“I Want to Divorce You” - Hoover Institution€¦ · “I Want to Divorce You” During the...

Hoover Press : Yourieff/Quisling hyouqs ch19 Mp_289 rev1 page 289

19

“I Want

to Divorce

You”

During the liquidation of the international relief work in theUkraine, the local Soviet government took precautions concern-ing the export of the kind of valuables they had good reason tosuppose the relief workers had obtained at bargain prices. Quis-ling was far from the only person who took advantage of thetreasures that appeared in the market after the Revolution.1 Norwas this the last time he took advantage of his privileged positionto export articles from the Soviet Union that he otherwise wouldnot have been allowed to take out of the country; he did thesame in Moscow before he returned to Norway in 1929.2

Whether his 1923 acquisitions represented his debut in thatrespect is not known. Hermod Lannung gives the impression thatQuisling had already shown an interest of that kind in 1922, whenhe said he wanted to learn from Lannung’s “great knowledge ofart and antiques.” But in his book, Lannung is so careless in dis-tinguishing between events of 1922 and 1923 that one must ex-

1. See, for example, Hermod Lannung’s description of his own splendidbargains in the Ukraine and in the Crimea. Lannung, Fra min russiske ungdom,pp. 166–67.

2. See letter from Ambassador Per Prebensen of March 31,1951. This letterwas written at a request from Maria, who practically dictated what he was towrite. NB, Quisling Archive, Ms. fol. 3920: X.


290 In Quisling’s Shadow

ercise caution in using him as a source here.3 In any event, artobjects were not among the purchases Quisling made in inflation-ravaged Berlin while he was there with Arne and Alexandra. Norhad he been personally involved in the 1920 court case followingSigurd Stavseth’s accusations that members of the Norwegian Le-gation in Petrograd had, among other things, engaged in blackmarket trade with art treasures during the chaotic conditions in1918—a case that subsequently was settled in favor of the Le-gation.4

Even so, it is likely that while in Petrograd, Quisling had be-come well acquainted with how the system worked, and that thisclearly opportunistic young officer took advantage of it. The Nor-wegian Benjamin Vogt, one of many who have described the con-ditions in Petrograd immediately after the Revolution, relates thatdesperate Russians sold their last belongings in order to obtainfood, and that the employees at the foreign legations in the cityoften served as intermediaries. Protected by the diplomatic im-munity they had so far enjoyed, they could buy valuables withtheir sought-after foreign currency and sell them abroad at ahandsome profit, once the articles had been smuggled outthrough the diplomatic channels.5

People with diplomatic passports or similar documents weregoverned by the Soviet Russian export laws referred to in a letterthat Mosianov, “The Soviet Government’s Representative to allthe Foreign Relief Organizations in Southeast Russia,” wrote inEnglish to the district chief of ARA in Rostow on June 1, 1923.He noted that all foreign relief personnel were to have their lug-gage inspected and approved by the local customs office in plenty

3. Lannung, Min russiske ungdom, pp. 160–62. Quote, p. 160, translatedby K. A. Seaver.

4. Dahl, Vidkun Quisling, pp. 73–4.5. Vogt, Mennesket Vidkun, p. 43; see also Lockhart, British Agent, pp. 217–

33.


291“I Want to Divorce You”

of time before departing for home; otherwise, they might en-counter difficulties at the border. If they were bringing cameras,binoculars, weapons, art objects, antiques, carpets, etc., they mustcontact Mosianov’s office in time to obtain the necessary per-mits.6 It becomes clear from Alexandra’s description below thatQuisling must have complied with these rules in order to havehis things exported on his diplomatic passport.

