Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Helmut studied his companion a moment, then said slowly, “I hope you will forgive me, Max. For some time I have thought that your devotion to Deutschland and the Thule Bruderschaft and Gesellschaft was superficial, that you were amusing yourself with matters beyond your comprehension. I see now that I was wrong.”
Maximillian blinked and sat a little straighter in the leather-covered seat. “I had not intended to give that impression,” he said a little tightly. “But there are so many dour old men muttering about divining rods and the Sacred Chalice and the rest of it that I want to…”—he lifted his shoulders and his easy smile returned—“There are so many people who would be put off by the sobriety of some of the Bruderschaft. They would see them as men not in touch with the world. If we are to achieve our ends, it must be because all Deutschland flocks to our banner, not because there have been the proper incantations spoken at the dark of the moon. The incantations should be saved for more serious work, not the conversion of the masses.”
“I am not the only one who has underestimated you,” Helmut went on, almost to himself. “You must not be angry with them, Max. In these degrading times it is so tempting to forget our destiny and surrender to the debauchery.” Again Helmut regarded Maximillian without speaking. “The Frei Korps does not appeal to you?”
Maximillian pursed his lips with distaste. “A rabble, full of bullies and braggarts with nothing better to do than harass their betters. It was probably the Frei Korps who killed the Schnaubel woman and the child.”
Helmut winced at that accusation, and he had a sudden vivid recollection of that blood-washed kitchen and the still, broken figures on the floor. “Frei Korps?”
“Well, who else would have done such a thing? Consider, Helmut, how it must appear to those who hear of it. When Frei Korps troops murder, that is their way; there is no … art to it.”
Friedrich had said very much the same thing, Helmut recalled, and Konrad had dismissed the idea as unimportant. Yet clearly this was not the case. Cautiously he said, “I thought I had heard that there were slogans on the wall that pointed to the Spartacists or Communists…”
“A clumsy device,” Maximillian said at once, tremendously pleased that Helmut was paying him so much attention. “Anyone could have done such a thing. Besides, there are few Communists in this part of Bayern, and a good number of Frei Korps. The innkeeper at the Schneeglöckchen in Gmund said last night when he heard of it that it had to be Frei Korps because they would not tolerate anyone killing Jews but themselves. Remember what they did to the Russians. It’s all the same.”
“Yes,” Helmut said slowly. He knew he would have to talk to Friedrich as soon as possible. There were a few telephones at Bad Wiessee, and he might be able to call München before …
“Helmut!” Maximillian repeated, alarmed.
“I…” He passed his hand over his brow and began again. “It’s the banker in me,” he improvised. “I have just thought of a document I should have given to the investment manager. It’s for a considerable sum…” He pretended to be discouraged. “I’ll have to drive back and hope that I can reach there before the safe is closed.”
Maximillian was taken aback, and then smiled. “Must you do it yourself, Helmut?”
“I … no, I don’t believe so…” He paused and looked down the road with irritation.
“Then let us go into Hausham. The stationmaster there has a telephone, and I know that your bank has one as well. You can give your instructions to one of the officers.” He was delighted to see the relief on his friend’s stern features. “One of these days, we’ll have telephones in the private houses here, and that will make it all much easier.”
“Yes, it will,” Helmut conceded as he put the Mercedes in gear and started toward Hausham.
Basking in the approval of Helmut, Maximillian allowed his fancy free rein. “You know, that would be something for the Gesellschaft to work on, improving the lot of these isolated villages. You know what people are like away from the cities—or perhaps you don’t, it doesn’t matter—they have very set ideas and are not impressed with promises or the grandeur of the bright streets. But give them something that is of real benefit, that they know will make their lives better without changing them, then they will uphold you through anything.”
Ahead on the road a herdsman held up his hand to halt the car while he drove a dozen spotted dairy cattle from one field to another. He made a rude gesture as the Mercedes at last drove past.
