The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “I’m not surprised,” answered Sergei, with a hint of his old cynicism.

  “I don’t want to think about what will happen once the beer arrives. I’d advise that you both leave at once. I’ll get your memento for you.”

  “Thank you, Misha. That is kind of you,” said Anna.

  He smiled, and his eyes said that he would do anything for her. Getting a coronation cup was a very small thing indeed. He bid them goodbye, mounted his horse, and rode off.

  “Perhaps we should take his advice,” said Sergei.

  Anna made no protest; she desperately wanted to get away. But they were hardly imposing Cossacks, and the dense mob, which had surged back around them the moment Misha rode away, would not give way to them. In ten minutes they had barely moved ten feet. Anna gripped Sergei’s hand and hung on for her very life. Then there rose a cheer from the mob—the wagons of beer had arrived. Anna could see nothing, although she thought she heard the rattle of harness and wheels in the distance. Sergei, whose height gave him some advantage, verified the rumor.

  Another man standing nearby must have had a good view also, but he was apparently not happy with what he saw. “There aren’t enough wagons!” he grumbled. “I’ll bet there isn’t going to be enough beer to go around.”

  “What’s that?” said another.

  “There’s not going to be enough!”

  “What?” came several other voices.

  “Not enough beer!”

  “But we waited all night!”

  “What did you expect? When did the government ever keep its promises?”

  The rumbling spread through the restive mob like an electrical current, and before the signal to begin the feast was given, before the wagons had even come to a full halt, the throng surged forward. No one intended to be left out. Greed took control and even the Cossacks were hard pressed to control the crowd. They shouted and even fired a few warning shots into the air, but no one heard or listened. The mob, now empowered by anger and greed, overpowered the few Cossacks as if they were nothing.

  The meadow between the mob and the wagons was crisscrossed with many drainage ditches. The Cossacks tried to warn the people of the hazard, but they were out of control, and even those who thought better of such behavior were dragged along in the frenzy of the mob.

  The ditches acted like death traps. They could not easily be avoided and if a person fell into one, it might as well be his grave. A half million people is more than many charging armies, and this assemblage did not have even the poorest sort of order to it.

  If Anna had felt suffocated before, now she felt sheer panic.

  “Sergei!”

  His hand clamped tightly around hers. “Dear Lord! What is happening?” His lips seemed to be moving, but Anna could not hear him.

  A wave of bodies shoved mercilessly against them. Anna’s arm ached as the force of the crowd pressed against her and Sergei, seemingly bent on pulling them apart. She felt certain her arm would be yanked from its socket, but she prayed Sergei would not let go no matter what. She felt his hand grow sweaty and slip slightly from its hold. She clutched his hand and kept her eyes riveted upon him, believing that as long as he was within sight she would be all right. The human wave pounded against them and carried them forward against their will. Turning back was all but impossible. Misha’s warning had come too late, and he was no longer in sight to help them. It was like being carried along on the most torturous rapids of the Volga. Anna recalled how Sergei told of his escape from Siberia by diving, chained, into a raging icy river. She knew now how he must have felt.

  Then the unthinkable happened. Sergei lost his grip. Their hands broke apart, and Anna screamed. Still she could see Sergei’s face, bearing a look of fear and fury that frightened her almost as much as the mob did. He grabbed at the man who first came between them and thrust him violently away, and then, clenching his hands into fists, he flailed away at any other man who got in his way. He finally reached her, held out his arms, and clasped her to him.

  “Anna, I’m sorry.”

  But he had barely spoken the words when they were wrested apart once more. A dozen men and women suddenly enveloped them. For a horrifying moment Anna lost sight of Sergei completely. Then she thought she caught a glimpse of his shoulder. If only she could see over the mob! But she was far too small, and even though Sergei could see over many heads, it hardly mattered since she was quickly buried from his view. If she could stay where she was, perhaps he might come to her, but that, too, was impossible. She was being carried farther and farther away from Sergei.