What she did not know was that her husband, who fully un-derstood the value of having one’s papers in order, had already,on June 28, written a letter to King Haakon requesting a releasefrom his position on the General Staff after August 1, and thathe be allowed to stay on in the Army as a supernumerary for oneyear. He explained to the king that his work for Nansen was likelyto go on until at least September 1, thus exceeding his leave ofabsence, which was set to expire on August 15. Besides, he wassuffering from “diminished health,” and, therefore, he would needtime to recuperate once he had finished his work for Nansen.7

When Alexandra finally learned about this letter, she againexpressed great surprise at his claim of ill health because Quislinghad been in fine fettle the whole time. An outsider may well askhow Quisling could have predicted in June that he would stillfeel ill in September, and one may also wonder what he intendedto live on as a supernumerary during the coming year, especiallygiven that he would also have to face the loss of seniority forfuture promotions, as Dahl has pointed out.8 Nor could he havetaken it for granted that Nansen would soon give him anotherassignment.

Alexandra was likewise ignorant of the fact that, among Quis-ling’s last acts in Kharkhov this time around was to personallyissue a Nansen Passport in the name of “Mrs. Mary Quisling.”

6. H, ARA Russian Section, box 88, folder “Rostow/Russia.”7. NB, Quisling Archive, Ms. fol. 3920: V: 1.8. Dahl, Vidkun Quisling, p. 98.



This happened on September 10, 1923, two days before the Nan-sen Mission was officially ended and Quisling and Alexandra leftKharkov. While Arve Juritzen, in 1987, was researching his ownbook about Quisling’s relationships with Alexandra and Maria,he discovered both the passport and the Nansen stamp that Quis-ling had used. Inexplicably, they were at Norsk Folkemuseum,where Maria’s executor, Finn Thrana, had placed them. Juritzenalso quickly discovered that the unstamped, unsigned Russian“validation” had been copied from the one that Quisling had inhis own diplomatic passport. Pasted in also was a letter from V.Tsjubarov, a Representative of the Soviet Government in theUkrainian Republic, requesting all GPU agents and associates onthe railroads to assist Captain Quisling’s wife. This letter wasstamped and signed in the Ukraine on the same day that thepassport had been issued.9

We will return later to the significance of these quiet maneu-vers. Here, it is enough to ask why and how Maria Paseshnikova,in one stroke, had been elevated to both “Mrs. Quisling” and“Nansen Executive,” when Quisling’s wife, in fact, was namedAlexandra, and the Nansen Mission needed no more administra-tors just as it was closing its doors in Kharkov. An unsuspectingAlexandra was entering the next fateful phase of her marriage toQuisling, as she relates below.

Vidkun had almost finished winding up Nansen Mission’s reliefoperations and sending on any remaining supplies and tools toNansen’s next field of operation in the Balkans. All that was leftto be done was to pack our own things and to attend still morefarewell parties. Some of the high government officials we metat those functions also called on us at home.

In addition to these official gatherings, my closest friends gave

9. Juritzen, Privatmennesket, pp. 71–73; Norsk Folkemuseum’s archives.



Maria’s Nansen Actionpassport, issued byQuisling himself.(Norwegian Folk Museum)

farewell parties for me, and I continued to receive visits from oldclassmates and from friends at my old job or from my dancingschool. Some of these guests, including Zimovnova, with whomI had worked in the PomGol office (and who would be out of ajob as soon as the foreign relief organizations pulled out), gaveme letters to their friends and relatives abroad, usually with asupplication such as: “If you see them, you must tell them howwe really live here!” Others asked me for help in finding familymembers who had disappeared during the civil wars and whomight possibly have made it out of the country, or they had otherrequests. I remember a heartbreaking little note passed to me atthe last moment: “’Acen’ka, dear, if you happen to remember me,please send me a pair of patent leather shoes!”

At first, Vidkun had some difficulty obtaining permits to take



our valuables out of Russia, but he soon managed to solve theproblem. Practically everything we owned, including my familydocuments, photographs, books, and everything else my motherhad given me both before leaving Kharkov and later in the Cri-mea, was to be shipped directly to Norway by freight. On ourjourney, I would make do with a suitcase containing my mostnecessary personal articles.

