Rodina

By Alla Crone

Set in China, the United States,. Germany, and USSR, this is the powerful story of Vickie, a woman of indomitable will, who is yearning above all for a life of freedom and security and who must endure an autocratic mother, an alcoholic sister, a faithless, weak husband, and a fatally flawed lover.

Driven by an overwhelming wish to survive, Vickie lives through the Japanese occupation of Shanghai, the death of her best friend the Jewess Sara in a refugee camp in the Philippines, and a wrenching choice between following her deluded French communist lover to the Soviet Union and marrying an American officer. She makes her choice and moves to San Francisco where she must adjust to a new way of life.

In Heidelberg, where her husband Brian has been transferred, she runs into the Frenchman again, has an affair with him and bears his child, but through it all steadfastly refuses to follow him to the Soviet Union she hates.

When tragedy strikes and Vickie is tormented by the discovery of a hidden family shame, this remarkable Russian woman is still able to find happiness and security in the United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 5, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469766010

Alla Crone

BIO Alla Crone, an award-winning author of seven novels, was born in a Russian community in Harbin, Manchuria, and after marrying an American physician, came to the United States. She is an avid reader and enjoys classical music. She lives in Northern California where she is at work on her next historical novel.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Alla Crone

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Printed in the United States of America

To my husband, Bob Hayden, whose faith in this work never wavered

Where liberty dwells, there is my country. (John Milton)

Contents

PROLOGUE

PART I

SHANGHAI, CHINA 1937-1947

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

PART II

UNITED STATES 1947-1950

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

PART III

GERMANY 1950-1954

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PART IV

UNITED STATES AND RUSSIA 1954-1959

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

Leningrad, U.S.S.R.

Summer of 1957

On a warm sunny day, the young American woman walked along the Neva embankment pausing occasionally to close her eyes and lift her face toward the cool breeze coming from the Gulf of Finland. Two men walking past looked at her with interest. "Interesnaya baba, one of them said; the other, Da, no ne Russkaya."

The woman suppressed a smile. What would their reaction be if she turned around and thanked them for the compliment in flawless Russian and told them that she too was Russian? They would probably stop and want to know who she was and where she came from.

She didn’t want to talk. Not now. She hurried past her admirers, then stopped for a moment. Another three blocks and she would reach his street.

Near the railing of the Dvortzovy Bridge that connected the main part of Leningrad with Vassilievsky Island, she paused to look down at the river. A hydrofoil flew by, skimming the surface of the Neva; the plaintive horn of a steamer hooted in the distance. A rush of wind picked up a stray leaf, veined and dry, and carried it over the railing to settle on the rippling waves. It floated, reminding her of the toy sailboats on the pond in Shanghai’s Jessfield Park, where she had walked arm-in-arm with him, talking about their lives, and planning their future.

She leaned over, watching the leaf as it bobbed up and down, aimless and helpless, a toy for the breeze. Then she straightened and gripped the cold iron railing with both hands until her knuckles turned white.

Across the river, she could see the famous landmark of this beautiful city: Peter and Paul Fortress, a place harboring centuries of pain and tears. On this side, there rose the stately needle of the Admiralty Building, the golden dome of St.Isaac’s Cathedral, and the somber palaces of St. Petersburg’s past that stood like pastel sentinels along the blue Neva. Leningrad. She shuddered. How incongruous to have this graceful Venice of the North renamed after that hard-fisted, balding man responsible for the death of millions. Pedestrians hurried past her, busy with their thoughts. She could stand here as long as she wished or she could go on. But what was to be gained except more pain and the opening of old wounds?

His sister had begged her to see him: You can tell me how he is, how he lives. And she had agreed. After all, no one else would know about it. She would visit the Hermitage to see its western art, and the Government Museum to enjoy the Russian paintings. She would tour the Pavlovsk, the Pushkin, the Summer Palaces, and she would slip in a visit to him…

But now that she was here, and had done all those things, a heavy weight filled her limbs. Her thoughts were only about him.

Was he well?

How did he live? What did he look like now? Was he happy here? Had he made peace with himself?

