Sashenka

“Not another word, Comrade Razum,” said the stick insect. “This is our affair.”

“I always had my suspicions about these barins.” Razum was still chattering. “There wasn’t much I didn’t see. Now we’re going to search the place, find out what papers that snake’s been hiding. This way, boys!”

The stick insect and his Chekists were already in the study. Carolina watched from her bedroom door. Had they come to arrest her? Sashenka wondered. Frantic longings and selfish thoughts filled her again: perhaps she was safe? Perhaps they only wanted Vanya? Let Vanya be arrested. Let her stay with the children.

Sashenka and Carolina looked at each other silently. Were they too late? Would the children be tortured in that orphanage? How would they know what to do? Vanya had sent no signal. Should Carolina leave right now with the children? Tonight? Or would that bring further torment?

“What’s happening, Mama?” asked Snowy, arms curling round her mother’s waist. Carlo sensed the turmoil in the boots and the loud voices, the casual way the Chekists were opening drawers and slamming cupboards in the study, tossing papers and photographs into a heap on the floor. His pliant face collapsed in three stages: a slight downturn of the eyes and the lips; welling tears and crumpling features; the spread of a deep red blush as he started to howl.

“Stay in your bedroom,” cried Sashenka, hiding them behind her body. “Go to Carolina.”

Carolina opened her arms but the children froze around Sashenka, their hands clutching her hips and thighs, sheltering under her like travelers during a storm.

Vanya’s mother burst out of her room in a purple nightdress, followed by her husband.

“What’s going on?” she shouted. “What’s happening?” She ran into the study and started pushing the Chekists away from Vanya’s desk. “Vanya’s a hero! There’s been some mistake! What’s he been arrested for?”

“Article Fifty-eight, I believe!” answered the stick insect. “Now, out of the way. They’re removing the safe.”

Sashenka saw the secret policemen fixing a seal onto the door of the study. Four of the boys were straining to get Vanya’s safe to the elevator. Finally the janitor brought up a metal cart and they wheeled it out.

“Good night, Comrade Zeitlin-Palitsyn,” said the uniformed stick insect to Sashenka. “Don’t tinker with the seal on the study. We’ll return for more material tomorrow.”

“Wait! Does Vanya need some clothes?”

“The spy had a suitcase, thank you very much,” sneered Razum, hands on hips, striking a pose. “I’ll be right with you, lads!” he shouted over his shoulder to the stick insect and the others who were loading piles of papers into the elevator.

“Why do you hate us?” Sashenka asked him quietly.

“He’ll sing! He’ll confess, the hyena!” Razum said to her. “You bosses live like nobility! Think you’re better than the likes of us? You’ve gotten fat and soft. Now you’re getting your comeuppance.”

“Silence, Comrade Razum, or you’ll be in the soup yourself!” piped the stick insect, holding the elevator door open. Old Razum turned abruptly but as he did so, something fell out of his pocket. Shouting drunken insults, he trotted after his fellows. The elevator door closed.

Sashenka shut the door, leaned back against it and sank to the floor, Carlo and Snowy collapsing with her, tangled in her legs. She was thinking coldly, trying to plan with the icy dedication of a mother in crisis—though her hands were shaking, the red sparks rising in her eyes were blinding her, and her belly was squirming.

“Cushion!” Snowy reached out to pick up the little pink cushion with a bow. “Silly Razum dropped my lovely cushion”—and she showed the wrinkled pink object to Sashenka.

Sashenka grabbed it from Snowy, examining it, turning it over, smelling it.

“No, Snowy. Wait,” she snapped as her daughter tried to retrieve it.

“I want my little cushion!” cried Snowy pitifully.

“Carolina!” The nanny was there already.

Vanya’s parents emerged from their room again and stood staring at the scene.

“Where’s Vanya?” asked Vanya’s mother. She pointed savagely at Sashenka. “I always told him you were a class enemy, born and bred. This is your doing, isn’t it?”

“Be quiet for once!” Sashenka retorted. “I’ll explain everything later. Tomorrow you two should go to the dacha or to the village—but for now please go to your rooms. I need to think!”

The old peasants muttered at her rudeness but retreated again.

“That bastard Razum,” spat Carolina.

“From now on, everyone’s a bastard. We’ve just crossed from one species to another,” said Sashenka, holding the little pink cushion. “Carolina, this was at the dacha?”

“Yes.”

“We didn’t bring it back, did we?”

“No, we didn’t. It lives in the playroom there.”

Sashenka turned to her daughter. “Where did this come from, darling?”

“Razum dropped it. That silly old man! He smells!”

“But who took it from the dacha? Did you see someone take it?”

“Yes, silly. Papa took it. I gave it to him to look after and he put it in his pocket.”