Dreams of My Russian Summers by Andreï Makine Read Free Book Online

last. The headline in large letters — “Glory to Russia!” — left no room for doubt. I smoothed out the paper on my knees, as Charlotte used to do, and began softly to mouth the lines:
    Great God, there is good news to tell!
    With joyful hearts we greet the day,
    To see collapse the citadel,
    Where slaves once groaned their lives away!
    To see a people’s pride reborn,
    The torch of justice raised on high!
    To celebrate this happy morn,
    Friends, let your flags and banners fly!
    It was only when I reached the chorus that I paused, seized by a doubt: “Glory to Russia”? But what had become of that land, “blond with her corn, white with the white of snow”? That “country fair”whose soul was “rich and rare”? And what were these slaves doing here, groaning their lives away? And who was the tyrant whose downfall was being celebrated?
    In confusion, I went on to recite the chorus:
    All hail, Russia, all hail to you!
    People and soldiers together stand!
    All hail to you, all hail to you,
    Who now redeem your Fatherland!
    All hail the Duma’s newfound power,
    Its sovereign voice will soon have spoken,
    For happiness now comes the hour,
    With all your chains forever broken.
    Suddenly some headlines caught my eye, poised above the lines of verse:
    N ICHOLAS II A BDICATES: R USSIA’s 1789. R USSIA FINDS F REEDOM. K ERENSKY — T HE R USSIAN D ANTON. P ETER AND P AUL F ORTRESS — R USSIA’S B ASTILLE — T AKEN BY S TORM. C OLLAPSE OF A UTOCRACY …
    Most of these words meant nothing to me. But I grasped the essential. Nicholas was no longer the tsar, and the news of his downfall had inspired an ecstatic explosion of joy among the people who, only yesterday, were cheering him and wishing him a long and prosperous reign. Indeed I had a very clear memory of Heredia’s voice, which still echoed round our balcony:
    It was thy father forged a bond that tied
    Russia to France, in brotherly hope allied.
    Hear now great Tsar, how France and Russia bless
    Thine own name, with thy patron’s name, no less!
    Such a reversal seemed to me inconceivable. I could not credit so base a betrayal. Especially on the part of a president of the Republic!
    The front door banged. Hastily I gathered up all the papers, closed the suitcase, and pushed it under the bed.
    At dusk, because of the rain, Charlotte lit her lamp indoors. Wetook our places beside her exactly as we used to in our evenings on the balcony. I listened to her story: Nicholas and Alexandra were in their box at the theater, applauding Le Cid. ...I observed their faces with a disillusioned sadness. I was the one who had glimpsed the future. This knowledge weighed heavily on my child’s heart.
    â€œWhere is the truth?” I wondered, as I followed the narrative distractedly. (The imperial pair stand up, the audience turn to give them an ovation.) “These same spectators will soon be cursing them. And nothing will remain of these few fairytale days! Nothing …”
    The ending, which I was condemned to know in advance, suddenly seemed to me so absurd and so unjust, especially at the height of the celebration, amid all the bright lights of the Comédie Française, that I burst into tears, pushed aside my little stool, and fled to the kitchen. I had never wept so uncontrollably. Furiously I shrugged off my sister’s hands when she tried to comfort me… . (I so resented her, she who still knew nothing!) Through my tears I cried out despairingly: “It’s all a cheat! They’re traitors! That liar with his mustaches … Some president! It’s all lies… .”
    I do not know if Charlotte had guessed the reason for my distress (doubtless she had noticed the disarray caused by my rummaging in the Siberian suitcase: perhaps she had even come across the fateful page). In any event, touched by this unexpected outburst of weeping, she came and sat on my bed, listened to