They nagged, those questions filled with memories that darted like hummingbirds, vibrant, elusive, a hum of energy remaining in the air.

Memories. All of the happy times, and none of those that happened later, except the final one. But that was in another park, and in another country.

She looked down at her hand, still resting on the black railing. A ladybug had landed on it and was embarked on a tickling journey to her wrist. She watched the ladybug a moment, blew it off and saw it settle in the dust…then she turned and headed toward his street.

Once she found the number on the house, she stood across the street studying the drab apartment building. The sun and the rains had faded the paint, leaving an uneven yellow hue. Along its front, ran a huge drainpipe; its corroded opening leered at her across the wide sidewalk like an obscene and gaping mouth.

What if the door opened and he walked out? He would misunderstand, think she had finally given in. It would be cruel to mislead him.

Anger flared again. And what about her? She pressed her purse against her chest. She would see him. She must.

There was no one on the street. No one had seen her come here and no one would see her leave.

Her head ached. She rubbed her temple, pushed her hair back, then crossed the street and rang the bell.

PART I

SHANGHAI, CHINA 1937-1947

CHAPTER ONE

14 August, 1937

That Saturday the city was heavy with humidity that clung to the body like a steaming sheet. No one suspected the muggy day would turn into a carnage.

At a 100 degree temperature, pedestrians, both Chinese and European moved at a lethargic pace, careful to avoid sinking their heels in the softened asphalt. Even rickshaw coolies sat on the curbs cooling themselves with straw fans instead of running along sidewalks soliciting customers.

Two women and a teenage girl came off the tramcar at the corner of Nanking Road and the Bund. They walked slowly avoiding huge wooden wheelbarrows filled with loads of food and chickens, and a row of one-wheeled carts that nosed their way among pedestrians. The coolies, bent under their bamboo poles with buckets of hot water, singsonged ‘hey-ho, hey-ho’ to clear their way, and the high-pitched voices of hawkers shouted bargain prices on wares piled high in doorways and alleys.

The women stopped. One was fair with short blond hair and gray eyes. Dressed in a white linen dress and white high-heeled shoes, Lydia Muravina at 38, still had a shapely figure. The other woman had dark, wispy hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck. A straight print dress that covered her rather plump figure made Sara Rosen look older than her 42 years. Vickie, the young girl, was Lydia Muravina’s daughter and although she had dark chestnut hair and brown eyes, she bore a striking resemblance to her mother.

Suddenly, Lydia frowned. Aren’t we near the area Jacob warned us about? she asked, nodding toward Nantao and Pootung.

Sara shrugged. My brother is a worrier, Lydia. The Chinese sectors are close, but we’re still in the International Settlement.

When Lydia hesitated, Sara touched her arm. You asked me for the best place to buy a watch for your husband’s birthday, didn’t you? And when Lydia nodded, Sara went on: It would be a shame to turn back now when we’re only a block away from the Palace Hotel’s jewelry shop. She looked toward the river and squinted. "Down there, the Japanese flagship Idzumo is anchored right off the Japanese consulate. It’s nothing but an aggravation to the Chinese. I don’t know how long this war will go on, but they drive each other from one Chinese sector to another with a frightful loss of life. Sooner or later the Japanese will take over, and we might as well get used to the idea now."

They stood on the Bund along Whangpoo River that was crowded with moored junks and small boats. Farther down, a steady stream of Chinese refugees poured across the Garden Bridge that spanned the foul-smelling Soochow Creek filled with dozens of sampans. Women carried baskets full of howling babies and squawking chickens; some men dragged their possessions piled high on two-wheel carts; others carried their elderly parents on their backs. Trotting, pushing, shoving, they fanned out on the Bund like a spilling sack of grain.

Into this din of human misery, another sound intruded…a distant drone of planes. Vickie and her mother looked up. Four Chinese planes emerged from the dark clouds and headed downriver toward the flagship Idzumo.

A rapid ra-ta-ta of gunfire came from the ship. Without a word, Sara grabbed Vickie and Lydia by the arms, and rushed away from the Bund. She passed the Palace Hotel entrance without stopping, and hurried them on until she rounded the corner and pressed herself against the wall of the Chase Bank, motioning to Lydia and Vickie to do the same.

