Despite its beautiful cathedral, with ceilings painted with likenesses of cherubs and angels, this fortress represented violence far more than spiritual fulfillment. Almost since its beginning, the prison across the courtyard from the cathedral had housed political prisoners—most notably the Decembrists of 1825. A steady stream of so-called “enemies of the tsar” had filed through these gates. Some had been executed and tortured, some had gone insane from solitary confinement, and others had died because of the cold and dampness. Those who survived were often sent to Siberia. A few of the lucky ones returned to their revolutionary activities.
Now Yuri’s father would be numbered among the thousands who over the last two hundred years could claim residence in this austere place. The part of Yuri that loved history was moved almost to pride by the fact that his father was now among the elite. He rebuked himself immediately, for such thoughts were in direct conflict with his fear that his father might never come out of this prison.
Yuri’s ankle nearly twisted as he tried to match his grandfather’s long strides on the uneven cobbles of the courtyard. Viktor had been quiet since he came for Yuri that morning, briefly answering a few questions and making only one or two comments, but now as they neared the guardhouse, he paused in his determined steps and turned to his grandson.
“Yuri, I know you believe you are old enough to come to a place like this, and if I didn’t agree I wouldn’t have gotten permission for this visit. But I must warn you, it may not be as easy as you think.”
“I understand, Grandfather.”
“Do you, lad?” Viktor did not expect a verbal response, but his gaze probed the boy as if the answer to his question lay behind his grandson’s dark, brooding eyes. “You must be strong for your father.”
Yuri nodded silently. What would he find, then, behind that prison wall? Was his father’s condition so terrible that Viktor felt his words of warning necessary? Well, no matter what, Yuri would be strong; he would show his father and his grandfather that he was a man and worthy of their respect.
A guard admitted them into the dingy yellow building. Inside, there was little difference in temperature from the winter day outside. Yuri shivered as the guard led them down a gray, dank corridor which curved around in a U-shape with a branch bisecting the U. They walked for some distance, their heels clanging hollowly on the stone floor. They paused at a desk, whose lamp shed the only light in the corridor. This area was a little warmer because of a stove burning near the guard’s desk, but it was apparently the only source of heat for most of the length of the corridor. Vents allowed some of this heat to enter each cell.
The guard accompanying Viktor and Yuri spoke to another guard seated at the desk. “Visitors for Fedorcenko,” he said gruffly. The seated guard nodded and rose and the first guard turned and went back down the corridor the way he had come.
“Gotta search you,” the remaining guard said with a hint of apology in his tone. Showing as much deference as possible toward Viktor’s obvious nobility, the guard proceeded to give both Yuri and Viktor a thorough frisking. “What’s this?” he said, taking a package Yuri was carrying under his arm.
“A book and some writing supplies for my father,” Yuri replied with a concerted attempt at keeping his voice even and mature. But under the force of the man’s scowl and rough demeanor, Yuri found it difficult to keep from trembling.
“Got no orders to allow such things in.”
Viktor said, “I’ll take full responsibility.”
“Well, Your Excellency, that’s all well and good, but rules are rules, you see and—”
“I have a letter of introduction signed by the Minister of the Interior himself.” Viktor hitched back his shoulders and looked every bit the prince of Russia that he was. “Do you question my authority?”
The guard chewed this over for a minute, then shrugged. “I guess that’s good enough for me, but I’ll have to inspect it first—if you don’t mind?” When Viktor nodded, the guard opened the package, found it to be exactly what Yuri had claimed, and handed it back. “All right, then, follow me.”
During all this, Yuri stole a glance at his grandfather and realized for the first time that he was indeed an aristocrat. Yuri had known this for some time, even before his father told him of his family heritage, but now it struck him with full impact. Prince Viktor Fedorcenko may have fallen onto hard times, but the noble qualities that had been bred into him all his life would never be crushed completely.
They passed half a dozen cells before the guard paused, opened a small hole in a heavy iron door, and announced the visitors. “You got fifteen minutes,” the guard told Viktor.
He opened the door with an ancient-looking key on a thick iron ring. A cold draft met them through the open door. The guard stood back to allow the visitors to enter the cell, then firmly locked the door behind them.
Sergei had been seated on his cot, the only furniture in the eight foot by eight foot cell except for a small table. He jumped up when he saw Yuri and gave him an exuberant bear hug.
“What a surprise!” he exclaimed. “How did you manage this?”
“Grandfather arranged it,” Yuri said.
Sergei kissed his son’s cheek before letting him go, then turned to Viktor and shook his hand. “Thank you, Father.”
“Yuri requested it.” Then Viktor added with a slight smile, “Actually, he insisted on it.”
“I wanted to see you, Papa,” Yuri explained. “I just—” He paused, not able to admit his real reason, not able to tell his father that he had been afraid he’d never see him again. If he made an admission like that, he’d probably end up crying, and he was determined to be strong as Viktor had requested. He changed the subject instead. “Andrei wanted to come, too, but he is too young. Mama gave up her time so I could come. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.”
“I brought something for you.” Yuri gave him the package.
