinking of nothing? I planned our route and have trodden each step a thousand times.”

  He picked up his pack and swung his daughter onto his back. “There is a way out.”

  JENS BENT DOWN AND LEVERED UP THE METAL HATCH IN the middle of the road. Some of them were locked, but he knew the bolt on this one was broken.

  “Quickly! Climb down.” He saw Valentina hesitate. “It’s safe.”

  The last time she was in a sewerage tunnel, she almost drowned. He climbed into the black hole himself, holding on to the metal ladder fixed to the brick wall, and from a shelf on one side he removed a kerosene lamp. The matches that were supposed to be there were gone, but Valentina had given him a box for his pocket. He lit the wick, and instantly a muted yellow glow made sense of the shadows.

  “Lydia, come on, sweetheart, your turn next.”

  The small face appeared over the edge warily, and then she slid her feet onto the first rung and scampered down the ladder like a monkey. When she saw the black tunnel stretching ahead, she didn’t whimper but edged herself close against him, staring unblinkingly into the darkness.

  “It’s quite safe,” he said, patted the top of her felt hat to reassure her, and reached up to help Valentina. Without being asked, she drew the hatch back over the opening as she descended, and the darkness swallowed them whole. The solid silence was punctuated by the sound of water dripping and a distant murmur that he knew was a nearby pumping engine.

  “How far?” Valentina asked.

  “As far as we can.”

  He raised the lamp to look at her face because he couldn’t help himself. And he could see changes there that were new, but he kissed her lips and set off with Lydia on his back. At first Valentina sang to them as they walked, a clear sweet sound in the oppressive darkness, but as the going grew harder and they had to crawl on their hands and knees, dragging their bags through icy, foul-smelling water, it became impossible to do more than force themse
lves forward.

  Jens was annoyed that he found it hard to focus in the shapeless tunnels because it was so long since his eyes had enjoyed the luxury of darkness. He stumbled time and again but refused to let Lydia climb down from his back despite Valentina’s urgings. His daughter clung to his neck and to his hair with an eagerness that satisfied something dried and parched within him.

  They didn’t talk of what they were doing, of what they were giving up and what they were leaving behind. Now was not the time. Only once did he ask, “Your parents? Where are they?” She’d looked at her daughter who was listening to every word and shook her head. He didn’t ask again. When they passed under another metal hatch Jens climbed the ladder and peered through the small holes in the cover. He saw feet running, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. After eight months of only his own company day after day, the concept of such numbers seemed almost incomprehensible to him. When the tunnels forked and he took the left-hand one without hesitation, Valentina laughed with astonishment, startling him.

  “How can you possibly know your way around this maze of openings and inlets? It’s impossible.”

  “They’re my tunnels, Valentina. I built them. Of course I know how to find my way around them.”

  Lydia had been silent for too long. He turned to her, trudging behind him through the water ankle deep, and saw that her eyes were huge.

  “Papa,” she asked in a whisper, “where does the dragon sleep?”

  “There’s no dragon down here, malishka,” Valentina said quickly.

  “There is. I can smell its breath.”

  Jens took his child’s hand in his. It was cold and clammy. “I think,” he said, “it’s time to go up into the light.”

  THEY WERE NOT FAR FROM THE NEXT HATCH. THE TUNNEL ceiling was higher here, and he raised the lamp to cast its faint glow as far ahead as possible. The water reflected slick and oily.

  “It’s not in front of us, Papa,” Lydia whispered. “The dragon is behind us.”

  “No, Lydia, my sweet, there’s no—”

  “Listen,” she hissed.

  He listened. Valentina put a warning hand on his arm. From somewhere behind them came the unmistakable sound of feet slushing through water, moving fast. Immediately Jens blew out the lamp. He pulled Valentina and Lydia behind him and they stood in silence, waiting. After a minute he heard voices.

  “The light has gone.” It was a young boy’s voice.

  “They’ve vanished. Listen.”

  An elderly man speaking. And for a moment the feet were quiet. They had no light but must have been following Jens’s. When the feet started again they were slower and grew louder until they were almost upon them, and Jens felt Valentina press something cold and heavy into his hand. It was a gun. His pulse kicked. He aimed the gun at the blackness.

  “Whoever you are, stop right there,” he called out.

  The noises ceased.

  “Who are you?” Jens demanded.

  “No one,” the boy answered. “Who are you?”

  “Travelers.”

  “Maybe we’re on the same journey,” the older man suggested.

  “Maybe we are. Do you have a light?”

  “We have a lamp but no matches.”

  “Stay behind me, Valentina, and light our lamp.”

  She did so while he kept the pistol pointing in the direction of the voices, and the light swayed onto the two figures of a boy around twelve, beside a man with a waxed mustache and bemused regretful eyes. His hands were soft and he had the look of a banker or lawyer. Jens lowered the gun and threw his box of matches to the boy, who pocketed it smoothly. Jens heard Valentina curse behind him.

  “I paid fifty roubles for those matches on the black market,” she objected.

  “Thank you, friend,” the man said. “Do you have food to spare too?”

  “Nyet,” Valentina said quickly.

