Natalie Tereshchenko - The Other Side Read online

  "I was so worried that you would think I was in on the lies," she said as we resumed clearing the table. "After all, I kept trying to persuade you to go along with her plan."

  "The idea never entered my head," I assured her. I followed her into the kitchen, and we began to wash the plates. "To be honest, I'm glad to be able to cross one name off my list of problems. I can wipe Sofiya from my mind, and concentrate on my priority ~ finding Max."

  * * *

  Over the following few days, the little team of Aleksandra, Anna and I finished preparing the centre, put up a sign over the front doors, and began to welcome our first guests. At first, there were few customers, but as the days passed and word spread, more and yet more arrived. By day three we were rushed off our feet from dawn to dusk, and I helped with anything I could, hoping it would take my mind off my growing depression over Max's non-appearance. It didn't.

  Instead, every time someone entered through those big oak doors, my eyes were drawn to them, my mind assessing at once, from a distance, if they were tall enough to be him, or wide enough, or blonde enough.

  Also on day three, Aleksandra held her first class for the children, in the room that had once been the nuns' chapel.

  "Is all this charity work part of your job?" I asked at the end of the day, when we were in the car taking me home.

  She laughed. "No, it's my hobby. The rest of my time is taken up with Party work, travelling up and down the country, talking to women's groups."

  She seemed to be more important than I had realised. "What is your job?" I asked, all innocence.

  "I run the Women's Commissariat, part of the government," she replied, looking at me oddly. "Did you not know?"

  I was embarrassed at my ignorance. "No, I'm sorry. I have been rather out of things for a while."

  "Oh, I'm not put out, I didn't mean to sound critical. It's nice that someone just wants to be part of what I'm doing without knowing who I am."

  "I'm enjoying it," I said sincerely. "The truth is that I have time on my hands and I need a job."

  As the driver stopped the car outside Sacha's apartment, she seemed to be deep in thought for a moment, before saying: "You can always work with me, I'm glad to have you on the team, but my department has no money, I cannot pay you any wages. However, one of my colleagues in another department needs a secretary; I could introduce you, if you like."

  I smiled. "That would be wonderful, thank you. And I would still like to help you whenever I can."

  She looked me in the eye. "Gladly, there is still much work to be done, not just in the soup kitchen, but in other areas of need, too. You could find that some of it will break your heart."

  I nodded. "I'm beginning to see that, but my heart tells me that I must try."

  "See you tomorrow, then," she grinned as I clambered out.

  Chapter 7

  ~ Thursday 1 August 1918 ~

  A man entered the dining hall and stood looking around the room. As always, tuned to every arrival, I checked ~ it wasn't Max. For a while he didn't move, blocking the doorway as he took in the scene.

  The place was busy, in the way to which we had become accustomed; we had few quiet spells. People pushed impatiently past him as they arrived or departed, chairs scraped, crockery clattered, voices droned, some raised in anger or laughter.

  I could not help noticing him; he stood out from the crowd, for some reason I could not immediately resolve. It wasn't his build ~ he was as thin as any of them ~ nor was he any taller. He appeared to be about ten years older than me, with a neat little moustache, a beard that looked like a small letter 'w' stuck to his chin, and round spectacles on his nose. His hair was black, thick and curly. His clothes were of good quality, and clean, whereas those of most of the diners had seen better times. They consisted of a military-style jacket ~ high-collared, made of coarse wool, brown, with large, patch pockets. Ex-military wear was not unusual in the dining hall, many of our patrons had been soldiers who, returning home, had found that there were no jobs for them, but his clothes looked new.

  Perhaps it was his eyes, bright and alert, or his confident demeanour ~ unlike the rest of our guests, he did not have the air of a man who had lost everything.

  Eventually, he made his way between the tables and approached the counter that we had built over and around the altar, where I was serving. He picked up a tin tray and placed it in front of me, watching as I ladled some stew into a bowl and set it on his tray, adding a piece of bread and a spoon. Instead of moving on immediately, however, he caught my eye, then smiled. I was taken by surprise and quickly looked down, but smiled shyly in return. Then he was gone, weaving around the tables with his tray until he found an empty seat.

