The Four Winds of Heaven

F
or my daughter
, Nathalie Danielle,and my father, David Raphel. This is their history as well as mine.

I
n 1972
, Baroness Sonia de Gunzburg died at the age of eighty-two. She was my grandmother. Several months later, three enormous crates arrived at my home, filled to the rim with her diaries and notebooks, covering a lifetime of thoughts and feelings. It was from these faded, dog-eared old books that I created
The Four Winds of Heaven.
This is, at heart, her story and that of her immediate family, the Gunzburgs of St. Petersburg. But this is not a biography: rather, it is a re-creation, a distillation of the characters and of the period through my own eyes, and written with poetic license.

This is a story of a Russia that no longer exists, except through the memory of those who lived there before the Revolution. I have attempted to capture its essence, its dialogue, its traditions. I must explain for readers unfamiliar with the latter that, in Russia, names possessed certain rules unparalleled in other languages. Certain last names received feminine endings, but not all. Diminutives often had no resemblance to the given, formal name. And, most important, only those on the most intimate terms could address each other without the patronym compound (formal first name followed by the father's first name and the ending meaning “son of” or “daughter of”— “-vitch” and “-vna” respectively). To give an example involving a single name, the Countess Natalia Tagantseva has an “a” added to the family name of Tagantsev; her diminutive, employed by those closest to her, is Natasha or Nata-shenka; and all but her family and intimate friends would call her Natalia Nicolaievna, because her father's name was Nicolai. I have kept the correct forms of address as they were used in Russian society, because one can sense formality and intimacy and all the layers in between through this convention, which does not exist in our less complex Western world.

This book would never have reached production had it not been for Linda Grey, my sponsor and first editor at Dell, who made this into a true labor of love; for valiant Andrea Cirillo, who handled a monumental task when she took over editorship upon Linda's promotion to Editor-in-Chief; for my agent and guardian angel, Dorris Halsey. Gracious help in the Russian language was given by Aliza Sverdlova and Serge Kourdoukoff. Good advice came from four fellow writers: Jean Sherman, Clancy Goode, Hubert Cornfield, and Patricia McCune Irvine. But most of all I want to thank Charlotte Hyde, who championed this book and is, in effect, its godmother.

I
n that sprawling
immensity that was all the Russias, from the steppes to the frozen woods of Siberia, a massive revolt had taken place, worse than any previous disaster that had threatened the land. When wars had come, when Tzars had died and been replaced by new ones, when the sun had baked the earth to a thin crust or when the snows had covered entire villages, Russia, like a sleeping giant, had but grumbled protest. But the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917 brought with it chaos; province lost touch with province, mothers lost trace of their children, and commanders of armies lost whole regiments fighting in the outlands for control of a government that was already established in the capital, Petrograd. At first the people of Russia sought to know who had won, who had been killed, what had been gained or lost on each side. But now, in April 1919, life had resumed its mechanical pace. Battles still raged. But for the peasants, only the crops mattered. No longer did they throw bouquets at passing squadrons. But then, no longer did these passing squadrons bear the regal attributes of shining saviors. Everyone had grown war-weary but the small children.

So it was that in a village in the south of Russia, a motley group of soldiers, tired and muddied from their battles and endless marches, lined up to depart. Only a small, delicate young woman, holding a basket of fruit in her arms, appeared to be watching. She stood by the side of the road, her fine features drawn with tension, her large gray eyes haunting her emaciated face. She gripped her basket with hands once delicate, now bone-thin. The sun shone, a Tartar woman slapped her screaming child, an old crone with fresh produce pushed the young woman aside in an effort to cross the street rapidly. When the squadron commander called out, “Forward—march!” no one but the girl paid any attention.

That spring of 1919, the inhabitants of Stary Krym, a large Crimean village on the main route to Simferopol, thought little of the comings and goings of soldiers, whatever their flags. Simferopol was the provincial capital, less than sixty-five miles away. They knew that the city had been taken many times, but most of them were not certain who commanded the government in Petrograd. Their Russia was its fields, its cattle, its pigs, its fresh fruit and vegetables, and so they accommodated whatever army happened to arrive, Red or White, hoping only that the soldiers would not slaughter too much livestock, or ravage many young women. In Stary Krym, life went on.

Near the edge of the main road stood a small, low house. It belonged to a widow, Aspasia Vassilievna. But she had not resided there for some time, for it was rented. Instead, she now occupied the house of her late brother, who had been murdered during a Bolshevik looting several months before. She had taken a boarder in that residence as well, but the villagers hardly took notice of this woman. Stary Krym was composed of such diverse groups—Tartars, Armenians, Turks, and Jews—that newcomers did not attract attention.

