That being the case, what Cerkover now possessed ought to make Count Vlasenko ecstatic, and, as a result, give Cerkover quite a boost in the esteem of his mentor.
He entered the outer office. Vlasenko’s secretary was busy shuffling through an open file drawer. She glanced up, gave him a pinched smile, and continued with her work.
“Is he in?” asked Cerkover.
“Approach at your own risk,” she said dourly.
“Something wrong?”
“He just came from a meeting with the Interior Minister; that never makes him happy.”
“Let him know I’m here.”
“You brave man.” The woman left her cabinet, returned to her desk, punched a button on the intercom, and informed the count he had a visitor.
In another minute, Cerkover was standing before Vlasenko in his plush office. The count was sipping a glass of brandy and puffing on an expensive cigar. He offered neither to Cerkover.
“This had better be good,” growled Vlasenko. “After an hour with that blathering idiot Svyatopolk-Mirsky, I can’t take more bad news.”
“This should brighten your day considerably.”
“Well, get on with it.” Vlasenko finished his brandy in one swallow and then poured a second glass.
“You recall the task you sent me on several days ago?” Cerkover breathed the pleasant odor of cigar smoke, vowing to buy himself one downstairs when he finished with Vlasenko. He deserved to celebrate.
“Of course I remember. What do you take me for? Now quit twaddling and tell me—what happened?”
“My first telegram to the Kara Prison was not promising,” Cerkover said, trying to moderate his usually colorful and self-serving manner of reporting in order to placate his boss’s present impatience. “They claimed that the prisoner Sergei Fedorcenko had been on the official rolls from 1881 to 1896, whereupon he died in a flu epidemic.”
“You, of course, didn’t accept that answer?” The brandy was warming Vlasenko, and the anticipation of some positive news seemed to be improving his disposition.
“You yourself, my dear count, taught me never to accept surface evidence. I got to thinking that for anyone to survive fifteen years in the Kara mines was a small miracle in and of itself. I also know it’s common practice for those wardens to carry dead or escaped prisoners on their rolls for many years in order to extort extra money from the government, by pocketing the allowances for absent prisoners. I suppose that extra income is the only thing that makes their jobs bearable. Well, I have a friend who is an official in the region, and who also happens to owe his job to me—you may recall the fellow who helped us in another matter—”
“Enough!” exploded Vlasenko; even the brandy could not still his impatience. “Tell me, was it him, or not?”
“My friend was able to go in person to the mines and have a look at the books. That’s why this has taken a few extra days.” Cerkover knew he was pushing it, but he had to impress his boss with his investigative talents. “In 1896, a new warden took over the mines. Before the old warden retired, he purged his books—in essence, ‘killing off’ many already-departed prisoners he had been carrying for years. Fedorcenko was one of about a dozen who succumbed to the supposed flu outbreak.”
“But what proof have you that he didn’t die then, or at some other time during that fifteen-year period?”
“There was no flu epidemic. My friend confirmed this by questioning a couple guards who had been there in ’96.”
“Yes, but he could have died at any time before then.”
“The only way to confirm that was to locate the retired warden.”
“Yes . . . ?” Vlasenko took several anxious puffs off his cigar, not even bothering to inhale.
“He’s very old now, still residing in Siberia, in the Lake Baikal region, living very nicely off his extortion. He was quite willing to talk when he realized he’d been found out—”
“Your friend traveled there to interview him?”
“Impossible this time of year because of the weather. But my Kara contact got in touch with a friend of his—you know how it works.”
“Yes, and I suppose this is going to cost me a pretty kopeck.”
“Knowing your financial limitations, Your Excellency, I promised promotions instead of cash. Believe me, they were quite happy for a promise of anything that would deliver them from the Far East.”
“Very good. I’ve got government posts in abundance that ought to make them happy. Now, what did this retired warden say?” Vlasenko drained off the last of his brandy.
