Simon Montefiore: Sashenka

Zeitlin was losing his patience. “That’s enough, Ariadna.” He switched to Yiddish so the servants could not understand. “Stop lolling there like a chorus girl, dammit! We’re talking about Sashenka.” He switched back to Russian, casting a black glance around the disorderly room: “Girls! Leave us alone!” Zeitlin knew that his tempers were as rare as they were fearsome and the three maids abandoned the dresses and jewels and curling tongs and scurried out.

“Was that really necessary?” asked Ariadna, her voice quivering, tears welling in her kohl-smeared eyes.

But Zeitlin was all business. “Are you seeing Rasputin?”

“Yes, I’m visiting the Elder Grigory tonight. After midnight. Don’t speak of him in that mocking tone, Samuil. When Dr. Badaev’s Mongolian lama hypnotized me at the House of Spirits, he said I needed a special teacher. He was right. The Elder Grigory helps me, nourishes me spiritually. He says I’m a gentle lamb in a metal world, and that you crush me. You think I’m happy in this house?”

“We’re here to talk about Sashenka,” he protested, but Ariadna’s voice was rising.

“Remember, Samuil, when we used to go to the ballet, every set of binoculars was aimed at me, not the stage? ‘What is Baroness Zeitlin wearing? Look at her eyes, her jewels, her lovely shoulders…’ When the officers looked at me, they thought, There’s a fine racehorse, a Thoroughbred—it might be worth having a guilty conscience for that one! Weren’t you proud of me then, Samuil? And now—just look at me!”

Zeitlin stood up angrily. “This is not about you, Ariadna. Try to remember we’re talking about our child!”

“I’m sorry. I’m listening…”

“Mendel’s back from exile.” He saw her shrug. “Oh, so you knew that? Well, he’s probably played some part in our daughter’s incarceration.”

He knelt down beside the divan and took her hands. “Look, Protopopov doesn’t control things. Even Premier Sturmer has no influence—he’s about to be replaced. Everything’s in the hands of the Empress and Rasputin. So this time I want you to go to Rasputin’s—I need you to go there! I’m delighted you have access, and I don’t care how long you spend being pawed by the sacred peasant. Tell him he’s in luck tonight. Only you can do this, Ariadna. Just get in there and petition all of them—Rasputin, the Empress’s friends, whoever, to get Sashenka out!”

“You’re sending me on a mission?” Ariadna shook herself like a cat flicking off rain.

“Yes.”

“Me on a political mission? I like the sound of that.” She paused and Zeitlin could almost hear the wheels turning as she came to a decision. “I’ll show you what a good mama I am.” She rose from the divan and pulled the braid cord by her side. “Girls—get back in here! I’ve got to look my best.” The maids returned, looking gingerly at Zeitlin. “And what will you be doing, Samuil?”

“I’m going to hold my nose and go to Prince Andronnikov’s. They’ll all be there.”

Ariadna seized Zeitlin’s face between her hands. Her spicy breath and tuberose scent made his eyes water.

“You and me on a mission, Samuil!”

Despite the coarseness of her skin—the mark of drink and opium—her face, he thought, was still magnificent; the bruised lips, the overbite and long upper lip utterly, selfishly greedy; her shoulders and legs still superb despite the protuberant belly. Whatever her flaws, Ariadna had the look of a woman to whom rough pleasure came almost too easily, as easily as bruises to a ripe peach. Now, with the kohl on her eyes smeared with tears, she looked like a drugged Cleopatra. “Samuil, can I take the Russo-Balt?”

“Done,” said Zeitlin, happy for her to use the limousine. He stood up and kissed her.

Ariadna gave a little shiver of pleasure, opened the top of her diamond and gold clock, took an Egyptian cigarette out of the hidden compartment, and looked up at him with eyes that held the echo of empty rooms.

Thinking how she had become like a lost child and blaming himself, he lit her cigarette and then the cold cigar he was holding.

“I’ll be off then,” he said, watching her inhale and then open her lips to let the blue smoke dance its way out.

“Good luck, Samuil,” she called after him.

He did not want to be late for Prince Andronnikov—Sashenka’s welfare depended on him—yet he stopped and glanced back before he closed the door.

“How does this look? And this? Look, it moves as I walk. See, Galya?” Ariadna was laughing as the maids bustled around her. “Don’t you agree, Nyuna, Worth’s dresses put the rest to shame! I can’t wait for them to see this at the Aquarium…”

With a sinking heart, Zeitlin realized that the moment his wife left the house she would forget all about him and Sashenka.

Throughout the night, Sashenka clung to Natasha’s whale-like bulk.

The older woman snored and when she turned over she pushed Sashenka, who was almost too afraid to move, off the mattress. Sashenka lay there, her hips ground into the freezing stone floor, but grateful just to be next to Natasha, safe. Her mouth felt as if it were ballooning where she had been hit, and her hands were shaking. She was still afraid the monster would hit her again—or maybe she would come and stab her in a frenzy during the night? They would all have knives. Sashenka peered through the semidarkness at the tangle of female bodies—one half naked with bare shriveled breasts and long nipples like bottle stoppers—sensing the heat and rot rising around her. She prayed someone would come soon to rescue her.

Lanterns flickered outside the cell, as a guard double-locked the doors. A cleaner mopped the corridors. The smell of naphtha and disinfectant temporarily defeated that of piss and shit, but not for long. Sashenka hoped every grunt and creak and slam signaled her deliverance, but no one came. The interminable night stretched out before her, cold, frightening, hostile.

“We got a message on the cell telegraph that you were coming,” Natasha had whispered to Sashenka. “We’re almost family, you and I. I’m your uncle Mendel’s wife. We met in exile. I bet you didn’t know he married a Yakut? Yes, a real Siberian. Oh, I see—you didn’t know he was married at all. Well, that’s Mendel for you, the born conspirator. I didn’t even know he had a niece until today. Anyway, he trusts you. Keep your wits about you: there are always opportunities…”

Now Natasha grunted and heaved in her sleep, saying something in her native language. Sashenka remembered that Yakuts believed in shamans and spirits. A woman shouted, “I’ll cut your throat!” Another whimpered, “Lost…lost…lost.” There was a brawl in the men’s cell next door; someone was wounded, and guards dragged him away groaning and brought a mop to clean up. Doors opened and slammed. Sashenka listened to consumptive coughing and squelching bowels, the footsteps of the guards, and the bubbling of Natasha’s stomach. She could not quite believe this was happening to her. Even though Sashenka was proud to be there, the fear, the stink and the endless night were making her desperate. Yet hadn’t Uncle Mendel told her prison was a rite of passage? And what had Natasha the Yakut whispered before she fell asleep? Yes: “Mendel trusts you!”

It was because of Mendel that she was here, because of their meeting the previous summer. The family’s summers were spent at Zemblishino, an estate south of the city near the Warsaw Highway. Jews were not allowed to live in the capital or own property unless they were merchant princes like Baron Zeitlin. Sashenka’s father owned not only the mansion in town but also the manor house with white pillars, the woodlands and the park. Sashenka knew that her father was not the only Jewish magnate in St. Petersburg. Another Jewish baron, Poliakoff, the railway king, lived in Prince Menshikov’s old red-brick palace, the first house built in Peter the Great’s new city, on the new quay almost opposite the Winter Palace.