The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Anna found her in this state ten minutes later.

  “Oh, Princess . . . what is it?” she said with deep compassion, hurrying toward her mistress. She laid a hand on Katrina’s arm and knelt beside her.

  Katrina felt a sudden rush of relief at the welcome sight of her maid. “Oh, Anna . . . Anna!” she said, starting to cry all over again. “It’s my brother . . . Sergei—” she sobbed, unable to get any more words past her lips.

  Anna let out a gasp. She felt her face go white as she jerked her hand to her mouth and fell back from the divan.

  Dear God! she breathed to herself.

  She had feared the worst for so long, dreamed about it in her most terrifying nightmares. She had imagined the horrifying scenes of battle: the blood, terrible gaping wounds . . . a bullet, a sword, a dreadful slashing bayonet finding its way straight to the heart of . . .

  Anna breathed in deeply to calm herself. All the thoughts and images which had flitted unsought through her waking and dreaming consciousness for so long suddenly assailed her with their full force. As the color had drained from her face, the blood now drained from her head.

  She tried to rise to her feet. The room reeled, her legs went to rubber, and she nearly fell.

  Katrina had been crushed too, but she hardly expected such a response from her maid. Seeing that Anna was about to faint, she jumped to her feet, her own tears forgotten for a moment. She took two quick steps and braced Anna just as she was about to topple to the floor. She put an arm around Anna and guided her to the divan, where they both sat down.

  “It’s . . . it’s my fault,” Anna moaned softly.

  “Anna . . . what can you mean?” said Katrina, bewildered by Anna’s words. Suddenly the comforted had become the comforter.

  “I pushed him away,” said Anna, heedless in her grief of divulging more than she should. “I told him he should follow his orders. He wanted to desert the army. It’s my fault! If he had not listened to me, he might be a fugitive, but he would still be alive!”

  “Anna . . . what do you mean, if? When did you talk with Sergei?”

  “Before he left. Oh, Princess—what have I done?”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying, Anna,” answered Katrina, more bewildered than ever by her maid’s cryptic replies.

  “How will you—how will any of you forgive me?” Anna went on. “With Sergei gone, your father will—” Anna began to cry.

  “Gone?” repeated Katrina. “We may yet hope that something will be done to bring him back.”

  Anna’s head shot up and her cheeks flushed.

  “Princess!” she said, with confused hopefulness. “Are you saying . . . do you mean that Prince Sergei . . . he is not—” She could not bring herself to say the dreadful word.

  “Dead, Anna?”

  Anna nodded, her eyes wide as they stared into Katrina’s face for an answer.

  “Oh no, Anna—he is not dead . . . not yet, at least.”

  Anna closed her eyes and struggled for a breath. The weight of her misunderstanding took a moment to sink in. At length she covered her face with her hands, unable to stop the tears.

  The intensity of Anna’s reaction temporarily took Katrina’s focus off her brother’s troubles. The truth had begun to dawn on her.

  “I must admit to feeling a bit foolish in the midst of my bewilderment,” she said, with her arm still around Anna’s shoulder. “Your tears are not only in sympathy for my grief over Sergei’s plight, are they?”

  Further deception was useless now. Everything had all but been revealed. Even if nothing was said, Katrina divined the full extent of Anna’s heartache in a moment.

  She smiled. “I cannot believe I didn’t know before,” she said, almost reflecting to herself. “I suppose I was too heartsick over Dmitri to see much of anything else.”

  “Forgive me,” said Anna, looking up and meeting her gaze. “I did not know what to do.”

  “You could have told me,” said Katrina tenderly.

  “Oh, Princess, I thought . . . I didn’t know what you might think! You might have sent me away!”

  “Never, Anna.”

  “It was so confusing at first—a nobleman . . . and me, just a servant. I was frightened.”

  “How . . . how long?” said Katrina.

  “Almost since I first came,” admitted Anna.

  “All this time, and you said nothing.” The princess laughed lightly. “How could I not have known it!”

