The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  As if Sergei had read Daniel’s thoughts, he stopped and turned back. Then he saw Daniel.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Sergei said, pushing his way to Daniel.

  “There’s no place to go.”

  They had to try. Sergei attempted to steer them toward the edge of the street. Because they were so near the Square, there was little cover from buildings, but they could at least get out of the middle of the crazed melee.

  In the noise and confusion, Andrei’s scream could hardly be heard. Daniel didn’t even notice anything until he saw Andrei let loose of his father and fall to his knees, grasping a bloody shoulder.

  When Andrei fell, Sergei spun around and threw himself on both his sons in a frenzied attempt to protect them. Fear, fury, panic marked his expression.

  Daniel saw a soldier with his rifle still aimed in the direction of Sergei and his sons. Instinctively he charged the soldier, but the man was too far away. And Daniel was suddenly blocked in his hapless effort as a dozen workers unwittingly knocked him to the ground.

  The soldier fired another round before Daniel could do anything.

  By the time Daniel got to his feet, it was too late. Although screams were rising all over the place, one scream now seemed to echo over them all. It was no louder than the others; only its sickening familiarity made it stand out.

  When Daniel spun toward the sound, he saw Sergei still crouched over Andrei. But now Sergei was sprawled over his son, a huge, ugly splotch of dark red staining the back of his best Sunday jacket.

  Daniel’s legs felt wooden as he forced himself toward his companions.

  Yuri was crying. “Papa! Papa!” he sobbed.

  There were no tears in Andrei’s eyes though he bit his lip, obviously in physical pain from his shattered shoulder. He just sat there, staring at his father’s fallen form draped over his own legs.

  Daniel knelt by them and tried to lift Sergei, but he was heavy—dead weight. Daniel couldn’t accept that. Sergei must only be unconscious. Perhaps he could bring him around.

  “Sergei, can you hear me?” Daniel laid a hand on Sergei’s shoulder and gave it a little shake. But there was no response.

  “Is he . . . ?” Andrei began, but he couldn’t finish the awful thought. And Daniel couldn’t have found the courage to answer, anyway.

  All Daniel knew was they could not stay where they were, still very much in harm’s way. Panicked, confused crowds surged around them, and the soldiers were still attacking. He had to get Sergei and Andrei to safety, to help. But he also knew he couldn’t carry Sergei. He uttered a silent prayer for help, then looked wildly around as if God’s answer would come from the crowd itself.

  And it did.

  A huge worker by the name of Ivan, whom Sergei had tutored, stumbled toward them. “Sergei Ivanovich?”

  “Yes,” Daniel said. “He’s wounded. We have to get him away from here.”

  The big man bent down and lifted Sergei into his muscular arms.

  Ivan looked at Daniel. “I think he’s . . . gone.”

  “No!” said Yuri almost pleading. “He’s wounded. He needs a doctor.”

  “Come on,” said the worker. No sense arguing now with the poor child.

  Daniel tried to help Andrei up, but the boy had barely started to stand on his feet when he crumpled to the ground in a faint. Daniel gathered him into his arms, and urging Yuri forward, they headed after Ivan.

  The events of that day did not end until long after midnight. Even after the majority of the workers had dispersed and gone to their homes, others roamed the streets, looting and vandalizing. On Vassily Island, the workers threw up a barricade and tried to fight back with guns burglarized from a local gun shop. But in the end, a deadly quiet fell over the city. The workers’ noble quest had failed. What they had most feared, and what the revolutionaries had often tried to tell them, was true after all.

  The Little Father did not care. There was no tsar.

  Anna and Raisa and Talia had stayed indoors all day. They had heard many shouts and much commotion outside. And the gunfire. It had been frightening, not knowing what was happening.

  When Anna heard a noise outside the front door of the flat, she prayed it was Sergei and the boys returning. She would not rest until they were safe at home. She rushed to the door, flung it open and was greeted by Daniel’s drawn and haggard face, his arms laden with Andrei’s semiconscious form.

