Racing to Safety
THE SLED FLEW TOWARD the Volga, toward the place where the ferry to Saratov could be taken. Fortune was providing a cold but dry day for their endeavor. Trouble started before they got onto the ferry. A bunch of power-drunk functionaries, supplemented by a complement of soldiers, harassed every one of the ferry’s patrons. When they came to Albina’s troika and accused her in rude fashion of being a Kulak’s mistress, asking her what business she was being about, she acted haughty.
“Watch to whom you speak,” she hissed brazenly, “I am not some rich man’s plaything. I am here on official business and you better help me make it go smoothly.”
With a wave of her hand she produced the officious document, almost flicking it at the man who had frightened her to death with his brutal, prognathous face and pockmarked skin, a sign that his mother had not bothered to have him immunized in childhood. Catherine the Great had introduced immunization to Russia over one hundred and fifty years ago, and yet there were still many faces in the Russian realm disfigured, marred by an illness that could be easily controlled.
With secret pleasure she observed how the man turned the document over and over in his hands. He is illiterate, she thought. He studied the stamps and seals with obvious misgivings, unable to discern whose office had issued them. At last, uncomfortable with his ignorance, he called another man to join him.
The latter was a mousy creature in a green leather trench coat whose head was topped by a karakul hat. Being confronted with the document, he produced a pair of spectacles and began to read out loud. It was quite apparent that he read for the edification of the pockmarked fellow, making it seem as if it was part of their duty to inform the patrons of the writ of its content.
“Yes! Thank you, comrade, we are quite aware of what it says,” said Albina with acerbity. She had decided that she must be tough in the important role of a government agent in foreign affairs.
“The papers are in order,” said the mousy man aloud, and in an aside he whispered, “you had better let them pass, Volodya, this could be trouble for you.”
Soon thereafter the ferry was fully loaded. Timur heard from the driver next to him, a starved-looking man, dressed unsuitably for the cold, that it had taken the officials already two hours to load the boat.
“They look for people they can officially rob and blackmail,” whispered the man. Timur rewarded him for this confidence with one of Victoria’s little breakfast cakes he had secreted in his pocket for the eventuality he should suffer hunger pangs. The man next to him seemed to need sustenance more than he did. A happy, surprised look rewarded him for his kindness.
Albina had told him many times, “You never know when a kindness will be returned to you by an angel. Often it costs you little to be kind.”
Arrived on the other side, they departed the ferry and, precariously meandering up the ramps of the cliff representing the Volga bank, they reached the top and were instantly caught up in a maelstrom of traffic. A chaotic stream of trucks and horse-drawn vehicles, segmented by people on foot, was going in two directions from and to the heart of the city. Groups of uniformed men tromped about, not heeding the traffic they blocked in the middle of the road.
Last night’s snow, partially melted, had refrozen, creating treacherous ice sheets that sent people and horses flailing helplessly to the ground. It was past noon and the children, bored and cold, became restless.
“I can walk faster than that,” demurred Michael, “let us walk and get warm.”
“Sorry, dear, we can’t leave the sled. We would get lost in the crowd.” Albina, too, felt restive. They seemed to make no progress at all and still had a good way to go before entering the city proper. The train for Moscow would leave at five in the afternoon, if all went well.
More often than not there were delays, because so many newly empowered officials tried to flex their muscle by making special schedules for the army, the greats of the Soviets, sometimes even for their own families. They expedited or retarded the departures of the overnight train as they saw fit.
The plan called for the children to be at the station at three in the afternoon. There, in the ambassador’s private compartment, Albina was supposed to have a chance to acquaint the boys with their Swedish “parents.”
Timur, usually unperturbed, was agitated too. He was a man of the open steppe and hated the city like the plague. The horses were tired of the forced walk, and the lead horse would fall into a trot, given the slightest chance, making driving the team a nuisance. All about them the horns of trucks and cars honked impatiently, and the curses of sleigh and carriage drivers fell about heavy as hail.
At last, with Albina in despair, they reached a part of town where many streets branched out into the different districts around, and traffic thinned. However, as they came closer to the train station, they were once again stopped by a group of soldiers. Their leader was a tall, older man, exhibiting the stature and behavior of a carrier officer of the Tsaristic army.
