Midnight in St. Petersburg (19 page)

‘Kremer's not a pauper, but the police are after him. He's got to get out of town. I'm getting him travel papers, but they're not ready yet. I told him to doss down at the poorhouse while he waited. They like me there. I usually give them a bit of my pay, so they ask no questions,' he explained, and she heard confidence in his voice. ‘It's a good place to lie low. No one asks for passports and there are no name checks. It only costs a few kopeks a night, too.' He laughed. ‘It's not luxury accommodation, true. He's not happy about it, but it's his own silly fault he's there.'

I had no idea he knew all this, she thought in a daze.

‘Why are the police after Kremer?' she asked, respectfully.

He didn't answer for a minute. ‘He got himself mixed up with some Socialist Revolutionaries, the bloody idiot. You know – the bombers,' he replied eventually.

Perhaps he heard her intake of breath. ‘
I
don't have any truck with them. No one in their right mind does,' he went on angrily. ‘No bloody judgement, that's his problem. He was just letting them keep their buckets in his cellar, but he didn't count on the janitor getting nosy and blowing himself up. There's nothing against him, but he was the only Jew in the building. Of course they came after him.'

Inna had no idea what to say to this. So I was right not to like Kremer, she thought. He'd killed some innocent old man with a tub of explosive? Well, he
should
be arrested, shouldn't he? Kremer's crime only confirmed all the worst things she'd ever thought about politics, not just about the terrorists on its fringes: it was all violence, really, all threat, wasn't it?

Yasha was continuing, possibly aware of her unease. ‘I owe Kremer a debt, you see. He has an uncle…' and a whole torrent of stories about the Kremers poured out: about old Kremer's strength, and the years he'd suffered in Siberia for what he believed. How different he was from Yasha's father, who couldn't even protect his ten-year-old from a gang of thugs. How important it had become to Yasha to stand up firmly for what he believed – to be brave, like old Kremer, who'd had the defiant word ‘TOMORROW' tattooed on his arm on his first day behind bars.

Yes, Inna thought, remembering Yasha's parents' fear while she'd been living with them, and the hasty way they'd left. Realizing, only now, that it had been a betrayal to leave a schoolgirl alone in a town so full of danger. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘I can imagine that; they didn't look out for me much, either.'

His hand tightened on her shoulder, and then slipped down around her waist.

‘I got word from them today. They're in Haifa. They got cleaned out on the boat, and were too broke to go on to Jerusalem. Mama's found work scrubbing floors, and they have a room. Papa's not well. I wired them some money. But it makes you wonder where all their Russian conformity got them in the end: a bedsit and a cleaning job in an Ottoman port.'

‘I see why you'd want to stand up and be counted, too,' she said softly, and she could understand, now she'd looked at some of those faces, how much there was to fight for. ‘But all those poor men,' she went on breathlessly. ‘Why does no one help them more? And how did they get like that?'

‘They're victims of the factories, most of them,' Yasha said with bitter compassion. ‘They lose a limb, and they're no good for a sixteen-hour shift any more. So that's the whole family, out on the street. Goners.'

Inna glanced up at him. His profile was stern.

‘And no one gives a damn. Nevsky is so close, stuffed with plutocrats' wives buying lobster, but they might as well be on the moon. There's no one much helping. Just the factory committees, and a few socialists with hearts but no money. We give all we can, but it's nothing compared with the need.

‘It impressed the Hell out of me, suddenly seeing you out there,' Yasha added gruffly. His voice vibrated through her ribcage. ‘Leman's always talking about the islands, but he's not actually brave enough to come.'

She took her hand out of her pocket and touched his hand, which was resting just above her hipbone. His skin was freezing, so she drew it into the warmth of her pocket, closing her fingers around it.

She could feel the length and strength of his arm, a stripe of heat across her back, and was fully aware of her gesture as an invitation.

‘The morning,' she heard him say. ‘In your room. I never should have – I mean, we were only seconds away from Madame L. coming in.'

He was looking at her, not quite meeting her eye. Joyously, she saw in that snatched look that he was memorizing her face, the line of brow and cheekbone, the cast of eye and lip, just as she so often did, stealing her glimpses of him.