“What about that man?” Helmut asked sarcastically. “Would a telephone benefit him? Would he be able to use it?”
“Of course he would use it,” Maximillian insisted. “He’s an isolated man. Now, if there is an emergency, for example, one of his children is injured, he must return to his house, find proper transportation and then get his child to the physician, assuming the man is available, and not out treating someone else. With a telephone, he would call to find out if the physician was available and arrange, perhaps, for the man to come to him rather than move the child himself. Be sure he would recognize the worth of such a thing.” He sat for a moment, then added, “Why, if the Schnaubels had had a telephone, they might have been saved; the barbarians that killed the woman and child would, in all possibility, have been apprehended, as well. That’s the benefit I mean. Don’t you agree that there would be support from these people then?”
There was cold sweat on Helmut’s brow as he listened to Maximillian. The man was right! In future they would have to be much more careful. To quell the debilitating fear that shook him, he sped up and forced himself to concentrate on the road.
Text of a letter from Duchess Irina Andreivna Ohchenov to Franchot Ragoczy.
7, Rue de Belle Isle
Paris, France
December 7, 1921
Franchot Ragoczy
Schloss Saint-Germain
Bavaire, Allemagne
My dear Count:
I have at last met Professor de Montalia, and I must thank you for introducing us. She is all you promised, and more. What a charming woman, and with such an air of youth for all her scholarship. I am beginning to believe that my life is not wholly lost.
She has already requested that I provide her with translations from the Greek which she says she knows indifferently. She has also requested that I add more languages to my knowledge, for she is certain that I will be very much in demand. It is her contention that most translators are excellent at moving one set of words from one language to another, but rarely do they manage to convey the sense of the words as well. In this, I am flattered to say, she says I excel. With such encouragement it would be terrible of me to refuse.
My work with Louis-Onfroi Servie continues, but on a less ‘demanding level than that with Profesor de Montalia. I fear that Professor Servie thinks of himself as a great romantic where women are concerned, and it is difficult both to keep him at arm’s length and suppress my laughter when he begins his various maneuvers to seduce me. It is a bit tiresome, although part of myself is pleased that a man would still bother with me.
That is not intended as a reflection on you, Count, for I cannot regard your embraces as mere seduction. It is not entirely wise for me to say this, but nonetheless I must tell you that I am unable to forget the time I have spent in your arms. Should you ever wish another such night with me, you have only to send me word. I know you will not be offended when I say that my love for Leonid is not in the least diminished by what you have given me; if anything, I have discovered in myself a greater capacity for affection and pleasure than I knew I had, so that my life is enhanced. I would like to go on, but there is no way I can express to you here the depths of my feelings. Emotion, unlike words, does not seem to translate at all, not even onto paper.
I have, as you may have noticed, found a new home. I have five rooms, sunny and light, on the third floor of a building not quite fifty years old. There are electric lights in the rooms and brand-new plumbing. Professor de Montalia located this place for me and was kind enough to vouch for me to the landlord, who lives in far more lavish quarters than this. Two of my rooms are as yet largely unfurnished, but I have an office where I have my desk and a fair number of books. In general I am most frugal, but books have become my greatest weakness. For six weeks it was food, but now that I have begun to believe that I will not quite starve, my passion for books has grown almost to a mania. With Professor de Montalia urging me to study more, I am forever inventing excuses why I must buy this book, or that one. How strange it is to be discovering this in myself at this age.
My Uncle has continued to refuse to see me, and so I have decided that I have no uncle. It is easier than tormenting myself with vain hopes, that he will come to his senses and welcome me. I told Professor de Montalia of my decision and she asked if I would not wish her to contact my Uncle on my behalf. Her generosity humbles me when I think of it. For a time I considered letting her do this, and then I accepted at last that the reason that he had not asked me to visit him, that he has consistently refused to see me, is that he does not
want
to see me. I felt quite devastated when this first occurred to me, but now I no longer worry when it crosses my mind. But then, I am no longer living in squalor, with nothing to sustain me but memories and the absurd hope that my uncle would relent.