We’ll wait here until the planes are gone, Sara said. Sometimes there’s more danger from the falling shrapnel than from the… Her words were strangled in the shrill whistle of a falling bomb. Seconds later, as Vickie peeked around the corner, a huge wall of water rose from the Whangpoo and spilled over the banks, sweeping the grassy promenades and washing over the parked cars. In the next instant a splintering explosion sounded so near that Sara pulled Lydia and Vickie down to the ground. Vickie covered her head with her arms. Two more explosions shattered the air before the drone of the planes faded in the distance.

Sara was the first to rise. The women looked at each other. My God, what did they hit? Lydia cried. Let’s go home!

Vickie was too stunned to speak.

People are hurt, Sara said. We must see if we can help.

Lydia put her arm around Vickie’s shoulders. I don’t want to expose you to it.

Vickie stiffened. She threw her mother’s arm away. Mama, I’m fifteen, not a child anymore.

Without a word, Lydia turned and followed Sara. Once around the corner, they all stopped and Vickie stared. The street where they walked minutes earlier, was thick with black smoke and flames. Two hotels facing each other across Nanking Road, had been hit. One bomb had gone through the roof of the Palace Hotel, the other had struck the street, creating an immense crater and damaging the Cathay Hotel.

Twisted coils of steel and iron protruded from the buildings like fractured bones, and the hotels’ splendid façades lay on the ground in huge slabs. Bodies, pinned under heavy debris, lay in grotesque positions, and for a few seconds, there was utter stillness…a moment frozen in time. Then, a swaying window broke loose and crashed to the pavement already thick with shattered glass.

The gigantic hole that filled the street between the two hotels came alive with people clawing, slipping, scampering to get out. Screams and cries for help rose into the sky as if hell itself had been recreated. Vickie’s heart pounded and she trembled all over. She saw her mother, dizzy and perspiring, lean against the wall of a building. She reached out and touched Lydia’s cheek.

Sara looked at her too. Don’t you dare faint, Lydia, she said.

Vickie put her arm around her mother’s waist and held her, until Sara took her by the arm and tried to pull her toward the injured. But Lydia stood immobilized and seemed disoriented. Vickie looked at her mother’s shocked face and wondered if memories of the Siberian horrors she had faced in her youth returned to haunt her.

Another explosion shook the ground. Seconds later a cloud of black smoke rose in the distance.

Another bomb, came a shout behind them. Looks like it hit near the French Concession this time.

Lydia started to shake and cried out: Sara, did you hear that? We must go home!

Sara, who by then was helping someone tie a tourniquet around the hemorrhaging arm of an unconscious man, said: I can’t leave now. She raised her head to the sky. The smoke is far from here,but go home if you want.

Vickie bent over a small boy in a sailor suit. The child was crying in great gasps and calling for his mother in French.

Lydia grabbed Vickie’s arm. Come with me!

Vickie shook her head.

Vickie! Did you hear? We’re going home.

Vickie freed her arm and bent over the child again. I’m not going. I’m staying with Aunt Sara.

She heard her mother hesitate for a few seconds, then say: If Sara wants to stay, it’s her business. But you must come with me.

Vickie tightened her lips but didn’t move.

Her mother raised her voice. You’re headstrong, that’s all! Your father and Nina…they may need us! We have to go home!

Sara straightened. Don’t worry Lydia. For goodness sake, Kiril is a doctor, he would know what to do if need be.

Lydia looked at both of them with frightened eyes, then turned and fled. Vickie watched her mother go and for a few moments was tempted to go with her to safety.

A child’s scream pierced the air behind Vickie. She whirled around and saw a Chinese girl trapped under a piece of masonry. All fear forgotten, Vickie rushed toward the child. Sara knelt beside her and together they tried to lift the slab. The sharp edges scraped Vickie’s hands as she pushed up but it was too heavy. A man appeared by their side and as he and Sara barely raised the slab, Vickie managed to pull the child out. She couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. Her mangled legs were covered with blood and as Vickie lifted her, the girl fainted in her arms.