  After a while she lost all hope of seeing him again. She’d be fortunate if she could just survive this experience alive. She silently prayed for help, and prayed that God would protect Sergei wherever he was.

  How she did survive she could not explain. It was nothing less than a miracle. She had been all but helpless, a tiny piece of driftwood in a mighty torrent, completely at the mercy of this uncontrollable human flood. She tried to fight against it, tried to move in the opposite direction, but she could not make any progress. Then suddenly she was free. Whether she had actually broken away or the flood had flowed over her and on its way, she did not know. All she knew was that she was standing alone—well, almost alone. Others around her had also extricated themselves from the stifling, shifting prison. Many were sobbing and weeping or crying out for loved ones still caught in the deluge. Others made no sounds at all, but lay still on the grassy earth. They had been trampled to death. They were mostly the frail—women, children, old people.

  Anna had never seen a war before, but she thought this was surely what it must be like. Senseless death—all for a free glass of beer!

  She was trembling so violently that she could not walk; her legs could hardly hold even her slight weight. She crumpled, weeping, to the ground. Her prayers turned to cries of despair.

  “Why, God? Why?”

  As if in answer, she heard a small voice murmur by her side. Looking down, she saw a little boy no more than four years old. His dirty face was streaked with his tears, his wrenching sobs so overwhelmed him that he could not even speak. But his silently moving lips formed the unmistakable word that was nearest to his heart.

  Mama!

  Anna held out her hand to him, and in his agony and need for comfort he did not hesitate before falling into this stranger’s arms. She gave him what comfort she could and, oddly, received comfort in return simply through ministering to him.

  A short time later his mother came and with effusive thanks took the boy into her arms. Anna never learned their names, but she knew who his Father was, his heavenly Father. God had sent the child to Anna when she needed him most.

  Not long afterward, Anna saw Sergei push and thrust his way through the rear of the mob. His clothes were torn, his face smudged with sweat and blood from a deep scratch over his right eyebrow. But the sight of him made her heart leap, and she sprang to her feet and ran to him. His embrace had never felt more welcome; his soft, tender words never more soothing. In her joy and relief she began to tremble all over again. And in her heart she thanked God as she had done so many times before that He had restored her dear Sergei to her.

  7

  It was more than an inauspicious end to a momentous occasion. It was a tragedy.

  Over a thousand citizens lost their lives at Khodynka Field. Hundreds had been injured. The tsar and tsaritsa were stunned upon hearing the news. Nicholas wanted to suspend all remaining festivities and go into retreat to mourn the terrible loss—the immediate instinct of a man of deep compassion, a man of sensitive nature and tender heart.

  But Nicholas’s uncles argued against the tsar’s impulse. That very evening an important reception had been planned by the French ambassador.

  “It would be a terrible breach of etiquette not to attend,” Uncle Serge insisted.

  “The French government has spent thousands of francs on this event,” Vladimir added.

  “Surely they will understand in
light of what has happened.”

  “They will be deeply offended, Nicky. You know the French—these displays mean a great deal to them.”

  “But what will the people think?” More than anything, Nicholas II longed to be the tsar of the people. His love for Mother Russia was deep and real, and he felt the first of many inner battles between supposed Imperial duty and the impulses of the heart.

  “Nicky,” said Uncle Serge with the exaggerated patience of a man speaking to an inferior, “the alliance with France was the crowning achievement of your father’s reign. It forms the cornerstone of our European diplomacy. Do you wish to denigrate your beloved father’s memory in this way?”

  “Besides,” added Vladimir, “you will be thought more highly of if you carry on, if you place duty over personal grief.”

  Again Nicholas capitulated.

  That evening many were stunned to see the royal couple in attendance at the French ball.

  “Of course, they have not told him of the tragedy,” said one guest.

  “He knows all about it,” said another with contempt.

