The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  She had heard mention that a cousin of Prince Fedorcenko’s did not have enough servants on his nearby estate. A few men from the grounds had been sent over for two days last week.

  Perhaps Anna could approach Princess Katrina about finding a position for her brother in St. Petersburg. She was hesitant to ask for such an enormous favor. Yet an inner sense nagged at Anna, telling her that Paul was headed for trouble if something drastic were not done to stop it.

  So, as Anna slipped a few rubles into the pouch and sealed it, she uttered a special prayer for the welfare of her brother.

  45

  There was comfort in the church.

  In its icons and Holy Days and the visits of the priests to bless animals and crops, the peasants of the countryside gained a certain sense of being watched over, of being part of the larger flow of life.

  Yevno Burenin found comfort in the stone walls of the Cathedral of St. Gregory, where he now stood, hat in hand, head bowed, silently beseeching his God.

  In Katyk, as in all Russian peasant communities, the church was the very center of life. But in the small hamlet of only eighty or so inhabitants, the church building itself was to be found in the larger town of Akulin, not far away, where Yevno had walked earlier this morning. The shadow of the great, silent structure extended over Yevno’s life as surely as if it had been visible from his own poor cottage—not a shadow of doom, but the great wing of a caring mother eagle protecting her young. Whenever life’s worst troubles assailed him, here Yevno came—to be silent, to ponder, and to pray.

  Unlike the vast majority of Russians, to whom religion was a mere external gloss over the harsh realities of life, Yevno had a faith that originated in and continually went back to his deepest heart. How such faith had been born in him, it would be hard to say. No doubt it had germinated in his deep appreciation for the beauty of nature and the wonder of life. What could be more natural than to seek out the Creator of those things who brought a man such joy and added such richness to his existence? And yet beyond such explanations, something else in Yevno’s heart had always made him different from other men. He had been different as a boy, as a youth, and throughout his manhood. His heart was not for himself, and this had opened him early to higher things. The soil in which such spiritual sensitivities had been planted was rich, and God’s roots had sunk deep into all corners of his being.

  His devotion brought him occasional derision from his peers. They ridiculed his moderation in the tavern, where all the village men gathered at the end of a hard day to exchange news and gossip and, mostly, to drown their misery in shared bottles of vodka. But Yevno had gained their respect, and if a man mocked him these days, it was usually only in good-natured fun. Every man for miles around knew that old Burenin was someone to turn to when you needed help, a man you could trust, a man who would never turn his back on either friend or foe.

  Now, more than anything else except prayer, Yevno was counting on that element of respect. The magistrate in Akulin had known Yevno from boyhood, and knew he was an upright man, peaceful and obedient to the laws. This must count for something in the terrible business that had suddenly intruded upon Yevno’s life.

  Yevno left the church, which sat on a hill overlooking the village like a benevolent protector. He carefully descended the road, treacherous with winter’s ice. At the bottom he turned sharply around a corner to his left. Soon he came to the government buildings. These two structures housed the administrative bureaucracy for the rural area east of Pskov, including the small local gaol. The offices in Akulin were nothing alongside the many agencies and vast prison of Pskov, and Yevno was at least thankful that he had been spared the ordeal of facing the powerful and awesome authority of the provincial capital.

  He turned into the magistrate’s office and removed his hat with the same kind of veneration he had displayed a few moments earlier in the church.

  Behind a dirty desk sat an expansive man with two chins and dark eyes. His drab gray uniform, wrinkled and unkempt, was belted around a thick, flabby waist with a black sash. The stubble of beard on his face and his indolent pose at his disorganized desk mirrored the disorder of the room as a whole, from the mud smeared on the floor to the lopsided and faded portrait of the tsar.

  Whatever the man’s appearance, Yevno had every reason to be intimidated by this poor excuse for authority, for whom graft and bribery were the keystones of his position. For whatever his character, this man was Tsar Alexander’s representative, and his hands held the power of life and death.

  “Excuse me, Your Honor,” said Yevno in his most respectful tone.

  The magistrate’s head jerked up. He had obviously been dozing, but now made a great show of industry by shuffling together several papers.

  “Yevno Burenin,” said the magistrate.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” answered Yevno, as if they were strangers and hadn’t grown up together in Katyk. If any familiarity were to be shown, it must be initiated by the magistrate. Yevno would use it only as a last resort.

  “Well, well, well . . .” said the man with a sighing, mournful tone. “I never thought I would see the day, Yevno. This is truly a sorry pass.”

  “Please, Your Honor, I am not completely certain what has happened.”

  “Your son, I am afraid, has been mixing in bad company, Yevno.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “As well as can be expected after a night in the gulag.”

  “May I see him?”

  “Time for that later, Yevno. But first let me ask you how he came to it. A boy of such tender age. That is what I would like to know, and the courts will too. How did he come to it, Yevno?”

  “I do not know the charges, Your Honor.”

  “Simple enough. He and several of his radical friends were caught in a secret meeting. In their possession we found all manner of prohibited publications.”

  “My Paul? Surely there has been some mistake . . .”

