The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Alexander Kerensky was a young man, fresh out of law school. Viktor had approached a couple of experienced society lawyers but they weren’t cheap, and Sergei had insisted on trying the man recommended by the Assembly.

  “I am now a workingman,” Sergei told them, “and I feel more comfortable in that company.”

  “We’ll see how this man is,” Viktor replied with some skepticism. “If he’s good, fine—if not, we will get one who is. We’ll worry about expense later.”

  Viktor was fully prepared to sell the Crimean estate if he had to. He said he’d been thinking of moving back to the city, anyway. But Paul wasn’t as concerned about this or the financial situation as he was about Anna. This shocking turn of events had been especially hard on her. Her life had settled into a comfortable place. She was entering the autumn of her life with a sense of security, and she had believed it would go on forever. Now it suddenly appeared as if it all would be painfully ripped away from her. And, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, she was rebuking herself over the very fact that she was having such a hard time accepting Sergei’s plight.

  “I ought to be able to trust God,” she told Paul, weeping. “But I’m so afraid!”

  Paul had no answers for her. He was not Yevno, with all his papa’s simple wisdom and boundless faith. He only hoped this Kerensky fellow could help them.

  Paul stopped a passerby, but he could not give them directions. He asked a clerk in a store, but the man was new to the area and had not heard of the street. Finally, he stopped an old batiushka, carrying a basket of groceries on one arm and hobbling along with a cane gripped in her other hand, seemingly oblivious to the freezing winter day. She looked as if she’d lived in this neighborhood all her life. The old woman nodded and pointed with her cane. Yes, the street sign had fallen off the wall years ago and had never been replaced. She not only gave directions, but took Paul and Anna to the very place they sought.

  The street was old and rather decayed, as were the buildings lining each side. Most had shops on the ground level with apartments on top. The office was in an old grocery store that had closed but still held the odors of sausages and stale bread. The display cases were gone, replaced with shelves of legal books, file cabinets, and a couple of old desks. No carpets covered the floor, no drapes hung on the large window which still bore the lettering announcing “Davydov’s Market.”

  The whole ambiance of the place was that of a literal “shoestring” operation, and Paul was a bit worried. He hadn’t expected a plush South Side office, but he had hoped for something more established than this to bolster his confidence.

  A telephone on one of the desks was the one luxury in the room, and at that moment a female, apparently a secretary, was speaking into it. Seated in front of that desk was a coarsely dressed man, probably a factory worker. At the other desk, a couple, also dressed like working people, were standing with a young man shaking hands.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” said the young man. “I’ll speak to your landlord about the matter.”

  “Are you sure he won’t evict us?” asked the woman.

  “I have a feeling that once he sees you have legal assistance, he will forget all about those threats. I’ll contact you day after tomorrow.”

  He escorted the couple to the door, then turned to Paul and Anna. “Good morning to you,” he said in a welcoming, friendly tone.

  “We have an appointment,” said Paul.

  “You would be Mrs. Christinin,” he said to Anna.

  “Yes . . .” Since Sergei’s arrest, Anna hardly knew what name she should use.

  “I’m Alexander Kerensky. Please come and sit down.”

  The lawyer took his seat behind the desk, while Anna and Paul settled themselves in two chairs facing Kerensky’s desk. Paul took a moment to appraise this fellow in whom they were about to place their trust. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-four, though the boyish glint in his eyes gave the impression that he could be even younger. In most respects he was a rather ordinary-looking man, with short-cropped brown hair and a neat, almost fastidious appearance. He wore a blue serge suit that was by no means expensive, but stylish nonetheless. His brown eyes had a slight squint, and though he was generally warm and friendly, there was a hint of detachment in those eyes. Paul liked him immediately and sensed he was genuine, if nothing else.

  “Before I hear the specifics of your problem,” Kerensky said in a distinctive baritone, “I would like to tell you a little about myself so you know exactly where I stand. First, I have only finished law school a few months ago and I haven’t been accepted to the Bar. It seems that a couple of the names I submitted as references were not acceptable to the powers that be because of certain political differences. I tell you this only so that you understand that the absence of Bar membership isn’t because of incompetence. When it is time to reapply, I will use different references, and, hopefully, will be accepted. As I’m sure you know, everything in this country is so political these days.” He paused, glancing between Paul and Anna to insure they understood. “As a result of all this, I can only give you advice in an informal way; I cannot act as legal counsel in a court of law. But often all that is necessary is informing clients of their rights.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” said Paul, “that the common man in this country does have some rights?”

  “Well, Mr.—ah, I don’t believe I got your name, sir?”

  “Pavlikov.”

  “Well, Mr. Pavlikov, there are laws in this country, and at times even the government can be made to recognize them.” He gave Paul an incisive glance, then smiled. “We must at least attempt to honor those laws, or we’d be no better than revolutionaries, now would we?”

  “We certainly could not have that,” Paul replied drolly.

  “May I ask your interest in this case, Mr. Pavlikov? You are a relative, perhaps?”

  “Yes.”

  “From the little I know of the case, I can understand your skepticism, but you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t hope to find some justice for your relative within the confines of the law.”

