Lenin's Harem Read online

  Bats closed up the back of the wagon, the usual respect long vacant from his eyes.

  *****

  The wagon steered out a wide path toward the main road. On the embankment above, the whole manor: roof, central tower, and surrounding rooms were now in flames. The arching windows glowed like the eyes of madmen. Echo after thunderous echo shook the countryside as the support beams cracked and fell to earth.

  Anne leaned forward to Otomars: ‘Where can we go?’

  ‘I’m thinking, Anne. We need to be away before they decide to put bricks against our heads.’

  Familiar-faced children ran after us, throwing stones at the wagon. One hit Mother in the throat and she crumpled over. Even that violence didn’t rouse Father from wherever he was.

  ‘It’s not serious,’ said Anne, checking Mother’s neck, ‘only a bruising, I’m certain.’

  ‘If we had had our gun…’ I began to strike Otomars, landing heavy blows between his shoulder blades. ‘Traitor!’

  ‘Stop it Wiktor!’ Anne screamed.

  Moving both reins into his left hand, Otomars reached around and grabbed my torso in a bear lock, pulling me over the gunwhale to his seat. My head locked between bicep and forearm, he whispered in a calm voice:

  ‘Wiktor, what are you doing?’

  Rage filled me, rage at my helplessness before the mob, at my helplessness before my brother. ‘You gave away our gun, our only chance.’

  He kept his eyes on the road, but pressed his lips against my ear.

  ‘Giving away the rifle was our only chance, Wiktor.’

  Firmly he set me back into the body of the wagon, Anne tugging me down by the collar, forcing me to the floor-bed. ‘Sit still, Wiktor.’

  Otomars glanced back at her. ‘Anne, where should we go?’

  ‘The Meer estate. Albrecht’s family.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking as well.’

  Otomars clicked the reins and the wagon jolted forward. When Anne at last released me, I drifted to the back, climbing past our parents. I sat there silently, trying to calm myself, to understand what was happening.

  There were shapes in the darkness, figures on horseback trailing the wagon. An escort or did they mean to rob us? To murder us out of sight from the others?

  ‘Otomars, there are men behind us.’

  ‘I know, Wiktor. I know. Help Anne tend to Mother.’

  We moved along for hours, silent except for hoof clatter and Mother’s sorrowful cries. Up ahead, a slowly spinning axis of purple-grey smoke dominated the night time horizon. The great column, like the clouds above it, bathed in a jumping orange and yellow. In eleven years, I’d never seen anything so immense. Still kilometers away, I could smell the burnt timbers from here.

  People were scattered along the roads moving in the opposite direction as us. Some carried baskets, others assorted household goods: silver teapots, lamp stands, bird cages. Two men passed by with a large rug rolled up between them, a woman’s dress across one’s shoulders, a riding helmet atop the other’s head.

  Anne twisted the hem of her dress in hand until it tore. ‘Albrecht.’

  We’d never make it. The roads were too congested.

  Otomars stopped the wagon, turned around on his seat. ‘Father where should we go? It looks like something has happened up ahead.’

  He answered, saying something under his breath.

  ‘Pardon me Father? I didn’t hear.’

  ‘A man has a right to defend his home, Otomars. You had no authority to take that from me.’

  Otomars was silent for a long time. ‘I’m sorry, Father. It didn’t seem you were thinking.’

  His voice was barely audible. ‘Well if you’re doing the thinking, you decide. I don’t care.’

  ‘Father?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Papa?’

  It seemed to me something died in our father that night.

  Otomars caressed his brow, voice grave and breaking. ‘Anne? Where to now?’

  ‘I don’t know, Otomars.’ She too, sounded as if tears were going to claim her. ‘Where are there soldiers? The Richter’s manor?’

  ‘Several hours at least. We shouldn’t stay on these roads. We could go north?’

  ‘Baron Kaltenbach, then?’

  His reply was slow coming. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Kaltenbach then.’

  Otomars turned the carriage around and we headed for the north fork in the road.

