THE BEAR AND THE DIVA
FROM SIBERIA TO CIVILISATION
by
John Namnik
***
PUBLISHED BY CHARGAN AT SMASHWORDS
This book available in print from
www.chargan.com
The Bear and the Diva
From Siberia to Civilisation
Copyright © 2012 John Namnik
Graphics, 2009, Steve Whitfield
www.idstudios.net.au
Cover Design by Benjamin Namnik
ISBN: 978-1-4657-8354-7
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
John Namnik has asserted his right under the Copyright Act 1976 to be identified as the author of this work.
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Foreword
Readers may justifiably be confused by the variations of spelling used for the same name. These are not typos; they were a fact of life for the characters, and a further explanation is given in the Afterword.
I have ignored expert opinion which advises writers to forget slavishly following facts when writing a novel based on actual events - either write a novel or write a history. My intention is not to write a commercial, popular novel or display some literary ability; my intention is to record a family history in a readable and entertaining fashion.
I hope that it works for you.
John Namnik
***
‘Do you have a name, friend?’
My grandfather knew that the enquirer was simply extending friendship but he had woken to the cold light in a fractious state because the wolves had disturbed his sleep with constant mating howls. Besides, it was an inane question. Who didn’t have a name? Was there a choice in the matter? Moreover, the man’s Russian was tainted with a German inflection. Andrej resented Germans, but only on general principle since he had several German friends back home. It was even possible, according to his father, that the family had at least one German ancestor. He wasn’t in the mood to make friends today, even though he was in the land where one needed friendship and solidarity to survive.
There was no choice but to walk alongside this fool as they made their way from the tool depot to the railhead. Andrej flicked up his collar in a vain attempt to combat the chill breeze.
‘No, friend, nobody in Latvia has a name. The Germans who run our country simply whistle us when they need us, unlike the Russians who think they run our country - they simply point to where they want us to go. Latvians have no need for names.’ Andrej could be a charming gentleman; this was not one of those times.
The pair went quickly and quietly into that cold day, cold in more ways than one.
When they reached the first of the telegraph poles that required the installation of insulators, Andrej hoisted his ladder to rest against it. His work companion rested his on the opposite side. Andrej extracted two glass insulators from the barrow and gave them silently to the other, taking two wooden pegs and a hammer for himself and ascended his steps.
The German had an insulator in place on the crossbeam while the Latvian belted a peg through its centre to affix it. The silence was cracked apart like a sheet of ice by the greatcoated figure below.
‘You don’t have the time to blow on your hands. You are falling behind the post-installing team. By the time you take off your glove and blow on your hand, another insulator could have been fixed!’ The Cossack’s voice was gruff Georgian.
Andrej sucked in a breath to give ammunition to a retort but the German, his new junior partner, beat him to it.
‘How would you like me to jam your bayonet up your arse? Go and shoot some Tatar babies and let us get on with it!’
‘And how would you like to keep an appointment with the Controller and manage on half rations?’
‘Half of nothing is nothing!’
One did not talk to one’s jailers in this way unless one was masochistic, knew Andrej. And he thought Germans were only sadists! He flushed with a new-found admiration for his partner even though Germans were forward and abrasive by nature, he believed. Still, he would have to save the day.
‘Private,’ Andrej called below, ‘if the posting team are getting too far ahead, it is because they are installing too far apart. In this area, with the snow, the poles must not be more than 120 feet apart…’ he continued as he descended the ladder. ‘Any greater distance and the snow will drag the wires to the ground. Why don’t you tell them that, if you want us to catch up.’
‘Tell them yourself! Aren’t you the foreman of this derelict team? How did you get to be foreman?’
‘By killing a Cossack. I out-danced him.’ He couldn’t help the retort. It would only exacerbate matters and have the opposite effect of his conciliatory intention. Oh well, that’s me Andrej thought, hoping that his workmate wouldn’t begin guffawing.
‘If we are to report to the Controller, I will be duty-bound, I’m afraid to report, that you are missing a button and that there is the stench of alcohol on your breath.’
‘Get on with your job Latvian peasant!’
As the soldier walked away - half marching to redeem lost pride - Andrej suggested a brisk walk to the poling team up ahead to warm up as much as to check on the distance between installed poles. ‘Then we will back-track to the team laying the wire to check on their progress.’ As expected, there was compliance but no reply.
Andrej broke the silence presently. ‘I know you are German so I wish to apologise for my previous remarks. I am rather irritable this morning. My name is Andrej Yakovlevitch Namnik. Don’t bother with Russian protocol...’ referring to the use of both first names as the normal form of address, ‘… call me Andrej.’
‘Dieter Braun’ came the response.
‘And how did you win a holiday to beautiful Siberia to spend your time laboring on the great Trans Siberian Railway?’
‘I live in Ventspils and worked as a shipping clerk. A crate of alcohol that I was logging in was broken. My Russian boss caught me with a secreted bottle of vodka. Voilà. Two years in paradise. And you Andrej?’
‘So Dieter, we are neighbours. I am from Riga.’ He referred to the fact that Riga and Ventspils were port cities of Latvia, merely 200 kilometers apart. Latvia had been occupied historically by many countries: Poland, Sweden, Germany to name a few, and now by Russia. The Germans had entrenched themselves, during their rule, into the top positions of government and commerce, and were culturally dominant. The Latvians had found themselves the inferior citizenry of their own land, and now Russia administered the country, notwithstanding that there was local government at central and district levels. The problem was that there were but two Latvian representatives in a large Duma dominated by Germans and Russians. The locals had been overcome and pushed into the background. But for a few, they were looked upon as peasants. As a landowner, Andrej was one of the few, yet the Russians classed him officially as a peasant. But there was talk now of revolution: revolution throughout all Russia and its dominions. And it was this talk that saw Andrej land in Siberia.
