The Red Gods Page 2

  The Princess Bolugayevska was still only twenty-five years old, and whatever the vicissitudes and horrors of her recent life, her features remained as flawlessly angelic as if they had been painted into place. Her hair was straight fine-spun gold, descending past her shoulders. She was tall for a woman, something like five foot seven or eight, he estimated, and her figure was concealed beneath the loose house robe she was wearing, but he did not doubt it would match the rest of her. He felt quite breathless. “This is Mr Joseph, Your Highness,” Grishka explained.

  “Joseph?” A faint frown appeared in that high white forehead. “Patricia’s son?”

  “I’m afraid so, Your Highness,” Joseph said.

  “Patricia’s son! Oh, my dear boy!” She came forward and took him in her arms. “Joseph!” She kissed him on each cheek. Then she held him at arms’ length. “But...you’ve come...”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Priscilla looked at Grishka, then turned sharply as two children entered the room. “The Countess Anna,” she said.

  “I don’t suppose you remember me, Your Excellency,” Joseph said.

  Anna Bolugayevska, named after her famous great-aunt, had only been three when he had been at Bolugayen eight years ago. Now he looked at an unmistakable Bolugayevska, entirely lacking any trace of her Jewish mother Sonia, strongly built, blonde, and clearly destined for beauty.

  And equally clearly she did not remember him. Nor did her somewhat tight features reveal any great pleasure at meeting him.

  “This is your cousin Joseph,” Priscilla explained. “And this is Count Alexei junior.” She could not keep the pride from her voice. Where Anna was only her stepdaughter, Alexei was her own son. He too was very obviously a Bolugayevski, in his colouring. But although he was only five, his features were also tight and unsmiling.

  “You must forgive them,” Priscilla said, when she had sent them off with Grishka. “They have experienced a great deal these past few years.”

  “As have you,” Joseph suggested. He was still drinking in her beauty. What had happened on Bolugayen was only rumour, to this moment. Would she speak of it?

  “As have we all,” she said equably, and went to the sideboard. “I’m afraid we are still experiencing some things. Staff shortages for one. And...I’m afraid I can only offer you vodka. I have some brandy, but I save that for when Alexei gets home.”

  “Does he get home often?”

  She gave him a glass. “No. Please sit down.”

  “But the war is going well?”

  “I believe so.” She watched him take a chair, and sat opposite him. “It is quite chaotic. You know Kornilov has been killed, and Kaledin has shot himself?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Joseph said. He had never even heard of either man; the various warring Russian generals had hitherto been of little interest in the West save to a few specialists.

  “Well, that is why Denikin has taken overall command of our forces here in the south,” Priscilla said. “I know General Wrangel’s Caucasus Army is advancing, together with Krasnov’s Don Army, and the Volunteers. There is also a Kiev Army since we recaptured the city. Alexei is with Krasnov. The Reds are retreating all along the line. Then Yudenich is advancing from the Baltic Provinces, and Kolchak is advancing in Siberia. There is a general forward movement. Obviously things will slow down once winter sets in, but we hope to be in Moscow in the spring.”

  “And the Reds will not stop you?”

  “Oh, they are fighting with the desperation of the rats they are.” Joseph was astounded to hear such vehemence emanating from such perfect lips. “They have so many crimes on their conscience, they have no choice,” the Princess continued. “But they have no chance of survival. And you have come to help?”

  “I have come to fight alongside Uncle Alexei, certainly. But also...” he bit his lip.

  “I can understand your desire for vengeance,” she said. “How did she die?”

  Priscilla Bolugayevska raised her head. “Do you really wish to know?”

  “Yes. Please. I wish to know that you are certain she was killed by the Reds, and not by...”

  Priscilla’s head came up; for the first time she really looked like a princess. “You think she was killed by our side? How can you think that?”

  “Well...” he was embarrassed. “Mother had been a Communist. In many ways I know she still sympathised with them.”

  “So you thought she might have been executed? By her own brother?”

  “Well...he wasn’t there, was he?”

