by Dan Millman
Andrei became Zakolyev’s whipping dog—“runt of the litter.” Andrei studied the bully’s expressions the way a dog watches its master to learn whether it will be fed or beaten. Sergei also received his share of bruising and humiliation. He did his best to fend off the bully’s angry blows, but never struck back because it would have driven Zakolyev into a frenzy.
Sergei observed how Zakolyev made his own rules but followed none, unless he was under the direct gaze of an instructor. Then he would make a pretense of obedience but do as he pleased once the instructor was out of sight. In one eerie incident, Zakolyev was mercilessly kicking a fallen cadet when two instructors rounded the corner. Instantly, Zakolyev knelt down like a ministering angel, and all the instructors saw was him calmly and gently touching the contorted, moaning face of the cadet. “I think he’s had some kind of seizure,” Zakolyev said in a concerned voice. The injured boy dared not contradict him. Not then, and not later. After that story got around, Zakolyev more or less took charge.
He could even manipulate some of the senior cadets. Sergei saw how it worked: At first he might ask only small favors, until they got used to saying yes, but gradually his requests increased until they became demands. Occasionally, when a senior cadet had had enough and refused to be intimidated, there would be a fight. Zakolyev won for two reasons: First, he showed no sense of fair play; second, he didn’t seem to care what happened to him. That made him a formidable foe—one who fought with the instincts of a cornered wolf.
Among the cadets, especially the younger ones, an atmosphere of fear now pervaded the hallways and training grounds. Zakolyev required immediate obedience to any “request,” and his punishments for insults real or imagined were absolute and inescapable. He never forgot or forgave, and eventually all transgressors suffered. It became easier to submit than to resist.
ON THE LAST NIGHT before Zakolyev was moved upstairs, Andrei stepped around a corner and collided with the older cadet, causing Zakolyev to stumble. Furious, he put all his weight into a punch to Andrei’s belly. Andrei fell to the floor groaning, gasping for air as Zakolyev stepped over him, walked to his bunk as if nothing had happened, and lay back with his hands behind his head.
Sergei rushed to Andrei’s side, his fists clenching with rage as he helped Andrei back to his bunk. Sergei looked up at Zakolyev, who stared down with that icy smile. Sergei stared right back—a small gesture of defiance.
Later that night, as Sergei drifted to sleep, he thought wistfully of that cabin in the forest—of Sara Abramovich and Benyomin and Avrom and Leya, wishing he were with them. He dreamed that he had awakened by their hearth on a Sabbath morning, with Avrom and Leya nearby, and that he was part of their family and the school had been only a dream after all.
Morning came as a great disappointment.
IN THE DAYS AND WEEKS following Zakolyev’s move upstairs, that late winter of 1881, school returned to its usual rhythms of class work and combat training, meals, chapel, and sleep. But early one morning a senior cadet woke Sergei and his bunkmates at dawn and led the twelve sleepy boys—wearing only shorts and hugging towels and bundles of clothing to their chests—down the long passageway beneath the school.
It was cold and dank in the dim light. Dripping water echoed along the walls as twelve pairs of bare feet slapped the wet stone floor. Shivering, the young cadets came to a massive iron door. It creaked as the senior pushed it open. Sergei stepped outside and found himself on the shore of the lake, now glowing in the first light of day. Chunks of thin ice and slush, remnants of winter, still floated in the shallows. The eastern hills stood in dark silhouette, and all was quiet. Not for long, however.
“Take off your shorts!” ordered the leader as he removed his own clothing and waded out into the frigid water, up to his shoulders, up to his neck; then he submerged for a few seconds. He surfaced, his cheeks red, and returned to the shore, with tiny bumps showing on his now rosy skin. The senior cadet took his towel and rubbed himself briskly, then issued the command: “All of you into the water!” But Sergei noticed that the senior was fighting back a grin in anticipation of their agonies.