‘I didn't mind you being there,' she whispered, smiling shyly, and when they walked on again through the factory yards, she noticed with relief that Yasha's urgent pace was slowing to a relaxed saunter.

Until, suddenly, he stopped. A moment later, Inna felt it too: a prickle of the skin. Her heart started thumping as he turned his head, keeping his body still, scenting danger.

He'd heard something. Behind.

‘Footsteps,' he breathed.

He pushed her into a black alley between two factory yards. They crouched behind crates and watched as the men approached.

Knives? Sticks? Inna felt sick with helplessness. Yasha was nearer the street, to shield her.

The moon came out as they appeared. As they walked by – not even looking into the alley – she could see them clearly. No weapons, no bottles. Three ragged youths sauntering by, laughing. It was the boys from the poorhouse, Inna saw, with a rush of relief.

She could hear their loud, confident voices, swearing prettily in the playful half-French of the aristocracy. ‘God … absolutely
freezing
…' one said, hugging himself with limber arms, rubbing his hands fast against his skin. ‘
Merde
…' Another boy, a dark one, looking disgusted, was shaking his head and frenziedly scratching. ‘I don't care,' he answered, petulantly. ‘I'd rather be cold now than itching all night.'

His face was turned towards them in the moonlight. He was unusually dark for a Russian, Inna saw. Above his torn britches and wadded workman's jacket, he had the delicate southern cheekbones of a Tatar, with his olive skin and almond-shaped eyes. His face was lovely enough for a girl.

I know that face, she thought.

It was the prince. Horace's friend. Felix.

Shakily, Yasha pulled her out. ‘Who the Hell…?' he was muttering. ‘Who were they?' He looked at her, baffled. ‘Didn't they sound…?'

She nodded, but kept her eyes on her hands. Best not to reveal she'd seen the dark one before, she thought. Best not to say where, either. It would only confirm, in his mind, that she'd been an idiot to go visiting Father Grigory: that mixing with him, and even with Horace (who of course would have no idea that his friend went out on dubious mock-the-poor missions like this, late at night), had been the worst kind of naïveté.

‘Mmm,' she murmured, wondering, suddenly, if she
had
been naïve, ‘like tourists in the underworld.'

He looked surprised for a moment, and then snorted out his held breath with laughter, or relief; she couldn't tell which. ‘Come on,' he said, holding out his arm to her. ‘They gave me the creeps. Let's get out of here too.'

They tramped on, faster, through the grimy black of the Petersburg Side, over Samson Bridge, into the equally miserable Vyborg Side and down Artillery Embankment. At least, she thought, breathless again, his arm was back around her.

It was only when they got to the stately Alexander Bridge and saw, over the water, the city of the novels – the longed-for iron lacework of palace gates guarded, on the ground, by shivering men in gold braid, and, on the rooftops, by eyeless statues – that they breathed easy. A car roared away, somewhere nearby.

The sky was heavy, the wind sharp again. But at least there were no policemen: no one at all, save the occasional drunk tottering home and once, in the distance, a noisy party of smart young men in evening clothes, singing. They fell silent, down Liteiny, each one listening to the rhythm of the other's breath and footfalls. Both tired.

‘I've been wondering' – he spoke quietly – ‘why am I telling people, Jews, to stay in Russia and demand their rights, when my own parents…?'

She could see the pain in his face as he looked at the square, at the litter twirling and flapping in the salty wind.

He brought his other arm around her.

She swung round, unresisting, aware of many things besides the tumult of blood, the giddy spin of it all: the snowflake melting on his eyelashes, their buttons clashing, heat …

He was trembling again, she thought tenderly.

‘Your hair smells of flowers,' he whispered, before his lips found hers.

*   *   *

Inside, there were no sounds. The family was in bed. The lights were off.

Except in the kitchen where, in a pool of warm yellow light, Leman was half-asleep by the stove. He rubbed his eyes and stood up as Inna and Yasha sprang guiltily apart. He's been worried, she realized, with a pang; not about Yasha, but because he didn't know where I'd gone. Surprise and delight mixed with her contrition.