Her vision blurred, Vickie swallowed tears trying to control a rising sob. Gently, she pulled back a few strands of hair off the child’s face and stroked her forehead with a trembling hand.

Give her to me, Mademoiselle, the man said in French and Vickie handed the child to him. He carried the little girl to his car which already held two other wounded people. After lowering the girl to the car floor, he got in and drove away.

Sara rose and glanced at Vickie’s bloodied hands. We’ll have to get some iodine to put on those scratches, she said, wiping them with a handkerchief. Unable to control her trembling, Vickie leaned against Sara.

Sara. A dear, selfless friend. When Vickie and her family fled to Shanghai from Harbin two months ago, Sara and her brother, Dr. Jacob Rosen, found them a temporary place to stay and did everything they could to make their adjustment easier.

Vickie took Sara’s hand. Together they picked their way among shards of glass, plaster, and bent metal, circling a burning automobile parked at the curb. Unharmed civilians, who moments earlier huddled in shock at hotel entrances, now rushed to help the injured who had been thrown into the entrance of the Cathay Hotel by the force of the explosion.

A small Chinese boy whimpered on the ground near the entrance to the Palace Hotel, and two stories above him, a woman clung to the partially demolished wall. The piece of masonry broke loose, crashing to the ground through the glass awning of the hotel entrance. The woman’s shrill scream reverberated in Vickie’s ears. She made a move toward her but Sara held her back. No, Vickie. This time we must wait for help.

A few minutes went by. Vickie’s stomach churned until the Municipal Police, the Volunteer Corps, and rescue workers arrived on the scene.

Their arms and clothes now covered with blood and dirt, Vickie and Sara helped the rescue teams wherever they could until Sara finally said: It’s time to go home. We’ve done all we can here.

Dazed, Vickie felt a sudden cramp in her jaws. She touched her face and the pain worsened.

Your teeth are clenched, Sara said. Open your mouth and take a deep breath.

Afraid to relax, Vickie stood rigid.

Sara placed her hand on Vickie’s shoulder. It was a gentle touch, and Vickie looked at Sara’s hand.

It’s all right to let go, Vickie. It’s all right.

Hiding her face against the older woman’s chest, Vickie wept.

* * *

The next morning the North China Daily News, the English language paper, described the bombing in detail. The Chinese pilots had missed their target, the Idzumo. As a result of the Japanese anti-aircraft guns, the planes’ bomb racks had been damaged, which accidently discharged bombs on the International Settlement and on the refugee center set up in the Amusement World at the edge of the French Concession. The paper reported that close to twelve hundred people had been killed and hundreds more wounded.

Vickie translated the article into Russian and when she finished, her stepfather rose from the dining chair and paced the room. Tall, with patrician bearing and slow, deliberate movements, he looked every inch the aristocrat that he was. A physician by profession, but a Prince Muravin by birth. His reddish-brown hair framed a high forehead, and his gray eyes looked at the world with confidence. Right now he faced Vickie’s mother with a frown. Stay away from the Bund. We can get everything we need right here in the French Concession, he said. Please don’t take any foolish chances.

I tried to tell that to Vickie, Lydia said, but she disobeyed and stayed behind with Sara.

Vickie waited for a reprimand but instead, Kiril put his arm around her mother’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. Vickie hadn’t gone through the Siberian horror as you did, my dear. She wanted to help. Be patient with her. We’re all under stress now. Yesterday’s bombing is a reminder that we’re not yet safe.

Lydia didn’t answer and without looking at Vickie started setting the table for dinner.

How painful yesterday’s experience was for Mama, Vickie thought. Her mother was only eighteen when the Bolsheviks overran her home in Krasnoyarsk and killed her parents. When Vickie asked how it happened, her mother said that someday she would tell her about it but until then she didn’t need to know more. How terrifying it must have been to flee alone from Siberia, leaving her dead parents behind. Vickie shuddered.

She went over to her mother and tried to hug her, but Lydia turned away and busied herself over the table.

