The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “But, Mama, the promieshik can do anything and never pay the consequences.”

  “In many cases, yes, and I will not say Stephan is entirely safe, but I don’t think he has to fly off in a blind panic yet.”

  “What if—?”

  “Now, Mariana, don’t buy trouble—”

  “I know, I know; we hardly have enough money to buy bread.” She tried to smile, but the attempt was immediately obscured by her fear.

  Anna took Mariana’s hands in hers. “Let’s put it in God’s hands, for He knows better than we do what should be done and what will be done.”

  Mariana remembered her mother’s words and her confidence in God later that day when Stephan came to her house and told her of the extraordinary events of that morning.

  “No matter what your papa said about how Vlasenko would be reluctant to press charges against me,” Stephan said as they sat together in a quiet corner of the barn, “I was still afraid to go home. All I could see was him storming in and arresting my whole family. I still fear that, but if they are truly ignorant of my whereabouts, I think he will leave them alone. I suppose no one is safe, even your family, Mariana. But I take comfort in the fact that anyone would have taken the same risk if faced with what Count Vlasenko tried to do to you last night. You should have seen your father when he heard! I had to calm him down!

  “Anyway, I did not go home last night. I went to the Gorskov estate and slept in the stables to get in out of the storm.”

  “Was that wise, Stephan? I mean Barin Gorskov is a promieshik—”

  “Ha! There is no comparison between him and Vlasenko. He supplied me with books when I could not afford them at the gymnasium. And he gives me all the work I want so I can earn the money I need to go to the university. Thanks to him, I only have to work for the Vlasenkos once in a while. Even I must admit, he is a decent man for an aristocrat. And I know it now more than ever.”

  “He wasn’t upset that you hid in his barn?”

  “He was only upset that I didn’t wake him up and stay in the house. He despises Vlasenko and was furious over what happened. He assured me he would help me in any way he could should Vlasenko press charges. But he, too, thought that unlikely.”

  “Oh, Stephan, I am so glad to hear that! You don’t know the horrible things I feared. I pictured you being hauled off to Siberia, or at the least having to flee from here and hide all the rest of your days in the city.”

  “I pictured the same things, too. And, although I feel better about that now, I do see that the timing is perfect in what has come about. I have heard you say how God knows the perfect time for all things. I truly believe that now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is so extraordinary, Mariana!” Stephan replied, his eyes flashing excitement. “Barin Gorskov had a Christmas present for me. He had had it ready for days and was just waiting for Christmas to give it to me. He laughed over the amazing timing of my appearance and also mentioned something about God’s perfect timing. He has arranged for my admission to the university in St. Petersburg. Isn’t that incredible? He will pay the tuition costs, but I must be responsible for my living expenses. Mariana, do you know what this means?”

  Mariana nodded, and in his enthusiasm Stephan did not immediately note her glum expression. “I can leave immediately. The new term begins right after the New Year. I will just have time to travel, arrange my classes, and find a place to live—the barin has some prospects on that also and on work for me. I can hardly believe this is happening!”

  Mariana found her voice, though it trembled a bit as she spoke, “I—I don’t know what to say. This is what you always wanted . . .” Her poor attempt at stoicism crumbled as tears welled up in her eyes and a lump caught at her throat.

  “Oh, Mariana!” He took her in his arms and gently patted her hair as she cried on his shoulder. “Nothing has to change between us,” he said. “We will not be parted forever. I will return. And one day when I am a lawyer, we will be married. We must have patience.”

  “I was never much good at that,” she sobbed. “And it will be so much harder for me. You’ll be off in the city having many new and exciting experiences. I will be here waiting . . . and alone. . . .”

  “You’re not asking me to give up this opportunity, are you?” he asked with some surprise. “I couldn’t, you know. I just couldn’t.”

  She sniffed and wiped away the tears with her hand, then pushed herself away from Stephan so she could look at him as she spoke. “Stephan, forgive me for being so selfish. I know you can’t give this up. I would never ask.”