  “I was,” Priscilla said, her words like drops of ice. “Your mother was torn to pieces by a mob of deserting soldiers.”

  “Torn to pieces?” His mouth was dry.

  “I think that is the least offensive way of putting it. Do you wish me to spell it out? They were the same soldiers who soon afterwards overran Bolugayen,” Priscilla said. “If it is any consolation to you, Alexei hanged them all a year later when he retook the place for the Whites.” She half smiled. “A year ago. How long ago that seems.”

  “You say they also overran Bolugayen. But...”

  This time Priscilla’s smile was twisted. “Oh, yes, Joseph. They overran me as well. But they didn’t tear me to pieces while doing so. I didn’t resist them, you see.” Priscilla might have been talking to herself. “I suppose some would say I should have done, and died with honour. But I had my children to think of. So I chose to survive.” Her chin came up. “Alexei understands that. And I at least had the pleasure of watching them hanged.”

  Joseph looked at his empty glass, and she got up and took it to refill it. He could not stop himself from staring at her back, and imagining all of that beauty in the hands of a mob intent only upon rape. She had refilled her own glass, as well. “So,” she said. “When are you leaving?”

  “I don’t know. There seems to be an awful muddle. They said you might be able to help me.”

  “Yes, of course. I know General Denikin. I’ll get you the necessary papers. But it will still be a day or two. You’ll stay here.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t...” while his mind was screaming, yes please!

  “You must. You’re family. There’s not a lot of room. Grishka can move in with the children and you can have her bed. You will not mind this?”

  “Of course not. But surely I could sleep in here? I do not wish to turn her out.”

  “Grishka will not mind,” Priscilla said.

  Grishka moved her things into the nursery. By the time he had moved himself into the maid’s room, Priscilla had written a letter, which she sent Grishka out to deliver. “She will be heartily glad when I have gone again,” Joseph remarked. “I am quite disrupting her routine.”

  Priscilla smiled. “She is glad of the break in her routine.”

  “Was she with you at Bolugayen?”

  “Yes.”

  He bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “For asking so many questions. For arousing so many horrible memories.”

  “Do you imagine I can ever forget them? Anyway, remembering is necessary, until the Reds have been wiped out.”

  Joseph instinctively raised his head, and realised that Anna was listening. Now she saw him looking at her. “I saw a man making love to Mummy,” she said. “He made her take off all her clothes and lie on the floor.” Joseph swallowed. “And he did that to Priscilla, too,” Anna added.

  Joseph looked at the Princess, who gave one of her little shrugs. “We were lucky. It was only one man, the Reds’ commander. He wanted us both. Now children, let’s all go for a walk.”

  She obviously wanted the subject closed, at least in the presence of the children. But it was not a subject that could ever be closed.

  By the time they returned from their walk, Grishka had also returned, with a letter from General Denikin himself. It was addressed to the Princess. “You are to report to the General tomorrow morning, when you will be formally commissioned into the Army of the Don, given a uniform
, and a permit to travel to the front.” She raised her head. “Does that satisfy you?”

  “Entirely. I am most grateful.”

  “The General has a high regard for Alexei. And thus for all Bolugayevskis. And I told him of your war experience on the Western Front. So your visit with us will be a brief one.”

  “Am I allowed to come back?”

  She gave one of her glorious smiles. “I sincerely hope you will, Cousin Joseph.” He wondered why she had found it necessary to insert the ‘Cousin.’

  The children were fed early and put to bed, then Priscilla poured herself and Joseph a glass of champagne each. “Time was when we drank nothing else,” she explained.

  “I remember.”

  “Of course you do. Now we are down to a few bottles. But we must celebrate your appearance in our midst. You did serve on the Western Front?”

  “For a year.”

  “And are you a hero?”

  He grinned. “I have the Military Cross.”

  “Oh, splendid! Alexei will be so pleased to have you with him. If I gave you a letter for him, would you deliver it for me?”

  “It would be a great privilege.”

