Konrad and Alexandra (PDF) - Rolf Gross

lond, bony girl whose gray eyes looked straight through her. Russian? Finally an older woman who, Alexandrashuddered, appeared to have strong mediumistic faculties—and to her surprise, Christine Ortaladze.Barely perceptibly Alexandra shook her head at Christine. When Alexandra explained that she would give them apsychological test first, the ‘medium’ left. Well, thought Alexandra, she doesn’t need me and settled down to ask each ofher candidates a few personal questions.All three worked at the hospital. The Central-Asian man’s name was Sagdulla Bakhrami. He came from an old Uzbekfamily and his interest in Alexandra’s course derived from his childhood: one of his uncles had been a poet and healer.The blond girl turned out to be third-generation German, Bertha Wagenbauer, born in Elisabethtal. She claimed to havehad some spontaneous healing experiences under the tutelage of her grandmother, who was a Kräuterfrau, a herbalist inthe German community. Christine was the only person who had no healing experience. Alexandra confessed that herultimate intention was to explore psychic healing. For the first time Bertha focused her gray eyes on Alexandra, quiteobviously questioning her qualifications.Looking into Bertha’s doubting eyes Alexandra smiled. "I may not appear like a faith-healer, but I have treated a numberof otherwise incurable cases during the past three years. I would like to understand how people get cured in this way andtry to teach my method to others."She asked them to keep their discussions and work strictly confidential. Dr. Ortaladze had agreed to her experiments, butthe general public did not need to know of their work. They had seen how they would be mobbed by the curious andsuperstitious. Next time she would discuss her program in detail with them. Everyone was called upon to contribute.Alexandra walked Christine home. She would teach her privately. Dato was home and with a pensive face listened toAlexandra’s excited report. He was glad that their meetings would be kept at a low key not to attract any attention intown.In August they celebrated Alexandra's fortieth birthday. Olga and Deda had prepared a dinner for her in Zaguramo. Leist,who had, after Ilia’s assassination, become Olga’s protector, was there. Alexandra had invited Dato and her new friendChristine.The dinner table in the living room with the French doors open onto the meadows, the sun spots under the oak trees. . . .It could have been one of the days of her childhood, had the memory of Ilia lying in state in the living room not disturbedher. She had not been back to Zaguramo since that fateful day. With an energetic shake of her head she chased thecobwebs away and smiled at Konrad. Twenty years, was she that much older? Had she shared her life with this belovedman for that many years?They walked up to Zedazeni as the sun went down. A lightening storm flickered above the distant snow mountains to thenorth, a reminder that a war-torn Europe was hiding behind this bulwark.Tbilisi had become alien to Alexandra. Swelled by thousands of people from the villages it had grown to twice its size.Many Armenians had fled the increasing animosity of their Georgian neighbors, who resented their social status and thepast collaboration with the Russians.Alexandra decided to visit her uncle, David Chavchavadze. She hoped that he could give her a better understanding ofher changed homeland. She took Uncle Mouravi’s Benz out of the horse stable, and had it washed by the houseboy.Gasoline was so scarce that she had not used the car.She settled down with David over a cup of tea. When she asked David about the family property, and what he was goingto do about the upcoming expropriations, she made a shocking discovery."Didn’t you know," said David surprised, "we don’t own Tsinandali. We are only tenants on this land, it belongs to theRussian crown."Alexandra was completely bewildered, she had thought that Tsinandali had been in the hands of the Chavchavadze forgenerations.David shook his head. "It was—before my father had to mortgage it to the crown as a collateral for a loan that coveredthe ransom paid to Shamyl in return for my mother after their abduction. You do know that story?"Of course, she did, but nobody had ever told her of this bitter end of the Shamyl saga.David spread his arms. "Ironically this situation is now in our favor. We aren’t landowners like George Dadiani. Mybrother and I only lease this land from the emperor. And because it belongs to the Russian crown, it is not subject to theland reform. A thorn in the flesh of Jordania’s Socialists. Sooner or later they will, of course, find a twist to disown theRussian crown. We would be reduced to caretakers…." His voice trailed off. "Caretaker on my ancestors’ land? I don’tthink I want to be part of that. I would probably leave like George Dadiani before that happens."David poured her a glass of cognac. "You need a drink. I see this comes as a real shock to you, but at the moment weare considerably better off than George Dadiani because we have not been landlords here for over seventy years. Weare well liked in Kakheti and have become a kind of historical relic, Kakhetian folklore. Admittedly we are poor devils bycomparison with George Dadiani."He laughed bitterly."But don’t feel sorry for George and his family, he has stashed away enough money in Switzerland to tide him over,whatever he decides. Don’t misunderstand me, George has been exemplary in his generosity to your father and203