  He was obviously relieved. “The time will go quickly, Mariana. We will write letters, and I will share with you everything that happens. It will be just as if you are there.”

  She nodded, but with less conviction. To her, even a month’s separation would seem like an eternity. But this would be years, with only an occasional visit home when his tight budget would permit it. And any number of things could happen to him in the city. There would be many beautiful girls. What if he decided he liked the city and did not want to return to dusty old Katyk? Could she leave her home to be with him? Could she leave her family? Did she love him enough for that? What if they said goodbye and never saw each other again? Such things happened. It had almost happened to her parents. What if . . .?

  The questions flooded her mind, and she could sense no answers, except that from this day on things would never be the same.

  Her whole life was about to change, but Mariana could only guess at the direction and implication of those changes.

  28

  A series of unrelenting storms ushered in the new year. Spring seemed a long way off, even though it was closer in time than the fickle weather might indicate. A new storm hit at the beginning of April. The city, which had begun to recover from previous storms, was paralyzed once more; and a week later the great horse-driven lorries were only beginning to clear away the high drifts, freeing the residents of the capital of Russia. Winter had come late that year; some had predicted a mild season, but now, several blizzards later, it was obvious that the slow start had only been a conservation of energy for later. The weather was certainly showing no compassion for the uninitiated.

  The street-cleaning lorries had worked overtime to dig the city out of the storm. And the truth was not lost, even on a newcomer like Daniel Trent, that the clean-up crews showed a decided class preference in their work. After freeing the downtown business district, they had begun to clear the wealthy South Side. Many of the poor residents remained trapped for days, and there were even rumors of some deaths, although none of the government-controlled newspapers hinted at this.

  The winter had been staggering, even to a New Yorker like Daniel. He was glad when the spring thaw finally came, despite its knee-deep mud and slush. But once spring began, it entered with a vengeance. Soon the songs of birds could be heard over the mighty roar of the Neva, free at last from its icy chains.

  One fine evening in June, when he had been in Russia almost five months, Daniel left his South Side boardinghouse for a social engagement. Even if it was some society party, he was glad to be out on an evening like this after being forced indoors for so long during the storms. His destination was only a few blocks away, and he decided to walk.

  It took fifteen minutes to get there, and Daniel spent the time reflecting on his first months in Russia. It had been quite a culture shock in the beginning. Upon voicing his frustrations to the office manager, George Cranston, he had received an answer that he found hard to fathom.

  “It’s not unusual to feel homesick, Daniel.” When Daniel started to deny feeling such sentimentality, George held up his hand and continued. “Even a tough-skinned reporter can feel homesick. But I predict that one day you’ll develop similar feelings upon bidding Russia farewell. The place will grow on you.”

  Now, a couple of months later, he couldn’t exactly say it was growing on him, but at least he was less jarred by all the difference
s. The very newness of it all fed his youthful hunger for adventure. Every new day presented some fresh challenge to him.

  As far as his job went, he had had to readjust all his preconceptions about reporting. The hard-driving, “cut to the chase” attitudes common in the West simply fell flat here. Everything took mediation and debate, and a great deal of trumpery. An interview with a public official might take hours of story-telling and ego-pandering, along with effusive quantities of vodka. The Russians could be shrewd and hard-driven sorts, but they went about it rather differently—slowly, methodically, taking every opportunity to make a party of it if they could.

  And who could blame them? Why rush processes that were bound to take forever no matter how much they hurried? The bureaucracy in the country was staggering! It had taken Daniel three weeks to obtain a simple permit to extend their office hours by one hour. Perhaps the government feared he intended to use the additional hour to hold secret radical meetings.

  His residential permit had only recently been approved, even though he had twice appealed to the embassy for assistance. The bureau of immigration had held on to his passport for weeks.