Packing all our things was quite a task and was mostly doneby professionals, but one day Vidkun said to me:

“By the way, that girl you asked me to get work for in thePomGol—Mara—has done some secretarial work for me, and Ihave found her a most efficient and eager worker. I think youshould ask her to give you a hand with the packing. I’m sure shewould be very willing to help you.”

Thus, Mara Paseshnikova began to spend an increasingamount of time in our apartment. Vidkun was in a good moodthroughout this period and continued to treat me so tenderly andlovingly that I thought our brief separation earlier in the summerhad served a good purpose by showing him how lonely he waswithout me.

He appeared very happy to return to Norway. He said he hadto be there by the middle of September; therefore, we ought toallow ourselves a week or ten days of traveling time in order tohave sufficient leisure in some of Europe’s capitals and otherpoints of interest he wanted to show me. Our route would bevery different from the one we had taken the last time. We wouldtravel almost due west, toward Poland, and the high point of ourjourney was to be Paris, where he had to deliver his final reporton the Nansen Mission’s relief work in Russia.

On the day of our departure, dozens, perhaps more than ahundred, of my friends were on the platform to see us off. Theyshared the space with a Soviet honor guard and several high func-tionaries who, to my immense surprise, included Bashkovich. He



bowed slightly when he noticed that I had spotted him. In thegroup around Vidkun, Mara was also very visible.

It was a cool September day, and I was glad to have myGerman leather coat over my suit as I stood talking with myfriends on the steps of the international sleeping car. A militaryband was playing while I told my friends with great convictionthat I would be back; we would meet again. The moment I hadsaid it, I knew I wanted to do everything in my power to managejust that.

A nearby group of babas, peasant women, were watchingboth us and the sleeping car, whose huge plate glass windowsrevealed its opulent interior. As our train began to move, one ofthe babas pointed to me and said very loudly to the others:

“Look at that Communist swine! Just see what kind of lifethis Communist trash enjoys!”

Another baba chimed in: “And she’s obviously a Chekistka—they always wear leather coats!”

Those cruel words of deep hatred were the last I heard spokenin my city. They were my farewell from Russia. So deeply shakenwas I by these women’s venom that it took me a while to re-member that, at that time in Russia, leather coats were indeedworn exclusively by members of the Cheka. I had just not comeup against the situation before because it was the first time sinceour arrival that it had been cool enough for me to wear my leathercoat in the Ukraine. To make matters worse, Vidkun was wearinghis own green leather coat on this day of our departure.

A moment earlier, my heart had been full of joy and happi-ness because of the love and attention showered on me by myfriends. Now, all that joy was swept away by those women’s ter-rifying hate, and I had to confront the chilling truth behind theirangry comments. I suddenly realized that my famous Norwegianhusband and I had, for many months, been leading a pamperedand artificial life. We had been eating privileged food, we had



enjoyed exclusive comforts, and we had been screened from theraw realities of life in my God-forsaken country.

While I struggled to overcome the shock of having been mis-taken for one of the hated oppressors, my heart gradually yieldedto a feeling of intense relief that I was, at last, returning to anormal life and secure conditions in Norway. My Oslo home waswaiting at the end of the leisurely trip through Europe that Vid-kun had promised me. I had to acknowledge to myself that aftertasting the free world, I had not felt really safe and relaxed for asingle day since returning to Russia.

I shared these thoughts with Vidkun, and he said that he, too,was very happy that we were on our way home. Growing verytalkative, he told me at length about his plans for the future. Heintended to continue on the General Staff for a while longer, hesaid, and he would write several articles and a book about thefamine in Russia. He also planned to complete the play he hadbeen reading aloud to me in Oslo, and after that he would occupyhimself with a very important philosophical work, the pinnacleof his creative genius, which he hoped would attract the attentionof the whole world and perhaps cure that world of some of itsills.

