Sashenka

“When they took her away, Snowy howled. ‘Lala, you promised, Lala, help me, Lala!’ She wanted me, she wanted her brother. Finally, the nurses and guards had to force her into their car. She was kicking and crying, ‘Lala, you promised!’ At last, her new parents got into the car and drove off into the distance. And I sank onto the floor and howled too, like an animal, in front of everyone in that orphanage…”

Katinka felt exhausted, and yet, in spite of the tragedy, excited too. “That couple from Odessa must have been the Liberharts,” she said. “Roza is Snowy.” But Lala kept talking as if she hadn’t heard. “It was the same with Carlo and the peasants.”

“The peasants?” asked Katinka, taking notes.

“The couple who took Carlo. The moment Snowy was gone, he started crying: ‘Where’s Snowy? I want to cuddle Snowy! Lala, you won’t leave me, will you, Lala?’ I barely survived that day. He struggled too as they took him. I can still hear his voice right now…In some ways it was easier for him as he was only three. I prayed he wouldn’t even remember Sashenka and Vanya, and perhaps he didn’t. They were going to rename him. They say three is the borderline between what you remember and what you forget.”

Katinka took Lala’s hands in hers again. “Lala, I’ve got wonderful news for you.”

“What? Is it Sashenka?” She peered at the shadows by the door. “Is Sashenka here? I knew she’d come.”

“No, Lala. We don’t know where Sashenka is.”

“I dream of her so often, you know. I’m sure she’s alive because we all thought Samuil was dead and he came back from the dead. Find her, Katinka. Bring her to me.”

“I’m going to do my best, but I have something else to tell you. I think I’ve found your Snowy. The family who adopted her were called Liberhart and they renamed Snowy Roza. I’m going to phone her tonight and bring her to you. Then you can tell her these things yourself.”

Lala looked at Katinka and turned her face away, a hand over her eyes. “I knew I hadn’t waited in vain. That Satinov’s an angel, an angel,” she whispered. Then, sitting up straight, she faced Katinka. “I want to meet Snowy. But don’t leave it too long. I’m not immortal.”

When Katinka stood up, she was dizzy. It seemed as if she had experienced the tragic partings herself. “I must go back to my hotel and phone Roza.”

But the old lady reached up to her. “No, no…stay with me. I’ve waited so long, I’m afraid you won’t return and that this is just a vision. There’s a dream I’ve had so often. Samuil, holding a glass of Georgian wine, leads me into the library, full of old books and strange curiosities, in a ruined mansion wrapped in vines and lilacs. And Sashenka, on a sleigh with bells galloping through the streets of Petersburg, is laughing and saying, ‘Faster, Lala, faster…’ And then I wake up, here in this little room, alone.”

“Of course I’ll stay,” said Katinka, settling down again in the comfortable chair in the corner. She was glad not to have to go back to her unfriendly hotel on the outskirts of town.

During the warm night, she was woken by Lala, who was sitting up in bed. “She was arrested at the school gates, Baron. Yes, the gendarmes arrested her…What shall we do today, Sashenka? Shall we go skating, darling? No, if you’re a good girl, we’ll buy a tin of Huntley & Palmers biscuits at the English Shop on Nevsky. Pantameilion, bring round the sleigh…”

Katinka approached the bed. Lala’s eyes were open and she was holding a photograph to her breast: it was Sashenka in the white pinafore of the Smolny Institute, with the same amused eyes.

“Go back to sleep, Lala. Go back to sleep,” Katinka hushed her, stroking her forehead.

“Is that you, Sashenka? Oh, my darling, I knew you’d come back. I’m so happy to see you…” Lala’s head sank back onto her pillow. Katinka thought her sleeping face was ageless, the tender heart-shaped face of the girl who had come from England all those years ago.

Then she returned to her chair and sobbed—she wasn’t quite sure why—until she fell asleep again.

15

It was a balmy morning in the Georgian spring. When Katinka woke, the curtains were open. Lala, wearing a frayed pink dressing gown, was holding a small cup of Turkish coffee and a flat loaf of lavashi bread, delivered by Nugzar the warrior from downstairs.

Outside the window, Georgian men were singing “Suliko” on their way to work. There was so much music in Tbilisi. That very Georgian tkemali smell of almonds and apple blossom rose from the garden, the zest of fresh coffee, and the clatter of kitchens, came from the café beneath them.

“Good morning, dear child,” said Lala. “Run downstairs and get some coffee.”

Katinka sat right up. She rubbed her eyes. She had to get back to the hotel and call Roza. Her job was almost done, yet there was still so much to find out. Was Carlo still alive? And she was burning to know what had happened to Sashenka and Vanya. As if reading her mind, Lala said, “I know in my heart that Sashenka’s alive—and I know someone who might help us find her.”