“I need to leave the country.”
“What’s going on?” Daniel wasn’t about to let personal differences interfere with getting a news scoop.
“Look, I don’t have much time. If you can’t help me, I’ll go someplace else.”
Suddenly Daniel realized that if Stephan had come to him, he must be truly desperate.
“How much money do you need?”
An ironic smirk invaded Stephan’s earnestness. “You Americans are so direct.”
Daniel shrugged. “I don’t suppose you want to waste time with frivolous talk.”
“I’d rather not.”
“But I do have a job to do, and that’s not frivolous from my perspective,” said Daniel. “I suppose for a few bucks, you’d have time to clue me in on what’s happened.”
“Nothing altruistic about you, eh, Trent?”
“A man’s gotta make a living.”
“That is true. Well, this is it; only half an hour ago I was being chased by the Okhrana.” Daniel frowned and Stephan added, “Don’t worry, I would not be stupid enough to lead them here.”
“What brought that on?”
“A strike at the textile plant.” Stephan described the events as he perceived them and filled Daniel in on some of the preparation that had gone into instigating the strike. He gave him a copy of the handbill.
Daniel read it and grinned. “I see you have no qualms about plagiarism,” he said, referring to his own words that appeared on the sheet.
Stephan shrugged. “A man’s got to make a living.”
Daniel hated to admit it, but he almost liked this Stephan Kaminsky. Too bad they had to be rivals.
“So, what do you need, Stephan?”
“Enough to buy forged identification documents and a ticket to Geneva.”
“All right, I’ll write you a check—”
“Cash would be better.”
“How stupid of me. Of course!”
“I appreciate this, Daniel. I will repay you someday.”
“Don’t worry about it; consider it my contribution to a worthy cause.”
Stephan followed Daniel back out into the main office. Daniel went to the newspaper safe and counted out a hundred rubles.
Thanking Daniel again, Stephan turned to go, but Daniel caught his arm.
“What about Mariana?” Daniel asked.
“Mariana . . .?”
“Does she know?”
“Of course not. I don’t want to involve her.”
“I understand that, but you will see her before you go, won’t you?” Daniel didn’t know why this should matter to him—he ought to be glad to see Stephan exit the picture. But he thought it might hurt Mariana if Stephan left without a word. “You were able to get here without the police knowing.”
“Would you tell her what’s happened?”
“She’d rather hear it from you.”
“I’d better not take that risk.”
Daniel felt positive that if he had been on the run, he would have battled heaven and hell for a chance to see Mariana. But he said no more to Stephan. The man no doubt had his reasons.
64
Instinct and experience told Misha that a man with a head injury like Sergei’s was better off if he could remain awake for several hours. As they rode away from the factory on Misha’s horse, with Sergei obviously on the verge of unconsciousness, Misha tried to keep him talking and alert.
“How in heaven’s name did you come to be in the middle of a strike? Why aren’t you in Katyk?”
“Anna and I came to the city several weeks ago to be with Mariana.”
“Has something happened?” Misha had been informed about Mariana’s move to the city when Sergei had asked him to look out for her. He had done what he could until he had been temporarily assigned to a post in Moscow.
“No, she was just unhappy, and Anna missed her,” Sergei replied. “It seemed best that we be together.”
“I’m sorry I had to leave.”
“You are not responsible for us.”
Misha did not reply; he understood the importance of a man’s pride. Instead he asked, “And what about the factory and the strike?”
“A man must work.”
“Certainly a man like you cannot be reduced to such straits. Why, that’s inconceivable!”
Perhaps Misha was right. Maybe Sergei could have done more. Had he allowed himself to be caught up in this factory grind in order to experience a part of life he had always been sheltered from even in Katyk? But that notion was far too ponderous to dwell upon now when his head was numb and all he wanted to do was sleep.
Misha continued talking, his voice sounding farther and farther away. “I’m sorry this had to happen to you today. We were under orders to avoid violence, but a clubbing or two was permissible if it got the men back to work.”
“Too bad I had to be one of the lucky workers your men chose to club!” Sergei attempted a grin, but it was lopsided and pathetic.
“Thank God, the injuries were minimal,” said Misha. “Five men with a few cuts and minor concussions.”
“You call this minor?”
Sergei didn’t mean to rail at his friend, but his head hurt and he couldn’t help being a little upset that the valid aims of the strikers had been so brutally suppressed.
“I’m sorry,” Misha said again.
Several blocks from the factory, Misha reined in his mount. He needed specific directions to Sergei’s home. When Sergei gave him the address, Misha exclaimed, “That’s near the Haymarket!”
Sergei only nodded in reply.
Misha shook his head. His friend, one-time prince and valiant veteran of Russia, now lived in one of the worst districts in St. Petersburg. He located the place and helped Sergei up the stairs of the rat-infested tenement.
Anna opened the door to see Misha standing there, her husband a crumpled heap in his arms. She wasted no time voicing her questions and concerns but sprang immediately into action. She had Misha take Sergei into the back room and lay him on one of their blankets.