He seemed pleased to have some quiet at time at last in whichto confide his grandiose plans to me, just as he had so often donein our Oslo home. When he was not talking, he spent most ofhis time with his papers, while I eagerly took in the endless Ukrai-nian plains in order to remember as much as possible about mynative land.

Distances in Russia are immense. It took us a good twenty-fourhours to reach the last Russian railway station before the Polishborder at Shepetovka, where we stopped for a customs inspec-tion. Then the train started up again and moved very, very slowlytoward the border.



Vidkun joined me at the window and said: “Look at that littleriver we’re about to cross! It flows between Russia and Poland.See that bridge we just crossed—we’re in Poland now!”

I looked down at both banks of the tiny river. Both lookedequally dismal. But on one side was my own country, where Ihad again left behind my mother, my friends, and a piece of myown life. Sometimes, when I am least prepared for it, I still feelthat tiny needle-prick in my heart signaling the return of achingnostalgia, toska po rodine.

The memory of the terrible conditions I was leaving behindon this second departure from Russia made me subdued andthoughtful, but cheerfulness and optimism gradually returned aswe approached Warsaw.

The capital of a united and independent Poland, Warsaw wasindeed a magnificent city—gay, beautiful, warm, and invitingwith its elegant streets and innumerable delightful cafes full ofpoised, well-dressed people. We stayed there for about threedays, living at the Hotel Bristol. As usual, Vidkun had some busi-ness of his own to attend to. He had several friends in Warsaw,most of whom seemed to be members of the Norwegian militaryattache’s staff. Together with these friends, we spent many de-lightful hours at various cafes and restaurants, mostly cukiernias—pastry shops brimming over with marzipan pastry of every con-ceivable shape and color. Fortunately, we were able to walk offsome of the marzipan by sightseeing.

The great majority of Poles knew Russian well, but, quiteunderstandably, they preferred not to speak it, which sometimesled to awkward situations for us. Whenever we addressed themin Russian, their eyes became glassy, and in reply they mumbledsomething unintelligible in Polish, forcing us to switch to French,a language unfortunately not mastered by such people as cab driv-ers.

During this whole time, Vidkun was as nice and attentive a



husband as any wife could wish for. He surprised me with severalgifts, many of which showed his predilection for genuine leather.It was during this stay in Warsaw that he bought me the beautifultraveling necessaire with its leather-trimmed accessories. It is nowfalling apart, and its heavy crystal mirror is blotchy and cracked,but I cannot bring myself to throw it out, for I still recall thedelighted teenager who once watched her reflection in its glitter-ing oval shape.

Our journey continued across western Poland and northern Ger-many, with a succession of comfortable trains carrying us serenelyalong. In some of the cities we passed through, we stopped tovisit historical places and famous buildings.

Most of the time while we were on the train, Vidkun satworking on his papers for hours on end, while I did my best notto disturb him, confining our talk chiefly to our meals in thedining car. Then we would discuss what we had seen and planwhat to see next, and Vidkun, as usual would deliver very inter-esting lectures on the history of the cities we passed and on thearchitecture of various famous buildings.

At the larger stations, our train would remain standing forseveral minutes, and Vidkun would seize the opportunity to takea brisk walk on the platform along the whole length of the train,back and forth, back and forth, with his long strides. I knew betterthan to try to keep up with him, so I would stand on the steps,watching him and the rest of the people. Then Vidkun wouldreturn to his papers and I to my book, or to the window out inthe corridor from which I could watch the telegraph poles flashby and admire the neat fields and the orderly, gemutliche Germanvillages. The scenery outside was as peaceful as our life inside.

Our route to Paris went by way of the Rhinelands andthrough Cologne, and then turned southward, not far from theborder between Holland and Belgium. On the last leg of our jour-



ney through Germany, we suddenly noticed our conductor walk-ing the whole length of the train accompanied by uniformed men,pulling down every window blind, to which they would then at-tach black shields while ordering everyone not to look out. Thesmall lights were turned on, enabling us to continue our journeyin semi-darkness. Although I was quite familiar with such pre-cautions during wartime, I now found them disturbing and won-dered what could be going on in this seemingly peaceful cornerof Europe. Sensing my unease, Vidkun went out to speak to theconductor.