  *****

  As the night waned, there was no refuge from the choking haze. Everywhere there were orange bellied clouds and columns of smoke. It seemed people were always close by, yelling, shouting, screaming; all unseen in the thick gloom, the encroaching night alive with sounds. More than once we saw the dancing lights of torch bearers prowling through the nearby fields.

  Soon we would know. This night was only the first.

  Two hundred manors burned that winter.

  Chapter Four

  February, 1906

  The fish swam round and round in the great wooden trough. Pike, carp, perch and catfish in a variety of sizes from tiny ones half the length of my little finger to monsters as long as my forearm. This was a pleasant place; tunneled into a hillside, cool in summer, warm in winter. The trickle of flowing water, running down wooden ramps from the ceiling into all the troughs gave a calming, tranquil relief to the mind. I had sat here for hours watching the fish in Baron Kaltenbach’s hatchery. A smokeless fireplace in the corner gave just enough illumination. The flame light sparkled on the fish scales and off the water’s surface, giving the whole room a magical, glowing faerie-like aura. A stranger would never have imagined how brutal the winter was outside.

  I heard footfalls on stone steps. ‘Wiktor,’ cried out Anne.

  She appeared in the entranceway, her head barely clearing the low arch. The light from the fire reflected off the water onto my sister’s form, bestowing on her an enchanted glow, as if she were some elfin queen come to take me to wondrous realms.

  ‘Wiktor,’ said this enchantress, ‘they’re back. You need to come in now.’

  I followed her up the stairs, the cold gathering as we ascended, the biting Baltic winds sweeping over us as we stepped out of the cellar onto the surface.

  Ahead, the baron’s estate rolled away across open hills, crossing frozen streams and horse-huddled stables, before finally disappearing into acres of untouched forest. The snow trampled away by the boots of many men, the only virgin frost lay atop high tree limbs and across the expansive roof of the distant manor house. At our feet, the ground remained an ugly mix of brown and grey, the winter landscape scarred with creeping boot-prints.

  The Kaltenbach holdings were numerous, many, many times those of our father. It took a full ten minutes to walk across to the residences. Everywhere there were clumps of men: Selbst-schutz mercenaries hired by the baron to keep his lands safe from revolution. As we passed their bonfires, each guard’s hands and face turned toward the reviving flames, I could see the rifles across their backs and the ‘skinner’ knives hung at their belts. One painfully familiar fellow tipped his feathered cap as we passed.

  Was he enough? Were these men enough? To protect us from all of Latvia?

  *****

  A few minutes later I sat with Anne, wrapped together in an itchy wool blanket, warm within the blue and mahogany opulence of the Kaltenbach’s baroque dining hall. The baron and his wife, Angelika, sat solemnly at opposite ends of the chamber, our parents on an ornate couch between. Their twenty-year old son, Erich, thin with a mane of curly black hair, leaned against the hearth, coffee in hand, repeating the news for Anne and me.

  ‘I can only say that it was dramatic. The Russian forces were exceptional. They had no trouble overcoming any resistance the Letts put up. Really, it felt more like a hunting party. The danger was greatly exaggerated; we encountered nothing to give us pause.’

  Erich, Otomars and our father had ridden off with the Russian expeditionary fo
rces to put down the Latvian revolt weeks ago. Two days after embarking, Father had returned, claiming he could no longer stomach the task. Since, he’d spent most of his time in his room. As far as I knew, he’d said nothing more on the matter.

  Erich and Otomars had just returned. Our brother languishing in his quarters to change, Erich rushing in here to tell the tale still attired in muddy riding gear.

  The ancient baron, too creaky and stiff for long conversation, croaked a rare question: ‘Are you quite convinced Erich that you broke their will to fight?’

  ‘In Courland, I am certain. We took our leave when the troops turned north, Father.’

  ‘Then perhaps we can disband some of these Selbst-schutz men. These guards are costing a fortune.’ His smiled assumed agreement.

  ‘Is that premature?’ asked the baroness. ‘Erich says there are still brigands in Livland and…’

  The baron raised a skeletal hand: ‘Silence!’ And the room went so. When this brittle, reed of a man rasped this word all discussion was over. It was a strange, almost medieval mannerism from him but one that none dared challenge in his home. Our family’s tenuous future hung upon obedience to his most eccentric fancies.