Like the other boys, Sergei edged into the water, gasping and screeching, followed by spasms of shivered laughter. The cold cut into his skin as he ducked under the water, then clambered quickly out and rubbed himself dry. The boys pointed to one another’s blotchy red faces and chests and arms. Sergei remembered the flush of warmth, and the giddy exhilaration—but not an experience he wanted to repeat anytime soon.
As he and the other boys slipped into their clothing, the senior announced, “You will do this immersion every morning from now on! You will never like it, and you will never get used to it—but it will make your body and spirit strong. Such disciplines will shape you into soldiers who can defend the Tsar and Mother Russia from foreign invaders. And the best of you will be chosen for the elite bodyguard.”
The elite bodyguard…will I follow in my father’s footsteps? Sergei wondered.
.5.
A FEW WEEKS LATER Sergei’s group was about to start riding practice when Lieutenant Danilov called out, “Sergei Ivanov, come with me!” Sergei guessed that they were going to the chief instructor’s office. At the first summons, years before, he’d learned of his father’s death; the second time he’d found his grandfather waiting for him. So he didn’t know whether to feel excitement or dread.
He found out soon enough. “I just received word that your grandfather has died,” the chief instructor, who waited a few moments for Sergei to absorb this information, then added, “He must have made arrangements—so you would know when the time came. You may go to the chapel if you wish to pray for his soul. That is all,” he said.
Sergei did not go to the chapel. He returned to his empty barrack, and after checking to make sure he was alone, retrieved his mother’s locket and gazed at the photograph. Now his Grandpa Heschel had joined his parents, and was with Grandma Esther. This locket would remind him of them all.
He placed the silver chain around his neck, deciding to wear it whenever he could safely do so.
Then Sergei took out the map and committed every line to memory, until he could close his eyes and trace it in the air with his finger. When he was sure, he tore it into small pieces, scattering them in several different receptacles.
ONE MONDAY AFTERNOON in March of 1881, the school was shaken by news that dwarfed Sergei’s personal concerns and reminded him that he was part of a larger world—a world of conflict and turmoil. On this windy day, he and about fifteen other cadets were outside in the compound, training with wooden sabers, when a bearded Cossack rode in through the main gate. They all stopped to watch this proud rider pass.
When all the cadets were convened in the chapel, the Cossack was introduced. His name was Alexei Orlov. He had once served with Sergei’s Uncle Ivanov in a Cossack regiment. Then the chief instructor announced that the Little Father, Tsar Aleksandr II, had been assassinated.
That evening they returned to the chapel for a special mass so the instructors and cadets could pray for the tsar’s soul. Like the other boys, Sergei dressed in his best uniform—dark blue with shiny buttons down the jacket and the academy logo, a two-headed eagle with a rose and saber in its claws.
Alexei Orlov stood straight and tall, his handsome face turned somber with grief. He said, “Cossacks are a free people, loyal to the Tsar and to the Mother Church.” He offered a respectful nod to Father Georgiy before he continued: “I was among those serving as the tsar’s royal guard. Despite our best efforts to protect the Little Father, he was killed by an assassin’s bomb. The Tsar Liberator, who had emancipated millions of serfs, reformed the legal systems, and allowed greater freedom than ever before, was nevertheless hated by revolutionaries dissatisfied with their lot. Aware of the threat to his life, the Little Father had varied his travel routes under our direction. I was not yet on duty at that time, but one of my men told me what transpired.”
Orlov continued. “As the tsar’
s carriage reached the upper section of one of the city’s canals, a young man suddenly loomed up and threw what looked like a snowball between the horses. The bomb exploded but wounded the tsar only slightly. His Imperial Highness insisted on getting out to express his concern for a Cossack and a delivery boy who had been severely wounded.
“As Tsar Aleksandr turned toward the carriage, another man made a sudden movement toward him. There was an explosion. Within the hour, both the assassin and the Little Father died of their wounds. The man who threw the first bomb informed on his comrades. We know that at least one of the conspirators was a young woman named Gelfman—a revolutionary and a Jew.”
When Sergei left the chapel, he found himself walking alongside his uncle. The chief instructor looked down and said under his breath, “If your father were alive, it would not have happened…not on his watch.”