A while later he returned to our roomette, sat down acrossfrom me, and told me in a calm and even voice that there wasno cause for concern. We were now passing through the RuhrBasin, the richest mining and industrial district in Germany,where most of the German armaments had been made, andwhich a few months earlier had been reoccupied by French andBelgian troops to prevent the Germans from rearming and failingto honor the Versailles Treaty. The blackout was merely a pre-caution against spies and possible attacks on the trains, as well ason the Allied troops guarding the railways. All was perfectly sim-ple and natural; everything was under control, Vidkun assuredme.

“How kind he is to leave his important papers to find out allthis, and then to stay with me to comfort me!” I thought. “Whata strong and reliable man my husband is!” Touched and grateful,I took Vidkun’s hand into mine.

For a while he remained silent, while he continued to fix mewith his protuberant, unblinking eyes.

“Listen, Acia,” he began at last. “I must speak with you. Yousee, you’re still so very young; you have such a long life ahead ofyou, and you still have a lot to learn. I’ve decided that it’s abso-lutely essential for you to get a university education and learn aprofession. But first, I’d like to send you to a private boarding



school, one of those that take girls from good families—perhapsin Switzerland or England. There, you would learn the languagesand other things you need to prepare you for higher education.That should enable you to get into any university. I’ve just writtento several such schools.”

“But wait a minute!” I interrupted him in bewilderment.“What has this got to do with England or Switzerland? Why can’tI go to school at home in Oslo?”

“Oh, well—because I want to divorce you,” he said, as evenlyas if merely requesting a cup of tea.

Not comprehending a word of what he had just said, I asked:“What do you mean—‘to divorce’ me?”

“Just what I said. I want to get a divorce from you. We mustget divorced,” he repeated.

Even then, it took a while before I grasped the meaning ofhis extraordinary words. Before the full realization hit me, a coldshiver passed through me as a warning that disaster was about tosink its claws into me.

“I simply can’t believe it! It can’t be true! You must be jok-ing!” I heard myself say. Then I added, “You shouldn’t jest aboutsuch things, Vidkun!”

“No, I’m in dead earnest,” he replied, while he continued tostare at me as if I were a part of the furnishings. He finally metmy appalled glance and lowered his eyes.

“But why? For heaven’s sake, tell me why! What’s happenedto you? What have I done to you that you all of a sudden wantto get rid of me? Do tell me the truth; tell me the reason; tellme wh—why?” I gasped, trying desperately to be coherent andarticulate.

“I want a divorce because you’re too young for me. There isno other reason. Believe me, the time will come when you’ll seethat it’s better for both of us that we get a divorce.”



“But I wasn’t too young for you when you married me,was I?”

While uttering these words, I was jolted afresh by the reali-zation that all this was actually happening. Just ten minutes ear-lier, I had been a happily married woman, confident of my hus-band’s love and devotion, and now I was sitting here seriouslydiscussing the ostensible reasons for his wanting a divorce.

I felt as if I had just passed from one life into another, hellishworld—as if I had died and suddenly found myself in a differentsphere, where everything had overturned and was hanging up-side-down. In a confusion so deep that I was practically in atrance, I heard Vidkun say so softly that he seemed to be speakingto himself, rather than to me:

“But I was so much in love with you that for the first time inmy life I felt able to let myself do what I wanted, without regardfor the consequences. That has to change now.”

“And so you play with me for a while. You take me awayfrom my mother and my friends; you change my entire life. Andthen, at a whim, you feel bored; you stop loving me; you cometo your senses; you don’t love me; you don’t need me anymore.You decide to divorce me. Is this really you? You, who so oftenhave preached to me on the sanctity of love and the holiness ofmatrimony, on the supreme importance of fidelity and loyalty—loyalty above all, at any cost?”