“His memory is not the sharpest—he’s at least seventy years old. But he remembered well certain events in the summer of 1881. After all, it’s not every day one has a prince and ex-Imperial Guard for a prisoner—not to mention a prisoner who made a rather flamboyant escape—”
“An escape! I knew it!” Vlasenko’s flabby jowls shook as he pounded his fist triumphantly on his desk. “But that means he’s been at large for twenty-three years.”
“That is not all. I made inquiries about the fellow in the photograph. He is known among the workers as Sergei Ivanovich Christinin. He is married to Anna Burenin—”
“No!”
“You know the name, I gather. Peasants near your estate in Katyk. Christinin—or, rather Fedorcenko—and the girl were married in 1882.”
“All those years!” exclaimed Vlasenko. “Right under my nose!” Cyril leaned back heavily in his chair.
“The man has cheek, I must say.” Cerkover was pleased by his employer’s shocked reaction.
“It all makes sense, though. The Burenin girl was a Fedorcenko servant for years—the young prince must have been carrying on with her all along. And, once he was a fugitive, he probably felt he couldn’t do much better than the peasant girl, so he married her. Still, it took nerve, I’ll give him that. And then to risk it all by helping his father four years ago.”
“So, Count Vlasenko, what now?”
“What do you think, Cerkover? How can I, with a clear conscience, allow a fugitive from justice, a murderer no less, to remain free?”
50
Was there a finer sight on earth than that of women chatting amiably with flour up to their elbows, kneading bread? Paul Burenin could not help philosophizing on the profound implications of the scene, the simplicity of life at this level, the symbolism represented by bread, the staff of life. This was Russia at its best; and this was the reason for all his labors over the years.
Mathilde had been right. She had known what a return to Katyk would mean to Paul.
He watched with joy his mama, Anna, and Mathilde at their labor—their labor of love. Odd, how different the three women were—Mama Sophia’s open simplicity; Anna’s quiet strength; Mathilde’s bold intelligence. Yet they worked together with such an easy camaraderie. Mama could not possibly understand half of what Mathilde said, yet she had taken her immediately to her heart as a true daughter. And Mathilde! Who would have known she was a child of the intelligentsia, who had grown up with servants and knew far more about books than the workings of a kitchen. Even in Siberia she had managed to have enough money to buy bread from the local peasants rather than make it herself. Paul never complained about this extravagance, because her own attempts had been practically inedible.
How proud she had been a few days ago over her first successful loaf of black bread!
Yes, the decision to come to Katyk had been pure inspiration. And the timing of their visit must truly have been the hand of God—Paul was becoming more and more of a believer. His appearance had been a balm to the family’s time of grief over the death of dear Ilya. Mama said over and over how God did not take without giving something in return.
It still had not been easy to hear of Ilya’s death—such a waste! That good-hearted bear of a man who so resembled Papa Yevno. All so the tsar could strut and bully in an attempt to prove to the world that the autocracy was a healthy force in Russia. It made Paul seethe and remember anew what lay at t
he root of his revolutionary zeal. The only good to arise out of the whole war was that it was showing the Russian Crown to be exactly what it was—a massive entity covered with gilt, balancing on feet of clay. Paul could not be more pleased that the war was turning out disastrously for Russia. This was surely going to wake up the masses. And for that reason, perhaps Ilya’s death had not entirely been in vain.
The women were finishing their work. Three loaves were being placed in the oven.
“Now, we can take a little rest,” said Sophia, wiping the flour from her hands.
Paul realized his mama was a very old matushka now. Her broad, plump face was liberally mapped with creases. The boundless energy he had always associated with her was taxed after making a loaf of bread. She wheezed slightly, and her old legs trembled as she lowered herself, with Anna’s help, onto one of the table benches. She wouldn’t be with them much longer. That she had lived this long was a miracle, considering that most peasants in Russia were lucky to see fifty or sixty. Sophia was well beyond that. Marfa had always done most of the housework. She and Ilya, with their three children, had lived in the old Burenin place since Yevno’s death. When Anna had arrived to care for her grieving mother, Marfa went to her own mama’s house for comfort in her time of grief. What they would do now that there was no longer a man in the home was still a difficult, unanswered question.
