The Eleventh Year (16 page)

“There's nothing else for me to do,” Lesley replied lamely. And then she whispered: “I'm so scared….”

The next afternoon Jamie Stewart, bundled up in an old cloth coat, was making her entrance into a small side street of Poughkeepsie, holding five hundred dollars. She had no idea where she would go to replace this money, put aside for the coming semester at Vassar. But Lesley's predicament had to take first priority. Missy had told her about the woman, Marcia Preiss, who performed on pregnant girls in her kitchen for half a grand. Jamie didn't want to think of how hard she had worked for the money. Somehow, when a person wanted something as badly as she'd wanted an education, help appeared on the horizon in some form or fashion. One had to have faith. Missy had told her what to ask, what to watch out for.

Marcia Preiss was small, fat, and unkempt. “It isn't for me but for my best friend,” Jamie stated uncomfortably. “But you can't let anyone know….”

“If I let them know, d'you think I'd still be here? I'd be in jail, sweetheart. How many months is she along?”

“It happened late in August.”

The Preiss woman cocked her head to one side, let out a low whistle. “That's what I call ‘along.' That's very dangerous. Sure she isn't going to change her mind and bolt out of here like some of ‘em do?”

“Absolutely sure. And…I brought the five hundred dollars.”

“She's a rich one, then. Only the rich seem to get pregnant.” The woman held out her plump hand and Jamie gave her the crisp bills. The woman smiled like a greedy child as she counted.

Jamie watched, and felt such intense loathing for Marcia Preiss that had she not thought quickly of Lesley, and her scared eyes, she would have stood up to leave. The apartment smelled of boiled cabbage.

“Do you sterilize your instruments?” Jamie asked instead, remembering Missy's instructions. Missy's father was a surgeon, in Atlanta. He had told his daughter a great deal about botched operations like these where the uterine lining was perforated, or where unsterile conditions caused fatal infections. She was terrified for Les.

“ ‘Course I do. Never had a patient die on me yet!” “Patient.” This horrible person was now speaking as if she were a doctor.

“Are you a nurse?” Jamie questioned.

“What is it you want, honey? My diploma? No, I'm not a god damned nurse, but I'm a good midwife. For a regular living, that's what I do: deliver live ones. Is that enough?”

“One last thing. What about the pain?”

Marcia Preiss shrugged, sighed audibly. “Look, angel face. If you're going to go and do it, you know there's bound to be some danger. What can I say? I use ether. I pack ‘em well afterward. You'll come with her, won't ya? You look like a good kid to me. Put her to bed. The lining of the uterus will fall out later, same as if she'd had the kid.” She stopped, regarded Jamie strangely. “What happened? Mind telling me? Fella run out on her, or what? Married man?”

Jamie rose and replied in a steady voice: “It's not that at all. He's an officer in the British navy. He doesn't even know about the baby. They're engaged to be married. That's why it's important—
essential
—that you do a clean job. She's going to want other children when all this is over.”

“Baby doll, when it's over, you can bet your sweet ass she isn't gonna wanna get
near
a man—him or anyone else. And you won't either. It takes a tough old cookie like me to stomach this sort of thing. But stop looking so worried. Your friend'll survive. A week later she'll be dancin' the foxtrot.”

Jamie walked out into the snow, and as it fell about her, she could only remember the smell of cabbage in that dismal apartment. When Lesley asked her how the interview had gone, she answered brightly: “Perfectly. She's a nice lady. Fat, but nice. We're going tomorrow.”

“And the money?”

“Don't worry about it. Take a bath, Lesley, and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow everyone's going to be taking exams, and no one will notice we're gone. I'll have to find some excuse for Professor Buck….”

“Oh, Jamie,” Lesley burst out, “this whole thing is ruining you, ruining your career—”

“Just take your bath, Les, for heaven's sake. And please shut up.”

In a blizzard of snow, that Wednesday, the two girls fought their trail through to Marcia Preiss's house. The woman opened the door, stood back. The apartment was perfectly clean, smelled of cleansing liquid. A flood of relief washed over Jamie. Marcia said, peering at Lesley: “You shoulda come earlier, sweetie. Fourth month is pretty late.”

“But—you can still do it?” Dismay was painted over Lesley's constricted features.

“‘Course I can. Now get undressed, get under this sheet, and get inside that kitchen. Up on the table, like a good girl.”

Lesley looked mutely at Jamie, and Jamie nodded. It was Jamie who unbuttoned the back of Lesley's dress, who eased her out of it. Lesley stood petrified and white, unable to think past the terror of death. That table…

The indignity of lying there, naked under the sheet, her legs parted, like a parody of the act of sex that had brought her there, made Lesley close her eyes. She opened them for one frightening instant when she saw the knife and the cup, and her mouth widened in horror. She knew then what the boys must feel when they were ready to shoot or be shot at in the trenches, and for that blind second she remembered Justin, the father of this baby that was going to be cut out of her. She wanted to scream, but couldn't and there were no tears to weep with. And then Marcia Preiss laid the ether-soaked cloth over her face, and she lost consciousness.