Those were the things I wanted to say. Did I say them? I donot know.

In all my life I had rarely cried. But now, a torrent of tearsspurted from my eyes and coursed down my face as I had seenmy mother’s tears do when she was stumbling after my train soshort a while ago. Do you remember that I told you about thatday, my beloved? My husband, my fortress, my protector, myknight—I told you, but you were not concerned. You took meaway from my mother. You had only to call, and I left her and



returned to you, while she was crying and running, running aftermy train. It’s my turn to cry now.

All those thoughts were tumbling in my mind, but in my deepstate of shock I was unable to utter a single word. Across fromme, Vidkun sat watching my ceaseless weeping, and his unblink-ing eyes never strayed far from my face. Was he afraid I mightcause him further trouble and embarrassment by jumping off thetrain?

I cried without stop while our rolling, mechanical coffin re-lentlessly carried me toward an unknown destiny. Outside, it wasstill bright daylight, but inside there was merciful twilight, thanksto the blackout. At times I would shut my eyes, trying to stemthe flood of tears and to find a momentary escape from the worldaround me.

Exhaustion sent me into a half-awake state in which Idreamed that Vidkun would, at last, take me into his strong arms,wake me from my nightmare, and assure me that everything hadjust been a stupid mistake, a misunderstanding, and that all waswell again. But nothing of the sort happened. Whenever I openedmy eyes, Vidkun was sitting there immobile in the semi-darkness,like a pagan idol, just watching me.

My world had shrunk to this small railway compartment withits two facing day beds upholstered in red plush and with narrow,white, crocheted antimacassars along the head rests. It was justan ordinary, comfortable sleeping compartment, but I was begin-ning to feel close to suffocation in that horrible red plush world,while time crawled and pain tightened its grip.

Vidkun made no attempt to comfort me, reason with me, oroffer me a glass of water. There was something completely in-human about his lack of reaction. Although I felt totally drained,I was still not as devoid of life as the man sitting across from me,immobile and unmoved. Did he force himself to behave like thatto avoid falling apart himself? Had something awful happened to



him, which now had finally reached me, too, in this dreadfulmanner?

Despite my youth, and despite the fact that I neither knewnor suspected anything in particular, I was not too ignorant toknow that when married people separated and divorced, as theysometimes did, it was always for some good reason—discontent,quarrels, and conflicts of a sort that had never existed betweenVidkun and myself. And before a divorce could take place, theremust be court hearings during which all the problems were dis-cussed in order to reach a decision. But now, not only my mar-riage, but all the moral principles and rules for proper conductthat had been ingrained in me since my earliest childhood hadbeen brutally and arbitrarily dismissed by this man whom I hadconsidered a paragon of decency and kindness.

A heavy torpor took hold of my limbs, but I could not stopcrying. I, who had not even cried that day when Papa went outon an errand and never came back. Maybe Papa had left Mamaand me just because he had grown tired of us. Maybe all menwere like that, assuring you of their love and devotion one dayand wanting to be rid of you the next.

It suddenly became very important to me that Vidkun mustnot see me cry.

With agonizing slowness our train finally reached Cologne, wherewe were to stop for several hours. The blackout was now over,and Vidkun insisted that we follow his plans for seeing Cologne’spoints of interest. I was in no condition to see anybody or any-thing, so I refused to go with him, but he would not allow meto stay behind alone on the train. I had to bathe my swollen eyesand follow him with my face hidden behind dark glasses.

Vidkun took me to a restaurant, but I was unable to eat ordrink. His planned visit to the Cologne Cathedral was also a fail-ure because it was closed to the public due to repairs. I did not



care. I wanted only to be left alone with the tears that would notstop coming. To me, the great and ancient city of Cologne wasjust a graveyard for my happiness and youth.

At long last we reached Paris, the city I had so much lookedforward to visiting, but which now had lost all its allure. We wentto the Majestic, a grand old hotel that was later torn down.