“Let me pour you some tea, Mama,” said Anna. “You, too, Mathilde—sit and warm yourself with tea.”
“Kneading bread is warming work enough,” Mathilde answered, “but I wouldn’t mind a glass of tea anyway.”
“I know you women are exhausted,” Paul said, “but I was just wondering if I could inspire a companion to join me on a walk.”
“In this weather, Pavushka?” Sophia was aghast. What peasant went outside in winter when they didn’t have to?
“The cold clears the cobwebs from my brain, and I need exercise no matter how cold it is.”
“That’s what comes of reading books and writing words—” Sophia grinned in spite of her comment. “But I couldn’t be more proud of you, my Pavushka. Your papa would be beside himself if he could see all the wonderful things you have written.”
After everyone had finished their tea, Anna said, “Paul, I will join you on your walk, if you don’t mind. City life has made me more hungry for fresh air.”
“Mathilde, are you up for some exercise?” asked Paul.
“I don’t think I can face the ice right now. Why don’t you and Anna go.”
Paul smiled at his wife, knowing she was making excuses so he could spend some time alone with his sister.
They bundled up in their heavy coats and boots. Anna tied a wool babushka around her head, and Paul put on his fur cap, pulling the earflaps down snugly.
Anna and Paul started to walk down by the river, remembering how they liked that path as children, but after slipping and sliding on the icy path a few times, they decided they ought to take the road over the little bridge that led into the village proper.
Paul chuckled at the spectacle they had presented. “It is humbling, isn’t it? I feel young on the inside, but, oh, how the years tell on the outside.”
“Too true, Pavushka. But being here now with you is as good, perhaps even better, than being young,” Anna replied. “Perhaps you forget how confused we were sometimes and how hard it was struggling between the new ways we wanted and the desire to honor the old ways of our parents.”
“I remember all too well my confusion—but it’s often no less difficult now.” Paul paused, kicking idly at a fallen twig. “Anna, will I always be struggling with life?”
“Mathilde told me about some of the things that happened in Europe. You are a deep, thoughtful, man, Paul. Perhaps such struggles come with your nature. Sergei is the same way. In many ways, we more simple-minded folk are better off than those of you who are the great thinkers of the world. But, Paul, I thought you had worked some things out in coming here.”
“Only to the point that I could not follow the Social Democratic way. I still don’t know where I will go from here.”
They walked a bit farther, across the footbridge and as far as their sister Vera’s house. All Vera’s family was snug inside on a day like this. Paul and Anna were silent for some time, each absorbed in their own thoughts and memories. Paul thought of his papa and missed his hearty chuckle and big heart. He wondered what counsel Papa Yevno would give him now. Yevno had believed firmly in placing his future in God’s care. Yet Yevno was also a great proponent of not sitting back like a rich moujik, allowing life to sweep you along in its great flood. He probably would have suggested that Paul set a course and follow it for a while; if it didn’t work out, at least he would have learned something from the attempt.
By coming to Katyk, Paul had done that very thing. He was moving, though he wasn’t entirely certain in what direction. It felt right so far, and perhaps that was as much as he ought to expect. He could almost hear his papa say:
“Ah, Pavushka! Don’t fret so over tomorrow. Isn’t it in God’s hands?”
Paul turned to Anna. “Mama has no one now to take care of the farm,” he said.
“Vera’s eldest, young Yevno, is almost nineteen and will marry soon,” Anna replied. “They have talked of him taking over the farm. Vera will care for Mama.”
“Yes, that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? In the meantime, Ivan and the boys can plant the spring crop and take care of things.”
“It seems the best solution.”
“Anna, what would you think if I told you I had, for a crazy instant, thought of becoming a farmer again?”