  “I’m so sorry, Princess. Now I wish I had told you.”

  “Did my brother swear you to secrecy?”

  “No. He was ready to give up everything—his name, his position, his wealth. He was ready for us to leave the country together.”

  “That does sound exactly like Sergei,” reflected Katrina. “He never was one to make distinctions based on his noble blood. Sometimes I think he despised it.”

  “Oh, but Princess!” exclaimed Anna, suddenly remembering the cause of her grief. “What of the prince? If he is safe, then . . . ?”

  Katrina sighed. “He may be alive, Anna,” she said, “but hardly safe.”

  “Has he been wounded?” exclaimed Anna.

  “I am afraid it is even worse than that,” replied Katrina. “He—” She stopped, but only briefly. “I can hardly say the words, they seem so preposterous in regard to Sergei. But it is true. He even admits to it.”

  “Admits to what?” said Anna frantically.

  “He attacked his commanding officer, Anna. He actually fired on him, and may have killed him.”

  “No, it can’t be true. Sergei would never . . . he could not do such a thing!”

  “My father himself has just returned from the outpost. It has all been verified. It is true, Anna, as much as I cannot believe it myself. Sergei pointed his pistol straight at a Russian captain . . . and fired.” She went on to describe the entire affair, at least as much as her father had related to her. It was a reasonably fair accounting of the incident as it had occurred, omitting, of course, the terrible atrocities that had led to Sergei’s loss of control.

  “My father believes something has happened to his mind,” Katrina went on, starting to cry herself once more. “A breakdown of his mental faculties. Sergei refused even to see him. Father only laid eyes on him during the court-martial proceedings. Even then poor Sergei said nothing in his own defense. Father says he seemed bent on condemning himself, as if nothing would satisfy him other than to be put in front of a firing squad.”

  “Oh, Princess, don’t even say it!” exclaimed Anna. “Is the man he shot . . . dead?”

  “Not yet. He is in a military hospital, but is not expected to live.”

  “But he was court-martialed even before?”

  “Whether the man lives or dies hardly matters,” replied Katrina. “The treason is equal either way. Sergei defied a direct command, then shot his superior.”

  “Princess,” Anna said at length, “after what I have done in keeping this from you, I have no right to make any further request, but—”

  “Anna,” Katrina broke in firmly despite her still shaky voice, “I believe I know you well enough to understand why you wanted to keep your feelings about Sergei quiet.”

  “It was more for him than myself I was concerned. A servant loving a great prince is probably not so unusual, but a prince condescending to—”

  She found it impossible to say the words to love a maid.

  “Of course,” said Katrina sympathetically. “It must have been awkward for you both. To think—two of those I love most in the world . . . in love with each other. And I knew nothing of it!”

  Again they were quiet.

  “I would have helped you any way I could,” said Katrina at length.

  “But I am your maid . . . a servant, a peasant.”

  “Oh, Anna,” said Katrina almost in disbelief, “do you think that matters to me now . . . after all we have been to each other?”

  “I’m sorry, Princess. Sometimes I still find mysel
f confused . . . and don’t know what to think. Now that you are married, I have wondered—”

  “Anna, Anna,” interrupted Katrina. “Say no more. Don’t you know how deeply I love you and care for you, as no friend I have ever had? Your being a servant and my being married changes none of that.”

  “Forgive me, Princess. But class attitudes are so common. I do not know what Count Remizov thinks of me. And judging from your father’s reaction—”

  “My father knew . . . about you and Sergei?”

  Anna nodded. “He discovered us together before Sergei left for Asia.”

  “And took it none too well, if I know my father?”

  “Not where Sergei was concerned. But I will say he was very kind to me. He did not dismiss me, and even spoke graciously to me, although he did make it clear he expected me to ‘right the unfortunate situation,’ as he put it.”

  Katrina smiled. “I can hear my father saying those exact words.”

  “As Sergei was bound for Asia,” Anna continued, “there seemed no reason on either of our parts to do anything drastic. So he allowed me to stay until you returned, and I saw no benefit to be had from making any change. Nothing could make me leave you, Princess.”