  “Anna, I’m sorry—” Daniel began.

  For a moment, her stupefied gaze fixed only on Andrei. When the boy moved, she realized he was alive. But she had no time to feel relief, for Yuri threw his arms around his mother, new sobs wracking the grief-stricken boy.

  “Mama! It’s Papa . . . he’s . . .”

  Before Yuri could finish, Anna’s eyes shifted, focusing over Daniel’s shoulder to a big, coarse-looking worker.

  And Sergei in his arms.

  71

  Heroic deaths and poignant death-bed farewells are more often elements of fiction than fact, Daniel wrote, pounding at the keys of his typewriter as if somehow that would relieve his grief. On Sunday morning, January 9, when Sergei Fedorcenko left his St. Petersburg flat, kissing his wife goodbye, he had no reason to think he would not return to her that night. She did not know it would be the last time she’d see him alive.

  Sudden death came to Fedorcenko, as it also came to over two hundred workers that day. A bullet through the heart brought instantaneous oblivion to Fedorcenko. No chance for last wishes, or even last rites. No chance to tell his wife how he loved her. Nor to embrace his sons and offer a final word they could carry with them in their hearts. Lingering death-bed scenes make for good stories, but sometimes they just don’t happen in real life.

  Daniel pulled the page from the typewriter, read it, then crumbled it up and threw it into the trash. Somehow he had to write a news story about the day’s events, but his frayed emotions kept getting in the way. Although he tried, he just could not erase from his mind the scene in Raisa’s parlor earlier that evening—the shocked faces, the empty, dazed stares. It was simply impossible to come to terms with the fact that Sergei was dead. When Mariana arrived, the disbelief had dissolved once more into tears. When the tears abated, the shock set in again.

  Mariana had given what medical attention she could to Andrei, and, except for the lack of proper supplies, probably did as much for him as a doctor could. He would recover—from his physical wounds, at least.

  For the next two hours they sat together waiting for the undertaker to come for Sergei’s . . . body. Anna kept looking toward the door, but it wasn’t the undertaker she was looking for. She kept expecting Sergei to enter at any moment. He was the only one missing from that family gathering—his warm voice, gentle humor, unaffected wisdom. His absence had to be only temporary; it couldn’t be forever.

  Daniel’s experience with his father should have helped him, given him some basis on which to offer comfort. But it didn’t. He knew more than anyone that nothing can soften the shock of sudden bereavement. They just had to be numb for a while. And they had to weep every few minutes when they realized anew that Sergei would never be with them again.

  Raisa prepared a meal out of habit, mostly to have something to do; no one touched the food. After dinner, Misha came to the house.

  It was some time before Misha recovered from his own shock at the news of his friend’s death. When he did, his original reason for coming seemed unimportant. He had thought Sergei would want a report of the aftermath of the day’s tragedy. But mostly he had needed to talk to his friend, to hear his valued wisdom and try to make some sense out of what had occurred.

  Daniel saw that the Cossack was having trouble controlling his emotions. Several times Misha had stood staring out a window, his face turned away from the others; occasionally his hand would brush his eyes. Daniel had done the same thing himself, and several times he had been caught in the act and his tears seen by all. No one thought any less of him for it. Nor did he or
the others think less of the burly Cossack.

  Daniel tried to engage Misha in conversation. Anything was better than this stark, empty gnawing they were feeling.

  “How bad was it?” Daniel asked.

  “Several thousand wounded,” said Misha. “The . . . death toll keeps changing. Last I heard it was up to two hundred.”

  “What happened? Why did they fire?”

  “It was the only way the troops knew how to follow their orders.”

  “Which were?” Daniel’s tone was suddenly intense, hard. He forgot for a minute he wasn’t grilling a source. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I forgot myself, and I forgot who you are.”

  “As usual, I am the enemy,” Misha replied in a choked tone. He bit down on his trembling lip, but continued. “That’s who I am! My job is to protect the devil. I do it well . . . I’m very good at it. There is none more loyal than I. The fact that I never fired a gun today doesn’t exonerate me. I stood with the villains. I—”

  For the first time that day, Anna stirred to life. She jumped from where she was seated and ran to Misha.