That night Vickie could not go to sleep. The night before, she had nightmares about the bombing and tonight she could still see the bloodied legs of the child she had held in her arms. She and her family had to flee Harbin because of the Japanese, and now the Japanese were in Shanghai. What would happen to them? She had lost count how many times her Mother had said what a tragedy it was that they were refugees—no embassy, no consulate to protect them, no rodina—their motherland, they could return to if the going got rough.

The moon was out. She climbed out of bed and ran to the window, the moist soles of her feet sticking to the polished floor as soon as she stepped off the rug. Pulling the curtain aside, she leaned out the open window. The full moon cast long, hazy shafts of light into the room. I am fifteen years old, she thought. Dreadful to be fifteen. Not a child anymore, but not an adult either. What did the future hold? Security was vital, and security meant citizenship and a safe place to live. Eerie shadows surrounded her. Padding back to her bed, she climbed in and curled up, burrowing her face into the pillow.

CHAPTER TWO

Vickie’s stepfather was right in keeping the family away from the International Settlement for in the weeks that followed, there was a succession of bombings by both sides. The Japanese hit two of the largest department stores in the downtown area, killing over six hundred more people.

The French Concession was safe from bombings, and with Sara’s help, Vickie’s mother found a suitable place in the Berne Apartment House on Avenue Joffre. It was perfect for their needs. Divided into two sections by a long corridor, it afforded total privacy between the living quarters and what would be Kiril’s waiting room and office. The ‘key money’ however, was three thousand dollars, which, at the rate of current exchange, came to forty five thousand Shanghai dollars.

Vickie was in the kitchen peeling potatoes, when her mother came home and told her stepfather about the key money.

My God, I had no idea it would be so high, Vickie heard him say. That’s out of the question for us. Once we get the apartment, I’ll have to equip my office and our savings won’t stretch…

We’ll manage, her mother interrupted. Your office has to be in a good location. People are influenced by things like that. You’re not yet known in Shanghai. First impressions are important. Remember the proverb, ‘at first you’re judged by your clothes, and only later by your intellect’.

Kiril shook his head. You and your proverbs. I’m sorry, dear. But the price is unrealistic for us. We’ll have to find something less expensive.

Her mother walked into Vickie’s room and took her by the hand. Come, let’s go for a walk, I need some air.

Something in the tone of her mother’s voice made Vickie follow her without question although she was surprised at the strange time Lydia chose for a walk, it was mid-afternoon and still too warm for a pleasant stroll.

Once on the street and without looking at Vickie, Lydia said: We’re not going for a walk. I didn’t want your father to know where I’m really going, so I pretended you and I are going for a stroll.

Vickie knew better than to ask questions, and soon enough she knew where they were headed. The Rosens lived only a few blocks away.

Jacob opened the door. Come in! Sara and Joseph have gone to buy shoes, he said, pushing his disheveled black hair off his forehead and stuffing a stethoscope into the side pocket of his doctor’s white coat.

That boy’s feet grow by the day, he added, his craggy face settling into an indulgent smile whenever his nephew was mentioned. His shoulders were stooped, making him appear shorter than average. He lumbered ahead of them leading the way into his office.

The apartment was light and airy. In the entry hall chairs were lined up against both walls. Newspapers and magazines were neatly stacked on two low tables and Vickie guessed that the hall served as a waiting room for Jacob’s patients.

My afternoon patients aren’t due to come in for another hour, so we can talk.

When they sat down, Jacob behind his desk in a swivel chair, and Vickie and her mother on leather armchairs facing him, Vickie noticed that Jacob saw her mother clutching her purse nervously. He leaned forward, pushing aside a journal on dermatology, his dark eyes studying Lydia kindly. Are you or Vickie sick? And when Lydia shook her head, he raised one brow: Is everything all right at home?

Her mother nodded and dabbed her upper lip with a handkerchief. Jacob’s ink-stained fingers twirled a pencil. Still hot. It will take a while for you all to adjust to this climate.

It was hot in Harbin, too, Lydia said. I remember the dust storms and the hot air but when we used to go across the Sungari to picnic and swim, the air was dry and my dress never clung to my skin like this. She pulled the collar of her beige print dress away from her neck.

