“I don’t know if I can face tomorrow.”
“We’ll do it somehow. I’ve been praying.”
“Your papa would be so . . .” But Anna couldn’t finish. It took several minutes for her to regain at least some of her composure. “I’m so glad I have you, dear child, and Raisa, too. I wouldn’t be able to make it without the two of you.”
“Yes you would, Mama. You’re—”
“Don’t say it, Mariana. Don’t tell me how strong I am. Half my strength, I think, was from Sergei. Without him I am . . . just a poor, scared servant girl. I can’t bear it, Mariana.”
“Mama, I love you so. I’ll try to help you.”
Anna tried to smile but it didn’t work. Her lips just would not stop trembling. Mariana moved close to Anna, keeping her arms around her mama and laying her head comfortingly on Anna’s shoulder. She really wasn’t certain who was comforting whom.
After a while Anna said, “Your papa told me just before he died that his time in prison had taught him to savor life, not to take any of it for granted. I wish I had taken more of what he said to heart. I wish I had—” She bit back a fresh rush of tears. “I don’t know why I do this to myself. If I could only stop talking about him, stop thinking about him. But I have this horrible need to do that very thing!”
She was silent for a few minutes, then she went on, more musing out loud to herself rather than speaking to Mariana. “Maybe he was trying to tell me something that day when he was talking about the prison. Maybe, without his even realizing it, he was trying to prepare me—maybe God was trying to prepare me—for this very day.” She intoned a short, bitter laugh. “Wasn’t that good of God?” Her tone was hollow, empty. Mariana had never heard her mama speak so of God.
“Mama, you mustn’t—”
“No, I must say what I’m feeling. I have a right, Mariana. I have served God all my life. I don’t deserve for Him to be so cruel to me. Is this how God treats those who love Him?”
“You’ve told me many times, Mama, that life isn’t supposed to go smoothly all the time, that we couldn’t grow if it did.”
“I’ve grown enough!” Anna’s voice grated harshly.
Mariana stared, aghast.
That look of frightened panic on her daughter’s face was like a steadying slap in Anna’s face.
“Forgive me, Mariana. I didn’t mean all those things. I haven’t given up on God. I’ll get over this. It’ll just take some time.” Anna wondered as she spoke if her daughter could tell she was just saying what was expected of her.
“Mama, no one would think any less of you if you didn’t go tomorrow.”
“What? Not go to my own husband’s funeral?” She shook her head. “No, I need to go—for myself if no one else. Maybe it will make it all more real to me.”
“Then we can cancel the gathering afterward. Everyone will understand.”
“Raisa’s been preparing all day for this. I think it’s her way of dealing with . . . everything. And it will be better for us to be together afterward—we will need each other. I’m not the only one who is grieving.”
As she spoke, she thought of her sons. Andrei, especially, had not been himself. Of course he was still recovering from his wound, which was serious enough. Yesterday he had been in surgery to have the bullet removed. That trauma, along with the blood loss, had kept him in bed and in pain. He insisted that he would attend the funeral, and Anna could not refuse him. Misha had volunteered to carry the boy, but instead that job had been assigned to one of the workers. Misha, Daniel, Oleg, Dmitri, and two other workers would be casket-bearers. Viktor, of course, was too old to be expected to carry either a casket or a strapping twelve-year-old boy.
But Anna was more worried about Andrei’s uncharacteristic silence. He hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words since Bloody Sunday, two days ago.
Yuri was grieving deeply also, crying a lot, though he tried to hide it. He was spending a great deal of time alone. In fact he was behaving much like his younger brother, but it was far more in character for him than for Andrei.
But then, neither of Anna’s sons had ever experienced any real loss in their young lives. And this was probably the deepest loss, next to a spouse or child, that they would ever feel. Sergei had never been like many fathers, distant and authoritarian. They had lost the most important man of their lives.
Anna hoped, as with herself, that the funeral would help them come to terms with the fact that their father was gone. She wished she could be there more for them, but she was barely holding herself together.