  “Stop! I won’t hear any more of this.” Anna laid a hand on his shoulder. “You are our friend, Misha. You were Sergei’s best friend. He loved you as a brother.”

  “Then, Anna, why am I forever opposed to him? I wanted to fight with him, like we did in the Balkans. Why must I now be numbered with his murderers?” Suddenly the dam of his grief broke and unabashed tears flowed.

  Anna placed her arms around him and let him cry like a child on her shoulder. And somehow, comforting Misha seemed to give Anna strength. She was always best in the role of giver and servant.

  “He’s gone!” wept Misha.

  “I know . . .” Anna said as if this were the first time she truly realized it herself. And Anna wept freely as well.

  Daniel returned his thoughts to his work. He had come to the office immediately after leaving Anna. Mariana would stay with her; Daniel had felt too helpless to remain any longer. He wanted to lose himself in his work. Maybe he could even be of some use that way. He would publish the truth, expose the government for the heartless animals they were. Then maybe he’d discover some sense in Sergei’s death, in all the deaths that day.

  His hands flew once again over the keyboard. He wrote only the cold, hard facts this time. They were incriminating enough.

  It was after ten and Daniel was putting the finishing touches on his article when a knock sounded at his office door. Through the glass he saw a familiar, shadowed face.

  He opened the door immediately.

  “Paul Yevnovich, come in please.”

  Daniel shook Paul’s hand, then Paul introduced his companion. “This is Alexander Kerensky.”

  Daniel shook the man’s hand. “Why do I feel as if I have met you before?”

  “I feel the same way, but I am also at a loss,” said Kerensky.

  “Well, come in and have a seat.”

  Daniel led the men into the office and dragged two chairs from the other desks over to his.

  “I just saw my sister,” Paul said.

  “Then you know?”

  Paul nodded. “So tragic, so senseless.”

  “I’m glad to see you, Paul, but I am curious why you’ve come here.”

  “Alexander and I were at the march, mostly as spectators. I suppose our reason for seeking you out is that we needed to tell our experiences to someone, preferably someone who might put it to good use. At Anna’s, your name was mentioned and it just seemed you were the right man. I understand the power of the press, Mr. Trent, and I believe the revolutionary cause in this country could be well served—”

  “Hold on,” said Daniel, respectfully but firmly. “The press is powerful only if it remains objective.”

  “You take me wrong. It’s not my intention to manipulate the press—just to impart the facts, from my perspective. Include the government viewpoint also, if you must—that should make for excellent reading.”

  Kerensky added, “I’m here to offer an entirely different perspective.”

  “May I inquire what your perspective is, Mr. Kerensky?” asked Daniel. “Mariana has told me a little about yours, Mr. Burenin, and I would like to hear more directly from you. But for now, go on, Mr. Kerensky.”

  “I am a strong supporter of the Populist movement,” said Kerensky. “I wasn’t a follower of Father Gapon’s, but I do have a strong affinity for the common man, and for democracy—”

  “Now, I remember!” said Daniel. “Forgive me for interrupting, but I’ve figured out where I know you from. About four years ago you and I were in jail together.”

  “Ah, yes, I shouldn’t have forgotten that, either. It’s not every day a Russian gets to share a cell with an American.”

  “Now that that’s cleared up, please go on. But first, is there any word about Gapon? I heard he had been shot.”

  “I heard that, too, but later a worker assured me the priest was uninjured and had escaped. Presumably he will be leaving Russia secretly at the first opportunity.”

  “I’m sure Lenin would love to get hold of him,” said Paul.

  The three conversed for over an hour—an American, a Russian liberal, and an ex-Marxist. Oddly, they developed an immediate camaraderie, as if they’d been close friends for years. And somehow the talk, recapping the events of the day and pouring out opinions and feelings, helped ease some of the pain and grief they were feeling.