“You don’t know what a godsend these things are,” said Sergei after opening the package. “I was just thinking that a good book would make this place halfway tolerable. And to be able to write! I can’t thank you enough.” He placed the package on the table, then motioned for his guests to sit. “I think this old cot will hold all of us. Sorry it’s all I have to offer.”
Despite the upbeat tone of his voice, Yuri noted that his father did not look well. Perhaps it was the ragged look of his beard, which he had always kept so neatly trimmed; or maybe it was the old gray prison suit and the poorly lighted cell that made his skin look pasty. His father’s voice was thick and gravelly, which he said was due to a slight cold he had caught a few days ago. But worse than all this was the fact that he never stopped shivering during the visit. At one point they all rose so he could pull up the single blanket on the cot and wrap it around his shoulders. He had to pause frequently during his conversation to cough.
He tried to shrug it off with a laugh. “I guess it wouldn’t be prison if it had all the comforts of home.”
“We’re going to have you out of here soon,” said Viktor, but Yuri thought his grandfather was just saying what was expected. His voice seemed to lack the force of real confidence.
Yuri said, “Papa, Andrei tried to make up an escape plan.”
Sergei chuckled. “That sounds like him. But I’m too old for such antics. It was a foolish thing to do even as a young man, and it was sheer luck that I made it—on second thought, it had to have been the hand of God, for that’s the only way I could have succeeded.”
“You don’t think God wants you to escape this time?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I’m content to take a more conventional route this time. I was pretty desperate in Siberia. Besides, Yuri, I’m tired of living as a fugitive. I’m ready to—” He paused, running a hand thoughtfully over his graying beard. “To be a Fedorcenko again. After I told you and Andrei about our family, I felt uncomfortable with the secret life I was living. Oh, I realize it was necessary, but a
ll that has changed now. I hate being in prison, but at least some good is coming out of it.”
“Papa, does that mean we should tell people who we are now?”
“That’s up to you, son. I know this must be hard on you, and confusing.”
“I don’t mind, Papa. But I want to do what’s right.”
“This isn’t a case of right and wrong.”
“That’s what makes it so confusing.”
“What do you want to do, Yuri?”
“Andrei wants nothing to do with the nobility; he says the working classes and the peasants are Russia and that’s what he wants to identify with.”
“And what do you think?”
Yuri looked over at his grandfather, then back at Sergei. He hadn’t wanted to say these things or admit his ambivalence, but now that the conversation had unexpectedly taken this turn he felt he couldn’t very well lie to his father.
He said, “We are what we are, Papa. We are aristocrats, aren’t we? Nothing terrible happened when Mariana claimed her position; she still stayed the same good person at heart. I don’t think it should matter either way, except that by taking our proper place in society, we might be able to do some good, make some positive changes in the system.” He hadn’t said everything he was feeling, but enough so that he didn’t feel deceptive. However, he looked down as he spoke, not quite able to meet his father’s eyes.
It was Viktor who responded. “Your attitude is quite noble, Yuri, and I don’t like to discourage it. But I have always been an aristocrat and have done little good for this country even though I have spent the better part of my life trying—” Sergei started to protest, but Viktor held up his hand and continued, “Perhaps I’m somewhat cynical, but it’s best that Yuri see reality so he doesn’t end up disillusioned. And the reality is, son, that I was once a man of great financial power and influence. I had the ear of the tsar himself, but little good came of it. Should you take up your position in society, you will have only a name and a title, nothing else. Perhaps that will be enough to do some good, perhaps not. But it would be dangerous for philanthropy to be your sole reason for assuming your title.”
“He’s right, Yuri,” said Sergei. “Whatever you do, it must be for you. I know that sounds a bit selfish, but in this case I think it is the best thing you can do.”
The guard pounded on the door and yelled, “Five minutes!”
Yuri was relieved for the interruption. He hadn’t been comfortable with the direction of the conversation. He quickly changed the subject. “Papa, can I come see you tomorrow?”
“I’ve been keeping track of the days, Yuri, though it hasn’t been easy. But tomorrow is Monday and you must return to school. Besides, Sunday is the only day for visitors, and your mama should come next Sunday.”
“I hope you’re out by then.”
“So do I, Yuri.”
Viktor said, “We have a lawyer working on it. The one recommended by the Workers’ Assembly. He seems like a good man.”
“Good.” Sergei turned to his son. “Yuri, I want you to concentrate on your studies, and tell Andrei the same. I want to be honest with you—I think you are old enough to hear these things. I haven’t lost hope, but the possibility that I may never leave here definitely exists. If I am no longer around, you will be tempted to quit school in order to help with the finances. But that must only be a last resort. More than anything, my desire for you and Andrei is to finish school so that you will have good choices in life. In the end, that will be far more important than the name you choose, or if you have a title or not. It may be a struggle but—” His rising emotions momentarily choked him, causing a bout of coughing.
Yuri threw his arms around his father. “Oh, Papa! Don’t say such things. Everything is going to be all right. It will!” And in spite of all his resolve, tears spilled from Yuri’s eyes.