  “Oh, thank you, Anna. You are so loyal—I don’t deserve you for a moment!”

  “But neither will I desert your brother, Princess. Now that it is all in the open and he has been sentenced, I must go to him.”

  “Is that the request you spoke of?”

  “Yes, Princess, I must see him!”

  “Anna, I would send you there this instant if I could—if I thought it would do the slightest good. But I have not yet told you everything.”

  “If he is to be executed, I must see him first. Who could deny us a few last moments together?”

  “You would have a more likely time of seeing him if that were the case,” replied Katrina, letting out a ragged sigh.

  Anna looked at her with a confused expression.

  “He is not to be executed.”

  At the words, Anna’s face brightened with hope. But the princess continued.

  “Because of what they call extenuating circumstances—by which they mean his mental state, specifically . . . I don’t know what Father’s position may have to do with it, if anything—the court agreed upon leniency.”

  This wonderful news hardly seemed reflected in the downcast tone of Katrina’s voice. Still Anna gazed at her mistress expectantly.

  “He’s been remanded to hard labor . . .” Katrina paused. “In Siberia.”

  Anna gasped. “A life sentence, Anna!” said Katrina, then broke down and wept.

  They were hardly the most worldly-wise or politically astute of women in Russia, from any class. But both had a fair idea of what such a sentence meant.

  This was no political exile where wives and family often followed loved ones.

  Hard labor meant prison. The worst of prisons! Incarceration with Russia’s vilest criminals. There were innocents there too, of course, for the imperial legal system had never been known for its justice. Yet if innocents were sent to the mines in the frigid eastern reaches of the empire along with the guilty, it was an incontestable fact that few ever returned from there innocent, if they returned at all—which few did.

  Sergei had been condemned to a living death. And a death it was—just as surely as if the firing squad had been ordered instead.

  23

  Viktor Fedorcenko came for a visit later in the afternoon.

  Katrina had taken to her bed in grief. Anna had attempted to set aside her own misery by burying herself in work, washing and ironing until every piece of laundry in the house was clean. Then she had begun attacking duties normally assigned to the other servants—polishing silver, dusting, sweeping, and whatever else she could find to distract her from the pain of the news about Sergei.

  She was near the front of the house when Katrina’s father arrived. She went to the door and opened it, beckoning him to enter.

  “The princess is resting, Your Excellency,” she said, speaking in the hollow tone of one who has spent hours crying and yet remains still on the verge of tears.

  “Please, do not disturb her, Anna,” Viktor replied. “It is you I have come to see.”

  “Yes, sir?” said Anna, her voice registering neither surprise nor any other kind of emotion. She had no energy left even to wonder that he would come to see her, rather than summoning her to him.

  “Let us go into my daughter’s parlor where we may speak privately,” he said.

  He led the way as if they were in his own home, giving instructions to the other servants not to disturb them. No one questioned his authority. Not only was he the father of the princess, Viktor was the kind of man who exercised a commanding presence wherever he was.

  Anna took a seat, as indicated by Katrina’s father, on the settee. He sat opposite her in a brocaded Louis XVII armchair. As Anna looked over at him, Prince Fedorcenko seemed more weighed down than he wanted to let on. His eyes seemed tired. His shoulders occasionally stooped slightly as well, very uncharacteristic of the tall soldier and ruler of men who was accustomed to walking with the leaders of the land.

  “It is not difficult to see, Anna Yevnovna,” Viktor began, “that you have heard the news concerning my son.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” she said, glancing down into her lap. Anna’s reddened, ringed eyes, the pallor of her skin, and lips that trembled at every word she tried to utter were evidence enough. She did not want to cry in front of the nobleman. If she said any more, it might be impossible not to.

  “I felt compelled to speak to you personally regarding this matter,” he said.

  Anna said nothing. Viktor took a deep breath before beginning again.

