May, 1945
Tashkent
On May 11, 1945, the flag of the Soviet Union was raised above the Reichstag. In Tashkent the celebration was subdued. The streets remained clear, people went about their daily business after a moment of silent reflection.
Within hours of the announcement that the war had ended the migration of evacuees back to their homes began. The authorities granted wounded soldiers priority and Stephen obtained two train tickets for May 14. Lily’s father had arranged for her to fly from Tashkent to Moscow and then on to Sweden.
The three reminisced through the night to the morning of the departure. They started at the beginning, when their mothers had brought them together.
“They were younger than we are now,” Rachel marveled.
“I thought your mother was the most beautiful woman in the world,” Lily amused. “I asked Mom if she was a queen.”
They talked of childhood games, of endless summers and long winter days.
“I hated you for shooting up so tall,” Rachel confessed.
“But I envied you for being short!”
Stephen listened and stared at each of them as they spoke. “I envied your talent,” he interjected.
“I didn’t ask for it!” Rachel protested. “My whole life has been dominated by something I can’t see or touch, that suddenly came alive one day in my head.”
“I know that, now. Back then it was something you had that I didn’t . . . and everyone loved you more for it.”
“You were a spoiled brat,” Lily added.
“Of course I was! Until Father made me his apprentice that’s all I thought it was good for. I was a child, don’t you see?” Rachel spoke to Stephen.
He started to respond and lapsed into stony silence. Lily glanced from one to the other. “I saw what the effect was on both of you and I hated it. I watched Stephen push himself to match you and I knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Your father may have been a great artist and teacher, but he was a miserable parent.”
“He couldn’t help himself,” Stephen said. “He couldn’t see beyond his hand.”
“I still blame him,” Lily replied.
“Why, can a leopard change its spots?”
They both looked at Rachel. For years she had struggled to resolve her feelings about her father, but never had it seemed more important that she find the answer. “I blame him, but I won’t condemn him for what he did. I’ve come to realize that it’s very easy for an artist to completely lose herself in her work. It becomes an addiction. If you let it devour you it’s no different than any other addiction; you’ll sell your daughter to satisfy it. That’s what happened to Father. He was afraid that without me he would be reduced to an Avilov.” She turned to Stephen. “Mother was right. She warned me that the Stalinists would destroy me. No artist can survive under Stalin, no more than a plant can live in a vacuum.” She glanced at Lily. “I knew that if I stayed with Father, Stephen would also. So I’m just as responsible as he was.”
“No!” Lily cried. “I don’t accept that. He was an adult and you were a child. He took advantage of you to save himself. None of us would be here now if he would have insisted that you leave for Sweden with me that summer.” She choked and burst into tears. “We would all be . . .” she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Stephen held her. “It doesn’t help,” he said softly, rocking her. “They’re gone, Lily. All of them, gone.”
Rachel bowed her head and closed her eyes, seeking some respite from the pain. She found none; there was no escaping the past.
“I’m sorry,” Lily said, recovering. “That was unforgivable.”
They came together as the first light pierced the tent. Stephen watched it grow brighter with each passing second, bringing them ever closer to the hour of departure. He didn’t want what might be his final separation from Lily to be soured by the aftertaste of recrimination.
“I’ve forgiven Father,” he said. “I don’t want either of you to spend the rest of your life in anger. I should have died a hundred times during the war, but I was spared. Millions of others were not. There was no escaping this war—even if I had left the country with you and Rachel.”
“I don’t know how to forgive,” Lily said. “It’s not in my nature.”
Speechless, Rachel could only nod. She would never forget this moment and she would forever carry his words with her like a shield against the gnawing emptiness in her heart. Now, she reflected, if I could only find the strength to forgive myself.
Mitya, who had come from Tashkent to bid them all farewell one last time, performed the marriage ceremony. To avoid any contact with the authorities, the marriage was unofficial, but Mitya, at Stephen’s request, observed the formalities to the letter.
* * *
“I’ll call you as soon as we get across the border,” Stephen said.
He held Lily’s hand, now adorned with a simple gold band.
A few yards away the train waited; soldiers were already boarding.
Lily nodded, wiping tears from her eyes. “You better go. God forbid you miss the train.”
Stephen felt as though she had thrust a dagger into his heart. He glanced toward Rachel and Mitya, huddled together across the platform. His mind filled with palliatives, but knowing they would infuriate Lily, he kept them to himself.
“Last night was wonderful,” he said.
“Yes, it was.”
“We’ll have more nights like that. Many more.”
“Yes, we will.”
“I love you, Lily.”
“So you say.”
* * *
Rachel handed Mitya a package. “Don’t open it until we’ve left.”
“What is it?”
“Do I have to tell?” He nodded. “Your portrait.”
“I’ll miss you.” She let him hug her.
“If anything should happen . . .”
“I’ll find you. Be careful, Mitya.”
“I will. Stalin won’t live forever. Someday my children will look at your paintings in the Hermitage. Until then, they will be safe here.”
He kissed her on the lips and walked quickly away, leaving the station by the rear door.
Rachel glanced at Stephen and Lily. They both were looking in her direction. She had never seen two more despondent people. Tell him to go with her. Tell him you’ll get out on your own. But she knew it would be a useless gesture and one that would make Lily hate her more.
From here on in, I’m Mrs. Ilya Radek. I better start acting the part.