Encore (37 page)

Without thinking, she nodded, her face white and lifeless. Ballhausen started to laugh. “Heinrich hadn't told me his cousin was spirited!” he cried. “But I like that! I have some marvelous Napoleon: You will enjoy it.”

But she had already turned and gone back into her own compartment. He stared after her, the smile fading from his face.

Natalia rocked Arkady in her arms. His face was streaked with tears, and he refused to drink from the bottle of condensed milk. He cried and cried, his whimpers becoming more frenzied. Fear crept up Natalia's chest and rose into her throat, choking her. To reassure him with the sound of her voice, she Said, in the unfamiliar German words: “Soon,
Liebchen,
soon. You'll feel better.”

This was not good, this crying. Already she had disturbed everyone in her compartment and attracted undue attention. She scooped the frail, struggling Arkady into her arms and pushed into the hall, which smelled of garlic and sausage. Püder was nowhere to be seen.

Outside, the scenery had shifted. The train was slowing down, pulling into a station—Baden-Baden. They were going south into the Black Forest. Natalia looked out the window, remembering how people used to stop here to take the waters. Now she wished they were not stopping at all.

A group of German military police were coming toward the train, and she saw them being directed to Ballhausen's private car. Then, bored, weary and lonely, Natalia looked away, paying them no more attention. Army red tape continued on and on.

Ballhausen's private car was several compartments away, Püder was with him when the knock came, and when he saw the military policemen, he said to his superior: “Whatever it is, I can handle it, sir. Last time we were held up by a munitions check. Shall I see to it?”

“Very well, Heinrich,” the colonel replied with some asperity. He did not like being interrupted for technicalities. Püder clicked his heels, saluted, and exited from the car to the corridor.

“Now, gentlemen, let us step outside and discuss your problem,” he said. He followed the small group back out to the station platform.

The four members of the military patrol and Lieutenant Heinrich Püder stood directly below Pierre Riazhin's hiding place. One of the men said: “I beg your pardon, sir. This matter is hardly a customary military check, but we've had this letter from the War Ministry, and so we have to comply.”

Püder extended his hand and took the paper. His blue eyes scanned it once, twice. “This is absurd!” he said at length. “We're a military convoy on our way to the front. Surely you don't think we could have a woman on board whose presence we knew nothing about? Among two hundred and fifty men?”

“But we were told that you do have a female passenger with you,” the military policeman demurred.

“Indeed. My cousin, Frau Mannteuffel, the daughter of General von Wedekind. She carries a special dispensation. Would you care to check its authenticity?''

The other voice reached Pierre, clear and polite: “Of course not, Lieutenant. Forgive us, but we had to go along with our orders. This paper, signed by Baron Friedrich von Baylen, states that several weeks ago a woman of this description was seen in the company of an officer of your regiment in Darmstadt. Now this woman, a Russian countess, is being sought by the government in Berlin for internment. Her husband is an important man, and it might be possible to negotiate a trade of prisoners with Russia if we can find her. As you've read yourself, sir, she's disappeared with her young son. Our only lead is this officer.”

“A German officer would not help an enemy alien,” Püder stated dryly. “Certainly no one of this company. Who gave information to that effect?”

“After the arrest report came out, we combed the area of Darmstadt. No one seemed to remember her, except some waiters at a restaurant on one of the cliffs. Two people had dined there, a German officer and this lady. They remembered the insignia of the company on the man's sleeve and although they didn't see a child, the woman they served that evening struck them because of the magnificent jewels around her neck.”

“Flimsy evidence,” Püder commented ironically. “I myself have taken beautiful ladies for an evening's outing. That is hardly proof of treason.”

“I suppose you're right, Lieutenant,” the other voice said. Pierre felt the hair on his arms and legs bristle. His throat was knotted. At least, he thought, she has a guardian angel. But why is this man risking so much? I should be taking the risks, not this stranger with the formal Prussian voice! That damned Marguerite! Damned Boris, who started it all! He clenched his fist and felt hot sweat break out under his arms and neck. He couldn't stop his recriminations, the round robin of hatred.