Suddenly it was over; Marcia was washing her hands after having discarded the thin rubber gloves. Lesley was moaning, coming to her senses in pain, throwing up into a bowl that Marcia was holding up to her. Even as she was vomiting, she continued to moan.

“She won't be able to walk home,” Jamie whispered, appalled.

“Not right away. Give her half an hour.”

“I'm going to call a taxicab.”

“Thattagirl. Good thinkin'. It went pretty well, all things considered. But tell her next time, not to wait so god damn long….”

During the night Jamie couldn't sleep, watching over Lesley. She had given her veronal cachets that she had obtained from a girl down the hall who suffered from migraine headaches. Lesley was drenched with perspiration and was making groaning sounds as she tossed and turned. But she was alive. The placenta had come out, but she wasn't bleeding too much now. “A week later she'll be dancin' the foxtrot.” Jamie laid her head in her hands and wept, for Lesley, for herself, for all the girls who had loved and
not
survived, as her roommate had. It was then that the housemother knocked on the door, and in a panic, Jamie rushed to open it. Had word leaked out?

“What's wrong with Lesley?” the housemother was asking with concern,

“Nothing, Mrs. MacCarthy. A bad case of influenza. I've been watching her.”

The woman stood in the doorway, and her look of anxiety made Jamie suddenly very nervous. “Did you come about Les's flu?” she asked. But if she hadn't known about it…? Jamie was perplexed.

“No, my dear. I came…because of you.”

“Me?
”
Jamie stared at her in disbelief.

The housemother took her hand, pressed it gently, and shook her head. “My poor dear girl,” she whispered. “We've just received word that your father died. His heart—”

Tears were streaming down Jamie's cheeks, and the house-mother was holding her. She let the tears fall for her father. They had been so much alike and she had loved him very much. “I'm going to be all right,” she murmured. “Thank you, Mrs. MacCarthy.”

“Your mother said not to come home for the funeral. He would've wanted you to stay and take your finals. He left most of his savings to you.”

Several hours later, as Jamie watched the sleeping Lesley, she remembered that she had thought the previous day: One did what one had to. Fate was strange.

In April 1917 the United States entered the war on the side of the Allies, and the President of Vassar College, Henry Noble MacCracken, urged a crowd of panicked young women not to lose their sense of decorum. One had to remember the reputation of the school: It was a ladies' college. Jamie turned to look sideways at Lesley. And she knew that whatever had happened on that kitchen table in December, Lesley still cared for Justin Reeve, as she had cared for Willy. But all that was over.

Now, in the months to come, hundreds of thousands of human lives would be lost, and for what purpose? The college chaplain was leading the girls in prayer now, prayer for the living and for the dead, prayer for the United States of America. Jamie saw Lesley's lips moving, and she reached for her hand.

And she chanted along with hundreds of bareheaded young women: “‘I said in mine heart, God shall judge the righteous and the wicked: for there is a time there for every purpose and for every work.'”

A
pril 1917 was
the moment of climax when the French army in the north came totally unglued. Joffre had appointed General Robert Nivelle, proud and vainglorious and highly eloquent, to be his successor as commander of the armies. Nivelle presented his plans well but had had little experience at such a position of strategic importance. Aspiring to be the new Napoleon, he risked everything, as had Bonaparte; and, as the latter in his retreat from Moscow, his losses were complete and cost him not only his command but hundreds of thousands of French lives.

The plan was for the French and British troops to close upon the bulging German front between Arras and Craonne, just west of the ridge picturesquely named the Chemin des Dames, Alley of the Ladies. But the Germans anticipated this and fell back to the Hindenburg Line, pulling their forces east into a taut, well-grouped stretch that ran north-south. There was no bulge for the Allies to crush anymore, and now the enemy was fortified by the thick, high ground. The British in the north were separated from the French in the south, but the Germans were more reinforced than ever. Filled with fear, the three French armies that were to attack on the sixteenth of April looked up to the ridges and quaked; the government vacillated in its support of the commander-in-chief; and General Pétain doomed the plan to failure, but one man's vanity overrode the objections, challenged the Ministry of War, and triumphed. It was Robert Nivelle or the French troops; nobody dared to champion the latter for fear of the former.

Alexandre de Varenne had joined the ranks of the Sixth Army, under General Charles Mangin. As soon as war had been declared, he had enlisted. The blow dealt to his pride and his vulnerability by Yvonne de Larmont had created in him a certain change. When war broke out he knew that his country would not betray him, that in this matter there could be no gray areas. In the realm of patriotism there was no alternative: one had to believe and to give one's all. France was his, and would always be.