I have stopped feeling quite so much the exile and have something of the sense of, perhaps, a colonist. You must understand that to some degree. I hope you do. It would sadden me greatly to think that you, of all men, felt exiled. It is apparent to me, however, that I will never be anything but Russian. Of course I enjoy the French and Paris is a beautiful city: this is something of a new discovery for me, part of my new quarters and the delight of working. In my heart, however, I hold the memory of St. Petersburg, my dasha, Moscow in autumn, all those things. Nothing will supplant them, nor would I wish it.
Recently, by the way, I have found an Orthodox Church where they sing the Masses with proper choirs, and it restored me more than I can express to hear those chants and the liturgy once again. I have a link at last to the life I left, and it does not pain me to think of it.
I do not know when you plan next to be in Paris, but let me request now that you will visit me, whenever you are here. I look forward to your company, and the opportunity to thank you again for all you have done for me. No, pray don’t object to my gratitude again, for I assure you that it is far from my only desire.
Most fondly,
Irina
P.S. Christmas is nearly here, and for the first time since I came here, I can face it without dread. Perhaps it will be some time before I can anticipate it with joy, but for now, it is enough that it does not sink me into despair. I will go to Holy Archangel and listen to the choir, have a meal in a restaurant, and see a film. Be glad for me.
10
On the other side of the double-glassed window, icicles pressed their ghostly fingers toward the shifting drifts of snow. A high wind had sent overburdened branches hurtling into the air to crash against walls, roofs, and other branches; it was hooting its victory down the chimneys, making the well-laid fires dance and crackle.
“Will Papa be safe?” Laisha asked Roger for the fifth time that hour. “He was supposed to be back at two and it’s after four now.”
Roger looked up again from his record book. “Laisha, this is the worst storm of the winter. It’s hardly surprising that he has not arrived. Nikolai said that the road is blocked with snow, and it will take time for him to get here from the train station.” He said it patiently enough and with his usual calm. “I have known him longer than you have, and have seen him come through much worse than a snowstorm.”
She sighed and opened her book again, staring down at the page, which could not be made sensible. She held out for as long as possible, then closed the book and ventured to ask, “Isn’t there something we ought to do?”
“Everything that’s required has been done,” Roger assured her, thinking again of the second pair of earth-lined boots he had persuaded Ragoczy to take with him on his trip. He was glad now he had insisted on the precaution.
Laisha folded her hands and walked slowly and deliberately around the library. “Is Papa … if he were delayed, how would we know?”
“He would send a telegram,” Roger said, and added with a twinkle in his faded blue eyes, “which would not be delivered until after he was home, if the stationmaster is following his usual pattern.”
“But if something had happened to him…” Laisha’s brown eyes were suddenly enormous. “He could be hurt, or freezing, or killed, or…”
“It is unlikely,” Roger said with a firm gentleness that was intended to close the matter.
“But think of what happened to Bruno’s mother. Olympie said that no one should have to die in his own house.” She looked around her, with some apprehension. “They could come here, couldn’t they?”
Roger totaled a column of figures before answering. “Laisha, my master has traveled through Tibet in the winter, and the Gobi Desert in the summer.” He had accompanied Ragoczy on both those journeys and recalled one day, when in the full glare of the sun, they had faced a band of robbers. It had been many months before the agony of that encounter was over. “Of the two of them, the winter was kinder. Don’t fear for him, Laisha.”
“But what if he doesn’t come back?” Her voice was little more than a whisper and there was something in her face that was an echo of the catastrophe that had overtaken her at that burned-out manor in Latvia.
“He will. That I promise you.” He closed his book and got up from the writing table. “Come. We’ll get you a cup of chocolate and a slice of kirschkranz. By the time you finish that, my master will probably be home.”