Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (46 page)

Countess Florinsky had been right: it was inevitable that
Senda should hold a salon. She had never given it a thought or deemed it important, and it started simply, accidentally really, with a few theatre friends dropping by; soon, to drop
by Madame Senda Bora's was the fashionable way to spend
Sunday afternoons. Her salon was reputed to be the finest and
most interesting not only because her friends were accom
plished celebrities but also because she had an unerringly keen
instinct for sniffing out newcomers with as-yet-unproven tal
ent. It was circulated that her salon was all the rage due to
sheer snob appeal, a rumour invariably heard from those not
invited. If Senda's salon was elitist, it was only because she
gravitated toward scintillating, brilliant conversationalists,
people she could learn from. And her friends were among Russia's most interesting and accomplished artists, composers, musicians, dancers and writers. Among her circle of
friends, most of whom were fated to become famous the world
over, she listened and learned, fussed over them and enter
tained them, and it was said that every man who met her was
to fall under her spell.

Senda treasured these Sunday afternoons. Her friends
stimulated her mind, forced her to grow creatively, to live and
think
creatively, and they nurtured each other. They were
demanding and gifted, accomplished and ambitious, and they
were each other's worst, and therefore best, critics. Merely having money, no matter in what staggering amounts, or a title, even on the highest rungs of the Imperial social ladder,
was not enough to gain one's entry into the exclusive domain of this artistic circle. What made one welcome was brilliant talent, or at least creative accomplishment and passion about
one's work.

But what Senda loved best of all about her salon was that
Tamara was never far away. Tamara usually stayed in the
nursery while Senda entertained. The child swiftly became an
accomplished eavesdropper and mimic, and the people she
overheard were the best possible teachers on earth. Senda was
gratified that Tamara was picking up an education and hearing
debates from masters in their fields—an experience which
would have been unlikely for even the wealthiest child to
dream about.

One evening at bedtime, when Senda kissed her daughter
good night, Tamara had declared staunchly, 'Mama, I want
to become an actress.'

Senda laughed lightly as she tucked the blanket around her daughter. 'And if I remember right, angel cake, last week you
wanted to be a pianist, and the week before that, a dancer.'

'Oh, but actresses have more fun! And they have many
more boyfriends, don't they? You have more boyfriends than
anybody, Mama.'

Senda looked startled; she'd never categorized her friends in terms of male or female, but it was true, most of her salon
did
consist of men.

'And besides, you're the only actress. And a lot prettier
than anybody else.'

Senda smiled and kissed Tamara's forehead. 'And now
you'd better get your beauty sleep, young lady,' she advised
with mock gruffness, turning off the bedside lamp. 'Otherwise
you'll never grow up to be a beautiful actress.'

As Senda shut the door, she heard Tamara sigh happily and
murmur, 'I want to be just like you, Mama.'

Senda felt a slight shudder quivering through her, the thin
strands of hairs at the nape of her neck prickling.

Don't be too much like me, she prayed silently. I've had
more than my share of misery. I wouldn't want you to suffer
that. I want only what's best for you, a life of peace and hap
piness.

She felt a sudden rush of guilt. She was trying her best to
raise Tamara well, but she was never able to convince herself that she could be a decent model for an impressionable child. Trying to juggle the responsibilities of mother
and
father, she
felt she failed at both. She wished she could provide a real
family for her daughter, even a surrogate father.

Nearly two years had passed since Schmarya had walked
down the hospital steps and out of their lives forever. Not a
card or letter had come, not even for Tamara, and Senda
didn't know whether he was in Europe or had made it to
Palestine. He had left a void in her life, a blankness which
nothing could fill. Senda continually felt loneliness gnawing at
her, the company that only a man she loved could have
relieved. It seemed overwhelmingly ironic at times that among
her friends and fans, thousands of men would have been
ecstatic at the opportunity of sharing her life.

But the only man she could love had deserted her, never to
return.

Not that she was celibate. Far from it. She had Vaslav, and it was true that they harboured a certain fondness for each other, but it was a fondness of the flesh. It was Schmarya she
hungered for, and she would have gladly traded every last gem
and coin of her newfound wealth and fame to follow him back
to poverty if the chance had come.

'Sometimes I have the impression that you are really not
here with me,' Vaslav once complained.