He intended to reciprocate to Dieter with the reason why he too had been banished as he had divulged to many other exiles. But he had no intention of confessing the whole story.
‘It seems I went to a meeting to listen to people that were considered by the Tsar to be seditious. In fact, I was really only following the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. She too was at the meeting naively but she escaped prosecution. For my passion I have an open-ended sentence, held indefinitely at the pleasure of Tsar Nicholas II.’
No, he had no intention of divulging the full story, specifically the events in the aftermath of that meeting. He held out a hope that he would one day be freed. Should the Russian authorities ever find out what happened after the ‘revolutionary’ meeting, he would never see freedom. And, one could never be sure that one was not confiding in one of the Tsar’s secret police, the Okhrana. After all, a spy had put him, and others, into exile.
‘Would this meeting have had anything to do with one of my own race: somebody by the name of Marx?’ asked Dieter.
Andrej stopped suddenly. He stared into the eyes of the young man. ‘You’re new here: a tip for your survival. You are here as a criminal serving a finite sentence. If you want to be here forever then just let the wrong person hear certain names come out of your eating hole: Marx, Lenin, Trotsky, Minchevik, Stalin. I say eating hole deliberately - use it for eating and never talk about politics or revolution. In fact, don’t even brag that you are a Russophile and admire Russia’s great artists and literists such as Leo Tolstoy.’
‘But he is a great patriotic author surely?’
‘Of course he is. But do you know that he walks from his home, one hundred and fifty miles, to the Administrative Centre to gain approval to operate a school for peasant children. He believes in free education for all. He and his wife teach all-comers anyway. For that, he is viewed as a revolutionary. But I swear that my great grandchildren will study or enjoy his ‘War and Peace’ and ‘Anna Karenina.’
And he was right. Almost a century later, Tolstoy’s literature was still being reprinted and made into award-winning films.
‘You have a working intellect Dieter. If it is too active you will be detected as an intellectual. Then you will be watched constantly as I am. Everything you say will be scrutinized. Whoever you are seen talking to will be offered rewards by the authorities to give up the content of your conversations. Act like a dumb peasant. I have less to lose than you and can get away with much. Understand?’
‘Shit! What a country! What happened to your previous off-sider?’
‘Brodyagi!’
‘Which is?’
‘Escapee.’ replied Andrej. ‘He thought he would take his chances. Security here is often lax, so there is always the temptation to simply walk off. But to do so is to misunderstand this country. Here, life in captivity, is far easier than free-running. The officials and soldiers in Siberia are nowhere as severe as the natural elements. I have never heard of a successful escape. If you do not turn up to work and cannot be found, they do not even bother to chase you. If you run there are only four directions. Go east or west and you will simply run into Russian garrisons. Run north and you will never survive in the Tundra. Go south and the Mongols, Chinese or Turks will slaughter you. The only other two directions are into the earth - which is not possible, or you go out there, into space. And that is why, my friend, I believe a Russo / Slav will be the first man to fly into space.’
‘You dream.’
‘What else does a man have? What does the Bible say? “Let old men dream dreams.”’
‘So did you hear of the outcome of your last partner’s venture? Did he fly into space?’
‘I deserve your wit and facetiousness but no. He returned to camp within ten days. Bear scratches down his back were weeping with green pus. His fingers, toes and penis had turned black. An eye was missing. He returned to the camp, I suppose, to make a statement - a statement that was pointless.’
‘So he died?’
‘I cut him down from the telegraph pole that I was due to work on that day. He returned in the night and I found him hanging by telegraph wire.’
‘Jesu Christi. Ora pro nobis!’
Having checked and corrected the pole installation down the line, the two men retraced their steps, footsteps that were still visible in shallow snow. Andrej filled the silent walk with the memories just stirred by his mention of the girl he had met three very long years ago. And memories of their meeting’s unmentionable aftermath.
It was a pleasant afternoon for January, Andrej thought, as he strolled down Nevsky Prospekt - Russia’s most famous thoroughfare of St. Petersburg, capital city of the great empire of Rus. The city conjured up reminders of his history lesson given at the Riga Mechanics Institute twenty years ago. As he gazed across the frozen Neva River that snaked its way through the city, he marvelled at the Fortress of Saints Peter and Paul that towered over the waterway on its own island - the fortress built by Peter the Great after he had routed the occupying Swedes: a fortress whose dungeons he, Andrej, would unwittingly be thrown into very soon.
On his left was The Admirality, with its guilded spire, house of the Russian Navy from which, in twenty years would come the main support to the Communist coup and later, in an about face, through the Russian sailors, insurrection against Lenin’s Communism in a bloody civil war of White Russian against Red Russian. The sailors would in fact meet their “Alimo” and make their last stand at the Fortress before the Bolsheviks overcame them.
And next to The Admirality was the magnificent Bronze Horseman, the depiction of Peter himself ruling over Ploshchad Dekabristov - Decemberist’s Square - named after an attempted revolution against Alexander I and Nicholas I in December 1825, just 37 years before Andrej was born. Even now, Andrej mused, revolution is in the air once more with the dissatisfaction of the Tsar’s rule and the present cultural revolution in his own country of Latvia.
To his right, nestled in the Palace Square, stood the sumptuous Winter Palace with its 1,057 rooms. Even more striking in the Square rose the Alexander Column to a height of 48 metres with the triumphal Arch that commemorates Russia’s victory over Napoleon in 1812 - a victory achieved rather perversely by burning down Moscow so that Napoleon was dissuaded from advancing to St. Petersburg.
Andrej quickened his step as he made for his room at the hotel. Just over the bridge that crossed the Moyka tributary, he marveled at the Stroganov Palace resplendent in shades of green and former home of the industrialist, Stroganoff. He at once felt peckish, but not for tough Russian yak, rather the tender fresh venison from his own farmlands.
