“It won’t get you into trouble, will it, Sergei?”
“Trouble is routine for writers these days, unless you are a Tolstoy or a Turgenev, to whom the censors are more generous. Otherwise, they are as nit-picking as a gaggle of old women. It’s part of what you have to expect. A few years back they went so far as imagining that the notes in musical compositions might contain subversive codes.”
“What will you do if they censor what you have written?”
“There are ways to get around all that, in the most natural of Russian traditions—greasing the proper palms. But my book is not seditious, Anna. It is honest, and unfortunately in this country that often amounts to the same thing.”
“Tell me what it is like . . . can you?”
“It is simply a young man’s war experiences. I would have brought the manuscript for you to read, but as I was getting ready to come, I found myself reticent about showing it to you.”
“Whatever for?” asked Anna, incredulous.
“I can’t imagine now. Simple embarrassment, I suppose. Now I regret that decision. I would value your opinion.”
“I know it must be wonderful!”
“Your objective opinion, please.”
“I’m sure I shall objectively think it the most wonderful book I have ever read,” she said with a grin.
He smiled, and looked deeply into her eyes. “Tell me, Anna,” he said, “after this time together, do you believe we might have a chance for happiness together?”
“I never had a doubt of that,” she answered. “But what of the realities of . . . the differences between us?”
“They mean nothing to me—surely you can see that.”
“I meant your family, Sergei. Your father would never give his blessing if he knew where you were right now.”
“My father . . . should I care what he thinks?”
“Sergei, you know you love and respect him. You know how you desire his approval.”
“I grudgingly admit to that weakness in my character. But for over twenty years I have been struggling to gain that approval—without success. Does it not seem time that I give it up altogether?”
“Do you really think so?”
“I told you how cool he was when I was at home. Anna, we sat at the dinner table together twice, and he did not so much as look in my direction! Is it any wonder that I repacked my bags immediately to come to you?”
“Going away as you did a year ago hurt your family deeply, Sergei. They just don’t understand what you’ve been going through. Perhaps if you tried to talk to your father—”
“Oh, but I have—so many times! Anna, don’t you see—he is just not interested in what I think about, nor does he care in the least to try to understand me. I see nothing for it but to quit trying and not worry about him anymore. I have to live my own life.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Yes . . . yes, I do.”
Sergei paused and took two or three deep breaths to calm himself.
“Anna,” he said, “I am sorry you have been thrust into all this. But the difficulties with my father really have nothing to do with you at all. He knows nothing about us. My father and I have been at each other’s throats for years, and I know in advance what he is liable to say if I try to seek his approval—to marry you or for anything else, for that matter. That is why it is best that I keep him out of my considerations altogether. The only way we manage to get along is to keep miles apart. Why my departure from St. Petersburg last year should have upset him, I cannot imagine. But I do not intend to subject you to his stinging criticism, any more than I intend to be talked out of marrying you because of him. You cannot even talk me out of it, Anna!”
Anna smiled. “I wasn’t trying to dissuade you,” she said quietly. “I was only trying to be practical about the differences in station that are there. I do disagree with you about one thing, Sergei, and that is that we mustn’t ignore them.”
“I’m sure my father will make that impossible,” Sergei said.
“Princess Katrina tells me he is under a great deal of pressure these days,” said Anna, trying to be conciliatory. “Both from the terrorism and the awful uncertainty of never knowing where the next explosion may go off, and from all the dissention within the government itself.”
“How you manage to stay so well informed, Anna Yevnovna, is always a surprise to me. Such an amazing young peasant girl you are!”
“Sergei, please—this is no time for all that. Be serious. It is important that you think of your father’s position. It is not easy to be so close to the tsar, to act as a voice of moderation in such a volatile political climate.”
“There you go again, the political expert,” chided Sergei with a smile.
“Katrina says your father has made dangerous enemies on both sides,” Anna went on, not to be diverted.
“Maybe you are right,” sighed Sergei. “Perhaps I am being insensitive to his position.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “A man in a battle zone, which St. Petersburg has certainly become, who walks such a perilous line between life and death—I suppose he would take a more serious view of family ties. My father must wonder what kind of heir will follow him. That no doubt intensifies his disappointment in me all the more.”
“How can he be disappointed in you?”
“Aren’t fathers always disappointed in their sons never measuring up to their expectations?”
“He must know how brave you were in the war, and how you risked your own life to save Lieutenant Grigorov.”
“How did you know about all that?”
“Lieutenant Grigorov told me.”
“I didn’t realize you knew him.”
“We have run into each other several times in the Winter Palace when I have accompanied the princess.”
“And are the two of you friends?”
Anna thought about the question momentarily. “I suppose you could say so,” she replied, “as much as a servant girl and a Cossack guard could ever be.”
“That is an interesting connection,” he said. “I have not even thought of the fellow since the war, and now he turns up crossing paths with you and Katrina. But as to my father,” Sergei went on with a shake of his head, “sometimes I think that the only way I can please him would have been for me to die in battle instead of being only wounded. Then he could have been proud of me forever. As it is, my wound healed, and we are back where we started.”
