Now Basil and the unions were tackling the coal cartel. He had purpose in life, even if it was merely as a union assassin. Those passions that had driven him in the past were just that—past and over with. Katrina Remizov and her child were dead. And, although he had been robbed of the pleasure of cutting her down by his own hand, she was gone. Dmitri Remizov might still live, but nineteen years ago the worthless count had been whipped and humiliated. Basil saw no reason to endanger his own personal safety trying to pursue the man, even if he could be found. Basil’s taste for blood and violence was fairly well appeased through his union activities.
He leaned back in his chair and listened to the raucous activities of the miners. After long grueling hours in the mine, they were hanging about the tavern this evening in order to learn of the result of their most recent threat to strike unless wage increases were made. It was an election year, and the workers had high hopes of success. The politicians weren’t going to want an ugly strike hovering over them in November.
Basil, on the other hand, thrived on strike situations. Only then could his talents be used to their fullest.
Glancing up, he saw one of his colleagues enter the tavern. The man paused to greet several of the miners, but soon made his way to the back table where Basil was nursing a beer.
“How was your trip to New York?” Basil asked after his friend had settled into a seat opposite Basil and had a beer in hand.
The fellow was twenty years Basil’s junior. He had a clean-shaven, sharp-featured face that would have appeared youthful except for his hard gray eyes—deep-set, determined, and cold. The name Basil knew him by was Jack Caine. He was an ambitious young man, endowed with the cool ruthlessness to achieve his ambitions. At the moment he aspired to Basil’s nefarious job. Basil considered him his protégé, almost the son he’d never had.
“Mitchell feels confident we’ll get the pay raise,” said Caine.
“Only because of the election. They’ll cast us a few crumbs, then hold us at bay until the next election.”
“In that case, there will be a strike. Our threats aren’t empty.”
“I, for one, hope we have the chance once and for all to show them our teeth!” Basil lifted his frothy mug to his lips. But he paused a moment, peering over the rim of his glass. “What’s that?” he asked, indicating a cylindrical bundle the man had laid on the table.
Caine shoved it across the table to Basil. “I knew you’d want a newspaper from the city.”
Basil was obsessed with keeping apprised of the news, especially international events. Someday his homeland was going to explode, and he did not want his exile to keep him ignorant of that great occasion. Whenever he visited a major city, he made a point of getting several newspapers.
Eagerly, he unwrapped the bundle, revealing three New York papers—the Herald, the World, and the Register. Basil buried himself in the Register and all but forgot his friend. Caine ordered another beer and joined the miners. He knew Rolf would be absorbed for the next hour in the news.
Fifteen minutes later, Caine heard an agitated cry from the back table.
“It cannot be! She lives!”
Caine ambled over to the table. “What are you talking about, Rolf?”
Basil stabbed a finger at a drawing of a female on page three of the paper.
“A comely gal, to be sure,” said Caine. “You know her?”
“She refuses to die. I tried . . . but she comes back like a ghost to haunt me.”
“She looks like a mere girl. How—?”
Basil’s wild, intense look cut him off. He knew better than to reason with his comrade when he looked like that. Best to steer clear of him for a few hours, or days—however long it took for him to regain his sanity. Caine slunk quietly away; Basil hardly noticed his departure. All he could think of was that Katrina Remizov had come back to life. He was rational enough to realize that this incarnation of the woman who had spurned him was only her daughter. But that in no way appeased him.
Nineteen years ago he had been robbed of his blood-sport. The faithless vixen had died in childbirth, without any help from him. Or had she? Perhaps it all had been a sham.
No. He had gone to her funeral. He had disguised himself and gone to her funeral and seen her with his own eyes, lying in the open casket. She had been there . . . so pale, so beautiful . . . so dead!
Was it possible her child had survived? There had been a smaller coffin, closed, for the infant. Could that coffin have been empty? Why should he even bother asking the question? This newspaper picture and article were proof positive. Katrina’s daughter lived!
He focused his eyes once more on the newspaper. The more pertinent question was, Just what might this astounding revelation mean for him? Had nineteen years cooled his lust for vengeance?
He slowly shook his head and slammed his hand down upon the drawing of Mariana Remizov.
52
Anna glanced down at the letter in her lap, a frown etched across her brow. It wasn’t so much what Mariana had written that concerned Anna, but rather what she had left unwritten. There were the oblique comments about Countess Eugenia like, “I am certain she wants only what is best for me.” Or, “She has a way that is a bit difficult to get used to.” Anna knew Eugenia Remizov’s “way” very well; the woman had stayed with Dmitri and Katrina shortly after their marriage. Eugenia was self-centered and arrogant with absolutely no sense of the worth of others.
Mariana was a bit more forthright regarding her dilemma about whether to accept Princess Gudosnikov’s offer of admission to the school. She listed some excellent reasons supporting the idea, and some opposing it. But then she ended by saying, “Maybe it would be best for all concerned if I went to the school. Perhaps it would allow me time to take stock of where my life is going.”