It’s the humidity that makes the difference. Unfortunately the Whangpoo is no Sungari, so you’ll have to settle for cool showers instead.

Her mother put the handkerchief back in her purse, snapped the flap closed, and leaned forward. Jacob, I came to ask your advice.

Jacob waited.

Vickie watched her mother interlace her fingers tightly on her lap and wondered what made her so ill-at-ease.

I found this nice apartment and it is absolutely perfect for us, Lydia said, rushing on. "It’s made to order for us. There are two large rooms that could be Kiril’s office and waiting room, and they’re set quite apart from the rest of the apartment. The place is in good location, sunny and cheerful. The trouble is Kiril says the key money is too high and he wants me to find something more modest, but I feel we should start out in a place that is large enough and…and nice enough for his office. So, I wonder—I mean—could you recommend a bank where we could get a loan? We don’t have anything to offer as collateral right now, but what with Kiril’s future practice and his past reputation, it shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?"

A note of such desperate plea sounded in her mother’s voice, that Vickie squirmed in her seat. How embarrassing.

How much is the key money? Jacob asked.

Three thousand dollars.

Jacob put down his pencil and pushed his chair back. Let me loan you the money, he said. This way you won’t have to worry about meeting monthly payments at the bank. With me, you pay back at your convenience.

That’s most generous of you, but I… Lydia’s voice trailed off lamely. We shouldn’t be taking advantage of our friendship, Jacob.

No advantage. What are friends for? It’s not a gift, only a loan, so what’s the big deal?

How can we ever thank you?

"Forget it. There’s give and take in every friendship. Who knows?

Someday I may need a favor from you."

* * *

On the way home, Vickie’s heart filled with tenderness toward her mother. She saw how difficult this visit had been and now she didn’t know just how to express her feelings to her. Instead, she ran her hand gently over her mother’s forearm as they walked in silence. Lydia looked at her, eyes filled with tears and said: You see, Vickie, our Russian proverb is right when it says that it’s better to have a hundred friends than a hundred dollars.

At home, Kiril glared at her mother. "You what? How could you…"

"Jacob offered it. He insisted. We’ll repay. He knows that."

Kiril slammed his fist on the table. That’s not the point.

Vickie had never seen him so angry. Then please tell me what is,her mother said, her head high.

It’s demeaning to me that you accepted it from…

From another doctor? Lydia interrupted. But there’s a difference. He’s already established here. He’s been here for ten years and you’ve just arrived. There’s nothing shameful in that. He was very tactful about it, said we needn’t pay back right away.

How magnanimous for a Jewish moneylender.

Vickie stifled a gasp. How could Papa say such a thing? Her mother’s eyes narrowed. So that’s what’s bothering you—the Jewish part.

Kiril’s frowned. That’s not true! How can you say that? Why, in Russia my family was always courteous to Jewish merchants and moneylenders. We never believed rumors about pogroms. I remember that every time such vicious gossip surfaced, my mother went to talk to the Jewish owner of her favorite millinery shop. His voice rose. You don’t know it, but I referred patients to Rosen. He is a fine dermatologist and was highly thought of in Harbin.

Vickie was trained never to interrupt adult conversation and certainly not when there was an argument, but now with fingers crossed behind her back, she said: Papa, I was there, I heard everything. Mama only asked Uncle Jacob to recommend a bank but he insisted on loaning the money.

Kiril, Jacob is not only a good physician, Mother said, but he and Sara have been good friends, they made it easy for us. If not for them, we wouldn’t be where we are now.

Kiril went over to the window, put his hands behind his back and hit one hand against the other. The whole idea is humiliating, he said in a more conciliatory tone. I’ll write him a promissory note right away.

* * *

They got the apartment. The rooms were large and sunny and the furniture they were able to ship from Harbin fit in so well that there was very little they had to buy besides her stepfather’s office equipment. The piano, however, had to be sold in Harbin and Vickie’s and Nina’s lessons came to a stop. Nina hated practising, but Vickie missed the piano and hoped that some day she’d be able to play again. She turned to poetry and wrote poems at night when everyone was asleep.