  Daniel learned early the importance of having a passport in a police state. He had been stopped on the street by a gendarme who thought he looked suspicious. Though it was obvious Daniel was a foreigner, because he couldn’t produce his passport he was escorted to police headquarters, where he spent several frustrating hours without even the opportunity to contact anyone outside. Finally, George Cranston had become concerned over Daniel’s absence and began an investigation that eventually led him to police headquarters and Daniel. It still took the intercession of the American ambassador to get him released. At that point the return of his passport had been expedited.

  Adventure and challenge were apt descriptions of his stay thus far, but his experiences were not all frustrating and negative. Once he got past typical Russian sluggishness, he had in general found the Russian people open and hospitable, generous and kind.

  There were, of course, some stereotypes of sly, cunning Orientals. He was about to encounter one of these stereotypes this evening. He had only met Count Cyril Vlasenko once before, and he had disliked the man from the first. The count had been congenial enough, even deferential. Although he was an important man in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, Vlasenko had realized immediately that Daniel represented a name of some importance and even economic consequence to Russia. But Daniel had noted something in the tone of the man’s voice, the look in his eyes, and even in the tilt of his flabby face, that made him unaccountably suspect.

  It didn’t help when George Cranston had later warned Daniel to “watch that one.” Vlasenko, Cranston told him, had at one time been chief of the Third Section, or secret police. He knew incriminating facts about nearly everyone in St. Petersburg. And he was ruthless enough to use that knowledge at will.

  Nevertheless, Daniel couldn’t very well refuse Vlasenko’s invitation to his home for Cyril’s birthday celebration. His father’s influential name had prompted the invitation in the first place, but a government contact, no matter how odious, was not something to be taken for granted. And it would be a good opportunity to meet other influential people. Daniel already knew this was a country where he could use every contact he could possibly garner.

  When Daniel arrived about fifty guests were already milling about the spacious, well-appointed drawing room and an adjacent anteroom. Vlasenko’s St. Petersburg home was not one of the grand palaces to be found in this area of the city, many of which had been built during the reign of Peter the Great when he had forced his nobles to move from Moscow to the newly-built city on the Neva. Rather, Vlasenko’s was more modest, with only twenty-five or thirty rooms and a complement of fifty servants. It was furnished quite tastefully and expensively, however, with valuable artwork and antiques.

  Daniel was glad George had recommended black-tie attire. The men who were not dressed in tuxedos wore various uniforms, dripping with sashes, ribbons, and medals. Daniel thought they competed with the women in ornamentation—the proverbial peacocks indeed. But the women, not to be outdone, flashed their own finery—satins and brocades and silks, setting off a king’s ransom in jewels. Daniel wondered what they wore to functions at the Imperial Court. How could they ever top this? But he had no doubt they would, for the Russian wealthy were hardly frugal.

  Cyril Vlasenko, conversing with a small group of men, glanced up when the butler announced Daniel’s arrival. Vlasenko, a commendable host if nothing else, hailed him with a welcoming greeting and motioned Daniel to join them.

  “Gentlemen,” Vlasenko said, “this is my new American friend, Daniel Trent. You, of course will know of his father, Archibald Trent.”

  “Ah, yes,” said one of the men, “Vanderbilt, Morgan, Carnegie, and Trent. Well known to us, indeed. If only some of their magic would rub off on Russia’s industrial base.”

  “My father wishes the same, sir,” said Daniel, glad the conversation was in French, a language at which he was more accomplished than Russian. “He has invested generously in Russia to that very end.”

  “And now he invests even his son, eh?” chuckled the man.

  “Yes, something like that,” Daniel replied.

  “Where does this great interest in our country spring from, Monsieur Trent?” asked another, his congenial tone only slightly tinged with suspicion.

  “Simple enough. My father loves a challenge! After he helped build the Transcontinental Railroad in America, the railroad business became somewhat routine, so he moved on to steel manufacturing. Now that his company, Union Steel, has become second in the nation next to Carnegie Steel, he is ready to meet a new challenge.”

  “And this new challenge would be . . .?”

  “The newspaper business. Our family has been making the news for years, so perhaps it is just a logical progression that we’ve begun to print it, too.”

  “And you are in the newspaper business, not in railroads or steel?”