  They lapsed into silence, and she topped up their glasses. “Time also was when we never used the same glass twice,” she said. “Do you remember that too?”

  “Very clearly.” He could hold his tongue no longer. “I can also remember Grandmama Anna, very clearly.” He gave a guilty laugh. “She terrified me.”

  “I think Anna terrified most people,” Priscilla said. “Even the men who murdered her. The fact that she was seventy-nine would have made no difference to those animals. But she was lucky. She died very quickly, with a revolver in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. It is difficult to imagine Grandmama dying any other way. The others weren’t quite so lucky. The Princess Dowager Nathalie and your Aunt Sophie were both murdered. Dagmar, Nathalie’s daughter, got away but as we have never heard of her since I have no doubt she was murdered as well. Do you remember her?”

  “Very well.”

  Grishka announced that dinner was served. Afterwards, Priscilla did produce her precious bottle of brandy. “You really shouldn’t,” he protested. “Not for me.”

  “Especially for you. You are family. The first family I have seen for a long time. Daddy wants me to go back to the States with the children. But of course I cannot desert Alexei. And I want to see the Reds beaten. And destroyed.” She flushed, and glanced at him. “That’s not very ladylike, is it.”

  “It is entirely understandable.”

  “Do you know, I have never talked about that time. It hasn’t been possible, because there hasn’t been anyone who could understand. Least of all my father or my brother. To understand, one had to have been there. I don’t mean at the time of the Revolution. But before, when our world was such a wonderful place to live in. Daddy and Jimmy never understood that. They didn’t approve of things like tsars and nobles owning thousands of acres of land and being omnipotent over their people.” She gave a quick smile. “Maybe I didn’t either, until I actually came to Russia. The point is, you see, that no matter how sympathetic they might try to be, there would always be an element of, well, you had it coming. I couldn’t stand that.” She gave him an anxious glance, suddenly realising that she had no idea if he also might feel she had had it coming; he was an outchild in every way.

  “I understand,” he said. “I thought Bolugayen was the most wonderful place on earth when I visited it in 1911.”

  She gave a little sigh of satisfaction. “Tell me what you remember about it.”

  “Oh...the space. The meals that marvellous chef used to make. What was his name again?”

  “Boris.”

  “Boris. And Cousin Colin...” he hesitated. He had been afraid to ask.

  “Colin is with Alexei. He is his aide-de-camp. He is a fine boy.” Another brief silence. But they both know what had to be mentioned next. “Do you remember his mother? Sonia?” Priscilla asked.

  “Very well.”

  “Was she not the most beautiful woman you had ever seen?”

  “The most beautiful brunette,” he said without thinking, and bit his lip.

  Priscilla smiled. “I think you are being kind, or thinking of Grandmama.”

  “I didn’t know you and the Princess Sonia...oh, lord, I beg your pardon.”

  “Why should you do that, Joseph? Sonia was Princess Bolugayevska. I never denied her that title. That I replaced her was the decision of Alexei. Do you know anything about that?”

  “There was some talk of an affair. I didn’t know you had ever met her.”

  “I do not believe there ever was an affair, at least until after her divorce. It was all rumour, but sufficient to cause a great scandal. Yes, I met her. She took refuge on Bolugayen when the Revolution began. And as Anna reminded us this afternoon, she was beside me when we were both raped. She was also with your mother when Patricia died. But she escaped on that occasion.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I have no idea, I’m afraid. She stayed with us all the time we were prisoners of the Reds on Bolugayen, then when we were rescued by Alexei she wished to go away on her own. She went to the Red headquarters in Poltava.”

  “Why did she do that?” Joseph was astonished.

  Priscilla shrugged. “She said it was to save our lives. Alexei’s regiment was very nearly surrounded by the Reds, and she said she could gain us the time to get out. She claimed to have some kind of a hold on this man Trotsky, who commands the Red armies. So Alexei let her go. I imagine he knew, as she knew, that the three of us could hardly form a menage a trois, that if she stayed with us there would always be scandal. Anyway, she disappeared. I do not know if she actually helped us to escape. We never heard of her again. I doubt she survived. I suspect the Reds shot her.”

