Dear God, what do you want from me? he prayed silently. What sacrifice can I offer? Please don’t take my Nina away! And if you still need me to do something in return, let me know what. You know me. I’m a man of my word.
The remnants of the Red Army were now crossing the Volga and gathering near the bridge on the west bank of the river. Every single depot, warehouse, and workshop was packed with soldiers who had no idea what to do or where to go.
The hospital at the station was so full of patients that some of the wounded had even been left lying in the woodshed.
“Go and see Trotsky!” the paramedic yelled at Klim. “If you’ve got a complaint, make it to him.”
He told Klim that Leon Trotsky, the newly appointed People’s Commissar for Military and Naval Affairs, had arrived at the Eastern Front after the fall of Simbirsk. Despite all of the propaganda efforts, Russian soldiers were far from eager to fight another war, and Trotsky had assumed the function of Head of Persuasion for the Red Army.
The chances of being granted an audience with the People’s Commissar for Military and Naval Affairs seemed about as likely to Klim as securing an appointment with the devil himself. It was even more ridiculous to hope for any help from Trotsky. Nevertheless, Klim left Nina with Sister Photinia and Sablin and forced his way through the nervous crowd surrounding Trotsky’s special propaganda train decorated with red banners and the slogans, “Long Live the World Revolution” and “Victory or Death.”
Soldiers pressed toward the sleeping car, and the line of Latvian riflemen was barely able to hold back the sheer mass of human flesh that weighed against them.
“What the hell is going on?” the soldiers swore angrily. “We’ve had no rations for two days.”
A disheveled young officer ran along the line arguing with the soldiers and trying to persuade them to leave, but nobody paid him any attention.
“To hell with the lot of you!” they cried. “We’ve had enough. Let Trotsky come out and talk to us himself.”
Suddenly, the sleeping car door clanked open, and a short, wiry man with a pointed beard stepped down onto the footboard. Without a word, he glared at the anxious faces through his rimless pince-nez. The cries of the crowd subsided.
Trotsky unbuttoned his leather overcoat, flashing the scarlet lining, and rolled up his sleeves as though preparing to take on an arduous yet familiar task.
What a buffoon! Klim thought, eyeing the commissar.
“We could have held onto Kazan,” Trotsky began in slow, fearsome tones. “The city was abandoned in a state of panic. And what, may I ask, was the cause of this panic? The bourgeoisie had sabotaged the country’s economy and its network of communications, supplies, and transport. You felt cut off from the rest of the world. You thought help would never come. And you began to think our cause was lost. Am I right? But never forget, the Russian proletariat is on your side. The Red peasants won’t let you starve. Tomorrow, you shall have bacon, boots, matches, and tobacco.”
Comrade Trotsky was a great propaganda specialist. He didn’t blame the retreating soldiers for the catastrophe unfolding around them. Instead, he explained his version of events to them and promised them that tomorrow, all would be well.
The faces in the crowd brightened as they stood listening, spellbound.
“The workers of the world are closely following everything that is happening here on this section of the front,” Trotsky thundered. “We have a radio mast that can receive signals from the Eiffel Tower in France, the Nauen transmission site in Germany, and, of course, Moscow. We send back the most important news for immediate publication in the world press. What will the workers of Liverpool think of you? What shall we report to the dockers of Marseilles? Are we going to have to tell them that Russian workers are cowards ready to betray them at the first sign of failure? Or will you show them that the world has yet to see more steadfast warriors for the happiness of the international proletariat?”
Suddenly, Trotsky jumped off the footboard, headed toward Klim, and grasped him by the shoulders.
“Brother!” he exclaimed. “You and I need freedom. The Bolsheviks have given us freedom, and we must not allow the landlords and capitalists to turn us back into slaves. Tell me, who are you?”
“I’m a journalist from Argentina,” Klim began. “My wife is very ill—”
Trotsky looked at him with keen interest. “So, you’ve come here to report on revolutionary events? Can I see your press accreditation?”
Klim put his trembling hand in his overcoat pocket and took out a colorful document in Spanish. Trotsky examined the elaborate handwriting and the large red seal.
“I need your help, sir,” Klim said. “You have a hospital car in your train—and doctors—”
Trotsky gave the paper back to him, embraced him, and raised his voice to speak to the crowd. “You see? The people of Argentina are with us. They are keen to hear the outcome of our struggle, and they have sent their correspondent to us. Of course, we shall show them solidarity. We shall help our Argentinean comrade in every possible way.”
Trotsky ordered his aides to take Klim and his sick wife to the hospital car and mounted the footboard again.
“We pledge our allegiance to the Republic of the Soviets. We are prepared to defend the revolution with our lives. Forward to Kazan! Hurrah!”
“Hurrah!” came the exhilarated roar of the crowd.
It seemed to Klim that he could hear his pulse beating in his temples. Not a single person on the railroad platform had the faintest notion that the paper he had shown to Trotsky was a certificate confirming that Klim’s overcoat had been made at the studio of Mr. Tréjean on Florida Street in Buenos Aires.
Trotsky’s attendants laid Nina on the table under the circular ceiling lamps, and Klim brushed a moist strand of hair from her forehead.
“Do you realize who’s going to be operating?” Sablin asked, coming up to him. “Gabriel Mikhailovich! Even a luminary like him has been mobilized.”
Klim turned his head and saw a haughty-looking old man in a white coat.
“Anyone who is not authorized to be here must leave immediately,” the old man snapped.
The nurse pulled at Klim’s sleeve. “We’ll call you in later.”
He went back onto the platform and was distracted by a huge crater in the middle of it.
“The Whites dropped a bomb on the station, hoping to destroy Trotsky’s train,” explained Sister Photinia, coming up to join Klim. “But they missed.”
He nodded without looking at her. She placed something heavy down next to him. It was the satyr statue. The twine had come undone, and the long silver nose and beard protruded from the sackcloth.
“You forgot this,” Sister Photinia said. “It was so heavy that I could barely carry it.”
“Thank you,” Klim said.
“Well—” She hesitated. “Dr. Sablin has arranged for some medical supplies from the hospital to be sent to the wounded back at the monastery. Matrona and I will deliver them.”
“I see.”
Sister Photinia patted him on the shoulder. “Get in touch with us if anything—well, you know—”
Klim was making an ant run along a blade of grass. Once it got to the top, he turned the blade upside down and made it start over again.
What are they doing with Nina now? Klim thought. Have they cut her open?
It was hard to imagine that such a thing could happen to a live human being. It was unbearable to admit that Nina’s fate was in the hands of people who were largely indifferent about whether she lived or died.
Klim heard the sound of footsteps on the platform but didn’t turn his head. Were they coming to tell him it was all over?