The girls were enrolled in the Sacred Heart French Convent on Route Bourgeat. The transition from Russian to English and French was easy for Vickie who had a natural facility for languages.

It’s easy for you, Vickie’s nine-year old half-sister, Nina, pouted, her copper curls tied in the back with a ribbon. She was still flat-chested and skinny, but her hazel eyes, inherited from her father, often flashed defiance. But I hate the new school! English spelling is terrible and the French speak through their noses.

Vickie couldn’t resist hugging her sister and kissing her on the cheek. You’ll catch on soon enough, Ninochka. Shanghai is not Russian like Harbin was, so we have to learn to speak English and French.

Nina stamped her foot. I hate Shanghai. I hate this apartment. I want to go back. Everybody spoke Russian in Harbin. Our streets had Russian names. And we had our own rooms there. Here I have to sleep with you.

Vickie looked at her sister with affection. What’s wrong with sleeping with me in the same room?

I don’t have enough space. I have to share the drawers with you. Why did we have to leave Harbin, anyway?

It’s complicated, Sis. Mama and Papa didn’t want to leave either, so there must have been a good reason for us to come here. Vickie picked up the Berlioz English textbook and handed it to Nina. You better concentrate on this right now. Nina pursed her lips but took the book.

LaFontaine’s French fables lay on the table and Vickie started to read. She didn’t want to talk about the reasons for her family’s displacement. How could a nine-year-old understand the complexity of political upheaval in Harbin, when she, at fifteen, could comprehend only a part of it?

‘A Russian enclave outside of Russia’, her mother used to call Harbin, and it truly was. When Russia wanted to shorten the Trans-Siberian railway by some 300 miles, China gave her the right to build and govern the railway through Manchuria. Russian engineers built Harbin and by the time Vickie was born, there were over one hundred fifty thousand Russians living in the city with shops, theaters, churches, and medical facilities to serve them.

Life was wonderful for them even after the Japanese took over Manchuria in 1932. Nothing changed in Vickie’s and Nina’s routines. They still had governesses and piano teachers and yearly vacations. When she was fourteen, Vickie heard her parents discussing rumors of Japanese abuses. Nothing but gossipmongers, her mother had said and the subject was dropped.

But then one day something happened to her stepfather. He came home upset and talked to her mother behind closed doors for a long time. Shortly thereafter his busy medical practice was no longer busy and after a few months, he announced that they were leaving Harbin.

Once in Shanghai, the Prince Muravin family became known among the nobility and the intellectual members of the Russian community. Vickie’s stepfather’s medical practice, although not as prosperous as he had enjoyed in Harbin, nonetheless afforded them comfort and relative affluence. It piqued him, Vickie overheard him say to her mother, that although he was a prince, he could not become a member of the Officers’ Club because he had never served in the military. Still, his company was sought after by those who belonged, and he and her mother frequented the club as guests. On the other hand, Vickie could see how pleased he was to be able to secure membership in the Cèrcle Sportif Français for he enjoyed speaking French—the language of his childhood and his peers in Russia.

Then, on November 8th, Shanghai fell, and the fighting ceased. On December 13th Nanking fell too, and Chiang Kai-shek took his government to Chungking. The Japanese set up their forces in the Chinese sectors of Shanghai, and although the Chinese municipalities were now under Japanese control, the French Concession by agreement was still under the French, guarded by a large garrison of soldiers. The foreigners found to their relief, that not that much changed after all, and gradually, life resumed its normal pace. At the exclusive British Shanghai Club at #3 The Bund, men still leaned against the longest bar in the world, sipping their gin and tonics and inviting no one into their inner sanctum but a select few friends; in the French Concession, tennis matches still continued at the Cèrcle Sportif Français, followed by dances at the club’s reputedly most elegant ballroom in town; the Russians still dined and danced at the Officers’ Club on Rue Lafayette, where you couldn’t be a member unless someone in the family had been an officer in the Russian Imperial Army. Others danced and attended plays at the Russian Community Center, favored by Russian youth. The Soviets had their own club and kept to themselves.

* * *

Vickie’s school days were full. In the evenings, after her homework was done, her stepfather took it upon himself to continue her education in Russian. You’ve only finished the elementary grades of Russian school, and you should study more of our history and literature, he insisted.