  Only a few noticed the strained tension in the royal couple. The tear-reddened eyes of the tsaritsa, the deep furrows of grief in the tsar’s brow were obvious to those who wished to see. But many preferred to interject their own interpretations. It was but another indication of the ingrained callousness of the autocracy, of the bureaucratic domination of the government. This only proved what they had known all along—the people meant nothing to the monarchy.

  The next day Nicholas and Alexandra visited the hospitals where the injured had been taken. The tsar, from his own funds, contributed a thousand rubles to each victim. And at his own expense he ordered individual coffins for the dead rather than have them buried in a mass grave as was customary for such disasters. The common people never held the tragedy at Khodynka Field against the tsar; most never knew of the French reception. Perhaps they would not have held that against him either. To them, however, the unfortunate incident held its own significance. It was a bad omen for the reign to begin thus. It could only mean unhappy years to come.

  The repercussions from Khodnyka Field continued to be felt long into Nicholas’s reign, even after the actual memory of the tragedy had faded. In the eyes of the intelligentsia, the tsar would always appear, at best, shallow; at worst, a heartless beast. And ironically, if Nicholas was not a beast, he was no better than an inept fool. He would never be able to rise above the stigma of Khodynka.

  Nicholas had been born on the day of St. Job the Sufferer, another stigma that dogged him all his life. His fatalistic nature saw in Khodynka the inexorable hand of God leading him toward a fate over which he had little control.

  8

  The following day, Anna still trembled as she entered the vestibule of St. Paul’s Church. She had needed some time alone, and Sergei had been kind enough to understand.

  In many ways, the little chapel close to the poor tenements where Tanya and her husband lived reminded her of homey old St. Andrew’s in St. Petersburg, where she had often worshiped when she had been a maid to Princess Katrina. On a noisy corner in the midst of much poverty stood the simple, unpretentious sanctuary. Here the poor and wretched in the city could find a home; as at St. Andrew’s, wives of local merchants who frequented this church distributed food to the poor on the front porch. Anna had always sensed a far more genuine devotion in places like this than in the cathedrals of the rich in the city.

  And she needed such an atmosphere as she tried to make sense of the terrible tragedy at Khodnyka Field.

  Scores of others attended the special Mass being said for the dead and injured. Anna moved in among them, noting the diversity of the worshipers—beggars and clerks, low-level civil servants and genteel ladies in fashionable frocks. Anna remembered when she and Katrina had gone together to St. Andrew’s to pray during the war. Katrina had stood out even from the merchant class of attenders, for none of the high nobility would ever come to such a humble place to worship.

  As the Mass began, Anna listened with reverence to the beautiful music of the priest’s incantation.

  “Holy Father, blessed be your name throughout all eternity. Bless the name of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, and of the Virgin from whose womb we were blessed above all peoples!”

  The choir of angelic-sounding boys responded with a melodious Te Deum. It had been years since Anna had heard such a choir, for the church in Akulin had a choir only at Easter and Christmas when the priest could commandeer some of the young boys of the area to sing. In such a poverty-stricken community they could not be spared at other times.

  Anna remembered when her youngest brother, Ilya, would sing—after a good deal of arm-twisting from the family. He had a fine voice, and the priest always wanted him in the choir. Not so with her brother Paul. Anna found herself smiling at the memory, in spite of herself, and it surprised her. Seldom did thoughts of Paul elicit amusement from her. But his off-key, flat croaking grated against the other voices like a broken wagon wheel against an axle. Unable to stand it, the priest told Paul to go back to the fields.

  Paul had been terribly disappointed, for unlike his younger brother, he loved to sing the Te Deums and hymns. That had been when he was very young, of course. Later . . . well, who could explain what happened later? Would he have been different if the priest had tolerated the young boy’s tuneless voice? How easy it would be if they could blame all Paul’s woes on a harsh and hasty priest.