Captain Alexandre de Varenne discovered that the army was not bad for him. His men, first off, gave him immediate respect. He felt a confidence with them that he had only experienced in court. One followed orders, one was fair, one dispensed orders with clarity and as much charity as one could. He had suffered through the devastation of 1915 with other officers and formed a camaraderie with them.

Paul had become a flying ace. He had waited until the last possible moment to enlist. Then, when the draft had closed in on him, he had become a flier. With Martine, he had begun to experience moments of boredom. She did not understand the fine points of a given painting. He loved her and he wanted to experiment with life, enjoying her; but the idea of living the rest of his days apart from the mainstream of Parisian society was no longer so appealing. Flying, suddenly, became a way out. He would fly for his country and be thought a dashing hero. And he would take risks again and feel the exhilaration of being at the razor's edge.

Alex heard that his brother had scored many victories and a bitterness filled him. Alone in his cockpit, leaning out of his airplane, Paul would shoot at a lone opponent or engage in dogfights with several. He was taking risks because he had never truly valued life. Neither, thought Alex, have I. But I value my country and feel responsibility for my men. Paul doesn't have to feel responsibility beyond himself. And yet to the young women of France who counted the exploits of their favorite aviators, the Comte Paul was always at the forefront, for they mistook his recklessness for courage. Alex could not have afforded recklessness, or his men would have been killed.

On the afternoon of April 15, another captain, Jean d'Artois, took Alexandre aside. “You know that I have leave this evening,” he told him, slightly embarrassed. “But I am due to return in the early dawn. Right now everything is calm on the front. But I have the opportunity to…remain longer with my wife, who is waiting in Reims for me in a hotel. The colonel is new, and he doesn't know me yet—nor does he know you, for that matter. Could you possibly take my place from four until eight tomorrow morning? If the colonel should check, he would see a captain with his men and would proceed no further. And of course I should be delighted to return the favor any time. My wife is pregnant, and I haven't seen her since we were married six months ago.”

Alex thought for a moment. “We're due to attack in the morning, Jean. Will you be back on time?”

“Without a doubt. You can count on me.”

“Then, gentleman to gentleman, I shall do it,” Alexandre replied. But he felt ill at ease. He needed the rest before facing the enemy with his own soldiers. Jean d'Artois was placing his personal life ahead of his country, ahead of Alex's own priorities. But he understood the man's desire to see his wife.

In the early morning, then, Alexandre reached the trenches amid the prepared, massive armor. He made a sign to the sergeant below, lifted his leg to avoid a large stone. All at once the dark sky exploded above him from the direction of the promontory of the Chemin des Dames. Alexandre threw his arm across his face to shield it from the bursting German shell. He could not breathe. His heart was pounding and he realized that he was alive, in spite of this near disaster. And then he was on the ground, unable to move. His thigh was spattered with red, and there were no sensations in it. In the numbness he watched his own blood and heard the screams from the trenches, and blinked incredulously. And then the pain attacked every nerve ending. He vomited.

Alexandre de Varenne felt himself slip away into blackness just as one of the major disasters of the war was beginning. When he regained consciousness in the military hospital, he was told that the battle for the impregnable Chemin des Dames had raged for ten days, and that the Hindenburg Line had remained virtually intact. Fury mingled with the searing physical pain, and Alexandre felt the futility of the foolishly planned endeavor. He was not surprised when the government replaced Nivelle with Pétain, nor even when the army rebelled and a series of riots broke out. He wondered where his men had been, who had died. He had survived, although with shrapnel in his thigh. But if his life had gone, who would have missed him?

He knew then that he had acted correctly, for Jean d'Artois had a pregnant wife who loved him, and it was shrapnel meant for him that now lay imbedded in Alexandre's leg.

E
lena knew
that there was little time to grieve over Fania. At the beginning, she spent her nights at the same clubs as before. She tipped lavishly. But she soon realized that the Adler funds were limited. Genia, especially, had exercised her newfound freedom with no thought for the future. Clearly the two sisters had planned to return to Russia to sell their property and had not left the country with a particularly large sum of money.

As the inheritance dwindled, Elena's sense of panic mounted. What to do? She had no professional skills. In Harbin she had been a rich woman. No one would believe that her wealth was running dry. She would have to move.

One evening, watching the Eurasian hostess deftly placing drinks in front of two beribboned British officers, she thought, in a flash: This is what I can do. But not where they know me.

