“He promised to visit when Vasily’s here.” Papa swept his palm across my cheek. “We’ll have a grand time then, won’t we?”
Papa’s cheerful voice and touch restored my hope. Only one more week. With Vasily as a chaperone, I’d be free to roam around the estate, and Sergei’s outrageous stories would jolt us out of our gloom. I saw Mama brighten with the same anticipation, and soon the three of us were chatting eagerly about our future plans and taking second helpings of braised lamb. Unaware of the throng that was marching toward our door.
The soldiers in Petrograd had knocked first. This time, the front door slammed open without warning and crashed against the opposite wall. Papa sprang up, still holding his wineglass. A crowd of men wearing peasant tunics stomped into the house, their voices the roar of an approaching storm. Mama half ran, half stumbled from her seat and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.
The vanguard of the horde crammed into the doorway of the dining room, then spilled inside. A dozen men, their glares like weapons. I recognized some of them from the farm but didn’t know their names. I’d never had a reason to learn.
“Gregor,” Papa said, addressing the man closest to him. “What’s all this?”
Papa looked no different than he would in a Petrograd salon, smoothing over a disagreement between friends. It will be all right, I told myself as Mama’s hands trembled against my chest.
Gregor was compact but burly, someone the others looked to as a leader. His mouth was barely visible under his bushy black beard. “We’ve come to take what’s ours.”
I heard thumps and heavy footfalls in the front room. It was impossible to tell how many people had invaded the house. Through the doorway, I glimpsed the swish of a skirt. Women, too?
“I’ve gone over all this with Yuri,” Papa said. “Where is he?”
“Yuri is no longer in charge,” Gregor said. “If the land is ours, why do we need an overseer?”
“He’s a worker, just as you are . . .”
“Your worker. He’s no better than the rest of us.”
Papa’s face didn’t change, but his silence worried me. He glanced over at Mama, and Gregor barked, “Get them out of here!”
A trio of men pulled me and Mama out into the hall. We huddled against the banister at the foot of the stairs, Mama shielding my body with hers. All around us, invaders swaggered like an army of monstrous ants, scavenging whatever was in their path. A young woman came traipsing down the stairs, and I recognized her broad, plain face. It was the peasant I’d seen in the fields with Vasily, three years before. She was holding a bundle of rolled-up fabric. My clothes. A ripple of green silk trailed out from one edge, and my chest seized with fury. I’d outgrown the gown I wore to Maria Shulkina’s coming-out ball, but I’d kept it in our trunk of theatrical costumes; it was the most beautiful dress I’d ever owned. I wanted to rip it out of that girl’s filthy hands, but Mama’s arms clung too tightly, forcing me to be still. When the woman made her way out the door, I saw she was wearing my new boots.
From the dining room, Gregor’s voice rang out above the din. “Where are your guns?”
“I have only a few hunting rifles,” Papa said. “They’re in the storeroom by the kitchen.”
One of the men rushed past me and Mama, toward the back of the house. In less than a minute, he was back, carrying three rifles. He handed one to Gregor and one to another of the men.
“Where are the rest?” Gregor demanded.
“That’s all I have,” Papa said.
“I’ve been told you people all carry guns,” Gregor said. “For protection.”
“I never needed protection, before tonight.”
Mama moaned, the usual warning sign before she burst into tears. With a terrified “Shush!” I begged her to keep quiet. If Mama got hysterical, it would only make things worse. We had to follow Papa’s example and stay strong while the storm raged around us. Eventually, it would pass.
“Have you been to the wine cellar?” Papa asked. Playing the gracious host, just as he had with the soldiers in Petrograd. “There are some very fine vintages. Go ahead—help yourselves.”
A gaggle of peasants rushed past me in a flurry of shouts and stomps. Everywhere I looked were scenes that didn’t seem possible: strangers pawing through Papa’s papers; muddy footprints trailing across the Persian carpets; children racing past, laughing, as one swatted at the other with Papa’s walking stick. I watched a pair of women carry away stacks of our family’s china, and all I could think about was breakfast the next morning: What will we use to eat? Even Mama’s fear didn’t seem quite real. With her laborious breaths and quivering body, she looked like an actress overplaying a role, trying to sway a disinterested audience.
The peasants were getting louder, more festive. They passed around bottles, tipping the necks toward their mouths, laughing when the wine dribbled down their chins. At the top of the stairs, two middle-aged women were posing for each other in Mama’s hats, like girls let loose in their mother’s wardrobe. The front doorway was a bustle of movement, with furniture and linens being moved out while empty-handed newcomers arrived to claim their share. Papa was still standing at the head of the table in the dining room, and he gave me a cautious nod. Assuring me that despite everything, he wasn’t afraid. I smiled back.
Gregor appeared in front of Mama, breathing heavily.
“Where are the jewels?”
Mama shook her head, seemingly incapable of speech. The day after our Petrograd house was invaded, we’d sewn her most valuable pieces into corsets and petticoat hems. But those garments were hidden beneath a loose floorboard in town. Gregor grabbed Mama’s arm, roughly, and she let out a tiny yelp.
“We don’t bring our jewels to the country,” I blurted out. Anything to distract him, to make him stop.
In a withering imitation of my educated accent, Gregor drawled, “We don’t bring our jewels to the country.”
Suddenly, Papa was standing beside me.
“It’s true,” Papa told Gregor. “Search our rooms—if you haven’t already.”
“Anton . . . ,” Mama pleaded.
I squeezed her hands, hoping she’d understand. Please be quiet. Papa knows what to do.
“Get back!” Gregor barked.
He shoved Papa aside. Papa stumbled into the huddle of men standing behind him, men who were twitchy with alcohol and resentment and fear. One of them wobbled, and the others lunged forward toward Papa, the force of the onslaught heaving him to the floor. Papa cradled his face with his arms as the men’s boots pounded his body in a nauseating rhythm of thuds and grunts. Mama, openly sobbing, buried her head against my neck. But I couldn’t look away.
An outburst of laughter from the front room diverted the men’s attention, and they turned to see what was going on. Papa’s hands and arms sagged; his face was so blood-spattered that I couldn’t tell his nose from his mouth. But his chest was moving—hesitantly, painfully. He was breathing. He would be all right. I believed it right up to the moment Gregor raised his rifle, steadied it, and shot Papa in the head.
Mama screamed, and the sound jolted me into action. I grabbed Mama’s arm and ran down the service hall. I had no plan, no destination. Only one thought propelling me forward: Get away.