Эльвира Барякина - Russian Treasures

“Help!” shouted the Cheka officer.

The sound of running feet could be heard from the back rooms.

Klim grasped Nina’s hand. “Run!”

They ran down the steep slope through the thicket of bird cherries with burdocks and branches breaking under their feet. Shots rang out behind their backs.

2

Klim pushed his way through to the gangplank where stevedores were running back and forth with enormous sacks on their backs. Pukhov was waiting for him, looking at his watch.

“Good God! What happened to you?” he cried.

Klim’s sleeve was torn, his trousers were stained with mud, and there was blood on his shoulder. Pukhov caught sight of Nina being held up by the Chinese guards.

“Who on earth is this?” he asked.

“Please,” said Klim, panting for breath, “save her!”

Pukhov stepped to one side and let them board the ship.

Klim took Nina to the cabin he shared with Pukhov and put her into bed. Her face was ashen, and her lips were caked with dried blood.

“You came for me after all,” she said almost inaudibly.

Klim sat down on the bed. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he whispered. “We’ll be leaving soon.”

He felt dumbfounded. They’ve beaten her up.

Nina didn’t look at Klim. She was panting as though she couldn’t get enough air and kept one hand pressed to her stomach all the time. Klim wanted to take her hand in his, but she didn’t let him. Her muscles were clenched tight, hard as stone.

“Would you kindly explain to me what’s going on?” Klim heard Pukhov’s voice.

He looked behind him. The commissar was standing in the doorway with a crowd of inquisitive Chinese peering from behind his back.

“Please go away!” Klim pleaded. He forced Pukhov back into the corridor. “Thank you for helping Nina. I’m indebted to you.” Klim rubbed his hands over his face, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. His fingers were covered in Nina’s blood. “If I’d got there a minute later, that would have been that.”

“Was it the Cheka who attacked her?” asked Pukhov, frowning.

“Yes. I saw their truck by her house.”

“You’ve put me in the firing line now, you know. What if that woman is a counter-revolutionary?”

“What the hell does it matter?” Klim grasped Pukhov by his shoulders. “Here we are standing in front of you alive—and the Cheka wants to kill us. Remember, you just told me that you couldn’t imagine the world existing without you. We feel the same!”

Pukhov pried himself free from Klim’s grip. “Now, listen to me,” he whispered. “You never said a word about the Cheka. You’ve brought her as a kitchen girl to help the cook peel potatoes. As soon as we set sail, she needs to get to work.”

“Thank you, but—”

“And I need you to interpret for me now. I’m about to read a report to the Chinese on recent events at home and abroad.”

3

The warship sailed along between wooded shores.

It seemed to Klim that Pukhov was deliberately prolonging his pointless and tedious report. He was reading aloud a summary he had written the night before, the bored interpreters were ready to climb the wall, and the Chinese soldiers were nodding off.

Klim’s gratitude began to give way to hatred. How could Pukhov be so hard-hearted? He knew that Klim hadn’t seen Nina for six months, and now, he had sent her half-dead to the kitchen to work for the benefit of the revolution.

“Counter-revolutionary forces have occupied the Volga Region,” announced Pukhov, shouting in an effort to be heard above the sound of the engine. “Central Asia and Siberia are cut off from us, and Ukraine has been occupied by the Germans. Our most important task now is to defend the major railroads and river routes—Kazan in particular. Whoever has Kazan controls the route to Moscow and the Urals.”

A seagull hovered above the deck as though hanging on an invisible string, and brown smoke crept across the sky.

“So, I urge you, my Chinese brothers,” said Pukhov, “to look sharp and be on your mettle. We are in for some furious battles.”

At long last, Pukhov closed his notebook. “That’s all I want to say for now.”

Klim didn’t wait for Pukhov to ask if anybody had any questions and ran to the galley.

“Where’s Nina?” he asked the cook, a fat man as heavily tattooed as a convict.

The cook wiped the sweat from his face. “What the hell were you thinking of sending me a kitchen assistant like that? She keeps fainting. I’m not a nanny—I haven’t the time to look after her.”

Klim rushed back on deck and asked the deckhands if anyone had seen Nina.

“The curly-haired one?” one of the sailors winked at him. “She’s right there by the gangway.”

Nina was sitting against the wall with her knees pressed to her chin. Her features were drawn and her pupils wide.

Klim sat down next to her. “How are you?” He didn’t need a doctor to tell that she was in a terrible way.

“The Cheka people came for Zhora and Elena,” she said.

“And what did they do to you?” interrupted Klim.

Suddenly, Nina lost her balance, slumped sideways, and hit her head against the wall.

“Nina!” yelled Klim, grabbing her around the shoulders and pressing her to his chest.

4

Back in the cabin, she regained consciousness. Once again, she pulled her knees up to her chest.

“Show me,” demanded Klim.

“No—don’t—”

Without another word, he lifted her skirt, pulled down her drawers a little way—and froze. There was a huge black and crimson bruise on her belly in the spot where the Cheka man had kicked her with his boot.

Klim had been in fistfights with Italian immigrants in La Boca, one of the roughest districts in Buenos Aires, and he knew what that bruise meant. A strong, direct blow in the stomach could result in the rupture of internal organs, unbearable pain, and eventually death.

There was neither a doctor nor even a first aid kit on board. A Chinese soldier who had recently come down with food poisoning had been treated with nothing but condolences. The limit of Klim’s own medical knowledge was that gargling helps a sore throat and scratches should be treated with iodine.