  But life’s answers weren’t that easy. And perhaps she would never know the true depth of Paul’s anguish. Fifteen years had passed since she last saw him, in the church in St. Petersburg, so like this very place. He had been haunted and hunted—figuratively and literally. Haunted by broken dreams, and hunted not only by the police but also by his own pain and fear, she suspected. Where was he now? Perhaps dead.

  Had he been in the meadow at Khodnyka Field yesterday, how would he have responded? Most likely with fierce recriminations toward an uncaring and insensitive government, blaming the tsar for the entire tragedy. Misha had hinted at incompetence among those in charge, so perhaps Paul would have been right. Yet was that reason enough to destroy everything? And for Paul to destroy his own life? A man had to be admired for such deep convictions, but why did it have to be dear Paul?

  The stirring of the worshipers near Anna roused her from her thoughts. The congregation began to file forward to take the Eucharist. Anna moved into place behind a bent old woman, and slowly they progressed forward. As Anna approached the priest, she crossed herself and bowed her head. The priest laid a wafer of holy bread on her tongue, then set the cup to her lips. Anna closed her eyes, sensing anew the wonder of partaking of the Lord’s body and blood. For many, she knew, the celebration of Eucharist had become such a ritual that its original purpose—the purpose for which Christ himself had intended it—was all but negated. But each time Anna tasted the bread and wine, she was drawn into that sweet communion with the Lord that her soul so desired. With His body and His blood she was privileged to share not only in His pain and suffering but also in His glory. The suffering Lord was also the Risen Lord, and that hope comforted her.

  When the service ended and the congregation began to exit, a sudden impulse led Anna toward the front, where a bank of candles illuminated the ornate and gilded altar. Anna took a penny from her pocket and dropped it into the box.

  She found a wooden lighter and laid its tip to one of the existing flames. When the stick caught she moved it to an unlit candle and lightly touched the wick. In a moment the candle fluttered into flame.

  This candle was for Paul.

  Somehow she knew that when her thoughts had turned to him, it was more than mere chance or recalling the place where they had last met. She believed God had a special purpose for impressing Paul upon her mind, if only to light this candle and utter a prayer on his behalf.

  “May his memory be eternal,” Anna murmured, then immediately chided herself. This was the prayer
for the dead.

  Paul had declared himself dead to his family, but Anna would never accept that, even if her lips betrayed the deep fear in her heart. She laid down the lighter and turned away from the candle bank. Although it was warm in the church, a sudden chill swept over her. She pulled her frayed shawl tighter about her shoulders and quickly crossed herself.

  Perhaps it was better not to think of Paul, for thoughts of him only brought pain and confusion. Yet if she would pray for him, as she knew she must, how could she ignore him? If he was alive, he needed her prayers more than ever.

  9

  It was called the “Siberian Italy,” and was located at the foot of the Sayan Mountains, on a tributary of the Yenisey River, about two hundred miles north of the Mongolian border. At times during the year it was as fair a place as a person could want in Siberia, even for an “enforced resident.” Only the most privileged rated exile to these regions around Shushenskoye.

  That a simple peasant lad—a revolutionary by trade and an erstwhile scholar—could be here was nothing less than a miracle. Paul Yevnovich Burenin did not deny that. He had been a fortunate man, and try as he might to discount the blessings of an Almighty God, he had to give credit where it was properly due. He had been in a far different place sixteen years ago when he was first banished to this life of exile. A year of hard labor in Kolyma nearly ruined his health, but it also inadvertently led to his present fortune. For the next three or four years, as an “enforced resident” in a village near Kolyma, he had been plagued with a serious lung condition and borderline tuberculosis. Thoughts of escape, even if remotely possible, had to be abandoned. And as time passed he began to make a fair life for himself. A wealthy merchant engaged him as tutor for his young son, and Paul earned the friendship and respect of the man who later proved to be quite influential. About ten years ago, when Paul’s health threatened to fail completely, his employer pulled some strings to have his exile transferred to this balmy, healthful spot.