  Anna was nearby, stacking clean dishes. She made a kissing sound with her lips to attract my attention, then grinned at me with raised eyebrows. I stuck out my tongue and turned to serve the next customer.

  When the queue diminished, I relinquished my place at the counter to Anna, and began circulating the tables, picking up abandoned trays and bowls and wiping the surfaces clean. I reached the table where the stranger was sitting, and he caught my eye as he pushed his tray across to me, then indicated with a wave of his hand the empty chair opposite him. "Will you stay for a minute?" His voice was mellow, with a trace of an accent ~ American, perhaps?

  I put my stack of trays and crockery on the table and sat without speaking, unsure of his motive.

  He leaned towards me to speak quietly, as though he did not wish other diners nearby to overhear. "My name is Yakov Sverdlov; Aleksandra has told me that you are looking for a job."

  'Ah,' I thought, 'that explains it.'

  I nodded. "I need to earn a wage. Are you able to offer me something?"

  "Perhaps," he said with a slight twist of his head, a cross between a nod and a shake, "but I do not wish to discuss it here. Can you get away for an hour or two?"

  I looked at the big clock on the wall above the kitchen. Two-thirty. The main rush of diners had passed, though there would be a steady stream all afternoon ~ Anna could manage, and Sacha would not be picking me up until later. "I will have to check with Aleksandra," I said, "but I'm sure she will allow it. Will you wait while I go to see her?"

  He nodded, and leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. I picked up the trays and headed back to the kitchen to tell Anna what was happening, eliciting another smirk, then out of the door and along the corridor to the classroom. There, I quickly explained to Aleksandra, who smiled and gave her consent; she seemed to be expecting it.

  * * *

  As I emerged from the dining hall into the daylight beside Sverdlov, we found that a heavy shower had begun to fall ~ one of those errant clouds that appears unexpectedly from an otherwise unblemished summer sky, sprays warm water over the unprepared, then passes quickly over, moving on to bless a few more souls, before finally running out of ammunition and disappearing over the hills as though it had never existed.

  We stopped in the doorway, and Sverdlov waved to a man, smart in army uniform, who was smoking a cigarette under the awning of a shop across the square. The man quickly dropped the cigarette and ran to an automobile parked nearby. He started the engine and drove to the church steps, then jumped out again and opened the passenger door for us to climb in.

  Soon we were crossing the city. At first, we talked about the weather and the scenery, and Sverdlov asked if I knew Moscow well. I told him my cover story, that I had arrived only a few days earlier, on a pilgrimage from the small community of nuns at Nizhny Novgorod to the famous Marfo-Mariinsky convent.

  He nodded. "Which is now the soup kitchen and refuge. And that has made you homeless and jobless."

  It was my turn to nod. "A friend has taken me in, but I do not want to impose on her kindness any longer than I can help."

  "Of course," he said. "The job I can offer you is secretarial, office work; do you know what that entails, and can you do it?"

  "Oh yes," I answered quickly. "I used to ...
" I stopped suddenly, realising that I was about to say that I used to be secretary to the Duchess Tatiana ~ a slip that could have signed my death warrant. "I used to help the abbess with her office work," I said, instead. "I am literate and numerate, and can use a typewriter and keep accounts." I smiled, trying to appear proud of my achievements instead of flustered at my potentially fatal near-mistake.

  He seemed to be satisfied. "You seem like an ideal candidate. When we reach the Kremlin, I will have to induct you into the Party before I can formally offer you the job, would you be happy with that?"

  "The Kremlin? The Party?"

  My confusion must have been obvious, because he looked at me with an amused expression. "You do not know who I am?"

  Embarrassed, I shook my head. It was beginning to dawn on me that I was mixing with some rather influential people.

  He laughed, and in words not very different from those spoken to me by Aleksandra two days previously, continued: "Do not worry. In fact, it is reassuring. I am not well known, and that suits me. I am Secretary to the Council of People's Commissars."