Soon Sergei heard news of the coronation of Tsar Aleksandr III—and fragments of conversations about a wave of violent pogroms sweeping through Russia and Ukraine as word spread that a “cadre of Jews” had murdered the Little Father. That rumor turned out to be false: The sixteen-year-old, pregnant Gelfman woman, who later died in prison, was the only Jew, a naive but idealistic girlfriend of another revolutionary. Still, the pogroms continued.
Mutterings about revolutionaries and Jews continued at the school, especially among those closest to Zakolyev. This talk made Sergei conscious of his own Jewish blood. He grew more concerned, as the weeks passed, for the Abramovich family. In this dangerous time, their isolation in the sanctuary of the wooded hills might work in their favor—but it could just as easily work against them. What might happen if a roving band of brigands, or even Cossacks, came upon a family of Jews in the forest?
Sergei decided he had to warn them.
THAT NIGHT he slipped past several cadets on guard duty and passed down the long tunnel under the school to the back door by the lake. He had traversed that hallway so many times he could do it blindfolded. His eyes might just as well have been covered, since no lamps were lit there at night.
Sergei pushed open the heavy iron door with a creaking sound that made him grit his teeth. He wedged a small branch between the jamb and door to keep it open, then moved quickly around the school’s perimeter. Skirting the field, he found the stone outcropping that marked the beginning of the path. Now he had to rely solely on memory and instinct. Fortunately, the night was clear, and a waxing moon provided enough light for him to make his way.
Despite the darkness, he had to hike at a much faster pace than he had the last time. Having slipped out without being caught, he now had to contend with other dangers: hungry wolves—or getting lost. If he lost his way, he could find the school in the morning, but by then his absence would have been discovered. Such absence without leave was a serious infraction; he would be punished severely.
Two years earlier, several older cadets were caught after they sneaked out during the night. They had to walk between two long rows of cadets, who whipped them with heavy reeds. At the end of the line they were whipped by the instructors. Then, the bruised and bleeding cadets were put in isolation cells without food or water for three days.
After that, no one had repeated the offense—until now.
During his march up the moonlit trail, Sergei made his plan: Once he found the cabin, he would inform Benyomin about the assassination, the pogroms, and his grandfather’s death. He’d accept a single cup of tea, which Sara would insist on giving him, along with another embrace—then he would take his leave and return to the school before dawn.
Sergei was breathing hard but keeping his pace as he hiked up the steep trail. His light frame and improved endurance served him well. As he was awash in the adventurous optimism of youth, a bold idea occurred to him for the first time: He could be leaving the school for good. What, after all, was keeping him there? He would miss Andrei of course—and perhaps even his Uncle Vladimir. He might feel a certain nostalgia for the school grounds. But he would not miss the day-to-day life—and he would gladly put Dmitri Zakolyev behind him forever.
Sergei was wearing the locket; he had no other possessions worth keeping. If only he could find the courage to ask! Could he claim Avrom and Leya as his brother and sister, and Sara and Benyomin as his parents? Would it be possible? Yes, he decided. He would be helpful, and no burden at all. He would make them proud. Excited by this possibility, Sergei pushed onward. The moon was nearly overhead. It couldn’t be much farther—
In the next moment, thick clouds covered the moon, shrouding the forest in darkness. Sergei could scarcely see his hands in front of his face. He looked up to see stars spread across the sky to his left and right. Only the moon was obscured. He shuffled forward, his arms reaching out in front of his face, feeling his way, sensing that he was nearly there—
Abruptly, he froze with a chilling realization: It wasn’t clouds obscuring the moon. It was smoke. But not the smoke from the hearth—it was something else.
Sergei found himself careening headlong toward the cabin, racing around the boulders, lurching into the small meadow, to stop dead still, his mouth agape. Where the cabin had once stood he now saw only charred ruins. Flickering illumination from still-burning timbers lit the nightmarish scene.