I did not want to leave our room. I still had no desire to eator to see anything whatever. But if Vidkun was concerned withmy state, neither his expression nor his demeanor betrayed it. Onthe contrary, toward the end of our first day in Paris, he insistedthat I accompany him to the theater, although I was utterly ex-hausted by that long and terrible journey. My protests were tono avail. Again, he made me dress, cover up the ravages of mytears, and go out with him.

I was pushed to the limits of my endurance and sensed noth-ing around me until I found myself at the Folies Bergeres. Wehad orchestra seats. Somebody performed a dance up on thestage, and then there were some large tableaux vivants featuringtall, half-naked women. While those scenes were paraded beforeme, I just sat hunched in my seat, struggling not to disgrace my-self in public by a fresh outburst of sobbing. It soon became ob-vious that, despite my efforts, my condition was attracting notice,and a few people sitting next to us began to shift their attentionaway from the stage to Vidkun and me. Although the perfor-mance had just begun, Vidkun said with a look at me:

“Let’s get out of here. Let’s go home. This kind of theater isnot for you.”

“But then why did you b-bring me here in the first p-place?”I stammered as soon as we were outside the theater hall.

“Well, I thought it might distract you a little. And I wantedto make some scientific observations,” he answered after a pause.He gave no further explanation, and I had no strength to pursuethe conversation.



The next day, after Vidkun had taken care of his official busi-ness, he announced: “I have to go away now, Acia. I have to dosome traveling and find out what I’ll be doing next. Nansen wantsme to work with him in the Balkans, but nothing is definite yet.Meanwhile, I want you to stay in Paris.”

“And what will happen to me here? I can’t stay here alone.Perhaps it would be better for me to return to Russia and be withmy mother,” I said.

“No, I want you to stay in Paris until I return to take you toNorway in a month or two.”

Remaining silent, I thought: “Why should I go to Norway?What would I be doing there after all that has happened?” At thesame time, I wondered how I could stay alone in Paris, this huge,hostile, strange city in which I did not know a soul.

Still without taking his eyes off me, Vidkun casually pickedup his Baedeker guide and started leafing through it.

“There’s no need to panic,” he assured me. “I promised totake care of you to the end of your days, and nothing is going tohappen to you. Look, in this guide they list only very respectablefamily pensions; those marked with a star have an especially goodreputation. Let’s take, say, this one—it’s on the Left Bank in agood location. It ought to be nice and quiet over there. The nameof the owner is Mme. Glaize, it says. Let’s go there.”

Then he rang the bell; my things were picked up, and we leftthe hotel. I had no choice. Not that it mattered, because if I wasgoing to be abandoned in such a manner, I did not care wherewe were going or where I was to live. I had a fearful headache,but everything else inside me felt as hollow as a tunnel.

At the pension de famille de Mme. Glaize, Vidkun engaged aroom for me in no time and paid for it and my board for a monthin advance. Much later, when I again was able to think, I realizedthat he had already made the reservation and provided all the



necessary information well ahead of time. Everything about thisjourney must have been carefully planned before we left Russia.

A maid showed us the room. Vidkun sat down in the onlyarmchair, while I took a hard chair. We might as well have beensitting in a dentist’s waiting room. I could find no words to ex-press what I felt, so I remained silent. Vidkun took somethingout of his pocket and placed it on the table.

“I’ll continue to pay your living expenses. In addition, I’ll sendyou twenty-five dollars a month for your personal needs. Here’syour passport and your pocket money for the first month.”

Still unable to speak, I just nodded. Vidkun got up, took meby the hand, and said in short, terse sentences, as if he werereading from a telegram:

“I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here. Goodbye, rebionok(“child”). I have to go. I’ll write to you. Don’t worry. Everythingwill be fine.”

He patted me on the shoulder and left before I had a chanceto say anything or to ask what was to become of me. The corridorsoon swallowed up his steps. I was alone.