  "I thought that was Lenin," I replied, trying to show that I at least made an effort to stay aware of events.

  He seemed unimpressed. "He is Chairman of the council, and leader of the Party; I act on his instructions and report back to him. You could say that Comrade Lenin deals with matters of state, while I am responsible for housekeeping ~ day-to-day matters."

  "So my job will be secretary to the Secretary," I grinned. He looked quizzical, and I made a mental note to try to curb my unconventional sense of humour.

  * * *

  We drove along beside the river Moskva for a while, the car tyres making a hissing sound on the damp surface, and I enjoyed the view of the busy waterway. Then we swung north onto one of the elegant bridges that spanned the river, heading towards the Kremlin, sprawling like a sleeping dragon over acres of land, nestled into a curve of the river, a complex of churches, residences, state rooms, shops and offices.

  The Kremlin was originally another royal palace, built and added to by generations of Tsars at enormous expense to the Russian people. I knew of it, but had never been there in all my time with the royal family. The name means 'fortress', and the palace was nothing less than a statement, a declaration of the power of the Romanovs over the citizens.

  A red-and-white barrier blocked the entrance, guarded by soldiers. We stopped, and words passed between our driver and one of the men, who peered into the car through the open window. I heard Sverdlov's name mentioned, then mine. Apparently satisfied, the guard stepped back and the barrier lifted.

  Once through, we drove around the perimeter of Red Square, a great open area at the centre of the complex, flanked by grand buildings, and really more of an unequal trapezium than a square.

  "This is the garrison," Sverdlov informed me as the car cruised slowly past a great slab of a building that dominated one side, "and the Party headquarters. This is where we will enrol you, and where you will work. My office is up there." He pointed towards the rows of windows in the walls above our car.

  I found myself laughing, and shaking my head. I had spent my childhood encased in luxury, hating the disparity between my life and those of the poorer citizens, but now that the royal family was gone the people's representatives replacing it were getting a taste for the good life. "I never imagined that the new order would slip so easily into the shoes of the old," I said, choosing my words carefully.

  He grinned. "Why not? It is rather symbolic, do you not agree?"

  "But you must see the irony of it. All this was stolen from the poor." I waved my hand in a circle to indicate the ostentation all around us.

  "Ah," he responded, wagging a finger. "The difference is that it belongs to all the people now."

  * * *

  The car came to a stop at the entrance to the garrison, and Sverdlov opened his door and hopped out, holding it for me. The sun had re-appeared, peeping from the edge of the shower cloud, creating a rainbow that seemed to rise symbolically from the horizon.

  I slid from my seat and out into the warm afternoon air; wisps of steam rose from the pavement all around in the sunlight that twinkled on droplets hanging like jewels from window-sills and rooftops. I turned to stare across the wide expanse of the square, with Saint Basil's Cathedral away to my left at one end ~ almost ethereal with its beautiful, golden towers ~ and the stunning red-brick structure of the National Historical Museum, looking for all the world like an iced cake, closer, at the other end, on my right. Opposite, the domes of another church reared from a ragged row of rooftops.

  There were sentry boxes beside the entrance to the garrison, and at intervals along the walls, and smartly-uniformed guards were marching slowly between them with that exaggerated step of theirs, stopping when they met, slapping their rifles and turning in a slow-motion pantomime of stamping feet, to march back again.

  A shiver ran through me as I realised that I could finally be coming close to actually taking part in the future of Russia, more than at any other time in my life, despite my privileged upbringing.

  "What is your opinion? Do you want to be part of this?" my companion asked from close beside me, a hint of pride in his voice.

  I started; for a second I had forgotten that he was there. I smiled and nodded.

  "Good. Let's go inside and get you signed up, then," he said, extending an open palm towards the entrance, like a Master of Ceremonies or a tour guide.

  He led me up a couple of steps, through the tall, wide doors and along a corridor, turning eventually into a large hall. There he stayed with me while I filled in my application for Party membership, adding his signature to the form as my sponsor. Then, while I was taken to a room to have my photograph taken, he left to attend to some matters of his own.