He was pleased with his visit so far. He had managed to secure orders from a boutique furniture maker for oak and elder wood. Such deciduous trees were uncommon in Latvia, even though five million acres, one third of the country, was wooded but mainly by coniferous forests. In fact, Riga was the world’s greatest timber port. There was even less oak however around St. Petersburg. And the wealthy would turn up their noses at pine furniture, while his own countrymen could afford little else.
As well, he had made purchases of bolts of cloth for there was no textile industry in Latvia. Not that Andrej was involved in either the timber or textile industry. Outside of Riga his small landholding produced beets and potatoes and sustained some livestock but where there was a kopek to be made... During a recent hunting trip he had found a stand of oak and elder so he and his workers could now cut them down and have them milled to fill his orders. The cloth he had purchased could be sold to clothiers in Riga for what he hoped would be a tidy profit.
His reverie was brought to heel by yelling farther down the prospekt. Then, squealing women shoppers joined in chorus. It was not a happy chorus but one of fear. Andrej instantly recognised the cause of the pandemonium; a horse had been spooked and was bolting in his direction, scattering pedestrians who were evading the runaway. Except for the woman close by who appeared transfixed in terror in the middle of the road. A good horseman, Andrej knew even he could not stop the beast. If the woman were to avoid danger there was no alternative other than to remove her. So that is what Andrej did, risking, he knew, a slap in the face.
He ran to the woman, encircled her waist with his right arm and carried her, with little effort, to one of the benches that lined the prospekt. She did not sit immediately as she was still frozen in the standing position. The sound of clapping and congratulatory remarks from nearby shoppers appeared to bring her around gradually.
‘Miss. Miss, you are safe now. Sit and unwind,’ Andrej cajouled. ‘Relax here and I will bring some water.’ It was then he realised how fetchingly beautiful she was. The blackest of hair was tied in a double bun at the back. Pearl-tipped hair pins held it in place. Shaped dark eyebrows framed long-lashed round eyes that shone like emeralds as gradually-welling tears added sparkle. Not Russian eyes. Full red-painted lips parted as she began to breathe deeply in an effort to talk with composure. Then she did.
‘I feel so foolish. Please forgive me for putting you in danger. I don’t know what happened to me. I - I - just...’
Andrej was too engrossed in his observations of her to carry out his promise to fetch water. He need not now, as the attendant from Bormann’s chocolate shop - or was it Kornilov’s porcelain shop - appeared with a large water in one hand and a shot of some liquor in the other.
‘Just water thank you so much,’ said the rescued damsel.
‘In that case,’ said Andrej, addressing the shopkeeper, ‘much obliged!’ With that he sank the draft to calm his own nerves which were either due to the event or to the woman beside him. He wasn’t sure which, but he gave the chubby shopkeeper a look that said: you can go now!
‘Your nerves should settle soon with a few deep breaths. Is there something else I can get you miss, or is it madame?’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Wonderful!’
‘Pardon.’
‘Wonderful, you’re doing wonderfully well.’
‘Thanks to you. You are very brave Mister ...?’
‘Andrej Yakovlevitch Namnik at your service.’ Putting it this way left her with her own choice of address. She chose the semi-formal over the familiar or the formal.
‘Andrej Yakovlevitch, I am most pleased to meet you. I am in your debt. My name is Marie Subrtova.’ In return she was offering him either the use of the formal or the familiar form of address.
‘My pleasure Miss Subrtova, I ...’
‘Please call me Marie.’ Andrej’s cheeky confidence was flooding back.
‘You are not Russian Marie?’
Andrej knew already that she was not ethnic Russian or married, due to the accent and the name. The fact that the name contained the suffix of “ova” meant that she was the unmarried daughter of a man named Subrt. She had pronounced her name as “Schubert” and had he known the spelling he would have known her nationality, for the Czechs wasted little time with vowels.
‘No. I am visiting from Bohemia.’
‘Oh. I love gypsies.’ He was teasing now but it was too soon for the use of such a gambit he feared.
‘I believe you are mistaking Czechs for Roumanians, Andrej Yakovlevitch,’ she chastised. ‘And you, are you from Russia?’
‘Latvia.’
‘Ah, I see. German then!’ His instinct, at such an insult, accidental or not, demanded a retort or rebuke. But as she fixed his eyes with hers and her beautiful lips slowly thinned into a grin, Andrej realised he had been outwitted.
They burst into a laugh simultaneously.
‘So we have something in common Marie. My country is ruled by foreigners under the Tsar and your country is ruled by the Austro-Hungarian empire under the Hapsburg monarchy. Aren’t we fortunate?’
‘So, where have you left your wife? She may be missing you.’ Huge progress, mused Andrej, for he knew the time-worn code-speak for: I may be interested but only if you are not married. Huge progress!
Andrej simply held up his left hand to confirm that his fingers were denuded of wedding ring.
‘Oh, you have all your fingers. Splendid!’ Again she beat him in the wit stakes.
Again, they both burst into laughter.
‘By any chance Marie, do you perform comedy in vaudeville?’
‘No,’ she tittered, ‘in point of fact I am a musician and sing a little.’ This was not helpfully informative since every second person, if they could afford an instrument, would be a musician. Music was almost the sole form of recreation and amusement.
‘How little is your little?’
Marie tossed her scarf aside and rifled through her shoulder bag. As she extracted what she wanted, she said, ‘This is for you. I have a few to give to my friends. My best friends.’
Andrej took the gift and inspected what proved to be a ticket to a musical recital to be held tonight at St. Isaac’s Cathedral on this very prospekt. The Chamber Orchestra of Hradec Kralove would play a selection of Franz Schubert. Andrej was a little mystified.
