Regina Saxony
on the topic of trotsky
A portly man, prematurely wrinkled with age spots and hair (barely) jutting from his scalp in white tufts, sat across from Ilya and Regina, who were hand in hand. Regina tried her best to sit and not say a word, like Ilya had pleaded with her to. “... And they’re going to Prague for a large gathering sometime in the next month, a big rally, something grander than these little dinners you both frequent,” he ambitiously sputters with the sliest leer smothering his face.
“Oh, Prague, what a beautiful city. Mr. Ivchenko, have you been?” Regina smoothly asks, trying to not come off as cold, but being distantly friendly. Ilya had worked with her in the art of, ’social poise’, that was the euphemism he crafted for what Regina termed as ’acceptable lies.’
“Yes, I have, Mrs. Volkova. But, I am most intrigued to how you know of Prague,” He condescendingly spits, but it’s all done in this polite way that would make it impolite of her to lash out at the demeaning words.
Ilya tightens her hand and she throws her shoulders back into an erectness that puts off an air of class and importance. “I wasn’t meant to be a baker, Mr. Ivchenko, I was supposed to fit into a form of a young socialite,” Regina warmly laughs, it’s a breathy laugh, but it’s reassuring and fitting to the scenario. Mr. Ivchenko’s eyes scan her, as if he needed to take a second look at her appearance to verify her claims. Politely (oh-so-politely) coughing, Regina adds, “I was a Saxony before I married Ilya.”
His eyes widen. “Ms. Emelia has a brother from around these parts?”
Regina shakes her head timidly. A blush creeps up the apples of her cheeks. “I am the product of Ms. Saxony’s first marriage. My father was Alexsei Zhestakov, perhaps you knew him,” Regina kindly suggests. Ilya smiles, she doesn’t see it, but she feels it.
“I knew Alexsei and Emelia, at a time, they really loved each other. It was something.”Mr. Ivchenko’s eyes twinkled with an honesty that Regina never thought she’d coax out of the man.
“That they did. Would you care for something to drink, sir?” Regina redirects the conversation to Ilya’s favor.
Mr. Ivchenko waves his hand, declining. Regina stands up, brushing her hands to remove crumbs from her black dress, “Mr. Ivchenko, I insist.”
“Yes, Nikita, I insist,” Ilya persuades, “Get me a drink, please, Regina darling.”
Regina pours drinks as they continue their ramblings.
“… I hear that Trotsky said something to the effect of ‘ask women for their viewpoints on social issues to know what to do’ but it was worded more nicely than that, something fancy for the newspapers. Women make up half of society, and just because the men are fighting the war doesn’t mean they aren’t Russian citizens!” Nikita rages, becoming red in the face.
Ilya notices how Nikita’s eyes trail to Regina, his Regina reaching up to grab the bottle of alcohol, his Regina. Studying her. Watching the subtle sway of her hips and bounce of her curls… His heart rages with a jealousy that only young men understand. “I hear Stalin has escaped Siberia ten times,” Ilya taps his fingers on the table to attempt to break the diligence of Nikita’s wandering glances.
At the word Stalin, Regina accidentally on purpose slams the large bottle of alcohol onto the wood countertop, effectively embossing a ring to remain forever on the wood. She thought of it as a fossil of modern conversation and a slight smile piqued on the hidden side of her face. “Is everything alright, Regina? May I call you Regina?”
“You may call her Mrs. Volkova,” Ilya’s jaw clenches.
Tucking strands of flyaway corkscrews behind her ears, Regina gently kneads her temples to try and relieve the pressure confining her to the point of insanity. “Call me anything you wish, but for the love of God and the Saints-- do not mention that name in this house,” She orders, clutching their only two cut crystal shot glasses. Lying them atop of the table, Mr. Ivchenko grins as he raises to take a sip.
“Do you not agree with the wonderful things Comrade Stalin does for the cause, Regina?” After his query, Nikita drains the rest of his glass. With the glowering of Ilya’s gaze falling upon the man’s eyes, Nikita pompously announces, “Excuse me, Mrs. Volkova.”
“Now, now, I did not receive Mr. Trotsky for a reason, Mr. Ivchenko.” Regina grins, the wit warming the icy situation.
“Please, call me Nikita.”
Ilya’s grip fastens into a numbing lock.
Regina clears her throat, trying to formulate the correct answer for the environment. Nikita’s eyes test her, the eyebrows occasionally tweaking upwards in a sickening, realistic scenario of cat and mouse. “I do not believe that Comrade Stalin in such a position of prominence is a good idea for anyone,” Regina coolly answers. Shortly after, Ilya tilts back his alcohol, swallowing it as he continues to scrutinize Nikita.
“Do you not support the Bolshevik party, Mrs. Volkova?” Ivchenko flippantly flicks his wrist in circles, the shot glass swirling carelessly as it was wedged between his thumb and forefinger.
Ilya’s nostrils were wide, his breathing was audible against the background of street noise and tension gathering and kinetically jumping from each wall of the concrete, ricocheting off of the floors in a screaming manner. “Do you mean to test our loyalty to the cause, Mr. Ivchenko?”
“Did I ask you, Ilya?”
Ilya lets go of her hand and places both on the table in a fumbling fury. He’s shaking and Nikita is smiling, observing how fiery the young man is, how easily he can bat around at Ilya and anger the blue eyed boy. “We are one in the eyes of God, and to suggest differently is an insult,” his breathing staggers.
“I’m sorry if I have offended you, my deepest apologies to you both,” Nikita sneers.
Regina cannot hold her tongue, placing a lithe hand on Ilya’s shoulders, the words sound so wrong in her head. It goes against the fire in her heart, the rationale and core foundations of her very being. Like knives, the words cut through her, taking away that last little fragment of the shattered mirror, those thousands of tiny, minimal, misconstrued pieces that comprised her. Feeling him vibrate under her soft little hand, she blurts out in some kind of proper composure:
“I fully support the Bolsheviks, Mr. Ivchenko.”