He was dressed in the new, gray-brown uniform, a color reminding Albina of the mud in the fields. “If he lies down in the field he will disappear into the ground,” she thought. As he studied their document, which he had requested with courtesy, she studied his face. It was a large, easy-to-read face, reddened by years in the open field, complete with a silver mustache, water-blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair under a round army cap.
He let them pass with the same polite demeanor with which he had asked for their papers. “What has happened to this man’s mind to make him want to join the new rabble army put together by the Reds?” she mused.
Albina had not dared give the children as much as a slice of bread during their whole ordeal. In a city where thousands were starving, more each day, a slice of bread could lead to violence. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the open plaza with the turnaround for vehicles, before the train station.
“I will come back for you in an hour and if I don’t see you in front of the station I will come back an hour later,” said Timur unnecessarily, for they had amply rehearsed the scenario. He was to take the horses to the stable of one of Holger’s friends where he could water and feed them, giving them some rest.
Albina stepped from the sleigh, pulling out the small valises, lifting out Peter, while Michael jumped joyfully to freedom from confinement.
“Stop!” she cried, because before the station was a chaotic mass of people churning about, pushing, pulling, clutching exceedingly large pieces of assorted baggage. It was just the sort of place one could lose a small boy in the blink of an eye.
Timur had not dared leave the horses to help Albina exit the sleigh, because behind him were seething drivers, ready to displace his vehicle if given half a chance. The moment she was on the ground, each boy attached to her hands, he tipped his whip and eased the sled out into the war zone that constituted traffic.
More pushed than pushing, she was caught in a tumultuous throng of people. She and her children were moved forward by a rising tide toward the big open doors, which were blocked by proper, dark-blue attired train officials, ragged soldiers and well-fed party types.
She had put the children ahead of her body, resisting the ruthless shoving from behind by curving her body protectively over the boys. Peter was crying, disconsolate and loud. His little feet had been trod upon and he did not like any of the things that had happened to him that day. Michael was sighing volubly, swallowing hard to control his tears.
At last they arrived at the door. For a moment the relentless pressure on Albina’s back stopped.
“Where are you going?” asked an oily-skinned man with penetrating eyes.
“I am not going anywhere. I am a governess, delivering these children to their parents, the Swedish Ambassador.”
The man laughed with an ugly expression. “If I believe that I must also believe that you are the dethroned Tsarina.” He studied Albina’s face, her clothes, her person, as if he could see through it all straight into her soul.
In her frightened mind she silently prayed over and over, “Dear Lord, let this cup pass me by. Let my deception work. I never would deceive but for my children’s lives.”
Trying to look cool and businesslike, she could not help noticing a tremor when she reached into her coat pocket for the paper that would save them. The man also noticed her trembling hand.
“You tremble. You are lying and afraid,” he grinned at her.
“No, comrade, I am just very cold. It took hours getting here in an open carriage.”
She managed to pull out the document once more. By now it had been creased, crushed from much handling, and looked much less official. However, the man studied the document closely, thought for a moment and then called another official to come and have a look at the paper.
“Looks like it comes from the right place. Tell you what, I will accompany them to the car, and if there is a Swedish Ambassador it’s all in order.”
“Very good, do it.”
A moment later, the children beside her, she followed the little, unassuming man with the sad face who led her to the second of the First Class compartments. Fortunately, the best carriages were closest to the entrance, because her little family was losing strength.
To her relief she saw Holmgren’s face in an open window, from which he had anxiously surveyed the perron.
“There he is,” she cried, pointing to Holmgren’s compartment. Her heart was pounding. Would they get away with the deception? Would the boys remain silent? The sad official was about to enter the carriage with Albina, a move the ambassador cleverly circumvented by stepping out. No reason to have officials snooping around while they were supposed to have a reunion.
“Albina, dear girl,” he shouted, “there you are finally. My wife is almost hysterical. What happened?” He gathered the boys, silent and stiff as statues, lifting them into the carriage with their little valises, where his wife received them with a gush of Swedish mixed with German to overcome their fear, leading them instantly into their private sleeper compartment. Her motherly cries and prattle overcame any suspicions that might have arisen in the mind of the official.