  “I want you to know I did everything humanly possible to aid in my son’s defense,” he went on. “I traveled to Krasnovodsk, where he was stationed, the moment the news reached me. I took with me the best legal counsel in all of Russia. I hounded the prosecution day and night, and did everything short of outright bribery—however, I must admit that I even attempted to go to those extremes. Except for my position in the government and the extremity of my desperation, I would likely have been arrested myself. All my efforts, I am sorry to say, proved to no avail.”

  “I . . . I do not understand why you are telling me these things, Your Highness,” said Anna, at length braving the use of her voice.

  Fedorcenko sighed—a long, ragged, melancholy sigh.

  “I almost do not know the answer myself,” he said with a humorless chuckle. “Perhaps, whatever our past differences, we yet shared something in our concern over my son that drew us together in this moment of travail. I only know that I found myself thinking of you, Anna, and felt perhaps you deserved a more full explanation.”

  “I am a mere servant, Your Highness. I deserve nothing.”

  “My son apparently thought you deserving of his love.”

  “But you did not,” rejoined Anna, almost the same instant clasping her hand over her mouth, shocked at her own bold statement. “Forgive me, Your Highness!” she exclaimed immediately. “I did not mean . . .”

  “Think nothing of it, Anna. I deserved it entirely.”

  Anna looked over and caught a glimpse of the deep pain he was suffering.

  “Do not think that I have not rebuked myself a hundred times since first learning of Sergei’s terrible fate,” he said. “Every day I blame myself for turning my back on him. I hardly sleep at night. I—” He stopped abruptly.

  Anna wondered if his voice had been caught on the edge of emotion. But Viktor rose immediately from his seat and strode across the room, his back conveniently toward her. He paused at a small liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of brandy from a crystal decanter. Anna had the impression his movements were more for something to do, some diversion with which to occupy his hands, than from sudden thirst.

  “I don’t imagine you take brandy, do you, Anna?” he asked at length, still
facing the bar so she could not see his face.

  “No, sir.”

  He took a slow sip from his glass, then even more slowly began speaking to her again.

  “I am convinced,” he said after swallowing, “that nothing could have saved Sergei. He was guilty, by his own admission and that of several eyewitnesses. His insubordination reached beyond the limits of what can be tolerated, especially in battlefield conditions. He not only defied orders, he shot his commander. It was premeditated—a deliberate act—as the prosecution was all too successful in proving.”

  “You cannot believe your own son to be a murderer?”

  “Not when we last saw him, no, I do not believe he was. But things can happen to a man. Things no one can predict may drive a man to do most anything, even murder.”

  “Not Sergei,” said Anna with firm assurance.

  “Anna, I am his father. I want to believe that just as strongly as you do yourself. But you are a young girl who thinks she loves him. I am a military man who has seen what the stress of battle can do. My eyes have been opened many times to the cruelties that life can inflict.”

  “I could never believe—”

  “I know how you must feel, Anna. But I was also there, and therefore cannot contest what happened. I heard his confession with my own ears, although it was not spoken directly to me. It was about the only thing he said during the entire trial. But I did not, even then, give up on him.”

  “Why should you care that I know?”

  “It is my way,” Viktor said reflectively, “of continuing to try to find some way to believe in my son. Now . . . perhaps . . . you are the closest thing I have left to him, knowing . . . how he said he felt about you. Although he hardly spoke to me, I did not give up on him. I suppose that is what I wanted you to know.”

  “Yet you are giving up on him now . . . now that the trial is over?” There was more pleading than accusation in Anna’s tone.

  “What more can be done?” His steady voice now broke momentarily into frustration. “It is over! Sergei has . . . Sergei is lost to us.”

  He absently brought his glass to his lips and tossed back the remaining brandy.

  “Do you think that it doesn’t kill me daily that I failed with him? Can you imagine the anguish of knowing that because of your failure, your own son must spend the rest of his life in . . . in a living hell! I do not need your rebukes. I have discovered my own living hell, Anna—if that is any consolation to you!”