  Half an hour later, when he returned, I was still sitting on one of the rows of hard, wooden chairs, among a dozen or so other applicants, waiting for my membership card to be drafted. With a nod and a small smile, he took a seat beside me and we waited together.

  Eventually my name was called and we walked to the little window, where a clerk passed the little red booklet into Sverdlov's outstretched hand. He opened it and flipped the pages, studying the contents, then grinned as he handed it to me. "Welcome to our club."

  I looked at it for a moment, a small object with huge significance for me, a symbol that I had stepped from one side of a line to the other. A cover of red card with, inside, a page setting out my identity details ~ there was the photograph they had taken, and Sverdlov's signature to authorise my membership. I tucked it pensively into the pocket of my dress.

  "I should be getting back to Aleksandra," I told him.

  "Yes, of course; I will arrange a car for you. And I will pick you up from your friend's apartment at eight o'clock on Monday morning to start work."

  I nodded, suddenly nervous. "Thank you for taking me on."

  * * *

  "You're going to work for whom?" Sacha screeched incredulously when I told her about my job on my arrival home. "Is this part of your suicide plan?"

  I shrugged. "I needed to get a job," I mumbled, my excitement squashed.

  "Why? I told you that you can stay with us for as long as you need to. You know I like having you here. Oh, Nata, this is not good. If they find out who you are, your desire to die will be quickly realised."

  "I don't really want to die, Sacha, not any more. And, anyway, he's very nice," was all I could say.

  She glared at me, her head tilted. "Nice? He's the enemy, Nata." She pointed at the world beyond her window. "We are not the same as them. They want to kill us all. I know you sympathise with them, but you are still one of us." Her voice was rising in volume and pitch as her emotions swelled. "Look what they did to Nicholas and Alexandra, to their children ... to the servants for fuck sake!"

  I was stunned as her anger escalated. I had never heard her swear, never seen her mouth so contorted. I turned away and went over to her settee to
sit down, unsure what to say or do. After a moment, she dropped onto the cushion next to me, breathing heavily, and we sat in silence.

  Eventually I took her hand. "Sacha darling, you are a wonderful friend, and I am grateful for all you have done for me. But I can't stay with you forever; your mother is finding it difficult to face me, and, to be honest, it is hard for me to resist telling her how angry I am at her deception, both to me and to you. Anyway, I must start supporting myself soon."

  "I understand what you're saying, Nata, but you don't have to take such a dangerous job. Please wait for something safer to come along."

  "There are not many jobs to be had, Sacha. The economy is in tatters. Besides, as long as I am careful, how can they possibly find out?"

  Chapter 8

  ~ Monday 5 August 1918 ~

  After an uncomfortable weekend, in which Sacha's mother remained locked in her room, refusing to emerge while I was there, I was glad when Monday morning arrived and I prepared for my first day at work. Sverdlov collected me at eight o'clock as arranged, in an army car painted dull brown, green and black in apparently random splotches, with a red star on each door and a flag fluttering at the front. After a short drive, we pulled up at the garrison and he led me through busy corridors ~ where people, mostly men, mostly in uniform, were earnestly going about their business ~ and up two flights of stairs. Eventually, we stopped at a door.

  "This will be your office," he explained, as he breezed in ahead of me.

  It was a surprisingly large room, with the expected desk beneath large windows on the far side, and the walls lined with shelves and tall, grey filing cabinets. A crumpled, worn square of brown-and-green carpet failed to reach the extremities of the floor, leaving bare floorboards exposed around all its edges, while luxurious flocked wallpaper, dotted with grotesque shapes in lurid shades of green, crimson and gold, lurked behind the furniture.

  Using an extended arm and Master of Ceremonies open hand he indicated a door in the wall to our left. "That door takes you to my office," he said. "And that one," indicating a similar one to the right, "is where Aleksandra works when she's here." He grinned, suggesting that she was most often not there. "You will be sharing your time between us. Although my department will be paying your wages, I won't be needing you all the time, and Aleksandra's department has no money, so this is my way of helping her out."