“I understand your predicament,” Püder was saying. “Naturally, if you wish to be reassured as to my cousin's identity, you are welcome on board. But she is very tired, so please confine your questions to the minimum.”

Pierre was shocked: Why couldn't the man have left well enough alone? Now the entire group was climbing back into the train. Helpless as a caged tiger, Pierre rammed his fists into the sides of his body and gritted his teeth.

Passing by the colonel's car, Püder saw that the door was ajar. Ballhausen called to him, and he stepped inside. “What's all this about?” his superior asked him.

“Nothing important, sir. A routine check of Hilde's papers. Women,” he added with a smile, “don't often travel with military convoys.”

“No, they don't.” Lothar Ballhausen's small blue eyes stared at him.

Püder saluted and proceeded toward Natalia's car. He encountered her in the corridor, with Arkady in her arms. Her brown eyes widened with unspoken terror. He said gently: “Hilde, my dear, these men don't wish to disturb you. They simply wish to check your military dispensation.” As her lips parted, he said to the military policemen: “Now, even my own cousin has brown hair and eyes. Really, your trail of clues is somewhat ludicrous, gentlemen. Will you suspect each German brunette of being a Russian countess in flight?”

Absurdly, while allowing Püder to look through her bag to unearth her papers, Natalia began to laugh. It was a short, hysterical gurgle, more like a death rattle than a sound of mirth. Arkady looked at her, bewildered. She touched the top of his head, so soft and vulnerable, and tried to regain her composure. But the men were examining the documents, and then they nodded and allowed Püder to escort them out to the platform a second time. To Natalia it was a nightmare.

She leaned against the wall, shutting her eyes. Arkady began to cry, her heart was pounding painfully, her knees weakening. Perhaps it would have been better simply to let him die in Darmstadt. Who was to say this voyage, with its unpredictable outcome, might not kill him anyway? I never should have allowed myself to conceive you, she thought with sudden fierceness. I should never have opened myself to Boris, of all men. I did not want to love, I did not want marriage, I never wished for children. Dancing was enough. She looked at the small boy, her heart full of resentment fostered by terror and nervous tension.

“You told me you were a widow, that your name was Oblonova,” Heinrich Püder was saying to her in a low voice at her elbow. “Now it seems I have placed myself in jeopardy for a far more important enemy—the Countess Kussova. Why didn't you tell me the truth?”

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with such sadness, such anguish that he fell silent. “It was only a small lie,” she said. “But you might not have helped the Countess Kussova, and my son would not now be on his way to safety.”

“Helping you was a matter of honor,” he said gravely. “Any man worth his mettle would have come to your rescue for the sake of a sick infant. But I am also a romantic: I did not really believe that your son had a father, that the lovely Oblonova was truly married. Women of the stage…. How wrong I was, wasn't I?” He smiled ruefully and added: “And I had thought surely that the lovely Oblonova would remember a humble soldier on a train.”

Natalia did not answer. Raising herself on tiptoes, being careful not to crush Arkady, she reached Püder's lips and met them with her own in a swift, brief kiss. “How could she not remember?” she whispered.

The note that the young second lieutenant had just handed her read: “Dear Frau Mannteuffel, I should be most honored if you would join me for an aperitif in my compartment. It is the least I can do for the cousin of such a fine officer as Heinrich Püder and for the daughter of my mentor, General von Wedekind.” The signature was curiously flowery.

Natalia remained frozen on her seat.
“Gnädige Frau,
the colonel is waiting,” the young man said with hesitant insistency.

“I shall have to take the baby,” Natalia said. “He can't stay here without me.” The lieutenant appeared surprised but said nothing. He held the door of the compartment open for her, and the three of them proceeded down the corridor. She had never seen this officer before, but it hardly mattered.

Natalia knew that now they were speeding westward on the noisy train. Already they had entered occupied France, and the names of the stations had begun to change into that odd German-French blend that characterized Alsace and Lorraine. The lieutenant led the way into a noisy passageway connecting two cars, and Arkady, seeing the rails below his mother's feet, began to screech. She calmed him with a touch of her cool hand.