‘This is very generous Marie. Will you be attending yourself?’
Once more, not replying immediately, that little grin appeared on Marie’s face.
‘This is why I am in St. Petersburg Andrej Yakovlevitch. I am playing the harp and singing a short operatic piece.’
‘Is there such an animal as a short operatic? Oh, I apologise. That slipped out. So that’s what you call playing music and singing a little? I am flabbergasted. Humbled. Embarrassed. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say “yes”. That’s what you can say. Please come.’
‘Yes. Yes, but ... Marie, I am but a farmer peasant, according to the Russians. I ...’ Where is the man of confidence Andrej asked himself - the man nobody could intimidate? He was going to jelly before this beautiful, talented, famous…
‘Andrej Yakovlevitch, if I cared about your status as viewed by ignorant despots, I would have found that out before I gave you the ticket. Professional people, even musicians eat, piddle and fart just as everybody else.’ She wondered if Andrej would be repelled by her language and her forwardness. An authorative man of his stature would not brook insolence or insistence from people, especially not from a woman.
‘Are you sure you are not a gypsy?’
‘Are you sure you are not a shy little squirrel?’
Marie feared she was pushing too hard. She did not want to lose this fascinating man’s respect. But then again, she was what she was and she wouldn’t be untrue to her nature. Perhaps her nature and forwardness were the reason no man had called upon her more than twice, and she was in her prime courting age. Let me see what this one was made of. Outwardly, he appeared strong, in both character and physique ... wonderful humour that belied an authorative, even stern visage ... handsome too.
Andrej stood up and faced her. She feared a rejection was imminent as he puffed out his chest. Back ramrod straight.
‘Andrej Yakovlevitch Namnik not silly red squirrel;’ he beat his chest, ‘Andrej big brave Brown Bear. Big Bear go to recital.’ Marie put her hand to her giggling mouth. Andrej noted the gesture of refinement. How odd when she had laughed unabashed previously. An enigmatic woman!
‘Big Bear thirsty now, want cake too. Big Bear go to tea rooms. Invite singing Black-throated Diva to come.’
He held out his elbow, Marie stood, crooked her arm through his, joined her hands inside the fluffy muff and they both walked in the direction of the tea rooms.
***
Andrej was surprised by the music of Schubert, (by Jupiter! it just dawned that Marie had pronounced her surname like the composer; perhaps she is a descendant of the great man - another embarrassment!), it was sweeter, more mellow than the German-inspired music of home.
Unbeknown to him, Marie was accompanied by a chaperone - her Aunt Ursula, to whom she had said: ‘Aunty, I met a nice man today. I had tea with him.’
‘Mother Mary! I knew we should not have split up to go shopping. Your father will cut my throat.’
‘Please Aunty, no melodrama. I gave him a complimentary ticket for tonight. He will be seated next to you. Tell me what you think of him.’
‘Mother Mary!’
So it was with some reluctance that Ursula opened a conversation with the man who took the adjacent seat.
‘Good evening young man. You are a lover of Schubert?’
‘Good evening madame. No, I don’t believe I am familiar with his work. In Latvia we are bombarded with the music of Wagner.’
‘You do not favour Wilhelm Wagner?’
Oops, thought Andrej, the old duck is probably German.
‘Love the man. Love him,’ he lied. So what, he liked to play games with people.
‘Actually, I am here at the invitation of one of the musicians, Marie Subrtova. I believe she is related to the great Herr Schubert.’ It went against Andrej’s nature to be pretentious and pompous. This was merely toying with the old duck. He would never see her again. So let her try her airs and graces on me, she will come off second best. But to his surprise, she laughed, derisively.
‘Nonsense. Marie Subrtova is a Czech. The composer is Austrian. Furthermore, the names are spelled quite differently.’
That set him back in his coffin. But how did she know so much about Marie?
‘It’s on the programme young man. See - Schubert, Subrt. Different you see!’
‘May I ask where you are from madame?’
‘You are very precocious. Why don’t you defer to age and tell me about yourself. How do you know about this Subrtova woman?’
‘I feel I have known her all my life. But in fact she only just recently materialized from my dreams as a butterfly emerges from the cocoon. She does not know it but she will be my wife some day.’
‘Really? Will you be moving to Bohemia or will she be going to Latvia? And from what position will you support a family?’
‘I have decided nothing yet about location. Support? I am a landowner with substantial savings.’
‘So you alone will decide matters? What about the girl’s music career?’
‘How is it madame that you call her a girl? How do you know she is not of mature age?’
‘Firstly, they are a well-known chamber orchestra. Secondly, I doubt that you would be the suitor of a middle-aged woman.’
‘Point taken madame. In truth, it is difficult to feel patriotic in a country dominated by two foreign nationalities, so I am amenable to a move. Marie can play music or hunt bears if she wishes, as long as I can be with her. And just now I recognise your ability to get a man’s tongue to profess his inner thoughts. What’s more I must confess that I do not know how Marie feels about me. Perhaps I am in fantasy. How could a stunning woman have long-lasting feelings for a thirty seven year old farmer? I apologize for my brashness and what may seem to you as bragging. I was treating our exchange with levity. You are an astute woman and I wish you no disrespect. I believe that the players are ready so please enjoy the music.’
So that made it two women that had bettered him for the day. His pride may be dented but his passion was aflame.
Interval arrived and broke Andrej’s spell. He had transported to another place during the first half, entranced by Marie’s long fingers dancing along the strings of her harp, the tighter fitting dress she wore compared to the street dress she wore during the day, the way her legs straddled the instrument - and it was there that he had to discipline his thoughts.