“If he knew you better, Sergei, he would be proud of you. He couldn’t help it—I just know it. If only you could—”
Anna stopped.
“If only I gave him the chance, is that what you meant to say? If only I would stop running away from him?”
Anna shrugged. “Now that you say the words, I don’t see how I would ever have the right to think that,” she said. “I’m sure you have done all you could.”
“Maybe not all I could, but certainly all I know to do. And how can my presence help matters when he will hardly speak to me? It is a classic dilemma of misunderstanding between father and son.”
“A dilemma that needs no further obstacles in the middle of it,” said Anna, bringing the conversation around to its previous thread.
From her tone, Sergei knew exactly what she meant.
“I will not choose between you and my father,” he said defiantly. “If he does love me, as I suppose he does in his own way, he would not require that of me. And please, Anna, neither can you.”
“I will not,” replied Anna quietly. “But neither will I stop looking for a new tolerance on the part of your father toward you, and perhaps in time even toward me.”
“As you wish, Anna. It will be difficult for me to hold out such hope. At least I can be sure that your family will give us their blessing.”
“I suppose it is easier to move up socially than down.”
“Don’t ever speak of yourself as down, Anna. You are leagues worthier than I or any of my class could hope to be. Your father’s acceptance
of me simply transcends trivialities like social classes. Perhaps it is the natural result of his faith in God . . . I do not know. He has judged me by who I am, apart from name and title and money—things that aren’t truly my own in the first place.”
“Then I shall pray your father comes into such an acceptance of the two of us as well.”
“I must admit, Anna, I cannot be confident in such a miracle occurring.”
“Then I shall have enough confidence for both of us!”
56
Sergei left Katyk the following morning.
Anna watched as his figure retreated down the dirt road leading to the village, where he had arranged for a ride to Pskov to catch the train.
She tried to keep the sadness away with bright reminders that she would see him again soon, and of his promises that he would remain in St. Petersburg until she returned. But she could not prevent an awful sense of emptiness and loneliness from overwhelming her. It would have been simpler, she told herself, if he had never come back into her life. Yet she would not have traded the last week for anything; the time together had confirmed the bond between them. No matter what fate, or God in His infinite wisdom, meted out to them, she would never be able to commit her heart as deeply to another.
As the dreary day wore on, Anna wandered about listlessly, detached from everything about her. Before supper she found herself entering the barn. Her steps were mostly aimless, but she knew she would find her father inside tending the animals.
He had drawn a stool up to the cow and had just begun milking.
“Let me do that, Papa,” Anna intervened.
“Ah, it is a sorry pass when a man cannot even milk a poor cow!”
“But it is my job, Papa. We agreed. And just because Sergei is gone and cannot do it for me any longer doesn’t mean you should.”
“I thought perhaps today, you would not . . . feel up to it.”
“That is kind of you, Papa,” Anna said smiling.
“It is good to see you smile again. Your heart is heavy this afternoon, I know.”
“You always know me better than I do myself.”
“Parents are blessed with a certain kind of wisdom hidden from the young.”
“Thank you just the same, Papa,” said Anna, forcing Yevno to yield the stool to his daughter. “But I think a diversion will be good for me.”
“I will feed Lukiv, then.”
Anna shook her head helplessly. “I think you would just wither up and die if you could not work, Papa.”
Yevno shuffled to the narrow stall where the gray mare patiently waited for her supper. He continued to speak to Anna as he filled the wooden trough, while the stream of milk squirted out and rattled in the bottom of the pail.
“Soon you will return to the city, my daughter,” he said. “I will not be so sad as I was before, because now I know you will be happy there.”
“I have found a home there,” admitted Anna. “But this will always be my real home. You know that, don’t you, Papa?”
“Yes, but young people must grow and sometimes find new places to call home,” said Yevno sagely.
Anna did not reply.
“Your young moujik is a good man,” Yevno said after a moment. “He will take care of you.”
“He is a good man, Papa,” agreed Anna.
“Then what is troubling you, daughter?”
The sound of the milking stopped and Yevno knew Anna was thinking.
“Is it wrong for me to be concerned about what his family will think?” she said at length. “To worry that they will not accept me?”
“But they have accepted you, have they not? You write to us about all you do with the princess, and about how kind they have all been to you.”
“They have been kind—more kind than I deserve.”
“But you do not think they accept you?”
“They accept me, Papa—as a maid . . . not as the wife of their son, a prince.”
“Ah, I see what you mean.”
“I love his sister too, Papa, and it would hurt me deeply if I became a source of strife or contention within the family. Oh, Papa, there just seem to be too many obstacles in the way!”
There was silence for several minutes. The milking resumed, while Yevno busied himself with Lukiv’s oats and hay.
“Did you know the young prince spoke to me?” asked Yevno at length.