Stumbling through the ruins like a drunken man, he found no living thing. Sergei prayed that the Abramovich family might emerge from the forest to greet him. Together they might rebuild—
No, he told himself—the truth: Their lives, and his hopes and dreams, were burned to cinders. Coughing and wiping his smoke-blackened face, he searched the piles of smoldering rubble and found the damning evidence he most feared: the blackened bones of a forearm and hand reaching up through the timbers.
Squinting from the heat and fetid air, Sergei threw off the smoking logs to reveal a man’s skeleton with glistening flesh still clinging to the bones. The stench and sight of it made Sergei retch onto the earth and ashes. The body was almost certainly that of Benyomin Abramovich. Forcing himself to dig farther, Sergei found what remained of a little girl’s shoe and wooden doll. He had to face what he wanted to deny: The rest of the family lay buried somewhere beneath the smoking nightmare that was once a home.
With his eyes burning from the acrid air, Sergei stumbled and ran back down through the wooded hills. At some point he threw himself, fully clothed, into an icy stream to clean the smell of death from his hair and clothing. But he couldn’t clear his mind, where questions raged: Why didn’t I come sooner? I might have saved them! Only one day earlier…
His head throbbed, and his breath came in gasps.
An hour before dawn, with nowhere else to go, Sergei finally reached the school and entered the iron door, still ajar. Moving carelessly, he shuffled into his barrack and fell exhausted into a troubled sleep and a barren dreamscape that stank of death.
When his eyes opened to the wan light of the day, Sergei thought, for a moment, that it was all only a nightmare, until he saw the soot still staining his hands.
He could tell no one, not even Andrei, what he had seen.
Part Two
SURVIVAL
OF THE
FITTEST
What is to give light must endure burning.
VIKTOR FRANKL
.6.
SERGEI’S TENTH, eleventh, and twelfth years marched by like good soldiers in well-ordered days, each one like the ones before. He fell into a trancelike routine at school, going through the motions doing as instructed, growing in strength, in height, in skill. He faced each task as it came but without any real sense of meaning or purpose. He still thought about his grandfather on occasion, and about the Abramovich family. But each time they came to mind, the specter of smoldering ruins rose up before him.
Little had changed among the cadets. The strata of power and influence remained the same. Zakolyev, now sixteen years old and living in the senior barracks, had almost killed an older cadet in a fight. Sergei heard two of the senior cadets muttering that Zakolyev
had acted “like a crazy man” and beaten their friend with a chair. The cadet’s injuries were reported as an accident.
A few days after the beating, six of the injured cadet’s friends overpowered Zakolyev and gave him a beating of his own. Zakolyev had learned an important lesson: He might overcome one man but not many. After that, Zakolyev seemed quieter, less domineering. But over the following months, every one of those six boys suffered a painful “accident.” One boy tripped on a loose stone; another was struck by a falling object; a third rounded a corner and collided with an unspecified object; a fourth fell down the stairs. None of them would talk about their accidents; they feared for their lives.
ON A HOT SUMMER’S DAY in 1885, a few months before Sergei’s thirteenth birthday, the Cossack Alexei Orlov returned. Chief Instructor Ivanov announced, with some satisfaction, that after negotiation with higher authorities, he had succeeded in getting Instructor Orlov assigned to the school.
“As you will soon learn,” his uncle continued, “Alexei Igorovich Orlov is as skilled as any man alive at tracking, outdoor survival, riding, and combat. I have seen him stand atop a galloping steed and leap over a tree branch, landing lightly again on the horse’s back. Even our Instructor Brodinov might find Alexei Orlov a challenging foe in hand-to-hand combat.” Sergei glanced at Instructor Brodinov, who scratched his balding head and nodded.
This high praise from his uncle turned out to be fully justified. In the coming weeks Alexei the Cossack, as the cadets referred to him, had occasion to demonstrate his skills. Sergei found himself observing their new instructor the way he had once watched his uncle. He admired the confident yet relaxed way the Cossack walked, and his friendly manner—as if he didn’t need to bluster or posture or threaten because he knew he was d e a d l y.