  Everyone sat there uncomfortably, listening to the snapping and popping from the hearth, until the Silence! was broken by the creak of a door.

  ‘Otomars!’ exclaimed Anne, and she left the warmth of our blanket to embrace him. Everyone peeked from the corners of their eyes to see if the baron took offence, but he only smiled and said ‘Welcome.’ Discourse was once again permissible.

  Realizing his ill manners, Otomars bowed before the baron, kissed him appropriately on the hand and elbow in submissive greeting. The recent ordeal had clearly worn on my brother, lines across his forehead, his eyes puffy and red. With his widow’s peak and oval face, he looked far older than his eighteen years. Otomars asked a servant for a drink and refused all invitations to discuss his journey. It was only when he had received his cognac and was pressed by the baron himself that he agreed to answer questions.

  ‘I am sure Erich has relayed most of the events, what can I possibly add?’ His voice was worn thin, as if this were a retelling he’d sooner avoid.

  ‘How did the Russian officers treat you? Were they hospitable?’ queried our mother.

  Otomars stood back from the baron, found a place to lean near the hearth, the firelight dancing off his face. ‘Fine, fine, Mother. They know how important our taxes are to Tsar Nicholas.’

  ‘Don’t be cynical, Otomars.’

  The baron squinted in the chamber’s light, his raspy voice carrying through the hall: ‘When you met the Lettish army in the field…’

  To the family horror, Otomars dared to interrupt him. ‘Army?’ He flashed a quizzical look at Erich. ‘There was no army, sir. A mob here or there. We had no one to defeat, they’d all gone home.’

  The old lord seemed confused. His son tried to answer: ‘Surely, Otomars that group at Kronauce?’

  ‘Two dozen farmers? Hardly an army Erich.’

  Mother’s voice was cracking: ‘But the land is secure, Otomars?’

  ‘This was a punitive expedition, Mother. Punishment exclusively. We’ve done nothing these past few days to be proud of.’

  Anne wrung the blanket in her hands. ‘What did they do, Otomars?’

  He turned away, looking back at our sister through a mirror on the wall. ‘We burned their schools, their churches, their granaries.’ He took another drink. ‘We….’

  Erich burst out with praise: ‘Let me say, Otomars was magnificent. When they rounded up the Lettish prisoners, he picked their leaders out of the mob. Those that attacked your manor, organizers on the roads...’ He turned to our parents. ‘Shaved whiskers, low hats, it didn’t matter. They couldn’t hide. What an eye for detail your boy has!’

  Mother seemed proud, our father unmoved. Otomars only stared at the wall, his eyes avoiding the mirror.

  Erich continued: ‘The army put them on trial immediately. Even two right in a wheat field for God’s sake. They were hanged, when? I’d say not an hour later.’

  ‘Not an hour later,’ Otomars softly repeated, his reflection haunted by something far away. He took another drink.

  My sister pulled the blanket close: ‘Are you sure they were the right men?’

  ‘Of course he is!’ proclaimed Erich.

  ‘Who were they?’ asked Anne. ‘Can you recall them Otomars?’

  ‘Kelers, Rihards Abelts, Andris Jansons. Bats was involved too.’

  All names I’d known, the faces of childhood. All traitors? All since executed? It seemed impossible. ‘Why did we kill them, if they didn’t kill us?’ I asked.

  A hush fell over the hall. Everyone stared at me as if I had no right to speak. Finally Mother said, ‘Oh, Wiktor, don’t be naïve. We could have died in the fire.’

  The others brushed aside my question, but my brother did not: ‘He’s right…He’s right. The next revolution will be bloodier. They won’t spare us a second time.’ There was a terrifying finality in his voice.

  Anne shivered against me inside the blanket. ‘Otomars, you don’t think this can happen again?’

  He said nothing. Erich answered for him: ‘I think they’ve learned their lesson.’

  ‘Otomars?’