Do you know, he once told her, "that Dostoyevsky was a spendthrift and gambler? His family called him the executioner of money. His children adored shopping with him for he always bought extravagant presents for them."

Vickie enjoyed Russian history, too, and listened attentively to her stepfather’s interpretation of major events during the reign of the Romanov dynasty and the subsequent tragedy of the Revolution.

Sometimes when Kiril gesticulated, her gaze followed his hands as he pointed to a paragraph in the history book. Such graceful, refined hands for a man to have…long, tapered fingers with blue veins barely visible beneath the smooth wrinkle-free skin. The kind of hands that never had seen hard labor yet cared for the sick, her kind, loving stepfather. She loved him so. How smart he was, how much he knew. Yet he and her mother were without a country, tossed about and humiliated by circumstances beyond their control. So unfair. One day on an impulse, she bent over and kissed his hand.

Startled, Kiril’s face reddened. My dear child, I’m touched, but please remember that a lady should never kiss a man’s hand, no matter how close the relationship.

I’m sorry, Vickie whispered, her face hot with embarrassment. What was it you were telling me about the Revolution?

She listened to the reverence with which he spoke of the Tsars, blaming their subordinates and military leaders for any bad judgments.

Didn’t the Tsars themselves ever make mistakes? she once asked, but when Kiril began to explain the complicated Imperial government’s structure, her mind drifted.

She missed her friend, Zoya Letina. They were good friends before Zoya’s father sold his brewery and left Harbin. When the Muravins first arrived in Shanghai, her stepfather forbade her to contact the Letin family. I don’t want tongues wagging about this awful flat, he said. Until we find a decent place, we’re not going to make any social contacts. Plenty of time for that later.

When Kiril finally told her she could see Zoya, Vickie telephoned her and then took a tramcar to the corner of Avenue Joffre and Route de Say-Zoong. In an alley at the back of a long apartment building facing Avenue Joffre, there was a row of three-storied garden apartments. Zoya and her family lived in the middle one. The front of the house was freshly painted in white and the brass bell by the side of the varnished door brightly polished.

Before Vickie could ring the bell, the door was flung open and there was Zoya. The same Zoya she remembered from Harbin, only taller and wearing lipstick. Her blond, wavy hair was braided and arranged in a crown around her head giving her a grown up appearance. But the voice and the smile were the same.

I’ve been watching from the living room window, waiting for you. When did you come to Shanghai? You didn’t say anything on the phone, and I was so surprised. Well, don’t just stand there, come in, come in!

The same dear breathless Zoya, rushing on with questions, hugging and kissing and laughing.

Vickie followed her into a small living room crowded with blond wood chairs, a round table covered with ecru linen cloth, and a sofa with an oversized armchair slipcovered in a floral print fabric. Lace curtains filtered the daylight, throwing intricate shade-patterns on the sideboard where a decanter and colored crystal liqueur glasses sparkled in the waning afternoon light.

Zoya plopped down on the sofa, kicked off her low-heeled pumps and curling her feet, dug them between the cushions.

Here, sit by me, Vickie, and tell me all about yourself. Papa is at work and Mama is out shopping. We have the whole afternoon to ourselves.

Vickie sat down and leaned against the back pillows, her legs crossed and tense. I miss Harbin, Zoya. Shanghai is so… she waved her hand searching for the right word, so foreign, so strange.

Zoya laughed. Of course it’s foreign, silly. What did you expect, Russian street names? All the streets here are in French, because we live in the French Concession. They even have their own police force.

It’s just that in Harbin I felt like we were living in Russia. Everything was Russian, and it was home.

Zoya rolled her eyes. You know why.

Of course I know. Vickie felt color rise to her face. I feel like a refugee here.

Zoya leaned over and hugged her. "You’ll enjoy Shanghai more, I promise you. You’ll see more Chinese and foreigners on the streets, but there are a lot of Russians here just the same. About thirty-five thousand. We have a Russian daily newspaper, The Shanghai Zarya, and a Russian school. You’ll get used to it. There are so many things to do