Эльвира Барякина - Russian Treasures

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.”

4

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 label: 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.”

1

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.

2

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?

Klim took a bottle of champagne from the inside pocket of his overcoat and put it on the table beneath the hall mirror. “A present for you, doctor.”

“Where did you get it?” Sablin exclaimed in amazement.

“I discovered a horde of treasure.” It seemed that Klim was slightly the worse for drink.

He was the only person Sablin knew who wasn’t taking the political situation seriously, and his nonchalance irritated the doctor. What sort of time was this to have a love affair with an officer’s widow? What were the two of them hoping to gain? What were they planning to live on?

There was a knock at the door, and Klim and the doctor exchanged glances.

“I think it must be Lubochka,” said Sablin as he pulled the bolt.

But instead of his wife, a group of armed men stood on the porch.

“We’re the Committee for the Hungry,” announced a tall, round-shouldered man in a pince-nez. “All houses belonging to the bourgeoisie are subject to official searches. We are looking for weapons, spirits, and other surplus goods.”

A faceless, bustling crowd streamed into the hall. Cabinet doors slammed, chest of drawers creaked, and shoe brushes and shoehorns clattered to the floor.

“Who has given you the authority?” Sablin shrieked and stopped short when the head of the gang pointed a revolver at his face.

“Are you a doctor?” he asked. “Do you have alcohol, morphine, or cocaine?”

The blood had drained from the man’s pale face, and his nose was shapeless and desiccated. He moved jerkily, his pupils were dilated, and large beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

A drug addict, thought Sablin. The type who can kill without a second thought.

“We have nothing of that sort here,” Sablin said in a shaky voice and suddenly remembered the unfortunate bottle of champagne.

Klim, still in his unbuttoned overcoat, was watching the intruders with his arms folded over his chest. The bottle was gone; evidently, he had hidden it.

“You two and the cook shall go and sit in the dining room,” the man in the pince-nez ordered them. “If we hear so much as a squeak from you, you’ll be wearing my rifle butt instead of your teeth as dentures.”

Then he turned his face toward Sablin. “If you’ve been lying about the alcohol, I’ll shoot you on the spot.”

The members of the Committee for the Hungry darted past, carrying piles of towels, hunting boots, and crystal vases. Sablin felt a cold draught at his feet from the doors that had been opened. Feathers from ripped pillows floated in the air, and all of the family’s papers were scattered around the dining table: birth certificates, diplomas, and bills. Marisha sobbed quietly.

Just so long as they don’t find the champagne, Sablin prayed.

The man in the pince-nez told a young lad with a rifle slung over his shoulder to watch the arrested.

“How old are you?” Klim asked the lad.

The guard didn’t even look at him but carried on picking his teeth with a matchstick.

“You look about nineteen,” said Klim. “Are you a worker? You certainly don’t appear to be a bishop. But you do go to church, I assume. Have you heard the commandment ‘Thou shalt not covet’? ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant or maidservant, nor his ox nor his ass, nor anything else that is his.’”

He’ll get what he’s asking for now, thought Sablin. What a time to start preaching!

The lad threw the matchstick on the floor and wiped his chapped lips with the back of his hand. “Comrade Scherbatov says the priests are liars. We have to confiscate everything and then share and share alike.”

“That’s a great idea,” Klim agreed. “Let’s share. You’ve had your rifle for a while; now it’s my turn.”

The lad smirked. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?”

“So, you don’t want to share after all, do you? Then how did you end up with this lot?”

“The factory closed, and there was nothing to eat. And here they pay us.”

They heard footsteps on the mezzanine floor and a voice shouting, “Hey, look what I’ve found!”

Sablin’s heart sank. The man in the pince-nez slowly entered the dining room holding a portrait of Nicholas II in his hands.

“Who is the owner of this?” he barked, shifting his gaze from one face to another. “Well, well, well—it seems we’ve found ourselves a nest of monarchists.”

“It’s mine,” said Klim abruptly. “Put it back and leave it alone. I’m a foreign correspondent and have a right to take historical souvenirs abroad with me.”

The man was caught by surprise. “A foreigner? Why is your Russian so good?”

“I went to a special Russian school.”

“Show me your documents!”

The Argentinean passport perplexed the raiders. Klim started talking through his hat about some Foreign Press Committee and how he knew Lenin personally and would instigate criminal proceedings against the wrongdoers.

“What are your names?” he asked in a stern voice.

The man in the pince-nez pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. “We’ve got other fish to fry. Let’s go, boys!”

The gang poured out into the street. The doctor bolted the door and leaned his back against it. He was drenched in sweat.

“I don’t get it,” he moaned. “Shoot me on the spot, but it’s beyond my comprehension.”

“It’s all as clear as day,” muttered Klim. “That scoundrel holds some petty government position. He hasn’t received his paycheck, so he’s decided to try to squeeze something out of the bourgeoisie. The rat knows he won’t be punished. Nobody will stand up for the bourgeois. As for being a foreigner—who knows? For all he knows, perhaps I have shaken hands with Lenin.”

Klim took the illicit bottle from his inside coat pocket. “Have some wine, doc. You’re looking a bit peaky.”

He put on his scarf and buttoned his overcoat. “I’ll go to Crest Hill and spend the night there. Don’t open the door to anyone and burn that portrait of the Tsar. Tell Lubochka not to leave the house alone, especially at night.”

3

But when Lubochka came back, she wasn’t alone. Osip Drugov had walked her to her porch, saluted, and disappeared into the blizzard.

She stood in the ransacked hall, looking around in shock. “What happened here?”

Sablin, exhausted and drunk, appeared in the doorway with a bottle in his hand. “Good evening, sweetheart. Would you like a drink? Klim brought us champagne and managed to hide it under his overcoat while they were searching the house.”

Slowly, Lubochka undid her headscarf and let it drop to her shoulders.

“I’ll ask Osip to get us a certificate of immunity or something,” she said in a trembling voice.

4

“We’ve had visitors today,” said Nina as soon as Klim entered her house.

“Who?” he asked.

“Our friends the comrades. Who else?”

Nina’s house had been trashed as well. Klim had been wrong: it hadn’t been a private raid but a premeditated campaign.

“Did they find our wine?” he asked.

Nina shook her head. “If they had, we wouldn’t be here. But they’ve taken all our valuables and almost all our clothes, and they’ve stamped our documents. Now, none of us can leave Nizhny Novgorod without their permission.”