“I wouldn’t be too terribly surprised. It seems a logical place for your path of self-discovery to lead.”
“Really?”
“What better place for a retreat from the battles of life? I’ve come here myself for the same reasons.”
“Perhaps it wouldn’t be a mere retreat, but rather a permanent move.”
“You, Paul? I don’t think you could do it. Not that you wouldn’t be capable of working the farm, but that you couldn’t give up your life’s work—not before it came to fruition.”
“If it ever comes to fruition.”
Anna said nothing, and as daylight was slipping quickly away, they turned around on their path and headed for home.
After a few moments they heard footsteps beating at the icy road behind them.
“Anna, is that you?”
Together Anna and Paul turned to see Vera’s husband, Ivan, jogging up toward them.
Anna waved, and she and Paul stopped and waited. When Ivan halted before them, he was red-faced, and out of breath. It took a moment before he could speak.
“Is something wrong, Ivan?” asked Paul, doubting that the man would so extend himself for something trivial.
“I’m afraid so.” Ivan looked at Anna with pity.
Anna’s heart lurched. In an instant, she thought of all the tragedies that might have occurred to induce such a look from her stoic brother-in-law. Had something happened to her children or Sergei, who were still in St. Petersburg? Or to Mariana, at the front? She cast searching eyes on Ivan, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask him any questions.
“I was in the tavern,” he said, “and a fellow brought in this message. I couldn’t read it myself, but the fellow said it wasn’t good news. It’s from Prince Viktor Fedorcenko. You had better read it for yourself, Anna.”
Anna forced herself to reach out and take the paper he held. With trembling fingers she opened it and scanned the few terrible lines, hastily handwritten by Viktor.
“It’s Sergei,” she said in a voice of shock and disbelief. “He’s been arrested.”
51
“It’s got to be near here somewhere,” said Anna, the strain of the last few days clearly evident in her frayed tone.
“Probably some little street without a sign,” Paul said.
Paul looked again at the slip of paper in his hand, then glanced at
Anna with a perplexed shrug. Neither of them was familiar with this part of St. Petersburg. They had taken the horse-drawn tram from Vassily Island and down Nevsky Prospekt about two kilometers and now were on foot. The address they were looking for was supposed to be about three blocks north of the Prospekt, but so far they’d had no success finding it.
They had left Katyk immediately upon receiving Viktor’s message; there had been no question that Paul and Mathilde would join Anna. Paul had no idea what he could do for his sister, but he could not consider a leisurely farming life while she was in trouble. Upon their arrival back in the capital, Anna had been permitted to see Sergei only once. She was able to assure Paul—who, of course, could go nowhere near the Peter and Paul Fortress where Sergei was being held—that her husband was in reasonably good spirits.
Paul recalled, many years ago, when he had seen a despondent Sergei on their fateful trek to Siberia. There could be no doubt that Sergei was a different man now, full of hope and faith. Still, he was presently in a precarious position, and even he could not deny that his future did not look promising. He was a captured fugitive, tried and convicted of a terrible crime. There was no reason why the courts should not return him to Siberia to finish out his sentence—a life sentence to hard labor.
But those who loved Sergei were not about to allow that to happen without a fight. Viktor, who had heaped blame upon himself for Sergei’s first arrest because he had not interceded for him back then, was not about to repeat that mistake. Although his influence in the government had declined greatly in the last twenty-three years, he still had some connections, and intended on using them to their fullest. He was at this moment scheduled to see the Minister of the Interior.
Paul would have liked someone such as Viktor, who was far more sophisticated in the ways of the law, along at this moment. He and Anna had an appointment to see a lawyer, and Paul had precious little knowledge of the law and felt intimidated in this realm. Besides that, he had little trust in lawyers, and he knew nothing about the man they were about to see except that the organization he worked for was active in providing free legal counsel to the poor working classes. Some members of the Assembly had given Anna the man’s name.
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