What made the Sunday afternoons at Senda's so continuously
prized was that her salon was founded upon two principles of enormous integrity—honesty and freedom of speech. Every
one was encouraged to speak on any subject close to his or her heart, without fear of the opinions being ridiculed or violated;
above all, without fear of outside retribution. By common
agreement, no matter how radical or unpopular, no discussion
ever went beyond the four walls of Senda's salon.

Thus, it was only natural that as 1916 sped to a close, and
the war had been dragging on for nearly two and a half years,
it was politics instead of art that was the major subject of
conversation among the peace-loving intellectuals that gath
ered each Sunday.

This was becoming the norm all over Russia.

Again, frightening talk of revolution began creeping back
into everyday conversation. Again, violence was becoming
widespread. The outbreak of the war had initially united all
Russians, regardless of political or social leanings. But the
festive days of soldiers marching proudly off to finish the Ger
mans was a dream of the long-gone past. Victory had been an
elusive rainbow; harsh reality had set in. Among all strata of
society, the war was now being seen as a useless, ceaseless
drain on Russia, and in one way or another it had touched
upon everyone's life. Its continuance was threatening to tear
the nation asunder: the ravenous war machine was devouring
lives, food, and the economy. Hunger, which had always been widespread, was now rampant. Starvation had become com
monplace. People were freezing to death in their homes and
on the streets.

Anger, frustration, and hatred were piling up in dangerous
quantities, and the objects of these lethal emotions were
invariably the Czar and his Czarina.

The heartfelt cries of
'Batiushka! Batiushka!
—Father!
Father!—had weakened in strength, and were no longer heard
by the Czar.

To further complicate matters, there was endless talk of the
Czarina and her relationship with the monk Rasputin and her
possible pro-German treachery. Even at the highest rungs of
the nobility, people assumed the Czarina and the monk were
having an affair. It was widely believed that Rasputin, a known drunk and womanizer, was consorting with German spies, and
he was murdered in 1916. Others were convinced the Czarina
still harboured fierce German loyalties and sentiments, and
went so far as to suggest she be tried for treason. Even the
simplest acts of kindness on her part, as innocent and humane
as sending prayer books to wounded German officers in Rus
sian hospitals, did not escape the ire of her growing ranks of
enemies.

It was becoming the national consensus that the Czar was
weak and incapable and had to be removed from power. And
his Czarina, the lovely German-born Alexandra, called
'
Nemska
',
the German Woman, was fast becoming the most
hated monarch's wife since Marie Antoinette.

Russia was ripe for revolution—and Lenin.

Chapter 21

It was the beginning of the end.

On Thursday, March 8, the silent, endless breadlines in
Petrograd erupted into chaos. All over the city, the hungry and the starving, no longer willing to wait for their pitiful starvation-level rations, violently stormed the bakeries and
grabbed whatever goods were in sight. Simultaneously, protesting workers marched from the industrial Vyborg section
across the Neva bridges to converge in the centre of Petrograd.
Another demonstration, nearly all women, marched up and
down the Nevsky Prospekt chanting: 'Give us our bread! Give
us our bread!' Peaceful though the march was, mounted Cossacks patrolled the Prospekt through the night in antici
pation of violence.

Over a simple dinner of potato pancakes that night,
Senda was filled with a growing sense of anxiety, Inge
uncharacteristically picked wordlessly at her food, and
Tamara, always a sensitive barometer of the moods around
her, was curiously subdued and quiet. Matters had reached
a very bad state indeed, Senda considered, when even her
privileged household was feeling the punishing strain of food
shortages so severely.

Since the arrival of Polenka and Dmitri, Polenka's duties
had been to cook, clean, do the laundry, and shop. Except for
certain long-lasting staples, Polenka shopped every morning
for whatever the day's menus would require, carrying the pur
chases home in two net shopping bags. Since Senda was a
stickler for fresh, nutritious food, and because the pantry was
too warm in the winter, perishables were bought on an as-
needed basis. These arrangements had worked out perfectly—
that is, until this very morning, when Polenka had gone
shopping with a clutch purse full of money and had not
returned. Finally, when it had been safe to assume that some
thing had happened which made it impossible for her to return
with the groceries, Senda and Inge, rummaging through the
distressingly bare pantry, found a few staples and little else.
There was no meat, fowl, eggs, or fresh vegetables. The
potatoes and oil had been transformed into the pitiful pan
cakes, but there was no apple sauce, no sour cream—nothing moist and tasty to perk up the pancakes' greasy tastelessness.