  The magistrate heaved himself from his chair and lumbered toward another table where he removed several printed sheets from a drawer. “Look at all this—seditious, revolutionary propaganda, all of it! Things do not look good, Yevno.”

  “I cannot read,” said Yevno humbly as he glanced over the papers.

  “Take my word for it. Some of this is enough to get a man sent to Siberia for a lengthy stay. Had Vlasenko been left to his own devices, and had I not intervened . . .” He let his voice trail away with significant expression.

  “Your Honor, perhaps my son did not realize—”

  “Oh, he realized,” cut in the magistrate brutally, a vacuous smile fixed on his lips. “In fact he made it quite clear that he was in league with those other agitators. When Vlasenko brought them in, I took one look at the youthfulness of the boy and generously offered to release him. But the foolish lad would have none of it and began spouting off. The moment he found out who the boy was, Vlasenko took an immediate personal interest—something about the lad’s sister in the city, I believe. I do not know what it is all about, but when you see your son, perhaps you should encourage him to speak with a more civil tongue to his superiors. The bruises and welts on the side of his head should be sufficient reminder that the chief of police is not as kind a man as I. But perhaps a night in jail will make him think twice about such behavior in the future.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” said Yevno, feeling little gratitude but knowing it was the expected reply.

  A short silence followed. Yevno shifted on his feet. He had a feeling what was coming next.

  “Because he is your son, Yevno, I would like to be lenient . . . and because he is only a boy. That is why I persuaded the police chief to let me handle the case personally, rather than allowing him to be hauled off to Pskov with the others.”

  “You are more kind than I deserve, Your Honor,” said Yevno contritely.

  “But I have a job to do,” the man went on, attempting to infuse genuine regret into his tone, but with little success. “Quotas to meet .
. . a family of my own to feed . . .”

  Again he let the gist of his thought fade away as he plopped with a heavy thud back down in his chair.

  Yevno knew what the man wanted. He realized full well what it would take to get his son released from this local jail and kept from the prison in Pskov. He knew how the system worked. He had not the slightest doubt that both the magistrate and police chief were in league together, probably spinning a different tale to the fathers and relatives of everyone they hauled into this stinking place, using whatever fears they could exploit to extort what tribute they could squeeze out of their helpless friends and neighbors.

  Yevno would have to take what the magistrate wanted out of the mouths of his children. To save one son, he must watch the others starve.

  But he was ready to do so. He had known exactly how the interview would go, and had come prepared. Paul was only a boy, and nothing could induce the tenderhearted father to condemn his own son to the horrible life of a peasant Russian criminal.

  He withdrew a worn leather pouch from inside his sheepskin coat and dumped its contents on the magistrate’s desk. Nine rubles clattered out on the hard surface. It was all the money Yevno had in the world, save a few kopecks back at the cottage. And there remained two and a half months of winter left!

  For the first time the smile faded from the magistrate’s broad face. It just did not pay to deal with these peasants! They had no concept at all of the value of a ruble. Nine rubles . . . in exchange for freedom! It was an insult. Paul’s release would easily have fetched thirty, maybe even fifty, in Pskov or one of the other big towns.

  His shrewd eyes scanned up and down his sorry old friend. Yevno was not about to bargain and haggle over the future of his son, that much was clear. He had poured out all he possessed. To try to wrest more from him would be a futile effort.

  The magistrate scratched the stubble on his face. His hawklike eyes had quickly made a mental count of their number, but he pretended to ignore the coins on the desk.

  “I will tell you what, Yevno Pavlovich,” he said, pretending to give the matter weighty and compassionate thought, “because it is you, and because you are a man of esteem in this community, I am inclined to dispense mercy for your son. He is still young, and perhaps with a firm hand can still be made to change his wayward path.”

  He paused and let the heavy silence have its full impact.

  “So I am going to release young Paul into your custody,” he went on after a moment. “But I cannot guarantee such leniency if this offense is repeated.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” said Yevno. “I thank you most humbly!” Despite the cost, his voice now contained genuine gratitude.

  Though the coins on the desk had still not been formally acknowledged, Yevno turned and walked slowly toward the door. He heard no sound behind him, but before his foot crunched on the icy path outside, all nine silver rubles had been greedily deposited in some invisible repository about the bulky magistrate’s person.

  Cyril Vlasenko would later hear the incident recounted, and would be given four rubles as his half of the reported booty collected.

  46

  Paul could never have imagined the filth or the stench of this miserable jail cell. Kazan said he had been imprisoned in far more wretched holes in the city.

  The words of his leader were not of much comfort. Although he tried to keep up a brave front, in his heart of hearts Paul chastised himself for getting into this mess in the first place. He should have taken the magistrate’s offer and fled at his first chance.

  But he had been a fool, valiantly refusing to desert his friends. He was, of course, just as guilty as they. Two of the pamphlets in question belonged to him, and in the heat of the moment he had not been willing to use his youth as a cowardly retreat.

  Paul felt the side of his head, wincing from the pain as his fingers touched the splotches of dried blood. Cyril Vlasenko was an evil man. Paul should have kept his mouth shut. Instead, he’d received a beating, spent an awful night in this place where every breath made his stomach heave, and had probably gotten his father and sister in trouble. Why was Vlasenko so interested in Anna’s new position?