  When the two visitors departed, Daniel returned to his typewriter. He worked all night, and by morning he had before him a tall stack of pages. It was not a news story—that, too, would be sent to the Register. This was more of a tribute to all those who had sacrificed so much that day, and especially a tribute to Sergei. It could never be published in Russia; Daniel would be risking a great deal just in attempting to smuggle it out of the country.

  He slipped a final sheet into the typewriter and pecked out the words: “To Sergei Fedorcenko, whose sacrifice sprang out of love.”

  Daniel thought of the man who, but for the unfairness of a lead bullet, would have been his father-in-law. He thought of all the questions he had wanted to ask that wise man of God, a man he had come to love and admire. A surge of anger rose in Daniel at that thought, at the realization of how he had been so robbed, how they all had been robbed of such a remarkable man.

  He and all those who loved Sergei had already cried out to God: Why did you take him from us? We still needed him, God. He had so much more to give.

  But Daniel knew Sergei would not want his death to separate anyone from the God he had so loved and served. Such a response would make a mockery of the man’s life. Somehow they must use Sergei’s death, instead, to draw closer to God. That’s what Sergei would have wanted.

  72

  Basil had to move fast now. Because he had not been able to strike at Mariana Remizov before the workers’ march, he had to complete his plan quickly, before Vlasenko had a chance to catch his breath from all the excitement in the city.

  Basil looked at his worktable. Everything was coming together nicely. With his needle-nosed pliers he twisted a wire in place around the appropriate gear of the clock he was using as a timing device. Then he snipped the wire with wire cutters. All that was left to do was attach the dynamite, which he would do just before he made use of the bombs. No sense risking blowing up his own home, wretched hovel that it was.

  There would be no more waiting, no more missed opportunities. He had already missed the family dinner to celebrate Sergei Fedorcenko’s homecoming since he had received his explosives too late. Too bad, too. He would have greatly enjoyed raining death and tragedy upon such a joyous family gathering.

  Now he’d have to settle for a funeral.

  How thoughtful of Sergei Fedorcenko to die and thus give Basil another prime opportunity to complete his evil designs. And this time Basil would be ready. His bombs were set to go, and he knew the exact time and place. There would be another family gathering, of course, followin
g Fedorcenko’s funeral. Everyone who mattered to him would be there.

  Tomorrow.

  He could hardly wait. He had not felt this much eager anticipation since—well, perhaps never. So, it was about time. He was due some satisfaction in this good-for-nothing world.

  But first he had another small job to do. He left his apartment. It was quite late and pitch dark—perfect for what he had in mind. He met Jack Caine in a tavern.

  “You delivered the message as I asked?”

  “Yes,” said Caine. “He’s going to meet you in front of the Marinsky Theater.”

  “Good. He’ll never make it, of course.”

  “We’ll see to that.”

  “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  Would the pain ever stop?

  Anna believed she would go to her own grave with that inner ache still seizing her, the feeling that when she looked up or heard a noise, Sergei would be there. Mariana had told Anna once about the “phantom pains” amputees experienced, and she thought what she was feeling now was very much like that. An important part of her had been traumatically cut off, yet often she felt as if Sergei were still here. She could still smell his presence in the flat, in the pillows on their bed, in his hairbrush still sitting on their dresser. The book he had been reading still lay by his bedside, a bookmark at the page he had last read. He would never finish it.

  All at once tears choked Anna. The suddenness of her emotional eruptions no longer surprised her. She was on the verge of tears constantly, and any small thing was apt to cause her to break down again.

  Mariana had been trying to distract herself in a book. She was staying at the flat now, present for moments just such as this. She glanced up, laid aside her book, and went to Anna.

  “Mama?” She put an arm around her.

  Anna tried to sniff back the flood. “I’m sorry, Mariana, I just can’t stop thinking . . . or longing for him . . .”

  “It’s all right, Mama. Cry all you want.” Mariana’s words opened up her own floodgate, and her tears poured out, too.