  ‘I don’t know Anne. I hope not.’ He finished the drink, ordered another, turned back around. ‘We were lucky for the tsar’s men’, then realizing his omission, ‘and the baron’s, of course.’

  *****

  I stood outside with my brother watching the people pass by in Riga’s Herder Square. It was one of those bright warm late winter days, the sun glaring off the snowed roofs of the city’s center; the world seemed made of only three colors: blazing white, purest blue, and the soft red of brick.

  There were Russian troops everywhere, searching pedestrians, breaking up discussions, watching from street corners. Even Otomars and I had been frisked – twice! – while waiting for our father’s meeting to finish. Otomars said they were looking for revolvers and mistook us for Letts, rather than proper, landowning Baltic-Germans. It seemed to me the soldiers didn’t care who we were as long as we obeyed.

  Even with all the troops present, these Riga Latvians still walked about as if nothing had happened. As if their crimes of the night were forgotten in the light of day. The very normalcy with which they acted enraged me. As though they thought justice had somehow actually been served and no atonement needed.

  My anger increased when I saw men carrying signs. Signs written in all three languages with words like: ‘Higher Wages for Mill Workers;’ ‘Support Land Reform’ and ‘A Latvian Nation. Now!’ Had they learned nothing? The soldiers frequently broke them up, but to my shock more often they let them continue. Silently, I wished punishment on the whole Lettish race.

  Until I saw them. Father being so tardy, Otomars had taken us through a back street to purchase some luncheon fruit. On the way to this market, we passed a small plaza. Three men were being marched to the gallows right in front of us. A crowd stood about shouting obscenities in German and Russian. The condemned walked up the stairs, without swagger, without purpose. Not defiant as I envisioned rebels, empowered by martyrdom, but frightened, meek, contrite. These men did not want to die. One man was begging for mercy in Latvian, he kept falling into a fetal position, kicking with his feet until they carried him up the stairs. Another repeated ‘My God, my God,’ in Russian. One, he seemed the oldest with a long full-beard, began to shout out something, his voice muffled as the hood was pulled down over his head. I remember how the end of his beard stuck out from underneath, how it flew up as his body fell, and how it fluttered in the wind while he hung limp swinging like a clock pendulum. I was surprised I felt no relief with their passing; no vindication nor closure, only a sickly sort of waste in the pit of my stomach like the harbinger of a coming flu. It was not at all what I expected.

  We met Father twenty minutes later, an equally sick expression on his face
.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ asked Otomars.

  He took in a deep breath, held it, as if to pass one more moment when the secret was still his alone. Then he slowly released, and his soul seemed to come with it: ‘The insurance will not be paid. The company has folded.’ He half-heartedly reached out to put an arm on my shoulder, but mid-effort let it fall aside.

  ‘There are too many claims.’

  *****

  Late at night, candle in hand, I tiptoed through the upper level of the baron’s manor toward my brother’s bedroom. The narrow hall was cold as outdoors, my toes icicles little warmed by the thin strip of carpet below my feet. Down this silent path I passed through history. A stern bust of the baron’s great-grandfather on my left, another of some fellow called Cicero on the right, and ahead, the ancient Archbishop Albert of Riga’s antiquity, a must in the homes of the richer Baltic barons. These three ghosts my only companions at the midnight hour.

  The walls about me were a mosaic of black rectangles framed in dusty bronze. Dark oil paintings faded over hundreds of years depicting wide landscapes and wider battle scenes, all populated by great men with the Teutonic Cross on their shields. Our ancestors, the Livonian Crusaders from the thirteenth century, conquering these lands, bringing religion to the Cours, Letts, Livs and other tribes of the region, saving their souls eternal.

  They’d repaid us this winter.

  As I neared Otomars’s door, I found relatively recent subjects. The rich dukes of Courland from a few hundred years ago, standing on docks with sugar sacks and bananas, shrewdly appraising the goods from their colonies in the New World and Africa. Monies earned that went to the pope, and after him to foreign emperors, kings and princes in places I could never name. It didn’t matter. The German landowners ruled the countryside – day to day at least. In the eighteenth century the Russians had come and our tributes shifted to St. Petersburg. Nothing else changed.