Lubochka gave Nina a folded towel and one of her dresses. “Your turn.”
The mirror in the bathroom was misty with condensation. Nina wiped her hand across it and stared at her reflection.
A couple of well-directed blows were all it had taken to get right under Nina’s defenses. Lubochka had immediately sensed that Nina did not approve of her and couldn’t help enjoying her little revenge.
“Here you are, little countess, so noble and scrupulous… but who has been more successful in life? You or me? Who has come begging to whom with their arms outstretched? So, be quiet, and I’ll preach a couple of home truths to you and say whatever mean things about your man that I like.”
And there was nothing Nina could do about it.
All those months she had been tormented with anxiety about what the future would hold. Would her life ever go back to normal? If the Reds won the war, the only way for her to have a half-way decent life would be to serve the same people who had killed her brother.
Even if the Whites prevailed, Klim would never get back his inheritance, and there would be next to nothing left of the mill at Osinki or the rest of the property confiscated by the Bolsheviks. Without a visa, Nina wouldn’t be able to go to Argentina. So, what should she do? What should she hope for?
Nina had expected her former friend to show them some sympathy and even admire their courage and fortitude, but for Lubochka, they were just a couple of fools who only had themselves to blame for all the unnecessary misery they had experienced.
Lubochka was ready to play any game according to any rule as long as there was a guaranteed prize for her at the end of it while Nina still insisted on playing the old game that she had always used to win. It was little surprise that she had been so unceremoniously kicked out from the table.
It’s not Klim who’s responsible for our trouble but me, Nina thought.
Her reflection misted over again, and now, all she could see of herself was a shapeless smudge.
When Anton Emilievich arrived home, he was amazed to find the new visitors.
“Good Lord! Klim, is that you? Where have you been?”
Klim told him what had happened.
“So, Nina has no documents?” mused Anton Emilievich. “I think we can do something about that. She should go to the Regional Executive Committee and tell them her papers were stolen on a tram. It’s important she gives a different name—then she won’t have to answer any awkward questions. When they ask her about her place of birth, she should say she was born in Kiev. The local registry archive was destroyed by fire last year, so she’ll be issued with a temporary ID card that she can use for two years.”
Klim was stunned. “Is it that simple?”
“What did you think? That all the people working in the Bolsheviks’ offices have great minds? Most of them are just ordinary women. All they care about is keeping their jobs and pleasing their bosses. When they get instructions from other women just like themselves, they don’t question them; they simply follow them to the letter.”
Nina and Klim lay side by side in a clean bed in the warm room. It was impossible to sleep; everything seemed so unreal. They were worried about what would happen when Lubochka’s new husband came back. What would he say about his new tenants? And what would they do for money now? Whatever happened, they wouldn’t be able to rely on Lubochka for long.
Klim leaned on his elbow and looked at Nina for a long time. “Will you marry me?”
She smiled bitterly. “Don’t you think I’ve already dragged you down far enough?”
“My love for you is boundless and bottomless, and I want to dive down to its most profound depths.”
“If it weren’t for me, your life would have been completely different.”
“That might be. But in the current circumstances, you’re my only hope. There’s no other woman who would marry me anyway.”
Nina laughed. “All right then, but I’m keeping my maiden name, Kupina.”
“Why?”
“I want you to have a better chance of surviving if I’m arrested.”
They were married in the Church of St. George on the high bank overlooking the Volga River. It was the most beautiful church in the city with its white walls coated with lace-like stucco and its two golden domes gleaming against the cloudy gray sky.
“Glory to Thee, our God!” the choir sang.
Lubochka gazed at the newlyweds standing in front of the lectern. The bride was dressed in Lubochka’s old dress—not white, of course, not white. Against the background of the rows of candles that lit up the church, Nina’s head looked like a dark silhouette cut from paper.
“You’re nobody,” Lubochka whispered to herself. “An empty space.”
A young black-bearded priest looked up at Klim.
“Have you, Kliment, come here to enter into marriage with this woman, Nina, without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”
“I have,” Klim said, and as he said so, it seemed to Lubochka that he quickly glanced at her.
Finally, he had given in and acknowledged her preeminence. Indeed, Klim treated her with a deference so pronounced that sometimes Lubochka felt he was mocking her. But then again, how could he mock her when he was entirely dependent on her charity?
Lubochka felt particularly sorry for Nina. In no more than a year, she had changed beyond recognition not only in appearance but also in character. Once an elegant, business-like young woman, she was now little more than a skinny scarecrow. Nina seemed to see signs of ill will everywhere around her, and that was why Lubochka had been unable to resist the urge to tease her.
It would be nice, for example, to seduce her husband. Nina was no match for pretty, pampered, and perfumed Lubochka. Surely, Klim would never risk refusing the irresistible lady of the house and being thrown out into the freezing cold.
Lubochka smiled at her sinful thoughts and sighed. No, she wouldn’t cheat on Osip, at least for now. But then who knew what the future might bring?
After the church ceremony, Lubochka took the newlyweds to the registry office in the basement of a former merchant’s house. The Soviet Republic only recognized civil marriages.
“Father and I have decided to make you a wedding gift,” Lubochka told Klim when the formalities were over. “He’s going to give you a job in his newspaper. You’ll get ration cards and a union membership card and the right to use the canteen at the Journalists’ House.”
“What will I have to do?” he asked.
“Write me a sample article.”
“Something along the line of a Passionate Appeal to the Workers?”
“Exactly. But don’t try to be clever. Nowadays, journalism isn’t about bringing readership and profits. All that matters is to get the approval of the Regional Executive Committee.”
After much thought and numerous edits and revisions, Klim brought Lubochka his work. “I think I’ve done a reasonable job. It’s full of nonsense and ‘comrades,’ ‘long lives,’ and exclamation marks.”
Lubochka read the article and patted Klim on the shoulder.
“Very good. You have a special gift for nonsense.”
22. THE SOVIET JOURNALIST
I am now a Soviet worker and enjoy a third category allowance of ration cards, which entitles me to ten pounds of rotten potatoes a month. The authorities have promised a delivery next week on the barge Friedrich Engels, but if the Oka River freezes over, the Friedrich will take my potatoes somewhere else.