“Oh, Prague, what a beautiful city. Mr. Ivchenko, have you been?” Regina smoothly asks, trying to not come off as cold, but being distantly friendly. Ilya had worked with her in the art of, ’social poise’, that was the euphemism he crafted for what Regina termed as ’acceptable lies.’
“Yes, I have, Mrs. Volkova. But, I am most intrigued to how you know of Prague,” He condescendingly spits, but it’s all done in this polite way that would make it impolite of her to lash out at the demeaning words.
Ilya tightens her hand and she throws her shoulders back into an erectness that puts off an air of class and importance. “I wasn’t meant to be a baker, Mr. Ivchenko, I was supposed to fit into a form of a young socialite,” Regina warmly laughs, it’s a breathy laugh, but it’s reassuring and fitting to the scenario. Mr. Ivchenko’s eyes scan her, as if he needed to take a second look at her appearance to verify her claims. Politely (oh-so-politely) coughing, Regina adds, “I was a Saxony before I married Ilya.”
His eyes widen. “Ms. Emelia has a brother from around these parts?”
Regina shakes her head timidly. A blush creeps up the apples of her cheeks. “I am the product of Ms. Saxony’s first marriage. My father was Alexsei Zhestakov, perhaps you knew him,” Regina kindly suggests. Ilya smiles, she doesn’t see it, but she feels it.
“I knew Alexsei and Emelia, at a time, they really loved each other. It was something.”Mr. Ivchenko’s eyes twinkled with an honesty that Regina never thought she’d coax out of the man.
“That they did. Would you care for something to drink, sir?” Regina redirects the conversation to Ilya’s favor.
Mr. Ivchenko waves his hand, declining. Regina stands up, brushing her hands to remove crumbs from her black dress, “Mr. Ivchenko, I insist.”
“Yes, Nikita, I insist,” Ilya persuades, “Get me a drink, please, Regina darling.”
Regina pours drinks as they continue their ramblings.
“… I hear that Trotsky said something to the effect of ‘ask women for their viewpoints on social issues to know what to do’ but it was worded more nicely than that, something fancy for the newspapers. Women make up half of society, and just because the men are fighting the war doesn’t mean they aren’t Russian citizens!” Nikita rages, becoming red in the face.
Ilya notices how Nikita’s eyes trail to Regina, his Regina reaching up to grab the bottle of alcohol, his Regina. Studying her. Watching the subtle sway of her hips and bounce of her curls… His heart rages with a jealousy that only young men understand. “I hear Stalin has escaped Siberia ten times,” Ilya taps his fingers on the table to attempt to break the diligence of Nikita’s wandering glances.
At the word Stalin, Regina accidentally on purpose slams the large bottle of alcohol onto the wood countertop, effectively embossing a ring to remain forever on the wood. She thought of it as a fossil of modern conversation and a slight smile piqued on the hidden side of her face. “Is everything alright, Regina? May I call you Regina?”
“You may call her Mrs. Volkova,” Ilya’s jaw clenches.
Tucking strands of flyaway corkscrews behind her ears, Regina gently kneads her temples to try and relieve the pressure confining her to the point of insanity. “Call me anything you wish, but for the love of God and the Saints-- do not mention that name in this house,” She orders, clutching their only two cut crystal shot glasses. Lying them atop of the table, Mr. Ivchenko grins as he raises to take a sip.
“Do you not agree with the wonderful things Comrade Stalin does for the cause, Regina?” After his query, Nikita drains the rest of his glass. With the glowering of Ilya’s gaze falling upon the man’s eyes, Nikita pompously announces, “Excuse me, Mrs. Volkova.”
“Now, now, I did not receive Mr. Trotsky for a reason, Mr. Ivchenko.” Regina grins, the wit warming the icy situation.
“Please, call me Nikita.”
Ilya’s grip fastens into a numbing lock.
Regina clears her throat, trying to formulate the correct answer for the environment. Nikita’s eyes test her, the eyebrows occasionally tweaking upwards in a sickening, realistic scenario of cat and mouse. “I do not believe that Comrade Stalin in such a position of prominence is a good idea for anyone,” Regina coolly answers. Shortly after, Ilya tilts back his alcohol, swallowing it as he continues to scrutinize Nikita.
“Do you not support the Bolshevik party, Mrs. Volkova?” Ivchenko flippantly flicks his wrist in circles, the shot glass swirling carelessly as it was wedged between his thumb and forefinger.
Ilya’s nostrils were wide, his breathing was audible against the background of street noise and tension gathering and kinetically jumping from each wall of the concrete, ricocheting off of the floors in a screaming manner. “Do you mean to test our loyalty to the cause, Mr. Ivchenko?”
“Did I ask you, Ilya?”
Ilya lets go of her hand and places both on the table in a fumbling fury. He’s shaking and Nikita is smiling, observing how fiery the young man is, how easily he can bat around at Ilya and anger the blue eyed boy. “We are one in the eyes of God, and to suggest differently is an insult,” his breathing staggers.
“I’m sorry if I have offended you, my deepest apologies to you both,” Nikita sneers.
Regina cannot hold her tongue, placing a lithe hand on Ilya’s shoulders, the words sound so wrong in her head. It goes against the fire in her heart, the rationale and core foundations of her very being. Like knives, the words cut through her, taking away that last little fragment of the shattered mirror, those thousands of tiny, minimal, misconstrued pieces that comprised her. Feeling him vibrate under her soft little hand, she blurts out in some kind of proper composure:
“I fully support the Bolsheviks, Mr. Ivchenko.”