“What do you mean, Papa . . . what about?”
“About you, of course. He told me he wanted to marry you, if I would give my consent.”
As familiar as she and her father were, Anna could not help her embarrassment at discussing such a matter.
“And . . . what did you say, Papa?” she asked timidly.
“At first I said nothing,” replied Yevno. “I wanted to know him better. But when he came to me last night to ask again, I took his hand in mine and told him he had earned my admiration and respect, and that I was honored to give my consent.”
“It makes me happy to hear you say those words,” said Anna, “but I cannot help being afraid.”
Yevno left Lukiv and walked slowly back to where Anna sat, halfheartedly trying to coax more milk out of the cow.
“Only God is able to conquer the problems and hardships you and your prince may face, Anna,” he said, his voice full of tender love for his eldest daughter. “I can only say to you, my Annushka, that you cannot do better than to leave it in His hands.”
“I know, Papa,” she replied, feeling her throat tighten as tears began to rise in her eyes. “But I am so afraid we might be destined to remain apart. What if that is God’s will?”
A sob broke through her trembling lips. She rose from the stool, and by the time the single sob had become an unexpected torrent of tears, Anna was in her father’s warm embrace. She laid her cheek gratefully against his coarse, work-soiled tunic, weeping like a child.
Yevno ran his hand over her soft curls.
“Be certain of this, Anna,” he said. “Whatever our Father above has planned for you, it is a destiny of His choosing. How can it be anything but for your best? And whatever obstacles and difficulties are part of it, He will give you the strength and courage to face them.”
Anna nodded, but said no more. She was content for the moment to be a little girl again, and feel the safety of Yevno’s gentle arms.
57
Intermittent bursts of warm breath hung suspended in the icy air, then slowly dispersed into the frigid night.
This was as cold as it would get in St. Petersburg. February was no month to be standing idly about on the street corners of the city. Paul Burenin fidgeted nervously; he and Andrei Zhelyabov would attract attention if they did not do something soon. They were milling about Senate Square trying to appear interested in the statue of Peter the Great and the grandeur of St. Isaac’s Cathedral. But the two young men hardly looked the part of tourists, especially given the hour and the temperature.
Zhelyabov dug a gloved hand beneath the layers of his winter clothing and withdrew a pocket watch. He flipped the lid open, shook his head, and clicked his tongue. He snapped the watch closed, then buried it once more in its warm hiding place.
“We’ve time,” he said, a steamy vapor rising on his words. “I’m afraid in my eagerness I got us here early. It is only 6:15.”
“How early are we?”
“Dinner will not be served, according to our sources, until 6:30.”
“Perhaps we should walk about,” suggested Paul, hoping his words did not betray his growing faintheartedness. In the last few months he had been involved in an increasing number of incidents, but they had all been minor and inconsequential compared with tonight’s mission.
“Good idea.” Zhelyabov turned and they continued talking as they struck out across the Square, heading toward Marskaya Prospect, passing St. Isaac’s on their right. “Have courage, Paul,” the leader said. “In another fifteen minutes all your fears and anxieties and months of faithfulness will be well rewarded. You shall even be a
ble to forgive me for depriving you of Vlasenko. Why, even Anickin might find it in his heart—if he has one!—to render absolution for his loss of vengeance.”
“I doubt such things trouble him now from his prison cell.”
“On the contrary, Paul. If I know anything about the workings of Basil Anickin’s mind—and who could claim to understand such a twisted brain as his?—I have the feeling it will eat away at him still. I pity his enemies if he is ever released. A man like Anickin never forgets, and stops at nothing for the sake of revenge.”
“How long will he be in?”
“Technically speaking, he is no longer in the Fortress.”
“They released him?”
“Hardly. From what I heard he suffered a complete breakdown in prison and was taken to a mental ward. I’ll warrant he’s still in chains, but some of our comrades have been talking about aiding an escape.”
“Do you think it’s possible?”
“To tell you the truth, I have been dragging my feet in giving it my sanction. I don’t know what to think of Anickin. He will never submit to anyone but himself. To have someone like that running loose can only hinder our cause, especially now that his own thirst for revenge is driving him to the edge of lunacy.”
Paul made no response. He agreed completely with his mentor, though for his own personal reasons. As long as Anickin was locked up, the Fedorcenkos would be safe. And if they were safe, Anna was safe. And fortunately, without the force of Anickin’s presence, the planned attack on the Fedorcenkos had been stalled.
They continued walking in silence, and Paul turned his thoughts to matters closer at hand. It still seemed incredible to him, but in less than fifteen minutes, The People’s Will would make its most audacious strike yet against the hated Romanov dynasty. A bomb was about to be detonated in the very lair of Russia’s emperor—in the Winter Palace itself.
A few weeks ago, some repairs had been commissioned inside the palace. One of their number, a man named Khalturin, who as yet had no official reputation or record to hide, had been hired on as a carpenter. He also received permission to sleep in the basement with a handful of the others while the work was in progress.
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