  “My grandson and I were forced to flee with nothing.” He pointed to Valentina’s pack. She started to back away. At that moment the boy whisked a huge heavy pistol from under his coat and aimed it straight at Valentina’s head.

  “Give me your pack,” he shouted.

  “You’ll have to shoot me first, you worthless little thief,” she answered.

  Jens stepped in front of her, his gun aimed at the old man. “Tell him to put it away,” he ordered. “I helped you. What kind of mind does your grandson possess?”

  “A greedy one.” He turned wearily to the boy. “Save your bullets for those who deserve them.”

  The boy swore and lowered his gun.

  “We’re leaving now,” Jens said. “Don’t stay down here too long. I warn you that Lenin and his Reds will sweep through these tunnels eventually when they realize what an escape route they are.”

  “Thank you for the advice.”

  Jens nodded farewell and lifted Lydia into his arms. She was trembling, teeth chattering like mice. But Valentina hesitated, and with a reluctant shake of her head, she opened up her pack and removed two cans of meat. She swore under her breath as she threw them to the boy and set off up the tunnel.

  “Friend,” the old man called after her, “there is a train.”

  She stopped and slowly swung back. “What train?”

  “A train that skirts the land of my country estate east of the city on the edge of the forest. It is a small freight train that runs once a week, only shifting wheat and cattle.”

  Jens put down Lydia, reached into the bag on his shoulder, and pulled out the map and compass Valentina had packed in it. “Show me.” He held the lamp high, and the man stamped a finger on the spot. He was wearing a signet ring containing a large diamond.

  “See that bend in the river. That’s where the train slows. That’s where you can get on if you are quick. All the village peasants ride it.”

  “But I thought all the trains were on strike,” Valentina said.

  “Not this one. It runs just a small local service.”

  “How far does it go?” Jens asked.

  “Not far but far enough. It meets up with the Trans-Siberian Railway to offload its freight.”

  “Is that where you’re heading?”

  “Nyet. Not yet.” The old man pointed his finger up above his head. “First I have to find my wife. She is still in Petrograd.” He looked at Jens and they both knew it was probably already too late, but neither voiced the thought.

  “I wish you luck,” Jens said. “Thank you for the information.”

  “Thank you for the food. God protect us all.”

  “It’ll take more than God,” Jens murmured as he scooped up his daughter and led his wife up out of the tunnels.

  THEY FOUND THE SPOT, THE BEND IN THE RIVER. IT wasn’t hard. On the outskirts of the city they had been stopped by a patrol of fresh-faced young soldiers, young enough to be easily impressed by an official stamp. So Jens had risked waving Arkin’s travel permits under their noses, and the small family had been permitted to pass.

  The forest had come as a welcome refuge. They had fallen into its shadowy world with relief and trekked along its animal trails for two days. The temperature dropped abruptly and fat lazy flakes of snow started to drift down, covering their tracks. Several times they saw other pale figures flitting between the trees like ghosts in the distance, but no one trusted anyone any more. No one approached. Strangers had become dangerous in Russia. If a person wasn’t your friend, he was your enemy. She told Jens at last about her parents, how they had been condemned by a Bolshevik tribunal, and he held her in his arms, kissed her tears.

  They camped among the trees at the bend of the river, wrapped in their blanket and coats, not risking a fire except briefly to heat water for tea. They watched the railway line. Hour after hour, day after day. The silver tracks carved a route through their minds to the future.

  VALENTINA LAY CURLED UP WITH JENS INSIDE HIS COAT. Dawn was not far away, a thin hairline crack of silver on the horizon. Beside them Lydia slept the sleep of the very young, wrapped in her c
ocoon of blanket. Valentina brushed her lips along her husband’s smooth jaw. He had bathed and shaved in the river. She felt him smile in the darkness, eyes still closed, and she nestled her head in the crook of his neck. He smelled of pine needles.

  “Jens?”

  He kissed her hair.

  “Jens, there’s something I want to say.” She spoke softly, but nevertheless she felt his limbs tense.

  “There is no need to say anything.” He lifted a hand and placed it over her mouth.

  She let it lie there for a full minute, then shifted her head. “Jens, the journey we’re on is dangerous. At any time we may get”—killed, we may get killed—“we may get separated.”

  He tightened his grip on her. “No. That won’t happen.”

  “But if it does, promise me you’ll take good care of our daughter.”

  He released a breath. “I do not need to promise.”

  “But promise me all the same. Please.”

  “Very well, my love, if it makes you happy. I promise I will take good care of Lydia.” He turned his head, a black shadow in the darkness, his lips on her skin. “And you must promise me the same.”

  “I promise. I will care for her with my life.”

  “Satisfied?”

  “No.” Her lips found his and she felt the familiar and unquenchable ache for him. They made love under a clear night sky, beneath the stars. And though there was no sleigh and no fur rug like on the night of the Anichkov ball, there was no cart to interrupt them, no Arkin with his rifle to tear their world apart.

  IT’S COMING!” LYDIA CALLED.

  Smoke belched up into the blue sky, and the noise of the engine echoed through the crisp air. The river and the railway line ran in parallel tracks, and ice sparkled like new-cut diamonds between them. Fields and forest stretched as far as the eye could see, the perfect day for train hopping.