  “That is very tragic.”

  “Yes. She was a tragic woman.” Priscilla gazed at him. “But she has not had a monopoly on tragedy.”

  “I’m sorry. I did not mean to upset you.”

  “You have not. Well...” she stood up. “There you have the story of your mother’s tragedy. All of our tragedies. Now you have something to fight for.”

  Joseph lay awake, staring into the darkness. He had plunged into a world of extremes, far greater than anything he had previously experienced. He supposed war always was a matter of extremes, but somehow in France it had not been extremes of hatred and vengeance, but extremes of heroism and cowardice, filth and horror, and above all exhaustion, mental and physical. But one knew that those things were shared with the enemy. Perhaps, after three years of war, both sides in 1918 had been too exhausted to hate, to do more than wonder at the ineptitude of the politicians and their generals who seemed unable to end it all. The people of Germany and Italy, Austria-Hungary, France and England were just too civilised to take hatred to extremes.

  Russia was different. Russia was the great, untamed, unfathomable East. And for all the veneer of civilisation — which consisted entirely of suppressing one’s true feelings for fear of hurting or annoying those with whom one lived — applied by his stepfather, he was a part of it. As had Mother been part of it. Russia was a huge swirl of emotions rather than ideas, and Mother had plunged back into the maelstrom because she was part of it, and had been swallowed up by it. Was he now going to do the same?

  The real absurdity was that both Mother and Father — his real father — had been anarchists and revolutionaries. Father had died in exile. Mother had escaped and attempted to turn her back on that turbulent past. But she had not succeeded. Now he was volunteering to fight for a side that was determined to put an end to all revolution and all revolutionaries. He should be fighting for Lenin, not Alexei Bolugayevski. And to crown it all, he had fallen in love with Alexei’s wife! Every time he closed his eyes and composed himself for sleep her face swam in front of him, laughing, serious, but more often screaming in terror as men tore off her clothing. That was p
ure imagination; he had not seen it happen. But he could not get it out of his mind. Just as he could not forget that while she was twenty-nine years younger than Alexei, she was only four years older than himself. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen! But a woman who could talk of murder and mayhem, of being raped and watching men hang, without a blush or the slightest embarrassment. There was the true measure of what the past five years of unending conflict had done, even to a Boston schoolgirl.

  *

  “Turn around,” Priscilla commanded. Joseph obeyed. “Very smart,” the Princess commented. Joseph supposed he did look smart in his white tunic with its matching cap, his green breeches, and his black boots.

  “And very handsome, Your Highness,” Grishka remarked.

  “Oh, indeed,” Priscilla agreed. “Don’t you think so, Anna?”

  Anna sniffed. Joseph got the impression that she did not really like him. “I’m going to be a soldier, as soon as I’m old enough,” Alexei confided.

  “And you’ll look just as handsome, Your Excellency,” Grishka said, loyally.

  “Of course he will,” Priscilla agreed. “Run along, now, children.”

  Grishka ushered them from the room and Priscilla went to the sideboard and took out another bottle of champagne from the cold box. Instantly Joseph was beside her. “Let me do that for you. If you really think we should.”

  “Of course we should. It is not every day a Bolugayevski goes off to war. What time is your train?”

  Joseph got the cork off, champagne frothed out of the neck and he hastily poured. Priscilla then raised her glass. “I leave at four o’clock,” he said.

  She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Two hours. Have you eaten?”

  “Yes. I knew I’d be late back.”

  “It is good of you to come back at all,” she remarked, and sat down. “I drink to us.”

  “Indeed.” He sat opposite her, gazed at her legs, draped carelessly one across the other. In England, skirts were resuming the climb they had begun just before the war, perhaps assisted by the greater freedom granted to women by the war. Such emancipation had not yet reached Russia, and all he got was a glimpse of black boots. But as the late September weather remained warm she was wearing muslin and the shape of her legs was clearly visible.