Natasha's Dream (8 page)

‘What others?’

‘Who knows?’ said Natasha. ‘But you would not have found Madame Tolstoy as sure of herself as Count Orlov was. He did not speak with her voice, nor even with his own. It is no good asking me why, dear sir. Important people do not confide in me. All Russians hear things, but not many of us can say we were confided in.’

‘Damned if the whole thing isn’t a lot more mysterious here than it sounds in London,’ murmured Mr Gibson. ‘Damned if it doesn’t feel as if the Tsar himself survived and is commanding a strange silence in certain people. Well, let’s find a café where we can enjoy coffee and cognac. What d’you say, Natasha?’

Her face expressed familiar delight. ‘I say that to be with Your Excellency is like standing in the sun,’ she said in earnest simplicity.

‘You’re going to be an embarrassment to me,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘This way,’ she said, and walked beside him in pride. She was quite sure such a distinctive and civilized man commanded great respect in
England. She took him in the direction of Unter den Linden, the magnificent thoroughfare that always set her imagination to work and made her dream of an existence in which there was beauty, grandeur and a ready-made family of sons, daughters and husband, all of whom adored her and heaped her with the riches of love. The dream could uplift her and make her live it in her mind, but there was always an underlying note of haunting sadness.

Many times she had gone into Unter den Linden’s cafés and restaurants to beg for work, any kind of work, even work that would only earn her a meal. Because she was just one more Russian émigré among so many, she had sometimes been hustled out or thrown out. In some places, there was a certain kind of work she could have done to earn money, but she would never do it, never, however desperate she was. She had been offered jobs in some clubs, clubs that offered customers a little more than glittering lights and risqué cabaret. She retreated from such offers in shame and disgust. She was a fierce virgin. Before continuous hard times had wasted her flesh, before she had lost her figure and become unattractively thin, more than one oily procurer had made propositions
to her and had their faces angrily slapped. And there were women procurers too in Berlin, sweet-smiling women, with beautifully painted faces and soft, sympathetic eyes.

How good it was, and how exciting, to enter Unter den Linden feeling well dressed and quick with life, and in company with Mr Gibson. The dull morning had become bright, and the avenue looked majestic in the pale November sunlight. The linden trees had lost their autumn gold, and stood in silvery winter array down the whole length of the central promenade. Before the war, before the fall of the Hohenzollern monarchy, Berlin had been an Imperial city bursting with pomp, pride and energy. Colourful uniforms, glittering helmets and the music of military bands had created an atmosphere of brilliance and power. Now Berlin was no longer Imperial. It was merely the capital of the struggling Weimar Republic. The military bands these days were made up of ex-servicemen, and such bands headed political parades, particularly parades organized by the rising National Socialist Party. It was sometimes called the Nazi Party.

The Russian monarchists were putting their money on the National Socialists as the party
of the future, and identifying themselves with many of its aims and principles. Its rising star was a man called Adolf Hitler, and in him the Russian exiles saw the fiery scourge of Communism. The Weimar Republic maintained a friendly relationship with Moscow, and the Russian exiles, particularly the monarchists, needed that relationship to be changed. That change could come about with the accession to power of Adolf Hitler and his National Socialists, who were violently anti-Communist. The monarchists accordingly attached themselves firmly to the rising star.

The nuances of politics did not, however, seem to affect the atmosphere of Unter den Linden.

Natasha said, ‘This is the place I like best in Berlin. It is always so cultured and civilized. It is most appealing, of course, to people who have money. But the rest of us can still look.’

‘Yes, it’s splendid,’ said Mr Gibson, who was having a thoughtful period.

‘If one has no money,’ said Natasha, ‘one can still enjoy it, especially if one is wearing nice clothes. I am not too bad in my new coat and hat and shoes?’

‘I did mention, before we left the apartment,
that you looked charming,’ said Mr Gibson, aware that she was carrying herself with self-assurance.

‘I should not want people to think I don’t do you justice,’ said Natasha. ‘A gentleman is entitled to expect a lady companion to look fashionable.’ Mr Gibson smiled. ‘It is really very kind of you to escort me. I’ve often imagined how pleasant it would be to walk here with a gentleman of distinction.’

‘Then we must try to find one for you.’

‘Find one?’ Natasha made a little face. ‘Your Excellency, that is not very amusing.’