Andrej took his mineral water and his sandwich of sprats and coleslaw to the farthest corner of the reception area. But he could not escape the old duck’s hunting instinct. Then again, she wasn’t that old. Stately looking in fact. He really didn’t mind her, he decided. But then the questions began. This time he would be more circumspect.
Marie saw Andrej in the audience, belying her level of concentration on her instrument. So he came. I wonder how he is handling Aunt Ursula. I do hope she does not drive him away forever but the risk had to be taken. The truth must be known. A man will say one thing to an attractive woman to paint himself in a good light. Only natural. But Ursula has the talent to get inside the real self of a person in quick time. She will probably think he is too old for me for a start. And she will wonder why he is not married - just as I do. If he is one of those men who prefer men then Aunt Ursula will detect the trait. Such men make a show of heterosexuality but they need a cover for their other activities. Society is suspicious of unmarried men. What am I thinking? I’m sure he is not so inclined. Better get my mind back on the job of music, it’s time to resume.
Andrej’s heart sank when Marie did not appear on stage for the resumption of affairs. His intellect was anyway feeling bruised from the interval session with the woman seated next to him. Why wasn’t Marie up there? That woman tapped his arm.
‘Don’t worry dear, she will appear shortly.’
Was his agitation so palpable that the old duck picked up on his vibrations. From me? The unflappable Latvian? He was in foreign territory and embarrassed.
‘And how do you know this?’ His impatience with the know-all was palpable.
‘Check the program dear boy.’
Heads turned towards them and hushing sounds were directed their way. Andrej was sure that the mumbled response of his neighbour, directed at the shooshers, were the words ‘Go and drown yourselves.’ This woman was beginning to remind him of Marie, but there was no physical resemblance.
Some minutes later, with all attention directed to the music, Andrej leaned to the woman and whispered, ‘would you consider coming down to my level and speak your name, or are you a mystery woman?’
‘Ursula Hamplova.’
Moments later the opening piece was concluded. As applause subsided the viola player stood and introduced a song to be sung by Marie.
Andrej once again became transfixed, not just by the person but by the voice. Never before had he heard a sound like this. He had attended opera and operettas in Riga and he quite enjoyed most performances. Maybe it was because Marie was the vocalist, but for whatever reason, he was taken to new heights. Marie’s item concluded the evening and when that point was reached Andrej was first to his feet and the last to finish applauding. Their eyes locked when she came out for the encore appearance.
So, he got through the performance and Aunt Ursula without running away, Marie was thinking as she projected her warm smile in his direction. She blew a kiss at him. None of the audience knew to whom she was blowing kisses but Andrej did. So did the woman next to him.
Andrej remained in his seat as the patrons filed out and left behind them the stale odours of perspiration and urine and cigar smoke. Madame Hamplova remained too until the knave of the church hall was almost deserted.
Andrej stood. ‘Madame Hamplova, thank you for the conversation. I enjoyed your company. I wish you well.’ He was four seats away when she replied.
‘Pigs poo!’ You didn’t enjoy my approach at all. But no matter. Come with me. I will take you backstage.’
‘This is a church hall. I think you mean “vestry”.’
‘That’s what I said. Come.’
So Andrej went. Went on his way to hell, albeit a frozen hell.
The room was crowded with musicians and select, he presumed, patrons. The women were drinking an ersatz sparkling wine that they pretended to enjoy. The men were drinking something stronger. Vodka, Andrej guessed, since it was clear and odourless. Ursula virtually pushed him through the throng towards where Marie was standing. She planted a kiss on Marie’s cheek and hugged her energetically.
‘Andrej Yakovlevitch, so pleased to see you could come. Did you enjoy the music?’ asked Marie.
‘Miss Subrtova, that was absolutely wonderful.’
‘I want you to meet our convener and instructor.’ She turned to the man beside her. ‘Ottakar Sevcik, meet my friend Andrej Yakovlevitch Namnik.’
‘I have heard of you sir,’ said Andrej.
‘My God,’ Sevcik replied, ‘the peasants are becoming enlightened!’
Faces went red around the group. Eyes looked down. Andrej, though fixing a glare on the famous violinist, detected that Marie remained unmoved with her gaze firmly on him to gauge his reaction. So it was Daniel into the lion’s den was it?
‘We peasants are totally familiar with pig shit!’ Andrej replied.
‘Enormously amusing, mister whatever your name was.’
‘My name is not important to you. My value to you is that, as a farm owner, I provide the likes of you with hair from the horse’s arse for your violin bow, with skin from the pig for your drums and the guts of the cat for your strings. Since you are so far down the food chain I am compelled to have my cattle feed-trough delivered to you so that you may eat in style.’
‘Excuse me people, I see an important person that I need ...’ Ottakar continued.
‘You have a magnificent voice Miss Subrtova,’ Andrej interrupted, ignoring the violinist and drowning out the rest of his sentence by a simple inflection of tone.
The maestro drifted away from the group, panting and exaggerating a haughty carriage.
‘Thank you Andrej. Please meet my Aunty and my chaperone in Russia, Ursula Hamplova.’ Andrej detected Marie’s embarrassment even though she seemed intent on showing none.
‘Why, Miss Subrtova, Madame Hamplova and I are old friends. There is no need for introductions.’
‘Andrej, I am truly sorry for the subterfuge, I want to ...’
‘No need my diva. Meeting your aunt simply enhanced my evening’s enjoyment surpassed only by the removal of a cow’s horn from my spleen last year.’
‘Andrej,’ said Ursula, ‘you have reason to be hurt and offended. I do apologise, but it’s a Czech thing. We have ways of doing things.’
‘I totally understand Madame Hamplova. We Latvians also have a way of doing things.’