  “My sister here and her husband hope for that,” said Paul flatly.

  “I see.” Kerensky paused, then addressed his next comment to Anna. “Would you like to tell me the particulars of your husband’s problem?”

  Anna told the young lawyer everything, keeping nothing back. In the first few moments of the meeting with Kerensky, she, like her brother, had been favorably impressed. She wasn’t certain if such a young man, green and inexperienced, could help, but she felt he was worthy of the opportunity.

  Her account outlined Sergei’s former place in society, his service in the Imperial Guards, the ill-fated book, the assignment in the East, and the altercation with his commanding officer that eventually led to his life sentence to Siberia, and finally his escape from there and his subsequent new life. Kerensky was obviously speechless when she finished. There was a long silence before he spoke.

  “The name of Fedorcenko is not unknown to me,” Kerensky said finally. “Of course, I was a mere toddler in Simbirsk at the time these events occurred.” He paused, seemed to do some mental calculations, then corrected himself with a wry grin. “Actually, now that I think of it, I wasn’t even born yet.”

  “Your home, then, is in Simbirsk?” asked Paul. Lenin had also been born in Simbirsk, and it was possible Kerensky might know of him. The Ulyanov family had caused quite a stir in that town when, in 1887, Lenin’s elder brother had been executed for attempting to assassinate the tsar.

  “Was—” Kerensky replied, “—until I was eight, when my father was transferred to a government post in Turkestan. Even at that, such an important name as Fedorcenko couldn’t be completely forgotten.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Anna, “that now the name is only important from the standpoint of historical significance.”

  “Why else would you now be consulting a mere fledgling like myself, whose most important client is a line supervisor at
the Putilov Steel Works? I must admit that I am not certain I am equal to the task. When I made an appointment with you, I had no idea of the magnitude of the trouble. My best advice to you would be to find the best criminal lawyer in the country.”

  “But, Mr. Kerensky, twenty-three years ago my husband had the best lawyer, and he ended up in Siberia.”

  Anna regretted voicing that fact, for it left them momentarily silenced as the hopelessness of the situation confronted them once again. Even if Viktor could get the money to hire Russia’s finest legal minds, would that be enough?

  “Mrs. Christinin,” Kerensky said at length, “if you will allow me a day or two, I will research this case and see what I can come up with. If I have nothing satisfactory by then, my recommendation would be for you to seek help elsewhere. That’s all I can do.”

  “We appreciate your forthrightness, Mr. Kerensky.”

  Sensing the end of the interview, they all rose simultaneously. They shook hands, and Kerensky ushered them to the door.

  “I will do my best,” he said before they departed.

  “Of course,” said Anna with a brave smile.

  Outside, Anna looked at Paul as they walked away. “I sense he’s a well-meaning young man,” she said. “I do think he will do all he can.” There was, however, a question in her tone and her eyes sought assurance from her brother.

  “Oh, yes, I agree.” What Paul did not express was his fear that Sergei needed more than good intentions to deliver him from this crisis. Paul’s entire life’s work had been built upon the belief that there was no justice to be found in the Imperial government. Although he tried to be encouraging to Anna, he was hard-pressed to give her the kind of deeply felt affirmation she needed.

  52

  Anna chose to accept Paul’s well-meaning affirmation. Down deep she feared Sergei’s plight was next to hopeless, but for now she wasn’t ready to confront that truth head-on. Sergei was always telling her how strong she was. And before her papa died, he had told her she had great strength: “In your weaknesses, Anna, you have been made strong because you have, more than all my children, allowed God to dwell in His fullness within you.”

  She didn’t feel any of that strength now. She knew Paul was merely placating her, but she couldn’t bear to hear anything else. And she resented the inner voice that kept telling her she must be strong. Didn’t she have a right to feel despair and fear? Her beloved Sergei was sitting in the Fortress in a cold prison cell, and the possibility of his being sent back to Siberia was all too real.

  But what about those who were depending upon her? The children would be coming home from school tomorrow and would have questions and fears of their own. Sergei had insisted that their schooling not be disrupted, and so they had not yet been told of his arrest. They would have the weekend to deal with it, then Sergei wanted them to return to school on Monday as usual. How could she face them? How could she comfort them?

  And what of Viktor? His son’s arrest was forcing painful memories from his past to the surface. He had confronted and reconciled with much of it four years ago, but Anna could see it was weighing heavily upon him. More than once in the last few days, she had seen a vacant stare in his eyes, as if he were thinking of retreating back into that safe fantasy world of his where there was no pain or suffering.

  She would like to run away as well to a place where troubles did not exist, and where Sergei was at her side where he belonged! But for the moment, events did not seem to be designed with her emotional rest in mind.

  When she and Paul had returned home, Raisa had greeted her with a letter from the war department informing her that Mariana had been wounded. She was now in a hospital in Vladivostok, and as soon as she was well enough to travel, she would be returning home. The letter gave no indication of the nature of her wound or how serious it was. Anna’s relief at the prospect of Mariana’s homecoming was overshadowed by the fear that her daughter might yet succumb to her wounds, or that she might be permanently disabled.