‘Perhaps it isn’t. But you are.’ Mr Gibson stopped to look at a window display. Natasha, despite so many hard and revealing years, blushed in case people thought he was making an inspection on her account. It was a lingerie shop, and the display was both delicate and intimate. He moved on, however. ‘We’re being followed,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ she said. Agitatedly, she added, ‘There, I told you, you should not have concerned yourself with that poor woman. Count Orlov has already decided you’re dangerous.’

‘Dangerous to whom and to what? I’ve only asked questions, Natasha. A thousand people
have asked questions, haven’t they, since the news broke three years ago that the woman was claiming to be the Tsar’s youngest daughter? Why should my questions make me dangerous?’

Natasha could have said it was because she had been with him. Instead, she answered innocuously. ‘Perhaps because you are English and someone doesn’t like the English, or what they might get up to.’

‘I’m not going to get up to anything myself,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Shall we have our coffee here? Yes, I think so, don’t you?’ He pulled out a chair for her as they reached a pavement café. She sat down. An aproned waiter arrived. Mr Gibson ordered coffee and cognac, then seated himself opposite Natasha. From there he observed the oncoming people. A man passed, a man in a smart grey overcoat and grey hat. He went by at a slow saunter, looking this way and that, his interest in the characteristics of Unter den Linden that of a sightseer, apparently. Mr Gibson’s eyes followed him, and Natasha’s eyes followed Mr Gibson’s. ‘That’s the gentleman,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I can’t say,’ said Natasha.

‘He’s about the same build as the man who attacked you on that bridge.’

Natasha winced. ‘If he’s Russian, and I were face to face with him, I might know him. Russians go to the same places regularly to meet each other, and I go often to these places to ask for an evening’s work.’

‘Natasha,’ said Mr Gibson, watching the disappearing figure of the man in the grey coat, ‘what was it you said Count Orlov asked you?’

‘Oh, nothing important,’ said Natasha, and hid her eyes.

‘Something is worrying you, even frightening you,’ said Mr Gibson soberly.

‘No, no.’

‘Why do you stay in Berlin, when it has offered you so little?’

‘Truly, where can I go, without money? Thousands of refugees are trapped. I am one of them.’

‘I’d like to know what Count Orlov really said to you.’

The waiter brought the coffee and cognac, and Natasha took advantage of this and kept her peace.

Have you told this damned Englishman what
you told us, you peasant?
That was the question Count Orlov had put to her.

‘Natasha?’ enquired Mr Gibson.

Natasha shrugged and stirred her coffee. ‘Oh, Count Orlov only said you were a man full of questions.’

‘And you said no to that? You did say no, didn’t you?’

‘I did not wish to agree with him.’ Natasha swallowed coffee, then took a mouthful of cognac. She coughed. Mr Gibson watched her making heavy weather of her uneasiness.

‘I forgot,’ he said, ‘would you like a pastry?’

‘Oh, thank you.’ She was instantly ecstatic.

He called the waiter and ordered. The waiter brought more coffee for both of them and two huge confections for Natasha. She attacked one with a rapturous manipulation of the fork. She had always longed to sit in style at an Unter den Linden café, to drink good coffee and eat expensive pastry. Mr Gibson smiled at her total lack of inhibition. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the reappearance of the man in the grey overcoat. Having retraced his steps, the man stopped outside a shop, looked at the display and lingered there.

‘That kind of pastry will quickly help you put
on weight, Natasha. You’ll get nicely plump in no time at all.’

‘Plump? That means fat.’ Natasha looked perturbed. ‘I don’t wish to be fat, just myself. When I’m myself, I am perfect.’

‘Well, you’re too thin at the moment,’ said Mr Gibson, aware that the man was still lingering. ‘So eat both pastries, and perhaps before I leave Berlin I’ll see something of this perfection.’

Natasha peeped a smile at him. ‘You are interested in perfection, Excellency?’

‘Of course. Perfection in a woman is a pleasure to a man, especially as perfection in a man is impossible.’

‘Oh, there are many imperfect men, yes,’ said Natasha, ‘but to meet one who is good and kind brings warmth to a woman.’ She ate her way through the pastry in unaffected enjoyment. ‘There, every crumb has gone. You will not mind if I leave the other one?’

‘Very wise. It might spoil your lunch.’ Mr Gibson wondered when the lingering man would make a move. The move was made then. The man entered the shop. ‘You know, Natasha, your English is faultless. Few Russians could speak it as well as you do. Count Orlov speaks it excellently, but not without an accent. You have
no real accent at all. You speak English as if you grew up to the sound of it every day.’