She added a brief comment about seeing Stephan. “I saw Stephan the other day—a rare occurrence because he is so busy at the university. I suppose he would get along fine without me if I were away at school.”
Interspersed throughout the letter were frequent comments about how she missed her family and Katyk, which she mentioned far more often than in previous letters.
Sighing, Anna looked up at Sergei, who had been milking the cow while Anna read Mariana’s most recent letter aloud.
“Sergei, I can’t stand picturing her so unhappy.”
“Do you really think it’s all that bad?”
“She is miserable,” Anna replied without hesitation. “I began noticing something amiss in her last two letters. They did not seem to flow easily, as if she was afraid of saying too much; and because of her caution, she could find little else to tell us. Look at how brief this letter is—only two pages. Her first letters were five or six pages long.”
“Perhaps now that everything is not so new—”
“It’s not that, I’m sure. She is having a difficult time but doesn’t want us to worry.”
“Well, her scheme has not been successful then, has it? Not with such a perceptive and loving mama!” Sergei stopped his work, wiped his hands on his tunic, and joined Anna where she sat on the soft hay scattered on the barn’s dirt floor. “So, Anna, how would you like to help our Mariana?”
“Some things are difficult to put in a letter.”
“Like a motherly hug?”
Anna smiled and nodded.
“I wish we could see her, too,” said Sergei. “But Dmitri has been none too generous with their visits. Only three in nearly a year. And I suppose Mariana feels reluctant to ask him.”
“She doesn’t want to hurt Dmitri’s feelings by being overly homesick.”
“The scoundrel hardly deserves her loyalty.”
“I have a feeling there is more to it than that.” Anna did not like to think of the possibility that had lately been troubling her, but she knew it must be faced. “Countess Eugenia would not be anxious to allow Mariana to return to her peasant life. The woman is too vain to want to be reminded that such ties exist.”
; “Anna, you are not suggesting that you believe Mariana is being held there against her will!”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Sergei, but I don’t think they will make it easy for her to return. Mariana’s reticence, along with her emotional ties to her father, would make it difficult for her to insist. She is young and innocent and unable to perceive deceitful motives in others.”
“She does not yet have the cynicism that comes with age?”
“I suppose that’s it. Cynicism or wisdom.”
“And what would you have us do about all this, Anna?” Sergei asked the question as if he hadn’t already guessed what she was thinking.
“I think it’s time I visited St. Petersburg,” said Anna with resolution. “I know with the crop failures three years ago, our finances have been extremely tight, but I think we can manage it now.”
Sergei had pondered this prospect especially a couple of months ago when they had heard from Misha that he was to be posted in Moscow for a while.
Sergei took his wife’s hands in his. “You have my blessing, Anna.” He paused, then met her eyes with frank affection. “I have felt all along that I didn’t like for our family to be separated like this. I said nothing before because I thought as long as you were able to accept it, I would hold my peace.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Sergei.”
“I suppose from the beginning I had a feeling deep down that we all ought to go to St. Petersburg with Mariana. It is different with her than it was when you went away at age sixteen. Even if your parents had had the means, the concept of leaving Katyk, where they were tied by generations, would never have occurred to them. We have no ties to this place but our family, and if part of our family must leave us . . . well, we have more choices than your parents had. I have often thought of returning to the city. But it goes beyond that, Anna. In my prayers lately, I have sensed—how shall I put it?—a strong call in that direction. I’ve sensed that I have more left to give, that something—I don’t know what—is waiting for me. That’s as well as I can explain it, Anna. I am content here in Katyk . . . perhaps too content.”
“But, Sergei, how could you return? You hate the city. More important, you cannot ignore the risks to you that may be involved in going back to a place where you were so well known.”
“As far as my dislike for the city goes, that is a petty consideration where the needs of my family are concerned.” This he stated unequivocally, but his next words hinted at some inner irresolution. “As for my anonymity, at that point I must put myself in the hands of God. The welfare of my children must come before my own comfort.” He had no hesitation in referring to Mariana as his child. “Let’s continue to pray about this, Anna. But I believe God is bringing the situation with Mariana to this point for a reason.”
“I must admit, Sergei, that I would be relieved to have you and the children with me. And if we must deal with Dmitri and his mother, I think you are best suited to that task.”
The next day, Anna and Sergei went to Akulin to St. Gregory’s Church. They both knew they could have prayed just as effectively in the “beautiful corner” in their little cottage—or any corner, for that matter. But they agreed that there was something in the self-sacrifice of going to church—it was a six-versta walk—that might draw them even closer to their Lord.
Anna loved their little church. She loved the icon of the Sabaoth God, and of St. Gregory, their patron; she loved the fragrance of candle wax mingled with the pervading scent of incense still lingering from the Holy Day Mass. And, though she enjoyed St. Gregory’s when it was filled with villagers, she especially loved it as it was this day, hushed and empty, filled only with quiet reverence. Here the still, small voice of God could best be heard, away from the activity and distractions of home.