“Here we are,
gnädige Frau,”
the young man said, stopping at a door. He knocked and, upon hearing a voice from inside, opened it, clicked his heels, saluted, and quickly departed. Natalia saw that the car was luxuriously upholstered, like a prewar Pullman. A table had been set up with bottles on it and a tray heaped with small sandwiches. Suddenly Natalia realized how hungry she was. She stopped inside. Her host rose to greet her, smiling. It was difficult to read the expression on his face, which was diffused with small veinules and enlarged pores. Some men did not enter their middle years with grace. “Set the boy down there on the seat, and tell me about yourself. Have you been married long?” He moved aside some papers to make room for Arkady and helped her to settle him on the cushion. He handed her the plate of sandwiches and she selected one, not looking at him.

She had to answer. “Two years.” she said.

“And the child is how old?”

“Seven months.”

“Ach! So sad that he is ill! But look, he seems happier already. May I pour you a thimbleful of my magnificent Napoleon?”

Mutely, Natalia nodded. Her hand trembled as she reached for the small liqueur glass, and brandy splashed onto her fingers. “I'm sorry,” she said. “He's been crying so much, and I'm tired.”

“Of course. Tell me,
gnädige Frau,
had your father been suffering from heart trouble all during his last few years?”

Taking a gulp of the amber liquid, she replied: “Yes. But please let us not discuss my father. I told you, Colonel, it is too painful a subject for me.”

The thickset man had narrowed his eyes at her. “I can understand that,” he said with sudden sharpness, “because General von Wedekind, Heinrich's uncle, did not die of heart failure. He was not your father.”

The last five words fell on the room like a tremendous weight. The red plush seats, the shining bottles, and Colonel Ballhausen's small blue eyes imprinted themselves on Natalia's consciousness with heightened effect. She sat very still, not breathing. Her fear had seeped away and in its place had settled the certainty of inevitable death. It was over. Then her eyes fell on Arkady, and a fierce upsurge of blood coursed through her body, a sudden defiance. She stood up, one hand stretched out to the baby, and said: “What do you want, Colonel? Money?”

Now he rose also and approached her. “Not money. I am a rich man in my own right. But you will do what I ask, or you will never live to see Switzerland. Who are you,
gnädige Frau?”

It did not matter anymore. If she told him, perhaps he would not harm her, given her status. “I am Natalia Oblonova, the Countess Kussova,” she replied. “My husband is Count Boris Kussov of St. Petersburg.”

Ballhausen raised his eyebrows. “I'm impressed. A Russian countess. Very touching. But it isn't going to help,
Gräfin.
Your husband is not here to rescue you, and you are an enemy traveling with illegal papers. Heinrich Püder must have received a pretty bribe to do this for you. Strange for such an honest man, and a devoted officer of the German army. But worthier men have succumbed to beauty and charm. You possess both. How did you charm Püder ?”

“He agreed to help me because my child was ill. I am not a whore.”

He closed the distance between them and placed both hands on the wall on either side of her head, so that she was imprisoned by his body. He was not touching her. She repeated again, coldly: “What do you want?”

From the beginning she had been prepared to sleep with Heinrich Püder to obtain his help. She had coolly considered it and resolved that it would not matter. There could be no question of unfaithfulness in such an act, only of survival for Arkady. Conventional morality had never coincided with her own code of values, and if Püder had wanted a different sort of payment, she would have given it to him. But he had been gentleman enough not to take advantage of her situation. This man, obviously, was not as scrupulous. She knew he would leave her no way out.

A dreadful feeling of claustrophobia assailed her, and her head reeled. He smelled of brandy—expensive brandy, to be sure, but nonetheless he had been drinking, and it sickened her. No, she thought, I can't, I can't! Püder, meticulously clean, young and stiff, would not have hurt her. This man would. Her body recoiled, and her mind balked. “Not that,” she stammered. “No.”

But he bent toward her, and pressed his lips to hers, parting them with such swift brutality that she started with pain. His tongue probed deep into her throat; her mouth was split open, stretched. She could not breathe. Hysteria overcame her and she began to struggle, attempting to push him off her. She pummeled his shoulders and his chest and tried to raise her knee to reach his groin, and could not. But her fingers encountered something hard at his side, and, with swift realization, she thought: My God, it's his gun!