“I need something to wash his wounds,” she said urgently. In answer to Misha’s questioning look, she added, “There’s no water here. There’s a spigot downstairs in the courtyard . . . but the water’s not very clean. I’ll need to boil it.”
“What else do you need?”
“Bandages, medicine—”
“I can get those things, but it will take some time. Will it be all right for him to wait?”
“I think so.”
As Misha spun around to leave, Anna touched his arm. “Misha, thank you for your help.”
Misha smiled into her sad, beautiful face, then hurried on his way.
In half an hour he returned, his arms laden with much more than Anna had requested. In addition to bandages and clean rags for washing the wounds, he had a jug of clean water, a bottle of wine, and a large basket filled with bread, cheese and something Anna had not seen in ages—apples!
The children squealed with delight when they saw the bright red fruit and very nearly forgot that their father was sick. When Anna asked them to wait, Sergei tugged on her sleeve and said quietly, “I won’t die before you cut them an apple, dear.”
Anna sliced two apples in quarters and handed one to each of her sons. She also gave pieces to several other children who had wandered into the room, curious about all the excitement. Then she turned to her husband.
“Now, can someone tell me what happened?” Anna asked as she worked.
Misha explained about the strike.
Sergei added, “I think I’ve lost my job.”
“Forget about that horrid job. I was about to insist that you quit anyway.” Anna poured some wine on a damp cloth and gently dabbed it onto Sergei’s head wound. “You haven’t stopped coughing for the last two weeks.”
Sergei winced, both from the stinging of his wound being cleansed and from guilt at trying to deceive his wife.
“That’s no place for a man like you,”
put in Misha.
“I am not so proud,” said Sergei, “that I’m not willing to listen to suggestions.”
“Let’s get you back on your feet first,” said Misha. “I’ll have plenty of suggestions then!”
“Misha,” said Anna, “what are you doing here? What about Moscow?”
“A soldier’s life is not his own. He goes where he is ordered, and it appears I am wanted back in St. Petersburg. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks now. I wish I had known you were back in the city. I am sorry, too, I couldn’t be around for Mariana, if for no other reason than to give that no-account Remizov something to think about. I always knew he was a worthless sot.”
In the following days, Misha made up for what he considered his dereliction of duty toward his dear friends. He spoke with a friend of his, Raisa Sorokin. Her husband, a minor government clerk, had died a year ago, leaving Raisa and their seven-year-old daughter, Talia, alone and in a very difficult financial position. They lived in a modest flat in one of the respectable neighborhoods on Vassily Island, but without her husband’s income it was becoming increasingly uncertain if Raisa and her daughter would be able to remain in the home they had occupied for many years. Raisa took in sewing and was able to make ends meet most months, but the short ones were beginning to mount up on them.
Anna and Sergei thought this poor woman had enough problems and did not need the added burden of a family whose own financial future was uncertain at best. But Misha insisted it was a match made in heaven. The flat was in desperate need of repairs, which Raisa had neither the time nor the skills to deal with. In addition to this, Talia’s education, something the father had valued highly for his only child, had also succumbed to financial hardships. Anna could teach the girl along with her own sons, while Sergei performed as a handyman.
“Those services may be needed and desired,” said Sergei, “but they won’t put food on the table.”
“Come, come, Sergei,” chided Misha with humor. “I thought you were more resourceful than that. Aren’t you the man who made it across Siberia in winter with not a penny in your pocket?” He sighed with exaggerated patience. “All right, here’s another idea, but I think this is the last one; you’ll have to take it from here. You will not be far from the university, where many thick-headed students need a great deal of tutoring. As I recall, you’ve had a rather impressive education.”
“I see,” said Sergei. He rubbed his chin. “There is money in this? I thought students were all poor radicals.”
“Only the smart ones,” chuckled Misha. “The rich ones are all stupid.”
65
In no time, Anna and Sergei and their sons were settled in Raisa Sorokin’s home. The woman was ecstatic to have them, not only for the services they offered, but also because she immediately saw in Anna a friend she desperately needed.
Anna could not help but like Raisa. Although she was about the same age as Anna, she was very much like Sophia Burenin in personality. She was good-natured, talkative, cheerful, and a little independent and outspoken, too. Anna appreciated her forthright honesty and never had to wonder what the woman was thinking. Raisa’s daughter, Talia, on the other hand, was her exact opposite—demure, quiet, and sensitive; as dainty and graceful as her mother was buxom and simple. Anna often found herself smiling when watching the two interact; they reminded her of herself and her own mother.
When Sergei had fully recovered from his concussion, he posted his name, Sergei Christinin, on several university bulletin boards. Before long, with the onset of midterm exams, he had all the tutoring he could handle. He also began to develop a clientele among gymnasium students, the children of the civil servants in the neighborhood. He reveled in this work; there was not a young man who left Sergei’s home who had not glimpsed the light of Christ.