‘Oh, I am just naturally good at it,’ said Natasha, looking down at her coffee.

‘Forgive me,’ he said gently, feeling sure the question was going to cause her pain, ‘but the English lady who taught at your school – was she your mother?’

‘Oh, you have eyes that look into the souls of people,’ she said in distress.

‘No, it’s listening, not looking,’ he said, ‘and relating one thing to another. I’ve no wish to remind you of things you want to forget, but am I right about who your mother was?’

‘The Bolsheviks can be very clever,’ said Natasha palely. ‘They can pretend to be German and deceive people into betraying themselves. Are you a Bolshevik pretending to be a kind Englishman?’

‘No,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘but you, I think, are the daughter of a Russian headmaster and his English wife. That’s why you speak the language so naturally. You grew up bilingual.’

Natasha, eyes dark with pain, stared unseeingly at her hands. ‘It hurts so much to remember things and to talk about them,’ she whispered. ‘He came after me, the commissar,
and I kept running and hiding. He knew all about me, what I looked like and what my name was, so I began to tell people I was someone else. But so often people who had been kind to me would tell me to go, to run, that someone was after me and asking about me, and different names seemed to make no difference. Bolsheviks always know about names. They will say, “Ah, this man calls himself Sherpov, does he? Well, he was born Malinoff.” I think Bolsheviks would like to know the born name of everyone in the world and write them all down. Even in Poland I still had to run and hide. Someone helped me to get papers so that I could come to Germany. But even here, that man – the commissar – may still be looking for me.’

‘After seven years?’ said Mr Gibson, one eye on the shop.

‘Bolshevik commissars don’t behave like other people. They never – they never—’ Natasha groped for the right words.

‘They never close a file?’ suggested Mr Gibson.

‘Yes, that is it.’

The man in the grey overcoat came out of the shop, strolling back the way he had come,
except that after a few seconds he went into another shop.

‘Natasha, I think you should tell me exactly what happened on the day you lost your family and had to run for your life.’

‘No.’ She became agitated. ‘No, I promised to say nothing. Do you want them to kill me?’

‘Them?’

‘The – the Bolsheviks.’

‘Natasha, you can’t possibly be a worry to the Bolsheviks after all these years. I think you made that promise to people here, people like Count Orlov.’

‘No. No. Oh, the questions you ask – it is doing no good at all. It is better to—’ Natasha broke off as a boy with a club foot approached her. He wore a thick, much-darned jersey, an old peaked cap and patched trousers. He carried a wooden box with a long strap, the strap slung over his shoulder. His smile was cheerful.

‘Good morning, Fräulein,’ he said.

‘Hello, Hans.’ Natasha forgot her worries. ‘Your Excellency,’ she said to Mr Gibson, ‘this is Hans, who helped me with all my boxes and parcels.’

‘Good morning, Hans,’ said Mr Gibson in German, and Hans smiled.

‘He is a fine boy,’ said Natasha, ‘and does many things for a living. I think he is a shoe-black at the moment.’

‘Yes,’ said Hans, and cocked an appealing eye at Mr Gibson.

Mr Gibson nodded, turned in his chair and offered his shoes for a shine. Hans placed his box on the ground, went down on his knees and took out his cleaning materials. He attended briskly to Mr Gibson’s shoes.

‘There, he’s a good worker, isn’t he?’ said Natasha, glad of the diversion.

‘Ah, Fräulein,’ said fourteen-year-old Hans, ‘as well as cleaning shoes and carrying parcels, I can do errands, run messages, sweep snow from doorsteps and beat carpets.’ He looked up at Natasha and caught the sympathy in her eyes. It was the sympathy of a young woman who knew how one had to struggle to survive. She had been transformed since yesterday. Yesterday she had been like a scarecrow, a scarecrow come to life, and all one could have said about her was that only in her animation was she any different from all the other scarecrows of Berlin. Today, she was hardly recognizable as the person who had gone into a hundred shops yesterday, and used him as
a carrier. He had not known it was her when he approached the table a few minutes ago. Only when he was close had he recognized her. She had such big eyes. People who had gone hungry did have big eyes. Hunger made them grow larger and larger. Her eyes were soft now in their sympathy, and she had a little smile for him. Something tugged at his mind, but he could not think what it was.