Nighttime fell. No new garrison had come to commandeer sleeping quarters. Inside the low house by the edge of the road, the young woman who had watched the soldiers pulled down the window shades, then entered the tiny bedroom to the right of the living room. Another, older woman was sitting on the bed, and had already rolled back the rug between the cot and the wall. She handed the younger woman a rusted axe, and watched as her companion crouched on her haunches and attempted to pry the nails from the rough planks of the floor. The girl worked the edge of the axe under the heads of the nails until it was possible to extricate them, and then she handed them to the woman on the bed.

When she had removed a series of nails, she began to work on the wooden boards, lifting them slightly with her axe, then jamming the tool underneath as a lever, drops of perspiration beading her forehead with the effort. Only the sounds of her panting echoed in the room. She pulled up board after board, slowly, laboriously, so that no chunk of wood would break off and reveal a gap. Suddenly the woman said, “It is past midnight, Sonia. You have put in more than four hours tonight.”

“Go to sleep, then,” the girl replied.

The older woman nodded, removing her shoes. Her ungainly garments made her appear heavier than she was, but her face, oval and white, was remarkably unlined. Large sapphire eyes shone beneath thick brows, and her mass of hair was salt and pepper as she uncoiled it now. She did not speak, but her gaze of grave concern rested upon her daughter. How slender and frail she had become. Her tiny face seemed very young indeed. But the cool gray eyes set close together bespoke years of hardship. When at last Sonia fell upon the bed, fully clothed, the boards had been loosened and then lowered back into position, and the little carpet had been pushed back to cover her work.

Sonia was the first to hear the tramp of footsteps on the road, the loud knock on the door. The two women stood transfixed in the living room as the door burst open, revealing two soldiers. The first was young and scared-looking. His companion was more ominous. He was enormous, with shoulders so wide he had difficulty squeezing through the wooden door frame, and had a huge gut, taut like the belly of a pregnant woman. The young one said, “We are Igor Plotkin and Pavel Antonov, and our orders are to commandeer your house. We shall try to take up little space—”

But his thin voice was cut short by the other man. “Shut up, you ass! We'll sleep here,” he announced, pointing to the living room. “Igor, take the floor. I'll have the sofa, and lots of food. Which of you cooks around here?”

Sonia remained erect, her gray eyes unflinching. “I do.”

Suddenly the large soldier, Antonov, threw back his head and guffawed. “Splendid, splendid, my little turtle! I like the looks of you. A bit scrawny, but you'll do.”

She brought them cooked millet. Antonov, his shirt coming unbuttoned to reveal his paunch, grabbed her by the wrist. She held his gaze. “Little pigeon. You are a strange bird, indeed,” he said, and then took a swig from the vodka bottle he was holding with his free hand. “I have heard the villagers say that you are mad, for you do not smile like other girls. Come, make me laugh, right now!”

“Very well. Show me your palm, and I shall read it,” Sonia said. She squirmed out of his grasp, rubbed her bruised wrist, and took the hand that had imprisoned her. She turned it over and nearly gasped in surprise and horror. But her gray eyes displayed no shock. She only shrugged. “I cannot read it. You have no clues to give me here.” And with that, she departed to the bedroom.

Closing the door behind her, she stood leaning against it, her face ashen. Mathilde was making the bed. “What is wrong?” she demanded.

“Do you remember that fortune teller, Mama?” Sonia whispered. “I have just seen his palm—Antonov's—and it is smooth, totally lineless.”

Mathilde de Gunzburg stopped her work and put a hand to her mouth. “The gypsy said that only criminals have no lines.”

But the rough voice of the big soldier interrupted them. “I want the little dove!” he was shouting. “Come, tell me about your life. Your love life. That should be amusing, eh, Igor?”

Plotkin, in distress, protested meekly: “Pavel. This is not one of your tavern whores.”

“Shut up, Igor. What are you, child? An actress? Igor's an actor, but actresses… mmm… they are wanton and gay. I do not like women of mystery. You are too clean, and your accent is too pure. But then, my friend Igor speaks well, too, for his acting has taught him fine Russian. Me—my mother had no time to teach me a thing. She was too busy earning her living, doing what she knew best, using what lay between her legs. As for my father—he abandoned us when I was a boy, to go on to better things. A better life. You see, little one, he was hanged for killing a man.”

“That's a nice tale,” the girl said ironically. “Mine is far less spicy. I am merely the daughter of a schoolteacher, who is now deceased. He taught me to read and write when I was little, and if I speak like a
burshui,
it is because of him.” She turned from Antonov and briskly removed the two plates.

