“But they’ll put you in jail!”
“Let them catch me first.”
Seeing her brother off, Nina made a sign of the cross over him. Every time one of them went out onto the street, it felt as if they were being sent down a rickety mine where there could be a landslide or a gas explosion at any moment. The city was full of Red Guards who believed that harassing passers-by was just another way of advancing their struggle for the rights of the working class. It was useless to complain about them to authorities because they always sided with the hooligans.
When Nina returned to the library, Sofia Karlovna was still standing at the window that was blocked out by the drifts of snow.
“Your previous admirer, Mr. Fomin, turned you into a market trader,” she said without turning her head. “I thought it was the most horrible thing that could ever happen to you, but I was wrong. Now, you have made friends with Mr. Rogov, and you are ready to become a criminal. There are certain things you should know about Mr. Rogov’s past. Do you know what caused his mother’s death? An abortion! She had an affair with an Imperial Guard’s lieutenant, became pregnant, and tried to conceal it from her husband. I hope you realize that all this has affected her son’s morality.”
Nina wrung her hands and bit her tongue. Sofia Karlovna is Vladimir’s mother, she reminded herself. And I owe him everything I have.
“What do you see in that man?” the old countess asked sadly.
“He loves me for who I am,” said Nina. “But you don’t.”
Nina heard a rustling sound from outside, and the rime on the outer pane suddenly blazed into light. Klim had made it a habit of always “digging out the sun” before he came indoors.
She dashed to the hall, trembling with joy. Klim and Zhora came in, their cheeks flushed with the cold, and Nina hurried them down into the basement.
Klim scrutinized the brick wall covered in frost. “I used to work for archeologists in the desert,” he said. “We were looking for broken pots and ancient skeletons, but I think it’s much more interesting to look for wine.”
Nina found a couple of hammers, and Klim and Zhora began breaking down the brick wall. Their blows were so loud that it felt as though they would destroy the building. Finally, the wall gave in, and the bricks spilled onto the concrete floor.
The dusty bottles were lined up on the shelves, and the glow of Nina’s lamp reflected and multiplied in their dully gleaming sides.
Zhora whistled appreciatively. “Wow!”
Shivering with cold and impatience, Nina read the labels: Moёt & Chandon, G.H. Mumm, Louis Roederer.
Klim put his arms around Nina. “We’ve hit the big time.”
“Sofia Karlovna is convinced that we are criminals,” Nina said.
“That’s nothing compared with what Lubochka says about us,” Klim replied. “She called us fools who had frittered away my father’s inheritance.”
“Don’t you regret anything?”
“Only one thing. I should have come home for you much earlier.”
Later that day, Klim and Zhora brought back two baskets—the day’s takings. Nina couldn’t believe her eyes. There were smoked sausages, oranges, and chocolates.
Sofia Karlovna grumbled for a while that it was outrageous to feast when so many people were starving, but Klim tempted her with a small glass of liqueur.
“I remember this bottle,” the old countess said. “It’s a real Bénédictine from the Abbey of Fécamp—I brought it back from Normandy. See the labeclass="underline" D.O.M.? It means ‘Deo Optimo Maximo’—‘To God, most good, most great.’ You should kneel to drink such a wine, and here you are lapping it up by the glass. Shame on you!”
Soon, her cheeks were flushed pink and her mood softened.
“Here, my dear,” she said, pouring red wine into Nina’s glass. “Bourgogne ought to be drunk with époisses cheese, but what can we do if we don’t have any? Drink up. It’ll be a long time before you’ll ever get another chance to try the favorite wine of d’Artagnan and Aramis.”
5. INTRUSION
Dr. Sablin had not joined the strike. Every day, he continued to go to the Martynov Hospital, put on his white overalls, and perform operations.
The October coup had unsettled him completely. Everything that had formerly been considered good was now seen as counter-revolutionary. It was shameful to be rich and foolish to fight for your country, whereas looting and robbing were now regarded as a struggle for the interests of the people. Nowadays, public enemies were identified by those in authority in terms of their felt hats and clean fingernails.
“The Soviets have used up all the money,” Anton Emilievich said to Sablin one day. “The treasury is empty, and the Petrograd authorities are rejecting all requests for funds. They’ve given the order to find money locally. I presume that means there will be confiscations soon.”
“How do you know?” Sablin asked suspiciously.
Anton Emilievich showed him a typed copy of a decree on the confiscation of private property from bourgeois ownership. “We got this today at our editorial office. They have ordered us to publish it tomorrow.”
What am I going to do? Sablin wondered. What am I to make of all this? Every ounce of his sense of justice screamed out in protest. And yet, he thought, the people of Russia accepted the Bolsheviks. Or was that merely an illusion?
Revolutionary sailors had suppressed the Constituent Assembly, and the Bolsheviks had banned all strikes and mass meetings by the opposition. At their own meetings, they declared that they stood for the total equality of the people. “All means of production should become public property,” read the front pages of their newspapers. “From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs.” But these were the laws of primitive savages.
Most amazing of all was the fact that nobody was protesting. Instead, the people of the city prayed. At Candlemas, the religious procession stretched from the cathedral to Novo-Bazarnaya Square. Bareheaded, Sablin watched the huge crowd breathing out clouds of steam as it shuffled along.
Church banners fluttered, and the snow squeaked under thousands of feet. Austrian prisoners of war, looking even more miserable than usual, approached the procession to beg for bread. “For the luff of Christ—”
The Bolsheviks had declared that religion was the opium of the people, and the priests in the churches prayed for peace in the country while at the same time pronouncing an anathema against “those who act unlawfully and oppress the Christian faith and the Orthodox church.”
Sablin learned about international events from Lubochka—she told him that the Germans were demanding significant territorial concessions and reparations. If these demands weren’t met, they were threatening to continue their advance into Russian territory. Leon Trotsky, the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, had ordered the army to be disbanded and the Bolsheviks to refuse to sign a peace treaty in the hope and anticipation that the German proletariat would overthrow the Kaiser and reverse all of his greedy demands.
“But then the Germans will invade and occupy us,” Sablin kept saying to himself and tried to figure out what an honest man should do if that became the case.
Sablin stepped onto the porch and brushed the snow from his felt boots. Klim opened the door to him. He had only come indoors a minute earlier and hadn’t had time to take his overcoat off.
“How are things at the hospital?” Klim asked cheerfully.
Sablin didn’t answer. He was looking for Lubochka, who had failed to come out to greet him. Where is she? he wondered. Has she gone to another party?