“Oh, Sir, the traffic, the crowds. It was terrible. I was ready to despair.” She turned and, pointing at the official behind her, said, “Sir, this official needs to see your credentials, to ensure that my document to bring you the children is correct.”
She showed him her letter and he instantly produced from the pocket of his elegant, plush smoking jacket the needed documents. The official studied his proffered passport, the Swedish government documents identifying him, and the Russian credentials.
At last he was convinced that all was in order and he turned to leave. Yet after only a few steps he turned and said calmly but firmly to Albina, who was about to enter the carriage, “You, young lady, must come with me. I cannot take a chance that you will hide out in the train and leave for Moscow, too.”
“But,” cried Albina distressed, “I was only going to say good bye to my charges. They will be gone for a long time and I love them like my own.”
“In that case it is better to break things off quickly,” he remarked with the same deliberate detachment that seemed to be part of his persona. Albina looked up at Gustavus who stood above her, his hand stretched out to help her into the carriage, and her eyes became deep pools filled with hurt. He stared at her, stricken with pity, whispering, “As long as they are in my care, they will be just like my own.”
The official tugged on her arm to show he meant what he said, and she stepped down onto the perron. Her head bent, eyes to the ground, her hands empty and her heart breaking, she trudged beside the little official to the door, a barrier ending forever the sweetest part of her life.
She had no idea how she got through the crowd to the curb where she was to look for the sleigh. As she stared with unseeing eyes into the plaza before the station, where hungry, ill clad people milled about, trying to enter the station or to claim equally poor relatives coming from other regions, she felt her gloved hand pressed by another, a strong hand. She looked about herself and saw Timur beside her.
“Is everything well, lady?”
“Yes, I think it all will be well. I got them delivered, but I am very sad.” These scarce words were all she dared tell him. One never knew anymore who was listening to one’s conversation and would report anything that might bring the informer a slight reward.
“I did not bring the troika. The horses need more rest and the road is clogged. So I came on foot to take you to your father’s friends; it will be faster this way. It’s not far from here. They expect you to have dinner and stay the night. They even have a place for me, can you believe it? What great people they are.”
His words described the plight of the servant class, which until recently had not been included in the human concerns of most employers.
He took her arm and led her as if she were blind. For when she began to walk she stumbled, bumping into people who shoved her and cursed her for a useless drunk. There was no way they could have gone home safely to Katharinenstadt that evening, and Albina sank gratefully onto the strange bed, feeling as if she’d lost all her strength, unable to ever regain it.
It was upon Timur’s insistence that she was awakened next morning. Her wonderful hosts would have allowed her to sleep until late into the day; but the Tartar forcefully made it clear that they needed to be home by evening; that congestion of the main roads and the road blocks by officials interrogating every traveler would keep them traveling all day.
To their surprise it was much easier to get out of Saratov than to get in. When they reached the ferry, they had to show their magic document once more and then their sleigh was searched for contraband. They had nothing the searchers could confiscate. One fellow eyed the ancient but serviceable fur, covering Albina halfway to her chest, but didn’t dare take what obviously belonged to a powerfully connected woman.
Arriving at her parents’ home, Albina’s composure broke, and she cried in her father’s arms for the longest time. When at last she calmed down, she cried out pitifully, “Look at me and weep! I am the saddest woman on earth today. My husband is in a dungeon, my children gone.”
Her mother came to her and, pulling her to her knees, began to pray. They prayed for the safety of the boys, for Alexander, that he might be treated well and be released soon, prayed for their own souls and Timur’s.
Later her father said, “As much as it hurts me to say this, I must tell you that tomorrow you must go back to your house and take over your husband’s duties.” Albina, taken aback, cried out, “How am I to tell all the curious neighbors what has become of my children?”
“That is no problem. Just tell them that, with Alexander gone, you felt very insecure and unable to protect them and that you took them temporarily to relatives in the village of Walter on the Medveditsa. There they are still living an almost normal life, without the plundering hordes dropping in at will.”
“Grechinaya Luka,” she mused in Russian about the village, “this they might believe, because many remember that part of the Meininger family still resides there. If God wills it, I will go home tomorrow and do as He bids me.”