Crossing themselves, Anna and Sergei approached the altar in the vacant church. Not even a priest was present to greet them. Sergei dropped a coin in the box, then took a candle for him and his wife, and a lighter for each of them. There were only two candles burning on the bank today and Sergei placed theirs next to them. They set their lighters to the existing flame, then together touched the wick of their candle. It was a ritual they always performed when they lit a candle together. Separate lighters, one candle . . . a symbol of the oneness they knew not only in their marriage but also in their shared faith.
Sergei remembered how he had once stood outside the living faith Anna had cherished, and how that had separated them. He never ceased to marvel at how God had taken him, stubborn, confused man that he was, and quickened that faith in his own heart, bringing him into fellowship with Christ and at the same time with his dear Anna. He looked at her over the rising flame of their candle and smiled with love and devotion. Then, hand in hand, they knelt at the altar and prayed.
53
Some two thousand miles southeast of Katyk another letter was about to change the lives of three exiles.
Mathilde Gennadievna Burenin had waited nearly three years for something to come of her plea to her uncle in Kiev. He had warned her that Russian bureaucracy was as sluggish as a frozen stream. She had all but given up hope that anything would happen and had begun to resign herself to spending the rest of her life in Siberia.
For herself she wouldn’t have minded too much, but she could see the weight of inactivity bearing down upon her husband. When Vladimir Ulyanov’s exile ended a few months ago, Paul had become as despondent as he had ever been during his long exile. Ulyanov had ignited a fire within Paul, stirred up his revolutionary passions. Returning to a humdrum existence was nearly impossible.
Things were moving in the outside world, and Paul was not getting any younger. Two years ago, in Minsk, the Russian Social Democratic Party had been illegally formed. Ulyanov had been ecstatic; Paul, though he didn’t quite agree with all the Marxist precepts of the party, caught the excitement and began to have hope that other political parties might begin to emerge in spite of government repression. There had also been an increase of strikes among the workers, an indication that the intellectual core of the revolutionary movement was beginning to broaden to include some of the masses.
Ulyanov had left Siberia bursting with plans to begin publication of a newspaper, the voice of the Social Democratic movement, and thus of Marxism.
“I will call the paper Iskra; how do you like that, eh?”
“The Spark . . . very fitting,” Paul replied.
“‘Out of this spark shall come a flame of revolt!’ It was the cry of the Decemberists, and now it shall be ours.” Ulyanov’s dark eyes flashed. “And, Paul, you can write for us. You have talent.”
“You’ll want someone closer to the action than me.”
“Nonsense! Plekhanov, Axlerod, and Zasulich haven’t been in Russia for over twenty years, yet still they manage to be pivotal members of the movement. I myself am forbidden to set foot in St. Petersburg, but that will not stop me. I will take on an alias and keep up the fight.”
“Well, Vladimir, I have no doubt you will take the world by storm. What name shall I look for as I follow your activities?”
“I will take a form of my patronym, Illyich. My conservative father will stir in his grave over this, I am sure! But when you see the name Lenin, that will be me! And I will turn this world upside down, Paul—at least the third that is occupied by Mother Russia!”
Ulyanov’s departure had indeed been hard on Paul. It brought on a gloom heavier than the surrounding winter. Ulyanov, henceforth to be known as Lenin, would be changing the world, while Paul would sit in a backwater village reading and studying, only dreaming of doing what others were doing.
When summer came, a letter finally arrived from Kiev. Mathilde’s hands trembled as she tore open the envelope.
Paul and Gennadii, sitting by the fire, each with an open book on their laps, were watching. Letters were rare, to be sure, but it was still odd that the normally calm and sensible woman would react so. Her face was flushed and her eyes were wide as she scanned the sheets.<
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“Well, woman!” said Paul in jest. “Are you going to keep it to yourself? We are as hungry for news from the outside as you.”
“Have patience, Pavushka!” Mathilde snapped. Her tone was sharper than she had intended, but she was frustrated with her uncle’s nearly illegible scrawl, and his ponderous style that took a whole paragraph to express one small thought—such as the fact that he was well.
She had to wade through two pages of the impossible epistle before coming at last to the most important part of the letter:
The Kiev office of the Ministry of Internal Affairs has at last responded to my persistence. My appeal was sent to the tsar two months ago, and I am happy to report that His Majesty has reviewed your case and has decided to award you, your father, and your husband clemency. Papers allowing you to return to Russia will be sent to you in, I hope, a timely fashion. The only stipulation is that you all are forbidden entry into the city of Kiev. But do not worry, I will travel—
Mathilde read no more. She dropped the letter and uttered a loud whoop. Paul and Gennadii exchanged shocked glances. Abandoning all reservation, she skipped to her husband, grabbed his hands, pulled him from his chair, and proceeded to dance around the little room with him.
While this was happening, Gennadii left his own chair and retrieved the fallen letter. He was familiar with his brother’s handwriting and reached the significant paragraph much quicker than his daughter had. He, too, let out a whoop.
Breathless, laughing and not knowing why, Paul tried to make some sense of the uncharacteristic responses.
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