I remained seated on the same chair without taking off my coatand hat, utterly dazed, as time dragged by. The room grew darkaround me. I must have been sitting on that chair for a very longtime because when Vidkun and I had entered the room, the sunhad still been high in the sky.

When the street lights were turned on, I was still sitting there,too numb to get up and switch on the lights in the room. Theold-fashioned street lantern directly in front of the window casta hideous, yellow light into the room and made it appear sub-merged in stagnant water or wrapped in a suffocating, warm mist.I had a vague feeling of having been brought to a small house bya churchyard in ordered to be buried alive. It did not surprise me



at all when I later found out that there was a small, ancient cem-etery around the corner.

The pension was at No. 276 Boulevard Raspail, at the quietend of that otherwise busy street. The room assigned to me layright above the ground floor, with windows facing the BoulevardRaspail, and I could hear the distant hum of the big city and thesoft, rustling noises made by the tires of passing automobiles.Every few minutes, the stillness was also relieved by a remotehum-ooo-OOO, which suddenly grew much stronger and just assuddenly faded away. It was the sound of the Metro trains passingdirectly under the house. I found that regular noise soothing de-spite the dead and hollow feeling inside me—a feeling that stillthreatens to engulf me every time I recall the shrouding dusk andthe stillness of that unfamiliar room, with the eerie rays of thedying day all around me.

In the early evening, my silent solitude was interrupted by asweet young chambermaid. She was clearly taken aback when shediscovered me sitting there in the dark, and she asked if anythingwas wrong. I told her I had a bad headache and felt better in thedark. She said:

“Madame, my name is Jacqueline, and I’ve come to ask youdown to our table d’hote. All the others are seated already, andMme. Glaize is waiting only for you.”10

I told her I was not hungry and did not feel well, and I askedher to convey my apologies to Mme. Glaize.

She was not easily persuaded. “But please, Madame! Do comewith me; it’s not good for you to stay here like that, all alone.”

With great effort, I managed to assure her that all I neededwas rest and a good night’s sleep, and she reluctantly left me.

10. Note by Alexandra A. Voronine: At least, I think her name was Jacque-line. After so many years, I am not entirely certain.



Rather than distract me from my apathy and depression, thisbrief interruption plunged me headlong into a deeper despair. Ihad been forced to see that a vital spring had snapped inside me,that I could no longer function as intended. I had always likedcompany and meeting new people, and I had assumed that thefeeling was mutual. I had been independent and able to meetevery crisis that had befallen me—until now. The realization thatI had become a different person, a stranger to myself, led to aquiet, deadly panic unlike anything I had ever felt before.

Now, I had to begin this new and lonely life in a strange city,in a foreign land where I did not know a living soul—not evenmyself. I saw before me the thousands of big and little tasks thatmake up everyday life, and I felt that I could not face any ofthem. Nor could I bear the thought of having to inform Mamaand my friends about this new situation. Instead, I was seized bya sudden longing for my kitten, Pugovitsa (“Button”), which Vid-kun had made me leave behind in Russia. More than ever before,I needed the comforting presence of a living creature that askedno questions.

I did get out of that chair finally. I recall standing by one ofthe windows looking down into the street. Actually, they werenot windows, but a pair of glazed French doors with a low,wrought-iron grill barely a foot away, creating the illusion of abalcony. But there was no balcony. It was just an architecturaldeception, a trap that suggested a dangerous void, a yawningabyss, an easy escape, nothingness. . . .

The shadow of one of the chestnut trees for which Paris is sofamous made an intricate lace pattern on the sidewalk below me.So this was Paris, the city of my childish dreams, the city myhusband had promised to show me!



I have no idea how much longer I remained staring out into theParis night. I had lost all sense of time when I finally turned away.As mechanically as a sleepwalker, I opened my elegant new travelcase in search of something sharp. When I had located my scissorsand a razor blade, I brought them over to the bed with sometowels and cut both my wrists.

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