"I'm ready," I said. "May I send a few telegrams?"
"Certainly, certainly." The chief's manner suddenly became extremely
courteous.
I wrote one to our Ambassador in Petrograd, one to Mr. Vopicka in
Bucharest, one to the State Department in Washington, and one to Peter.
I wrote Peter that I was delayed a few days. I was afraid that he might
come on and be arrested, too. My hand did not tremble, though it struck
me as very queer to see the words traced out on the paper--almost
magical. My imagination was racing, and I could see myself already being
driven into one of those baggage cars bound for Tomsk.
"Keep your mind away from what is going to happen," I said to myself.
"You will have time enough to think in prison. Things are as they are.
You are going to walk out of this room, just the way you've done a
hundred times. Are you different now from what you've always been? Keep
your mind on things you know are real."
I tried to move accurately, as though a false move would disturb the
balance of things so that I would walk out of the room on my hands like
an acrobat.
Suddenly, the chief, who had been talking in a corner with the other man
in uniform, wheeled about.
"Frau Pierce may stay here under room-arrest. Good-day."
He clicked his heels together and bowed slightly. His spies clustered
about him, and they left the room.
All at once my bones seemed to crumble and my flesh dissolve. I fell
into a chair. Marie and I looked at each other. We began to laugh. "We
mustn't get hysterical," we said, and kept on laughing.
The room was so dark that we looked like two shadows. Panna Lolla had
come after Janchu and taken him into Count S----'s room. We imagined the
excited curiosity of the rest of the _pension_.
"I'll wager that woman was a spy, after all."
"But why--why should _we_ have a _revision_?"
"Anyway, they couldn't have found much. We'll be set free in a few
days," Marie said.
"They found my letter about the Jews," I replied.
"What letter? Oh, my dear, what did you say?"
"I forget. But everything I saw or heard, I think."
We began to laugh again.
"Will they send our telegrams?"--"Will Peter come on?"--"What shall we
do for money?"
The room was pitch-dark except for the electric light from the street.
We heard the creak and rattle of the empty commissariat wagons returning
from the barracks. We fell silent, feeling suddenly very tired and
lethargic.
"Where is Janchu? It's time for his supper," Marie said, without moving.
I started out of the room to call him, and fell across a dark figure
sitting in front of the door. He grunted and pushed me back into the
room.
"I want Janchu," I said in perfectly good English, while he closed the
door in my face.
"There's a spy outside our door," I whispered to Marie.
Panna Lolla came in with Janchu and turned on the light.
"There's a man outside our door, and two secret-service men at the
_pension_ door and two soldiers downstairs," she whispered excitedly in
one breath. "No one can leave the _pension_, and they take the name and
address of every one who comes here. And that woman _was_ a spy. Antosha
saw the chief go into her room and heard them talking together. And she
left when they did."
I lay all night, half asleep, half awake, hearing the street noises
clearly through the open windows. I cried a little from exhaustion and
nerves, and then controlled myself, for my head began to ache, and who
knew what would happen the next day? I had to keep strength to meet
something that was coming. I had no idea what it was, but the
uncertainty of the future only made it more ominous and threatening.
That letter--In the darkness I saw the chief's watchful, narrow eyes,
and the horn-rimmed spectacles of the friendly spy, and the stuffed
portfolio.
_Later._
Nothing has happened yet. We have our meals brought to us by Antosha,
who tries to comfort us with extra large pickled cucumbers and portions
of sour cream. We are allowed to send Panna Lolla downtown for
cigarettes and books from the circulating library. Thank Heaven for
books! With our nerves stretched to the snapping-point and a pinwheel of
thoughts everlastingly spinning round in our heads, I think we should go
mad except for books. It is very hot, but my body is always cool and
damp, because I can't eat much, I suppose, and lie on a _chaise longue_
motionless all day long. I can feel myself growing weak, and there is
nothing to do but sit and wait.
Marie and I go over and over the whole thing, and finish at the point
where we began. "But why?" We think it may be because Marie came to
Bulgaria to visit me and brought me back here, and now we want to leave
Russia together. The papers say that Bulgaria already has German
officers over her troops. But I can't believe it. She is too
independent. They say that she will certainly go with the Central
Powers. That, too, is inconceivable. Perhaps, however, if it is true,
and already known by the Russian authorities, the secret service is
suspicious of our going back there, and of Marie's intention of sailing
home from Dedeagatch, via Greece. What else could it be? How this
uncertainty maddens us! Yet we are thankful for every day that passes
and leaves us together. What will happen when they translate my letter?
_Bojé moy!_ I hear a step outside the door, and my heart simply ceases
to beat.
Pan Tchedesky to-day tiptoed into our room when the spy was having his
lunch. He whispered to us that he had seen the English Consul, Mr.
Douglas, and told him about our case. He begged us not to be
discouraged, and to eat. He said that he almost wept when he saw our
plates come back to the kitchen, untouched. How flabby and livid he
looked, his vague, blurred eyes watery with tears! Yet we could have
embraced him. He is the only person who has spoken to us.
The sun is golden on the old convent wall across the street. The convent
is empty during the summer. Only the richest Court ladies send their
daughters there to be educated, and the Dowager Empress visits them when
she passes through Kiev. The trees in the garden are gold and green in
the late afternoon sun. A little bell tinkles musically.
Below in the street some passing soldiers are singing. How fresh and
strong and beautiful their untrained voices are. I wonder if they are
off to the front, for each one carries a pack and a little tea-kettle
swung on his back and a wooden spoon stuck along the side of his leg in
his boot. Where will they be sent? Up north, to try and stem the German
advance? To Riga? Where? The Germans are still advancing. Something is
wrong somewhere. And still soldiers go to the front, singing. They are
thrown into the breach. I can't help but think of the fields of Russian
dead, unburied. Who has a chance to bury the dead on a retreat? There
is nothing "decent" in it. Yet they say the retreat is "orderly." I
wonder what that means?
At night when I try to sleep, I see the map of Russia as if it was
printed on my eyeballs. It is so big and black with a thin red line of
fire eating into it. America seems millions of miles away. I wish I
could touch you just for a minute. If I could only feel your arms about
me for one moment. The only way is not to think beyond this room and
this minute.