They were well worth two hundred rubles. If he’d had it, he would have given two thousand for them. One wide angle shot of the entire group, though a bit blurry, included several familiar faces—radicals who had been under police surveillance. Several other shots of smaller groups confirmed the presence of these unsavory types infiltrating the supposedly police-sanctioned union. One shot was especially pleasing to Cyril—it showed that sanctimonious Father Gapon in friendly conversation with the radical publisher, Prokopovich. This would make a very good argument for the belief that Gapon was courting revolutionaries.
One photograph perplexed Cyril. At first, it seemed to mean nothing, and he was about to toss it aside as useless. Then a spark of familiarity accosted him. It was of two workers seated at a table, looking at a book. One of the men was a big, thick peasant with a broad Mongolian face. The other was more slender by comparison, but by no means small. It was this man that caught Cyril’s eye.
He looked like a rather odd cross between a peasant and an old student or professor, and it was this peculiarity that first drew Cyril’s attention. The man had on a worn, academic-style double-breasted jacket, a collarless shirt, loose-fitting peasant trousers, and lapti boots laced to the knees. The photo could not show if the man’s light hair was gray or blond, but he looked old enough to have more gray than blond. His hair was collar length and he wore a beard, trimmed short and neat, the same shade as the hair.
Yes, there was something familiar about the fellow. Cyril knew it; he felt it. And he couldn’t let go.
He lifted up his telephone receiver and called a friend of his in the police department. In half an hour, a police artist was in his office.
“Look at this photograph,” said Cyril. “Then I want you to draw a picture of this man—” He pointed to the peasant-student. “Without the beard.”
“But of course, Your Excellency! Give me a minute.”
It took more than a minute, ten to be exact, before the artist handed his drawing to Cyril.
Cyril shook his head. “No, the man in the photo is much older. Can’t you see?” Cyril tossed aside the sheet and demanded another drawing.
The second drawing was more to his liking. He gave the artist five rubles and sent him on his way.
Cyril sat in his big desk chair, the springs creaking with his weight as he leaned back. He rubbed the creases in his chin, deep in thought. He never forgot anything, but sometimes it took a little work to freshen the memory. Usually the work paid off, as in this case.
Seeing the man without the beard helped tremendously. The beard had been short enough, and light enough in color, to hint at the man’s innate familiarity. But looking at the sketch of the beardless man sealed it.
Cyril thought back some four years when a madman had chased him from his newly acquired property at gunpoint. Viktor Fedorcenko had snapped completely and tried to stop Cyril from taking possession of the St. Petersburg estate. One person had had the power to “soothe the savage beast,” as it were. Vlasenko had assumed that man was a faithful family servant. The fact that the same man turned up in a meeting of the Workers’ Assembly, which Vlasenko opposed, was no reason to second-guess that assumption. His infallible recall usually paid off handsomely. This time it was a dead end.
Cyril was a little disappointed that his efforts hadn’t produced something juicer. But at least his memory was still as sharp as ever.
He returned his attention to Basil’s photographs. He must compose a letter to the tsar requesting an audience. He was about to call in his secretary, when he realized it was well after seven in the evening and the woman had gone home. Cyril took a pen and sheet of paper in order to compose the letter himself; she could type it up in the morning. He began with writing the usual salutations, then stopped.
“How shall I put this . . . ?” he murmured.
He glanced at the photographs as if for inspiration. His restless eyes swept over his desk, over the artist’s drawings—both drawings.
Suddenly his head jerked back.
The drawing!
He had carelessly cast away that first sketch as too young. The man in the photo, the man who had helped Viktor, was much older. But now, as his gaze rested on that first drawing, he was confronted again with stark familiarity. It wasn’t just that this younger man resembled the older sketch.
This younger man himself was known to Cyril.
It was too incredible for words.
But how could this be?
Cyril shook his head. The more important question was: How could Cyril best use this astounding revelation if it proved to be true?
Cyril lifted his phone receiver again, more thankful than ever for this wonderful invention that gave such instantaneous fulfillment to his cunning desires.
“Cerkover,” he said after a moment, “I have another job for you. It must be done with the utmost discretion.” He paused as his assistant spoke, then answered, “For the time being, this takes precedence over everything. But it shouldn’t take long, and it may involve some waiting due to the distances involved.” Cyril listened. “No traveling. A telegram ought to suffice—too bad there are no telephone lines in Siberia.” He paused. “Yes, I said Siberia. Now listen closely.”
41
Paul Burenin had few desires in life except to work for Russia’s freedom. But the task was wearing him down, fraying his nerves, sapping his happiness.
A few days of euphoria had followed his compromise with Lenin. All he had wanted to do was labor for his people, and Lenin gave him that opportunity. But within a week of that day months ago, he was again butting heads with Lenin and the Bolsheviks. Sometimes he thought they cared more about their petty agendas than about elemental freedom. They seemed to be losing sight of what it was all about. And more importantly, many had forgotten completely about the masses, the Russian people.
Paul’s mind was so distracted that Mathilde feared he might walk into a bus as Lenin had done a couple of weeks ago. Thankfully, Lenin had not been seriously injured—some bruises and cuts, and a badly lacerated eye which he had nearly lost.