“She's a pretty thing,” Antonov commented as she moved toward the kitchen. “I like fragile women. I like them breakable. This one will shatter like a bubble of glass.”

S
everal nights later
, the women were alone in their bedroom when the front door squeaked open, and a feminine voice reached their ears. “Where are you?” someone said. A lean figure appeared in the doorway, her eyes shining with a kind of fever. “I have brought you bad news! Antonov knows who you are. He thinks you have money, and jewels, and he is going to kill us for them! I could not stand to be away from you, to hide in my own house when I knew…”

“Then be quick, and shut yourself inside the armoire in the living room,” Sonia cut in. Mathilde, seated beside her, opened her mouth, bewildered, and the girl squeezed her arm fiercely. “We shall hide here, in our own closet. Thank you for warning us.” She could not help adding, “And when this is over, you must tell us how you learned of all this.”

The lean woman turned quickly on her heels, and from the bedroom, Sonia heard the opening and closing of heavy doors. “She's inside,” she whispered. “Now.” Quickly she pushed aside the heavy carpet and began to lift the planks. “You first,” she instructed. Mathilde hesitated, then climbed down into the darkness below the floor of the house. Sonia held up the planks and climbed in beside her almost at once. They huddled on dank ground, in a cramped area between the foundation stones. It was damp and very cold. Sonia was holding a knife in her hand, and when the boards had fallen back into place, she poked the knife above her, through a crack that revealed the light in the bedroom, moving her hand dexterously above their heads. Suddenly the light disappeared, and motes of dust came wafting down upon the two women. “I think the carpet is pulled over enough,” she whispered tersely.

They crouched, huddling together, Sonia's hand on her mother's arm. Sounds were reaching their ears, at first distant, then clearer, sharper. A man was singing off-key. Sonia nodded, her grasp tightened on Mathilde's arm as the front door opened, then a scuffling sound by the living room sideboard announced Antonov and Plotkin's presence. “Drunk,” the girl said in a warning whisper. “More dangerous.”

“Well?” Antonov's voice was harsh. “Where are they? Look in the bedroom!”

Footsteps echoed barely inches over the women. Plotkin, surprised and meek, said: “Pavel—no one is here!”

The boards creaked as the heavier man entered the room. He pulled open the doors of the armoire. An animal roar resounded, and then the women heard the metal hinges of the dresser being torn off. “Bitches!” Antonov cried. “Where have they gone? If I get my hands on them…”

“Pavel. The militia,” Plotkin reminded him.

“You goddamn ninny! If I find that goddamn waif, I'm going to have me a time! I haven't had a woman in ten days.”

They heard him begin to throw open drawers. A grunt of disgust resounded. Cabinet doors were pulled out, their contents clattering to the floor. An eruption of blind frustration bellowed from Antonov: “Jewels? There's nothing here, nothing but these chipped cups, these blasted forks with the plating rubbed off.”

They heard a door being yanked open, then sudden silence, followed by Antonov's disembodied shout: “You? What are you doing here, you whore? Where are they?”

Sonia's fingers were so cold that she could not feel their tips. Her hand was still gripping her mother's arm. They heard the female voice, pitched hysterically, crying, “The bedroom! They're in the bedroom!”

“And I'm in China!” Sounds broke out as Antonov dragged the woman from her hiding place, and her shrill cries pierced through the thin planking. “And what about their jewels? Was that a lie, too?” he shouted.

“No, no. Please, I beg you—there is a jewel. A crab, set in gold, encrusted with diamonds. I can show you where she keeps it—let me go, I can show you!” Their voices were clearer now, just above the heads of the two women. Sonia felt her mother sag against her, and realized that Mathilde had fainted; her weight pushed against her own frail body, crushing her against one of the foundation stones. Above her, Antonov was ripping open their mattress, and the shrill cries continued, “I know she has it! I have seen it, here, in this room!”

Underneath the planks, the weight of Mathilde's head had pulled Sonia's thick peasant blouse from her left shoulder. Just above the pointing of her breast, on her cloth chemise, gleamed a brooch of deep gold. In the blackness, its shimmering diamonds fired red and blue. Sonia's eyes, like magnets, sought the gem and held it. It was shaped like a crab.

Overhead, Antonov was slapping the woman, and, pinned against her mother, Sonia looked up to where the boards creaked, almost on top of her head. A sudden thud made the floor touch the coil of her braids. The woman was shrieking, “No, no! Please... please,” but only thick male sounds followed as when a bulky man pushes his weight against something. The boards began to bend, creaking heavily, and Plotkin's reedy voice called out: “No, Pavel! The militia!”