And so, steeling herself, she packed her bags and moved to Shanghai, an international city made up of settlements, where the Chinese were only allowed in by special permit. She found work at the Little Club in the British quarter. There were big gamblers in Shanghai. With her regal looks and her dark, impenetrable eyes, she would encourage them to spend, and spend more. But she would not leave the club with any of the customers. She was still the Princess Egorova, whose body was intact, whose mind was still clean, clear.

In March 1917 she received a shock. She had been seated at a small, exclusive table, entertaining two British men with stories of Russia, when a tall man behind her suddenly interrupted her. “Haven't we met?” he asked. She searched his face, felt slight tremors going through her. Yes, they'd met: He was the cousin of one of the men who had once proposed to her in St. Petersburg. A cousin from Kiev, but still someone she had known, someone from her past. One of the customers said: “This is the Princess Egorova.”

“Elena Sergeievna?” the man asked.

She shook her head, her smile remote, her eyes cold. “Another Egorova, I'm sure,” she murmured. “The name is common enough.” But she knew that he wouldn't believe her. She stood up and picked up the empty glasses, and walked quickly away, feeling as though she'd just escaped from a ghost. Her own ghost.

When she left the club in the early dawn, she heard a noise and saw that the Russian had followed her. “I knew it was you,” he said. “Why did you deny it?”

She hastened her pace, but his strides were longer than hers. He stopped her in a small alley near her rooming house, his hand on her arm. She looked up into his face and saw the Russian lust, the greed, the anger. Russians were always angry, angry at the world. She tried to push him off, but instead he smiled. “I could return home and speak about you,” he whispered.

There was no choice. She dropped her chin, resumed her walk. He walked beside her in heavy silence. In her small, stark bedroom, she took off her clothes mechanically, her eyes unseeing. She lay down and let him make love to her with her lids tightly shut against the light he had left on, the better to admire the awesome curves of her body. In the morning she rose and went into the hallway bathroom to wash herself.

When she returned, he had left. Crisp bills lay on the bed, sole reminders of the way she had just lost her virginity. She felt no horror. The outrage had been burned out of her during the night. She took the bills, counted them, laid them on her dresser. Then she packed her few belongings and buckled shut her suitcase. Time to move on.

As her ship was raising its anchor, she saw a young Chinese man running onto the pier brandishing a tabloid, screaming something to a group of Europeans gathered not far from her. She strained to hear. He was saying: “The Russian government's been overthrown! The tsar has abdicated!” Chills penetrated her. She wondered if her nighttime visitor would ever return home, and if she had bought his silence with her action. She thought of her father, of what the news of the tsar's abdication would do to him; and of what the news of his daughter could do. The “working girls” in the clubs went from Harbin to Shanghai, and if their luck ran out, they went to Singapore. She was twenty-seven. Had her luck run out, or would Malaysia be a new beginning?

Singapore was the center of steamship traffic in the East. It was a port, with as many Chinese as native Malay. The city was different from Shanghai, although both were very English in flavor. But Singapore was under British dominion. Singapore proper was filled with open spaces. There were cricket grounds, large luxurious hotels. As most harbors, it was cosmopolitan, and the clubs were French, English, American. The British had kept the Germans out because of the war, and had an army headquarters in the city. Their officers belonged to cricket clubs and played golf. At the Seaview one could dance right on the waterfront, and the tall diving board stood right above a pool of sea water. Elena was taken with the different populations that mingled: the various Europeans, held together by a common heritage; the wealthy Chinese; and finally, the haphazard native population. They mingled, but separated as oil from vinegar in the same bowl, each keeping to his own.

Once again she found work without difficulty. But she was growing tired, heartsick. Never anyone to talk to; never anyone to understand. She'd been alone, she thought, all her life—at least the last nine years of it.

She saved her money, and at night she danced with the Europeans and smiled mysteriously, playing her best role. But it was ugly to dance with them, because it wasn't the dancing of before, of St. Petersburg, where she had filled her little notebook with eligible men's names, counts and princes and barons. Then they had courted her with the ritual of elegant mating birds, dancing circles around her, as if she had been out of reach in her perfection. Here they purchased champagne and thought that they had also purchased her. She could tell by the direct, unequivocal expression in their eyes. They drank too much and then draped themselves around her sturdy body. The British officers were of course the most controlled, because of the standards set by their headquarters. But to Elena each man was like the next, and boredom was only equalled by the despair of going home to the empty room in the dingy boardinghouse, the only one she could afford. It smelled of urine and lavender, scents impregnated into the walls from long before her tenancy.

On July 16, 1918, the entire family of Tsar Nicholas II was massacred at Ekaterinburg. Elena remembered the faces of the young grand-duchesses, and then the face of her father. A raking emptiness took hold of her, but she fought it away. Her father would still be in Krasnoyarsk, pompously expounding on theories of government now dead. No one ever really changed, except for the worse.