Marie, by this time, believed that her tutor’s insults and her own subterfuge had lost her a good man. She could explain the trickery and always knew that she would have to. She had not counted on the maestro’s insult. She could do little about that. But, by God, how she admired Andrej’s reposte. What a man this was that could match intellect, win word wars and not default to a physical response or to sulking defeat.
Andrej continued. ‘Had you been a man and your trickery was discovered I would be obliged to set you upon your posterior.’ Here comes the good-bye line Marie presumed. I must get him alone to explain before he walks out.
‘But,’ Andrej continued, ‘since it is two women who have taken me in and made me look foolish - or tried to - then we Latvians have our own way of doing things which is somewhat different to the Czech way. In your case Madame Hamplova, I am afraid I must exact recompense by doing this ...’ He reached behind Ursula and pinched her behind, just below the corset she wore. She squealed. ‘And in the case of your treacherous niece there is only one punishment legislated in such cases.’ Andrej grabbed either side of her head and planted a kiss, briefly, on Marie’s forehead.
‘My goodness!’ exclaimed Ursula, ‘I do like the Latvian method of handling matters. I feel that, having been so wicked, I should turn the other cheek.’
‘Andrej, let’s go outside for a moment,’ demanded Marie.
‘No. I believe I might mix around the room and seek out a pretty woman I can trust.’
Grabbing his arm, Marie said, ‘Come with me you big bear.’
Once outside, with the crisp air jolting them, Marie again offered her apologies. ‘... and ignore Ottakar. He is infatuated with me and insults any male within calling distance. He may be a brilliant musician but he is a social failure. As for Ursula well, I return to Bohemia in two days, I needed to know your real feelings, such as you might express them to a stranger. And she has wonderful intuition. I trust her judgment ...’
‘Did I pass?’ Andrej asked in a facetious tone.
‘There was no test. It was an effort to know the real you within a restricted time. It was a nasty female trick. You did not deserve that, especially not after you saved my life. I still can’t believe I froze in the face of a bolting takhi.’
‘Takhi?’
‘Mongolian for a wild horse. My father is a horse and stables manager - he teaches me about horses - that’s another reason for my shame - wait until he hears that I could not manage a takhi.’
‘Don’t think of that. I have frozen too.’
‘You? What on this earth would cause a man like you to freeze?’
‘The presence of a beautiful woman - the way I was frozen tonight by your vocal performance. A charging moose would cause me to freeze. Oh and right now my balls are frozen by this chill wind.’
Marie took his face in her hands and brought her warm full lips to his. She only broke off when Andrej’s balls were beginning to defrost.
‘Listen Andrej. We are moving over to that hall behind the cathedral. We are going to discuss matters political. I want you to come. To sit by me. To hold my hand. It’s Ottakar’s business, but I’m obliged to attend. In contrast to his rude remark to you tonight, he is actually on the side of the oppressed and the peasants. From the way you spoke today, I gather you are not pleased with foreign occupants. There may be solutions offered here tonight. The priests are on the side of the monarchies but they will presume we are having post-performance celebrations. The Tsar’s police will never guess that a revolutionary meeting is being conducted on church property. But still I am anxious. I want your strength beside me. Will you come?’
‘Now, it seems Marie, that it is my turn to admit to subterfuge. In point of fact, I am the Latvian representative at this meeting. I have genuinely conducted business dealings here, but I am also here at the behest of one of the Latvians representatives on the Duma. He is a friend. He put my name up to attend and assess the proceedings tonight to gauge if this movement is worthy of support. So yes. I will be beside you. But what I do not understand is Ottakar’s involvement. It will be difficult enough to attain democracy throughout Russia territories, but how can that extend to the Austro-Hungarian empire? Does a revolutionary group intend to overthrow the Hapsburgs? I cannot see these things.’
But Andrej was wrong. Within thirty years, Baltic States, the southern satellites, the Crimean area and some of the eastern countries would be consumed as part of the United Soviet Socialist Republic. The USSR. The Communist bloc.
***
The meeting was lengthy and argumentative in nature. There was a multiplicity of views argued. Personalities at the meeting would be recorded in history, some famous but most notorious. There was, however, one common cause: the fight against the oppression of the lower class. It was the solutions put forward that varied and Andrej would ponder over them for all the years he would live. He would toss them about in his mind on so many occasions in the future. The import of this meeting and many others were not as important to Andrej as the events that took place immediately after the meeting.
‘I don’t think we should dally here to indulge in post mortem.’
‘Why is that Andrej Yakovlevitch?’ asked Ursula.
‘There is a face in the crowd that I have seen three times in the last twenty four hours. And I have an uncomfortable feeling. Are you ladies returning to the hotel on foot or by carriage?’
Marie answered. ‘We will catch a troyka on the prospekt. But our hotel, the Savoy, is within walking distance.’
‘We will leave now and I will escort you,’ said Andrej.
But he realised it was too late as soon as he stepped outside the hall. There were police vans and police on horseback in every direction. Why, he wondered, had they not already moved in. Oh of course; the meeting had to have been completed so that any spy in attendance could bear witness to all that had been said.
‘Get back inside,’ Andrej ordered. ‘Stay with me and do as I instruct you.’ The three made their way through the chatting throng to the wall opposite the two exits. Andrej picked up an oil lamp and threw it at the wall by a curtained window. He repeated his action at the next window. ‘Fire!’ he yelled, ‘get out. Everybody run!’ Marie and Ursula were puzzled. Should they run too? Had Andrej gone mad? ‘Stay with me ladies.’
He hoped that one hundred or so fleeing, panicking bodies would keep the police busy and hopefully overwhelmed. The panicked screams reached a crescendo and chaos took over.