The sound of jingling keys penetrated the heavy door, and in a moment the door swung open. Their visit was over. One last embrace for father and son, then Viktor and Yuri were ushered out.
Yuri was silent all the way home. All he could think of were the changes that were certain to come to his life. But the worse thing of all was having to face these changes without his father. How could he do it? How could he make the right decisions? His father had to come home again. Yuri wasn’t ready to let go right now. He tried to act grown up, to make people think that at fifteen he was a man, but it wasn’t true. In many ways, he was just a confused and fearful child, a child who still needed his father.
54
It was obvious to Cyril that this business with Father Gapon was getting out of hand. And it was partly his fault for letting himself get sidetracked with his vendetta against the Fedorcenkos. Yes, seeing Viktor’s son hauled off to prison was satisfying to Cyril, but was a few moments of satisfaction worth the cost of his work falling to pieces?
He had, therefore, eagerly accepted the opportunity to meet once again with Basil Anickin. This time the meeting was arranged to take place at a large bookstore on Nevsky Prospekt. Anickin had requested the rendezvous, and Cyril expected Anickin to ask for more money. What he did not expect was Anickin’s tempting proposition.
They were appearing to browse among the shelves of books. Anickin, nearby, had pulled down a copy of A Tale of Two Cities. How appropriate. The book should have been banned, in Cyril’s opinion, but the tsar didn’t want to appear the dullard he truly was by scourging Russia’s bookshelves of so-called classics.
Cyril lifted a book from a shelf, giving it a cursory glance to insure he hadn’t inadvertently taken something equally incriminating. Dostoyevsky. Well, at least he was Russian. He opened it and thumbed through the pages, taking a moment to make sure Cerkover was within view. There was something disconcerting about this Anickin character, as if he’d have no qualms at all about running a knife through Cyril’s heart. Cyril refused to meet with him alone.
“So, what do you want? Be quick; I am a busy man.” Cyril took the offensive, knowing it always paid to stay a step ahead of a man like Anickin.
“The Okhrana hasn’t been very successful in stopping Gapon,” Basil said matter-of-factly. “He’s opened another branch of his Assembly in the city, and several more are flourishing outside the city.”
“I hope you didn’t call this meeting to bore me with old news.”
“My time is valuable too, Count Vlasenko, and I don’t like wasting it on insignificant spying.”
“If you’re too good for the work, I can easily find someone else willing to earn the kind of money I’ve been paying you.”
“I’m a man of action.”
“Then you called this meeting to dissolve our relationship?”
“I take it, then, that you don’t want action.”
Cyril suddenly realized Anickin was building up to something, and as much as he hated giving the man latitude, he was curious enough to allow him to continue. “What kind of action would you be talking about?”
“There is only one thing that can be done to stop Gapon.”
“Ha! Again, you state the obvious, Nagurski. As if we haven’t tried eliminating Gapon. But if you had truly been doing your job, you would have noticed that he is constantly surrounded by his bodyguards—his doting workers.”
“Let me have a chance at it.”
“And what could you do that trained police operatives couldn’t do?”
Anickin’s features contorted into a twisted half-smile that sent a chill down Cyril’s spine. It was a stupid question. This Basil Anickin, alias Rolf Nagurski, had probably made an art form of killing. According to Cerkover, that had been Anickin’s primary activity in the United States.
“All right,” Cyril said, not bothering to wait for an answer. “What do you plan on doing, and how much will it cost me?”
“You don’t need to know my plan. Success hinges on secrecy. As for cost—twenty thousand rubles, up front.”
“Up front?”
“That’s an American expression meaning—
”
“I know what it means!” blustered Cyril, the rise in his tone causing nearby shoppers to glance in his direction. He choked down his ire, then, when curious eyes were turned away, he continued in a calmer voice. “If you think I will pay you a kopeck before the job is done, you are crazy.”
“I have been told that.” Basil’s tone was chilling, like black ice in winter—difficult to see, but lethal.
Cyril swallowed. The man was positively unnerving! “Half up front, and half when the job is done.”
Basil nodded. “In addition, I will want passport and identity papers under an assumed name for departing the country.”
“What name would you like? How does Basil Anickin sound?” Cyril couldn’t help himself. He hated the way Anickin always managed to get the upper hand.
Basil’s lips bent again into a semblance of a smile. “A fine name, but I’d prefer something more generic, like Ivan Something-or-other.”
“Anything else, Your Highness,” sneered Cyril.
“I’ll need some supplies, items that may raise questions should I attempt to procure them myself. TNT, detonators, fuses—here’s a list.”
Cyril stared at the paper in Basil’s hand as if it were a poisonous snake. “I want nothing in writing.”
“Some of these things are too technical for you to remember.”
“All right, put it in that book; my man will pick it up.”
Basil shrugged and did as he was told. “When do I get my ten thousand rubles?”
“Meet my man in a week, around noon at the Gostinny Dvor Market. At that time he’ll give you the money and instructions on the delivery of the supplies.”
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Count.” Basil tucked his list between the pages of Dickens’ classic, snapped it shut, replaced it on the shelf, then ambled out of the bookstore.
The Russians Collection Page 179