Mathilde had recently gleaned the cause of Paul’s turmoil, and she had decided to tell him what she saw. She didn’t want to add to his misery, but she believed taking such a risk—making him see the truth—might be the only way to help her distraught husband. She could not bear any longer to see him struggle between highs and lows, especially since the lows seemed to be getting so much lower lately.
She thought of the last gathering at Lenin’s. Paul had taken the floor for a few minutes and had spoken so eloquently about the Russian people, the noble peasantry. He was desperately attempting to refocus the Party’s vision and emphasis. An argument had ensued.
“You sound like a Populist,” Stephan Kaminsky accused.
“Isn’t the revolution for the people?” Paul said. “We mustn’t forget that.”
“That sounds like Social Revolutionary gibberish. Are you sure you’re in the right Party?”
“Kaminsky, you are of the peasantry like myself. I should think you’d understand.”
“I only understand that the masses are asleep. If the revolution were left up to them, it would never happen.”
Paul restrained a desire to glance at Lenin. Kaminsky wasn’t exactly spouting Lenin doctrine, but his line was far more accepted than Paul’s.
“I’m afraid I will never give up on the people,” Paul said.
“No one expects you to,” said Lenin. “They are the heart and soul of what we are doing.”
“It doesn’t sound like it.” Paul suddenly looked as if he were ready to square off with the leader of the Bolsheviks. “Sometimes I get the impression from some of my worthy associates”—he cast a pointed glance at Kaminsky—“that if the people unanimously agreed they wanted no revolution, the Party would go on anyway.”
“That’s poppycock!” yelled another of the young men.
“And it’s a completely moronic statement,” said Kaminsky. “Such a thing
will never happen.”
The debate had continued for several more minutes until Paul finally wearied of defending his position and sat down.
That evening had sapped more out7 of Paul than anyone—except Mathilde—realized. For the first time, that night she had a clear glimpse of what was at the root of his difficulties. Now, she must tell him. So she chose a quiet evening as they finished their simple evening meal of bread and sausages. Paul had drawn glasses of tea from the samovar, and they relaxed in their chairs at the plain deal table where they’d had dinner.
“Nothing soothes better than a hot glass of tea,” Paul said, but his taut features and lined brow belied his words. “I should get myself a tea plantation and spend the rest of my life doing something really useful for mankind.”
“Oh, Paul!” The bitterness in her husband’s tone made Mathilde suffer as well, and strengthened her resolve. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
Paul leaned forward, instantly interested. “What is it, my wife?”
“It isn’t easy to say, and certainly it won’t be easy for you to hear.”
“I’ll brace myself, then. But do go on.”
“It disturbs me to see you so distressed,” she said. “Last summer you were depressed, then you spoke with Lenin and were cheerful—for a few days; then you sank down again. You were happy for a short time again when we went to London. Then—”
“Please don’t remind me, Mathilde.” Paul sighed. “You make me sound like a bouncing ball.”
“I’m sorry, but I must speak plainly.”
“I would not want it any other way. Forgive me for interrupting.”
“Paul, you have been vacillating terribly, and I believe that is part of why you are so weary. But there is something more, too.” She paused, swallowed. “For the last six years you have been playacting—and that can take a great deal out of a man. Since meeting Lenin, you have tried to fit into his mold. You have tried to be a Marxist, and it doesn’t fit you. You have tried to be a Social Democrat, and it doesn’t fit you. You have tried to be a Bolshevik, and it most definitely doesn’t fit you. I’ve seen how you struggle over an article in order to fashion it within the Bolshevik parameters, while maintaining your personal integrity. That must eventually undermine a person’s mental and physical strength. I wonder how you have maintained this long? But, my dear husband, you are being pulled in too many directions. It must stop. I can no longer watch you fall apart.”
He didn’t speak for a long time, and Mathilde wondered if she had said too much. Usually he appreciated it when she spoke her mind, but this might have struck a chord that was just too personal, and too impossible for him to change.
The silence lingered for two or three minutes. “I don’t want to fall apart, Mathilde,” he said plaintively. “But what can I do? You and I both know that if there is a revolution in Russia, Lenin will lead it.”
“That sounds fatalistic to me.”
“I wouldn’t be involved here if that were my only motivation,” Paul said defensively. “There is much of merit in Lenin; you know it. I respect him enormously as a man and a leader. If only . . .”
“And that is the crux of it all, Paul. If only he embraced democracy more than Marx; if only he wasn’t so set on his central committee. But those are the basic elements of the entire Party. You would not even be content as a Menshevik. You have never been comfortable with the Marxist doctrine. Sometimes, Paul, the end does not justify the means.” She peered closely at him, measuring her next words carefully. “When you were a boy and fell in with the terrorists, you believed that philosophy for a while until you saw a better way through your study in Siberia. I thought you had matured beyond such notions. But here you are immersed in it again. Sometimes the end isn’t nearly as important as how you travel there.”
“So, if I follow my personal agenda and it leads nowhere . . . ?”
“You will at least be content in knowing you stayed true to your heart.”