As the hall emptied, Andrej led the women towards the stage area and the last window. He smashed the window since it resisted his attempt to open it. Buckled by moisture, he presumed. He snatched a cloth from a nearby table, scattering and smashing bottles, glasses, plates and another oil lamp. ‘Now climb out and you will be in a narrow alley between this hall and a high stone wall. There is a gateway in the wall forty yards along. We will go through it and be in the grounds of the bishop’s residence. There are police everywhere but hopefully not along this route. Go now.’
He helped Ursula through first, not out of chivalry, but because she would be the slowest. Next Marie, who waited for Andrej. As he hit the ground outside he saw that Ursula had followed his directions to the letter. She was running on. But then, suddenly ...
Andrej smacked his hand on Marie’s mouth as he knew Marie would gasp, if not scream, when they both saw Ursula grabbed by a large figure in a police greatcoat. Ursula was out of the blackened narrow alleyway and had just made the quadrangle area that was in light, dim though it was, from police lanterns. Unfortunately the fire behind Andrej had taken hold and was beginning to illuminate the alley. The policeman was roughly manhandling Ursula and had thrown his rifle to the ground, all the better to restrain and beat her. ‘Stay here and stay quiet,’ he ordered Marie.
The policeman had been too stupid to look around to see if Ursula was accompanied. By the time he heard Andrej running at him it was too late. His biggest mistake was to reach for his rifle. Andrej was upon him. If Andrej had a sport it was wrestling, a common activity in his country. He was very good for his weight and it was a sport he would pass on to his sons. And he did. Andrej met no resistance as he stepped behind the larger man, encircled his neck and pushed his head sideways. He hoped that the women had not heard the snap of bones.
Andrej grabbed the rifle, picked Ursula up in his arms and, after a check on the confusion taking place in the quadrangle and being assured that his victim was alone in guarding a very unlikely exit point, he retreated down the alley towards Marie who, once again, appeared to be riveted to the ground as she had been in the path of the charging stallion.
‘Cancel Tactic Alpha. Tactic Beta - we go over this wall. It is not too high. Ursula, are you up to it? It is too risky to run for the gate.’
‘I am not that much older than you Andrej Yakovlevitch and I am not decrepit. Marie! Wake up girl!’
Andrej showed them where to place their feet on him so that he could lift them economically to the wall ridge. ‘Sit there and wait for me. Do not jump down to the other side.’ The height of the wall was about eight feet. Andrej jumped from the sill of the window they had climbed through and having caught the wall ridge, hoisted himself up, such was his upper body strength.
‘Wait there,’ he said, and jumped to the ground. He had not wanted the women to jump down before him as he did not know what dangers awaited on the other side. Besides, he could lower them to the ground without their risking physical trauma. Fortunately the other side was clear soft earth. He instructed them again on how to use his body to alight easily.
They walked out of the bishop’s palace gardens along a route pre-determined by Andrej.
‘Did that fellow injure you Madame Hamplova?’ enquired Andrej.
‘Just my dignity. I’m glad you killed him.’
‘You killed that man?’ Marie squealed
‘Oh Marie, for the Lord’s sake, I thought you were as tough as your mother’s rock cakes.’
‘I’m sorry Marie,’ intoned Andrej, ‘he could identify us and we would all be living unhappily ever after in Siberia if I let him live.’
‘How is it Andrej Yakovlevitch that you seemed to know what to do and where to go? Are you a clairvoyant as well as a gymnast?’
‘Big Bear not dumb. When Big Bear go to illegal meeting, Big Bear survey escape routes beforehand, avoid all bear traps. Big Bear wrestler, not gymnast.’
Marie snuggled into his arm on the one side, while Ursula held his elbow on the other side.
‘This big bear makes a habit of rescuing women, n’est pas?’ Marie said.
‘Only on Sundays. I have work to do every other day. Besides, you are not safe by any means. Your entire orchestra could be arrested. I am sure there was a Tsarist spy at the recital and the meeting. He will remember names and faces. However, my thoughts have run ahead of these events and I believe you will be protected.’
Marie asked for his reasoning.
‘Ottakar is world famous, no? He is a prominent figure of the Austro-Hungarian empire. His arrest would cause international friction between two monarchs and two empires. No, I believe your orchestra is safe. The Tsar’s secret police are really after those who promulgate insidious, revolutionary ideas within its own borders. I will wager that when we get back to The Savoy, Ottakar will be drinking wine and eating grapes and bragging to all how he escaped or pulled rank.’
‘But what about you my big bear?’
‘Peasant Andrej will be afforded no such sanctions. I must assume that I am known and wanted. I can’t attempt to leave as every rail station will be under watch for any person who may have escaped tonight.’
‘Can’t you stow away on a ship?’
‘The Gulf of Riga is frozen over until May. In any case, I am sure I have been followed for some days. Assuming my identity is known, and since Latvia is under Russian rule I would still be arrested in Riga even if I could get there. I will try to get to Germany, then to England perhaps. As I see it, I have lost everything at home.’
‘You will come with us to Bohemia, in that case. There will be no argument,’ Madame Hamplova demanded.
‘If I am welcome, I will get there independently. You cannot be seen to be associated with me while in Russia. In fact, my dearest ladies, we part right here for this leads you to the rear entrance of your hotel. Give me your address and your blessings and I will be on my way.’
‘Hradec Kralove. Everybody knows the Subrts and Hamplovas. Good-bye Andrej Yakovlevitch and my gratitude forever. I will wait ahead while you say good-bye to Marie.’ Ursula kissed him on both cheeks and went on ahead.
‘Marie, this is important: if you are questioned by the authorities, tell the truth about me, except for the murder of course. If you are caught in a lie you will be in trouble. If you do not hear from me within a month then forget me. Live as though I never existed.’
‘Never tell a gypsy what to do Andrej Yakovlevitch. I will not forget you and my heart knows I shall see you again.’
***
Andrej weaved his way through the dark laneways to the rear of his hotel, detouring briefly to throw the rifle in a rubbish bin.