Sergei’s own faith, too, was strengthened through these encounters. The last months had taken more of a physical and emotional toll on him than he, or anyone, had imagined. Only now, through hindsight, could he appreciate the hardships he had weathered. Both Sergei and Anna had often been the recipients of God’s blessings, and they recognized the Lord’s hand in their present circumstances. Again, as He had so many times before, God had delivered them from hardships. They did not realize that soon God would be using them, especially Sergei, to help deliver another who was very close to them.
Sergei and his family had been at Raisa’s for a month when, as Sergei was walking one of his students to the door, he saw a man coming up the path to the house. He was about fifty, tall, lean, very distinguished-looking and well-dressed in a black broadcloth suit, crisp white shirt, and a fastidious bow tie. Sergei recognized him immediately, but said nothing until the student was well on his way down the street.
“Peter, this is a surprise.”
“I am sorry for coming unannounced, Prince Sergei.”
“I think we’d best go inside,” Sergei said.
Leading his guest into the parlor, Sergei asked, “Is it my father, Peter?” He could think of no other reason for his father’s faithful servant to be seeking him out. The man nodded gravely, and Sergei felt a knot twist in his stomach. “Is he—”
“No, it is nothing like that,” the servant assured him quickly. “That is to say, he is physically as sound as ever. But I am afraid—” Peter’s voice caught. He swallowed, then resumed once more with a measured control. “Something terrible has happened, Prince Sergei. We—that is Mrs. Remington and I—tried to keep it from him, but we couldn’t. And once he found out, it was impossible for us to keep him in the south. He slipped away without us knowing, went to Dzhankoy, and caught the first train north. The moment we realized what he had done, we threw together a few belongings and followed on the very next train. We arrived in the city this morning. As soon as we learned what had become of your father, Mrs. Remington sent me after you. The Cossack had informed us as to where you could be found—in case we needed you.”
“What happened?”
“The St. Petersburg estate has gone into foreclosure,” said Peter, his voice as dismal as the look on his face. “A few payments were missed, and the bank decided it wanted its money. Of course, your father was in no position to pay the bank, so the property was auctioned.”
“But why wasn’t I notified before this?” Sergei asked. “I have no money, but perhaps I might have thought of something.”
“Believe me, Your Excellency, Mrs. Remington would have contacted you, but everything happened much too quickly for that. We did not even know of the auction until we arrived this morning. It was almost as if they didn’t want to give us a chance to think of a way out. When we received notification of foreclosure, your father inadvertently saw that letter and left for the city to stop the process. But the auction had already taken place, in just a few days’ time.”
“It sounds like the bank already had a buyer lined up.”
“I believe so.”
“Do you know who?”
“Mrs. Remington told me to tell you the buyer is Count Cyril Vlasenko.”
Sergei snorted with disdain. “Sounds like something he would do. He probably had everyone convinced he’s doing it out of good will in order to keep the property in the family.”
“Exactly, Prince Sergei.”
“Now, tell me about my father, Peter.”
“Oh, that’s the worst of it, sir. If only Mrs. Remington or I had been here, perhaps we could have prevented what has happened. Your father went directly to the house and unfortunately encountered the count there. Apparently the count was taking a look at his newly acquired purchase. Somehow your father procured a pistol—”
“Peter, no! Did he . . . is the count . . .?” Sergei could not voice the fear that clutched his heart.
“Prince Viktor threatened the count, even fired a shot at him—that is Count Vlasenko’s story, anyway. We have yet to speak with your father. The count escaped unharmed, but Prince Viktor has barricaded himself in the house with the weapon and a fair supply of ammu
nition. He says he will shoot anyone who comes near the house.”
“But surely one man could not prevent the police from getting in. There are any number of entrances he could not watch.”
“Mrs. Remington has begged the police to hold off, fearing that if they attempt to overtake him, he might use the weapon on himself.”
“Thank God for Mrs. Remington’s cool head!”
“He will talk to no one, listen to no one,” said Peter with despair. “She sent me after you in hopes that seeing you might have some effect. We realize that with the police involved, it may be just as risky for you—”
“I must do whatever I can,” Sergei said without hesitation. “I just can’t imagine how I can do more than either of you, his faithful friends.”
“You are his son, Prince Sergei.”
Peter spoke as if that were the answer to everything. But Sergei had no such confidence. He had never been able to talk to his father in the past, and it had been no better in recent years after Sergei had gained maturity and a heart of forgiveness toward his father. It seemed nothing could tear down those protective ramparts Viktor had constructed around himself.
Nothing except perhaps the return of Viktor’s lost past—Natalia and Katrina, his career, his son, full of promise and the hope of carrying on the name that had meant so much to Prince Viktor Fedorcenko. But Sergei could not bring any of that back; and even if he could, how would that help Viktor? The man would never experience true healing until he could accept the present and the hope of the future.
Suddenly Sergei thought of an old proverb Yevno was fond of quoting: He who dwells on the past is bound to lose an eye. But the man who ignores the past will lose both eyes.
Sergei smiled as he recalled dear old Papa Yevno’s sage wisdom. Viktor was dwelling on the past, but he refused to accept it. He had to face, not the future, but, indeed, the past—the very past that had caused him such damaging pain.
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