  For all the brave front he tried to put up, Paul could feel himself growing fainthearted. This was an awful place! Oh, to be back in the warm comfort of his home right now, with no one but his family, and Mama’s porridge bubbling on the fire!

  “We must continue the fight,” Kazan was saying. “The rest of the country will awaken soon enough, and when it does, the multitudes will find that those of us they call revolutionaries have been preaching what they all desire in their hearts. Then shall the future be ours! Then shall equality come to all men regardless of rank. Then shall the corrupt monarchy be toppled to give way to the future! But until that hour, we must push the cause, so that when the moment arrives, the people are ready to arise and step into their destiny as a new generation of free Russians.”

  Even here, in the very lair of the hated regime of the Romanov dynasty, Kazan could boldly expound on liberty and equality, on freedom for the masses and the removal of the tsar from power. He looked and acted older than his twenty years, tall and lean with a neatly trimmed beard, his face undistinguished save for a large nose and bushy, dark eyebrows. Without the beard his youthfulness would have been more apparent, and that might have helped him in such run-ins with the authorities. Notwithstanding, he chose to keep it. Perhaps being looked up to as a leader and spokesman by his youthful followers was worth the risk of seeming older in the eyes of the police.

  If the truth be told, Kazan was not a particularly good-looking young man. But this lack was hardly noticed in the forcefulness of his personality and the mesmerizing effect of his oratory. He feared no emotion, was as quick to laughter as to tears or fury, and could melt most young women with the fervency of his tenderness. Men, on the other hand, found themselves awestruck at the passion and sheer impact with which he delivered his words. He was, in short, a remarkable and gifted young man, emerging now into a turbulent adulthood, who had shunned the comforts of an affluent home to preach the ideals of populism to the masses. He had won converts thus far only in and around his home and mostly among discontented youths, but this was more a gauge of the resistance of the peasantry than of any lack in his personal charisma. He was one destined to be heard.

  “So, Paul,” he said, when he had finished expounding to his cellmates on the latest issue of Herzen’s The Bell, sprinkled lavishly with his own viewpoints with which they were all well familiar, “what do you think of your first stint behind the Romanov’s bars?”

  “I hope it is my last,” replied Paul without enthusiasm.

  “Despair not, my young friend. The cause is worthy of your suffering.”

  “I know, Kazan, but it is still rather fearsome.”

  “You need have no anxiety. Because of your age, you will be remanded to your parents’ custody. They will not keep you long.”

  “Then I will have failed you.”

  “Ah, Pavushka! Is that the reason for the glum look upon your face?” Kazan shook his head sympathetically. “Poor boy!” he said. “You cannot expect the honor of being sent to Siberia on your first offense. Have patience. Your time will come.”

  He stopped and gazed deeply into Paul’s young eyes with a look of deadly earnest. “Yes, Paul,” he said, “your time will come—as it will for thousands, perhaps millions of our brothers and comrades in the cause.”

  “Will they send you to Siberia, Kazan?”

  “They have been going in droves lately,” he laughed heartily. “If so, I shall be in good company. Though I doubt I have yet earned so high an honor.”

  In the most abject of circumstances, Kazan always had a way of making those around him feel better. Paul tried to think with more confidence. He hoped that when his time did come to suffer for the things he believed, he could endure it with as much courage as Kazan.

  A key scraped inside the rusted metal lock of the cell door.r />
  Paul looked up. As the door creaked hesitantly open, he saw his father’s face in the corridor.

  All at once shame overcame him.

  He had tried all this time not to think of Papa. He had not wanted him to have to be dragged to a horrid place like this! Something inside almost wished his father would yell out angrily, and curse his worthless son. That part of Paul’s nature desiring punishment from the hand he loved more than any other, however, would receive no such satisfaction from his father’s lips. Only tender pain and sympathetic sadness were etched in Yevno’s weathered countenance.

  “I have come to take you home,” said Yevno simply as the door swung wide.

  “Papa, I—” Paul’s lips began to form not a protest but an apology.

  “We will talk later, my son,” interrupted Yevno, so the boy would save face before his friends. “But for now, let us go quickly.” He refrained from adding, while we still have the chance. Until they were well away from this place, he would fear the changeable whims of the magistrate, whom he knew only too well. And if the chief of police chanced in—and who knew when he might—the whole “arrangement” for Paul’s release could be undone in an instant.

  The jailer stood aside, motioning Paul through the cell door. Paul paused long enough to embrace Kazan, then shook hands with some of the other young men—all mere boys in Yevno’s eyes. When he was in the corridor a moment later with his father, just before the cell door slammed shut once more, a voice called out behind them.

  “Yevno, father of our comrade Paul!” Kazan said. “I want you to know you have good reason to be proud of your son. He is a hero of the cause!”

  Yevno turned and faced the young Populist leader. “I have always been proud of my son,” he said with equal conviction. “And I need no jail cell or revolutionary to remind me of what I have always felt in my heart.”