At the back of his hotel he climbed easily onto the roof of a storeroom that abutted the hotel proper. Not only had he pre-determined an escape route but he had taken the precaution of unbolting the window of his room on the first floor. He only had to stretch a little from the storeroom roof to open it and clamber in. Once inside he dared not ignite a lamp. In the bathroom he stropped his razor and got rid of his noble moustache. He felt naked and cold without it. He exchanged his beaver skin coat and cap for his deer skin equivalent. He returned to the bathroom to extract what was the main reason for risking a return to his room. He reached into the cistern and retrieved his money wrapped in seal skin. Having dried the parcel he pocketed the money and left the room by the same route. It was easy to gain entry to the basement and there, in the warmth of a furnace and two boilers, he curled up and slept.
It was still dark when he heard the yardman fossicking about the room. One did not rise with the sun in these parts at this time of year unless one had overdone the drinking the previous night. The sun rose late here and set at four in the afternoon. The bank was open already and Andrej detected no tail nor suspicious eyes on his way there. On that day in February 1894, Andrej Yakovlevitch Namnik opened an account and deposited the amount of two hundred roubles in the Imperial Savings Bank of St. Petersburg, Account # 20919.
At the post office he wrote and posted a letter to his last remaining family member, his brother Ivan, to instruct him in relation to his recent business dealings and what to do if he did not get back to Riga. He then sent money to the hotel for his bill and bequeathed his clothing to the maid who had attended his room.
As he bought his ticket at the canal waterways system terminus, intending to travel inland to Germany via the vast canal network, he was arrested by the Okhrana, the secret police.
Miss M. Sŭbrt March 1894
c/- P.O. Hradec Králové
Bohemia
Austria
Dear Miss Sŭbrt,
I am writing to tell you how much I enjoyed your recital in St. Petersburg. It was a privilege to meet you and the convener afterwards.
You may not remember me, which is of no consequence, I simply wish to express my encouragement that you continue in a successful music career and be single minded in making that the greatest love of your life.
I am working on the great Siberian Railway at the Tsar’s pleasure for a transgression which I deeply regret. Presently I am at Omsk but will be progressing through towns and villages to Vladivostok until completion. I am working hard in the service of the noble monarch in the hope that he will one day grant me a pardon.
I hope I have not been too informal in writing for I do know the need to be appropriately formal and circumspect in written communication.
Yours Sincerely.
A Namnik
Marie’s mother Anna (nee Hamplova) and sister of Ursula gave solace to her daughter as best she could but she was inconsolable.
‘And look how long their damnable mail takes. He wrote this two months ago. Andrej could be anywhere by now. Should those despots allow him to receive mail, by the time he gets it he will certainly think I have forgotten him. My God! I don’t even know where to write to him.’
‘Vaclav,’ said Anna, addressing her husband, ‘can’t you do something?’
‘Of course, I will simply take the carriage up to Russia and help him to escape.’
‘This is not a humorous matter, father!’
‘Calm down young lady. You obviously love this man, judging by your lethargy and lack of appetite over recent months. You are becoming thin enough to draw across my viola strings.’
‘Vaclav!’ chastised Anna. He was harping on the subject again. That would never solve Marie’s melancholia.
‘Marie listen. Now that we know your man is alive, we can try to do something. I will call on the Russian Consul in Prague. Let’s see what comes of that. Try to keep your spirits up now. And eat something.’
Vaclav reached for his coat and hat saying, ‘I will walk to the Post Office and call the Consulate on the telephone to make an appointment. If something is worthy of a man’s attention it is worth...’
‘Yes we know,’ came the interrupting chorus. He was full of sayings and proverbs was Vaclav.
***
Two months since I wrote, I wonder if my letter reached her? What, with the censors and the precarious mail system it would be a miracle if it had. Boris, a fellow exile, had assured him that others had sent and received mail. ‘Two months?’ he had said, ‘that’s nothing. Not in winter. But the worst of it is, the farther along the track we go the less likely we will get mail.’
Then Andrej had to listen to the stories of the rest of the group who were around the mess table. ‘One load was lost in a snowfall, killed the horse and driver too.’ ‘I heard of one batch, coming by boat that was capsized.’ And so it went, each rendition worse than the last, as was the way with these naturally pessimistic and misery-loving Russians.
Perhaps he should give up hope. He had been the one to tell her to forget him. She was seventeen years his junior and achingly attractive. She would be scooped up by a debonair Count and live in the luxury he could never afford her. Yes, I should resign myself to life among the morbid. Still, they are not so bad, at least they are not vulgar oafs. The newer exiles were more and more middle class. Intelligentsia, academics, artists, business owners, land owners such as himself, all had taken up the cause of objecting to the unfair treatment by the Tsarist regime. Most favoured a democratic government to rule alongside the monarch. Some though were quite radical. To them, nothing short of a revolution was called for and death to the Romanov rulers. It was just such a line that was pushed at that fatalistic meeting which had seen him exiled.
This approach troubled Andrej as Marxist policies were advocated. This would see the loss of all private enterprise. - the end of his farm - the rule of communism and dictatorship. God, he prayed, lead me to a land of peace, I am so tired with continual conflict.
***
‘I am sorry to hear of your daughter’s plight Mr Schobert (as he pronounced it) but you must realise she was fortunate herself not to be arrested.’
Vaclav was fortunate that the man he was dealing with was a fair and compassionate congenial man, not at all of superior bearing or pretentiousness.
‘As for this man Namnik, he is a Russian citizen. One of our policemen was murdered that night of the meeting and Church property was badly burned. The Tsar’s mercy cannot be extended to him since he may have perpetrated these crimes.’
‘I understand Leo Vladitch... I mean Mr Secretary.’