He smiled, but the gesture was rather pathetic. “Like the hunter who goes after a buck with his favorite rifle, even though the weapon is old and decrepit. He catches nothing; his family starves, but at least he did what made him happy.”
“I will not starve; the Russian people will not starve. I suppose the biggest consideration is your own motives, Paul. Do you, like Kaminsky and the others, look to the revolution for its own sake and for the power it will give you?”
“I hope you know the answer to that.”
“Yes, I do. But I also know that power can have a great allure, and it could be easy to rationalize about all the good a man in power can do.”
“Frankly, I have thought of that—often.”
“Do you think Ilyich would tolerate anything but his own agenda?”
Paul stared at his wife. She had hardly changed from that first time he’d met her in Siberia. She did not mince a single word. “How have you survived these last six years, Mathilde? They can’t have been easy for you in a Party to which you were opposed.”
“I was with you, Pavushka.” Smiling, she reached out and grasped his hand.
“So, what do I do, wife? Throw out six years of work? I have honestly hoped I could make a difference in the Party, smooth out some of the rough edges, moderate some of the mountains. Have I failed?”
“You have only failed if you give up.”
“But you just said I should leave the Party, leave Lenin. Or did I not hear you right?”
“I believe you need to find where you belong. It seems to me the only way to do that is to leave Lenin.”
Paul nodded. “I think I’m starting to feel a little better already. Spinning one’s wheels in the mud is hard work.”
Mathilde rose and went to the samovar to freshen their tea. When she returned, they sat quietly for a while; they had never been ones to muster trivial conversation. At times Mathilde wished they could be like couples they had observed—couples who indulged in playful banter. But they were a serious couple, intense—sometimes too intense. Mathilde often thought they ought to take a vacation from their doctrines and philosophy, and the all-consuming revolution for a while. But she was a little afraid to suggest it because it might be impossible.
After several minutes, Paul broke the silence. “Mathilde, I know where I belong, at least where I can best find where I belong. What do you think about going back to Russia?”
Mathilde’s fine, serious mouth broke into an unreserved grin.
Paul returned the grin. “I see that you don’t disagree.”
“Indeed not! But can you promise me something if we return? I would like to spend some time in your Katyk with your mama. I want to learn how to make bread.”
“Bread?”
“A secret desire of mine.”
“There are other considerations, you know. But perhaps after so much time, we will not need to be so careful.” He paused, and she smiled at his response. It was so like him to temper impulsiveness with reason. “Wife, I don’t know if I can promise anything, but I will give it much serious thought.”
42
The very presence of the tsar seemed to give courage to the departing soldiers. As he stood on the platform of the train station, garbed in his finest military regalia, Nicholas did indeed look the part of the caring, benevolent father. The troops paraded past him in precise, orderly ranks. He was proud of them, and he thought they sensed it.
He had passed out hundreds of small icons of St. Seraphim to the troops and asked for God’s blessing on them as they left for war. He wondered if this would be among the last shipments of troops to the front. How much longer could the war last? Secretly, he hoped it ended soon; the entire war with Japan had resulted in deep humiliation for Russia, both at home and abroad. As tsar he could have put an immediate end to it by surrendering. But after so much had been invested, ending it was as difficult as continuing. A surrender would mean that all those lives had been lost in vain.
How could such a disaster have happened? They—he!—h
ad underestimated the prowess of the Japanese. But who would have believed that, in less than a generation, Japan could have gone from an isolated feudal society to a nation that could challenge, and defeat, the Holy Russian Empire.
The Japanese army of six hundred thousand had faced off with Russia’s three-million-strong army—and beaten them at almost every turn. At the beginning the Japanese had hit hard and strong with nearly all their might, while Russia had responded sluggishly by comparison. The millions and all their supplies had farther to travel, and by the time they reached the front in full force, the Japanese had already gained the upper hand. The Russians were never able to recover.
Nicholas tried not to consider the other reason for the failure of the army—the disorganization and ineptitude of the commanders. After all, as tsar, he had been instrumental in appointing most of them.
Nicholas was well trained in public decorum. The thousands of soldiers parading by saw nothing of his despair and depression. He waved and smiled as a proper leader should. The common soldier would never know the burdens that weighed upon Tsar Nicholas.
In addition to everything else, only days ago, Russia had nearly involved itself in a war with Britain. As it steamed out of the North Sea on its way to rescue Port Arthur, the Baltic Fleet had encountered a British fishing fleet and had actually fired upon them. One British boat sank, and two or three lives were lost. The British were understandably outraged. Nicholas had immediately wired “Uncle Bertie,” Edward VII, King of England, to express his shock and regret.
Though it was no secret the British supported the Japanese—if not materially, at least in spirit—it appeared as if Great Britain would cool down and not attempt a standoff with Russia. Nevertheless, the last few days had been extremely tense.
It seemed odd that the British should be allied to Russia’s enemy, since Bertie was Alexandra’s blood uncle. But then, all the crown heads of Europe were intermarried; there probably wasn’t a single one who wasn’t related to the tsar. Such connections could make decisions rather sticky at times, but national interests usually had a way of taking precedence over family interests.
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