  When Yuri and Andrei came home from school the next day, Anna was not in a frame of mind to be a support for them. But the presence of Paul and Viktor helped. Viktor had picked the boys up from school in his hired carriage and they all were now seated in Anna’s parlor.

  Both Yuri and Andrei expressed a sense of the unfairness of this happening to their family. After an initial outburst, however, Yuri grew quiet and thoughtful. Andrei, on the other hand, immediately began to think of actions to get his father back.

  “Uncle Paul, I’ll bet you know people who have escaped from the Fortress. It can be done. Maybe when they bring Papa to appear in court, he can get away. Then we can go to Geneva or even London and live there. You did it, so it shouldn’t be too hard—”

  “No, Andrei,” said Viktor, “your father has lived as a fugitive. He wants to be free, and he wants you to be free.”

  “Do you really think that will happen? They’re going to send him back to Siberia, and we’ll never see him again. That’s true, isn’t it, Uncle Paul? The tsar isn’t interested in our family. Mariana’s been wounded in his war, and he still doesn’t care—”

  “He probably doesn’t even know about Mariana,” said Viktor.

  “Are you defending the tsar, Grandfather?” Andrei’s tone, though respectful, was full of challenge. “All Papa did was write a book and a tsar destroyed his life because of it. I’ll never believe in the tsar again.”

  “He may be our only hope.”

  “Then we’d better say goodbye to Papa.”

  Anna said in a detached tone, “I’ll go to Siberia with him this time.”

  “Mama! What’ll happen to our family, then?” Andrei’s voice broke as tears rose in his eyes.

  Paul interceded calmly, “No one is going anywhere. We haven’t used all our options yet. What you’ve said about Mariana is a solution we haven’t even considered. It is possible an appeal can be made to the emperor in view of Mariana’s sacrifice for her country.”

  “That seems so cold,” Anna said, “when we don’t even know how Mariana is.”

  “Do you think she would mind, if it would save her papa?”

  “Do you really think that will help?” asked Andrei.

  “We must do everything we can, no matter how remote the chances of success are,” Paul answered evasively.

  Viktor grasped at the faint glimmer of hope. “I will write a petition to the tsar, mentioning Mariana. It may just work.”

  Then Yuri spoke for the first time. He had been following the conversation, but he had an entirely different concern. “I want to see Papa, before they take him away, before anything else happens.”

  “But, Yuri,” said Paul, “they won’t let children into the Fortress.”

  “I just turned fifteen.” Yuri’s voice was so serious, his expression so somber, that for a fleeting instant he did look far more a young man than the boy his family was accustomed to.

  Anna leaned forward and looked at him intently. Despite Yuri’s dark hair and eyes, he had always resembled Sergei, as much because of their similar personalities as because of any similar physical characteristics. Now he looked so much like a young Sergei that it made Anna want to weep. Yuri could almost be that nineteen-year-old young prince who had taken the time to teach a servant girl how to ice-skate. Sensitive and introspective, sometimes moody but also warm and caring, Yuri, like his father, had never looked for the easy path to follow. And Anna feared that whatever direction Yuri’s life took, it, too, would never be completely free from troubles. A few days ago, Anna had told Paul that struggles were inherent to men such as himself and Sergei, and so it was with Yuri.

  As a mother, Anna was tempted to intercede for him, to use what power she had to protect him from the pain that life and his own character were sure to inflict upon him. Then she thought about what had happened when Viktor had tried with Sergei—it had destroyed their relationship.

  Anna studied her son as she fought her own inner conflict between motherly protecti
veness and wisdom. Yuri turned and faced his mother. He didn’t have to say anything; she knew he was bound to confront life in his own way, and her interference would not be welcome. Visiting his father in prison seemed a small thing. If it could be arranged, why not allow him? Sergei would probably be thrilled to see Yuri. Yet Anna knew that cruel place, with walls that echoed years of pain and suffering, would scar Yuri’s sensitive heart, especially seeing his own father in such a place.

  She so wanted to say no, but instead, she turned to Viktor. “Do you think such a thing can be arranged, Prince Viktor?”

  “My connections have been next to worthless thus far, but perhaps they can at least do that.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather,” Yuri said, then turned to his mother. “Thank you, Mama.”

  Anna tried to smile but it was a feeble attempt. She had let go of Mariana at a terrible price. What would be the cost of Yuri’s freedom?

  Oh, God, she inwardly cried, give me the strength to leave my children in your hands. Why it was such a hard thing to do, she couldn’t quite fathom. God was certainly worthy of such trust. Papa Yevno had often talked about letting the little birds fly from the nest. Had he ever said it would be easy? Anna didn’t think so. But it was one of those things that had to be done. Parents had little choice in the matter.

  She glanced once more at Yuri. No, she had no choice at all.

  53

  Yuri did not want to be impressed by his father’s prison. But as he and his grandfather crossed the St. John Bridge, passed through the outer gate and approached the main gate of the Peter and Paul Fortress, he was profoundly aware of a sense of awe. The black double-headed eagle perched over the arched entrance seemed to beckon him into a world so rich in history that he nearly forgot the grave purpose that had brought him to this place. A quick scan of some of that history, however, immediately cleared his mind.