There wasn’t a thing he could do.

Klim went to Pukhov and told him everything. The commissar swore, annoyed that he now had some stranger’s problem on his hands.

“As soon as we arrive in Kazan, you can send your girlfriend to the hospital,” he grunted. “And don’t stare at me like that! Would you like me to anchor the ship in the middle of nowhere? You won’t get any medicines there, do you understand? And no doctors either—not since the government declared a general mobilization of health-care workers.”

Klim went back to the cabin and sat down beside Nina. “Can you wait a little?” he asked in a wavering voice. “Tomorrow, I’ll find a doctor for you.”

She closed her eyes. “Tell me about something… the way you used to. About China.”

Klim took a deep breath. “China is a very mysterious country. A country where the women wear trousers and the men wear skirts—”

He had imagined so many times how he would eventually be reunited with Nina, and he had kept himself alive with these fantasies. She would be happy to see him, and everything would be fine again even if they had to live on a razor’s edge in constant fear. But everything had turned out so badly!

His mind simply refused to accept the fact that in all likelihood, this was the end. The woman he had loved so much was gone, murdered by a scoundrel from the Cheka.

1

That night, Nina felt better and managed to sleep. Klim held her hand, trying to imagine that his own vital energy was being passed to her in some mysterious way. He looked into the humid darkness behind the porthole, listening to the drone of the engine and praying, “Faster—faster—”

They reached Kazan at dawn. The Nakhimovets anchored in the middle of the river, and Pukhov went ashore by boat to receive further orders from the high command.

Klim went on deck. Between the city and the river bank was a dreary-looking plain crisscrossed by the light ruts of roads. On the pier, crowds of people were running to and fro with lanterns and flashlights. Dogs barked, and a rumble like heavy thunder could be heard in the distance.

“That’s our artillery,” one of the sailors said, approaching Klim. “Haven’t you heard it before?”

The sailor had been to Kazan many times, and now, he told Klim how to find the Shamov Hospital, which, he said, was the best in the city.

A fiery flash lit up the sullen clouds, and several powerful explosions came from the direction of the city: first one, then a second, and a third. A cloud of black smoke rose over the distant roofs.

Pukhov came back to the ship.

“What’s going on over there?” Klim asked.

“The Red Army have shelled railroad cars.” Pukhov swallowed nervously. “The Czechs are already on the outskirts of Kazan, and we don’t have enough soldiers to resist them. Get the Chinese together quickly. We’re leaving now.”

“Where to?”

“We’re going to the center of Kazan, and you’re coming with us.”

“But listen, I—”

Pukhov glared furiously at Klim. “One more word about your girlfriend, and I’ll shoot you.”

2

Nina raised her head as Klim ran into the cabin.

“Listen to me,” he whispered hurriedly. “Here’s the money, and here’s the address of the hospital. Pukhov has ordered the Chinese to go ashore, damn him—and he wants me to interpret for him. As soon as we leave, give the sailors some money and have them take you to the pier. There are always cabs there waiting for customers. Just say you need to get to the Shamov Hospital.”

“But what about you?” Nina said, looking at him fearfully.

Klim put his arms around her and kissed her. “I’ll come and find you later. Don’t worry about me. You have to get to the hospital—spend all the money you have if necessary, but get yourself a doctor. Do you think you can manage?”

Nina nodded.

“Rogov, damn you! Where are you?” came a voice from the corridor.

Klim stood up without letting go of Nina’s hand. “I love you, do you understand? I need you. Please do as I say.”

“Rogov!” The cabin’s door banged open, and Pukhov appeared on the threshold with a revolver in his hand. “Are you crazy?” he shouted. “The Czechs are on their way!”

“Don’t yell at me,” snapped Klim.

They went on deck where the Chinese were already lined up in formation.

“Dear comrades!” Pukhov shouted. “You are entrusted with an extremely important task. We have been ordered to evacuate valuable property from the city. We need to take this mission very seriously. If we succeed, anyone showing outstanding service will be rewarded. Long live the world revolution! Now, to the boats!”

3

The beautiful, ancient city of Kazan was almost empty with only the occasional small cavalry unit or truck sweeping through the straight streets every now and again. There was the smell of burning in the air.

Pukhov and the local commissar—a man whose eyebrows met in the middle—were urging the Chinese forward. “Come on! Come on!”

Sweat flew down the men’s dusty foreheads. They passed a flask of water between them and drank as they ran.

“Where are we going now?” Klim asked the commissar.

“To the state bank.”

The gloomy sky was split by a deafening howl, and a second later, an explosion struck close at hand.

“The Whites!” yelped Pukhov.

The heavy-browed commissar rushed to Klim. “Tell the Chinese that that was our troops shelling the approach roads to the river bank to give us a chance to take state property out of the city.”

They turned onto Prolomnaya Street. Several carts were standing outside a large columned building. All around sailors and soldiers were running back and forth. One of them dropped a tightly packed bag. Small coins scattered all over the pavement, but nobody bothered to pick them up.

“Comrade Tarasov has brought the Chinese,” somebody shouted. “Let them take on the loading.”

The dim lobby of the bank was piled with wooden boxes. Klim noticed writing on their sides in charcoal: “State Bank” or “Winter Palace” or “Anichkov Palace.” Khitruk had told him that during the German offensive, the Bolsheviks had seized imperial treasures from the capital and moved them somewhere inland. Maybe they had sent them to Kazan?