‘Ah,' he said, without the anger she thought she deserved. ‘Here you are.'

Inna was hoping desperately he didn't realize the enormity of her offence – not only sneaking out with Yasha till nearly dawn, but also ‘borrowing' his wife's papers. Her face burned.

‘We thought you'd be back in time for midnight tea,' Leman said, in a voice carefully bleached of disapproval. ‘Horace came. He left you a note. I forced the children to leave you some cake. The tea will be cold, though. Forgive me if I don't sit up with you.'

Inna wasn't hungry, but it gave her shamed eyes somewhere to turn. The apple
sharlottka
was covered with a napkin, against which an envelope had been propped up.

Trying not to compound the offence she'd already given, she hesitated before picking it up. Cautiously, she asked: ‘What's this?'

Leman didn't look round. ‘What we were celebrating,' he said as he left. ‘Your temporary residence permit.'

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Inna woke in a tangle of limbs to the slamming of grey wind and sleet against the window, to the warm stillness of a bed containing their two bodies.

Yasha was asleep. Looking at his peaceful face made her heart swell. She remembered how, last night, they'd lingered at the doorway, clung together, full of the glorious unknown, before …
here
; how he'd laughed a little as they shifted towards, then away again from his room; how he'd whispered, ‘I thought you were beautiful right from that first moment, when I opened the front door, and there you were.'

She ran her hands down his chest, marvelling at the newness of everything she now knew, at the happiness suffusing her, aware of the stir of his flesh.

‘Don't,' he whispered sleepily, taking her hand in his.

She kissed his ear. ‘Why?' she breathed.

‘Because…' he said, turning his head, opening his long dark eyes. Kissing her nose. ‘Because it should be you who goes downstairs first.'

She felt sudden heat on her cheeks and not unpleasurable coyness as the world beyond this nest of bedding came rushing back. Of course. Downstairs: the children; Madame Leman, perhaps already boiling up tea and making batter. She should get away from up here before Marcus got up, next door, in her old room. They didn't need to know about this; not yet.

‘Your papers,' Yasha prompted. How deep and relaxed his voice was. ‘You don't want to look ungrateful.'

Of course! The papers! She scrambled up, hastily buttoning her crumpled blouse. Why, she hadn't even opened the envelope – it would still be lying where she'd dropped it on the kitchen table, untouched.

Mercifully the kitchen was still empty when she got downstairs.

Inna stuffed the envelope hastily into her waistband while she whisked back into her new room. She changed her shirt and linen, went into the kitchen again, lit the samovar and the stove and mixed
blini
batter – a penance; something Madame Leman would appreciate – before she allowed herself to examine it.

Not bothering with Horace's note on the outside, she tore open the envelope and flicked down to the date on the document inside. Three months: she was here till the end of the year!

‘Your eyes are popping right out of your head, did you know?' said a loud treble voice. She heard a giggle behind her and turned round.

Two blond heads were in the doorway: Barbarian and Agrippina, in nightgowns, staring and prodding each other and wriggling.

Behind them, bustling footsteps could be heard in the corridor. It was Madame Leman, who followed the children into the kitchen. She didn't, to Inna's relief, look angry, just relieved to see her.

‘Wherever did you two get to last night?' she asked.

‘You see, I was worried about Yasha,' Inna said to placate her. ‘He rushed out in such a rage, right after you. I wanted to calm him down, but he was going so fast I couldn't catch up. And then I got lost, and he went on and on for miles – all the way to the islands…'

She stopped, thinking she was babbling, and guiltily saying far too much.

‘The islands!' Barbarian cried rapturously. ‘Really?' His eyes were round.

‘And did they all have green faces and creep through keyholes out there?' Agrippina asked slyly. Inna laughed and shook her head. ‘Or whisper socialism in your ear?' Agrippina dropped her own piercing voice to a mocking whisper and quoted her father quoting whatever novel it was he was always quoting.

Still grinning, Inna nodded: Yes, a bit.

‘Well, you must be careful, dear,' Madame Leman said, stirring the batter and checking for lumps. ‘We were worried for
you.
You didn't even have papers.'