  “That’s right. I’m here to keep our nation informed on world events. This is a quickly shrinking world where nations are becoming increasingly interdependent. It’s vitally important that we be as informed as we can possibly be.”

  “A true humanitarian, eh?”

  “Naturally! Selling tens of thousands of newspapers is only secondary,” replied Daniel with a sly grin.

  Vlasenko laughed. “Well said, young man! I, myself, am more suspicious of a generous man than of one who is acutely aware of his own interests. And, speaking of your particular interests, you do not have any champagne, Monsieur Trent.” He stopped a passing waiter, snatched a glass from his tray, and handed it to Daniel. “Now, help yourself to all the champagne you want. It’s the best from France.”

  “Do dna!” Daniel answered in Russian, lifting his glass as he spoke the traditional Russian toast.

  “Ah, so you have learned our language! I am impressed,” Vlasenko said in Russian that was only slightly better than Daniel’s.

  “Not very well, I’m afraid; I have had so little opportunity to use it. All the efforts of my tutor are going to waste.”

  “So, you have just started studying since coming to Russia?”

  “Actually, I began while still in America. I had the good fortune of encountering a Russian count who was willing to teach me there. He came with me to Russia as an interpreter. But, as I said, I’ve had little use for him.”

  “A count, you say?”

  “Yes. And, as a matter of fact, you may know him. He, at least, was acquainted with you. His name is Dmitri Remizov.”

  Vlasenko rubbed his ample chins and shook his head blankly. The name did not immediately register in his mind. One of the other men standing nearby overheard the exchange and put in, “I knew Count Remizov quite well. He vacated Russia several years ago. Cyril, you ought to know him, too, since he married your cousin’s daughter—Viktor Fedorcenko, you know.”

  “No!” said Vlasenko, genuinely sur
prised. “The name did not register, it has been so long. But now I remember. What a tragedy! Lost both his wife and daughter in childbirth, poor man.”

  “That’s odd . . .” Daniel mused, not even realizing he was speaking out loud.

  “Odd? Why do you say that?”

  “Well, Remizov mentioned to me that he hoped to see his daughter while in Russia. Perhaps he has another child?”

  “I am almost certain he had but one child,” said Cyril.

  “Who can tell with a man of Remizov’s reputation with the ladies, eh?” chimed in the other man.

  “Perhaps,” said Daniel, “or, I may have heard wrong, as poor as my Russian is.”

  “I am certain it must be a misunderstanding,” Vlasenko said. But the edge to his voice and the look in his eyes revealed that he was disturbed by this conversation. He quickly shook it off and returned to his role as host.

  “Now, young man,” he said, “I am certain you do not wish to spend the entire evening with your elders. There are several young people here—young ladies, too—” He gave Daniel a cunning wink. “Have fun. There will be dancing after dinner.”

  29

  It was nearly two in the morning when Daniel returned to his boardinghouse. The doorman had retired hours ago, but Daniel had a key and was able to let himself in. The place was dark and deserted inside.

  His landlords, however, were thoughtful enough to leave a lamp and matches on a table in the entryway for latecomers to use to light their way to their rooms. Daniel found it easily, lit it, and picked it up. The light illuminated his surroundings in dim shadows as he passed by the front rooms of the house. At one time this had been a grand house, but the furnishings and carpets and draperies were now worn and old. It was far from shabby, however—it was in fact rather comfortable, far more so than the Vlasenko place which, though tasteful, tended to be cold. His landlords, Monsieur and Madame Durocq, were much like the furnishings—worn around the edges but warm and welcoming. Monsieur Louis Durocq had come to Russia a good fifty years ago to market his father’s French perfume. He fell in love with Russia and his wife, Ludmila, at the same time. Ludmila was the daughter of a minor government official. The house on the fashionable South Side had come to her by an inheritance from a distant relative. When she and Louis retired and their children had moved away, the house was too large, but neither wanted to part with it. They had only a modest retirement income, so they conceived of the idea of converting the home into a boardinghouse.