She was glad that God was there for them, and He was bearing the burden of their grief. She knew the truth of God’s presence, but she had been unable to pray since Sergei’s death. Words of prayer seemed to catch in her throat.
She didn’t hate God for what had happened. God was also too much a part of her—it would be like hating herself. Yet part of her did blame God a little—and yes, maybe that meant she also blamed herself.
It was totally illogical. She could have done nothing to save Sergei. As far as God went . . . well, she had to accept the fact that He had some great purpose in what had happened. She kept telling herself that, at least. Over and over and over and . . .
When will I believe it? she silently asked herself. When?
Well, in the meantime, life would continue its never-ending flow. They would do the things they must do. They would survive. But Anna felt as if survival was more a punishment than a blessing.
73
Basil awoke early in the morning. Although it was still dark outside and he’d had a busy night, he was completely alert the minute his eyes opened. He had slept soundly. The previous night’s work had not bothered him in the least; it had been more exhilarating than disturbing. The elimination of that government lackey, Cerkover, was but the first step in the realization of Basil’s long-desired dream. And just as Cerkover himself had wanted, it had been a clean job—no one would be able to trace the apparent street mugging to Basil.
Now Basil had to complete the second step in his plan. It was trickier, because Cyril Vlasenko was a much more “high-profile” man than his lackey. But Cyril was also a prime target of the revolutionaries—it was a miracle the man had survived this long! No one would suspect this morning’s bombing as anything but another act of political terrorism. No doubt some Social Revolutionaries would be eager to accept the blame, even if they hadn’t been responsible for it.
Basil looked at his worktable where his projects were waiting. He had to admit he’d done a fine job. They might not look like much, with their rag-tag assortment of wires and fuses, some of which he’d had to scavenge for himself. But he was experienced in this field and knew he had produced two fine implements of destruction. The larger one was laced with enough TNT to blow a house and all its occupants into the sky. Basil picked it up, caressed it lovingly, and placed it in a large handbasket. He covered it with a linen cloth he had procured in a secondhand shop; he didn’t want it to look too new or expensive.
The second bomb was smaller; it only had to destroy a carriage. Basil carefully placed this bomb, intended for Vlasenko, in a suitcase—the very one Cerkover had used to deliver the explosives. Basil could not keep from delighting in the fact that Vlasenko would be killed with his own explosives.
He ate an unhurried breakfast, then slipped on his overcoat, hat and gloves, took the suitcase, and left his room by seven. He had until eight-thirty to complete his work. Vlasenko was in the habit of leaving for his office every day at eight-thirty sharp—he never varied from this routine.
It was still dark when Basil reached the South Side palace, ironically the old Fedorcenko estate. Basil stealthily made his way to the carriage house, and—there it was! The troika Vlasenko rode each day to work. It was already in place for the horses to be hitched up, but the stable hands had gone off to do other chores until the time of Vlasenko’s departure.
Basil glanced all around before approaching the troika. He could hear fa
int voices in other parts of the building. He would have to be quick.
His mind wandered momentarily as he thought of the many times years ago he had covertly entered these grounds to spy on the beautiful Princess Katrina. At first he had come as an adoring suitor, dreaming of the day they would be married. The dream had been so close to realization—
The faithless hussy!
She thought she could spurn him and get away with it. Well, she had paid dearly for that misjudgment. But not dearly enough!
Basil’s breath suddenly was coming in quick pants, sending white puffs into the freezing air. His hands trembled as he opened the suitcase.
“Calm down,” he reminded himself. How quickly the thought of that broken heart years ago could upset him.
But he found himself suddenly in a hurry. This business with Vlasenko was a nuisance. Of course it had to be done if Basil intended on surviving after his deed was completed. But he was anxious to get on to the main part of his three-pronged plan—the grand finale. Quickly then, he slid under the troika with the bomb in hand. A couple of screws in the attached brackets, and the bomb was in place under the right rear runner.
He stopped dead still as he heard footsteps. Were they ready to hitch the horses?
Then a voice shouted: “You young dolt! You took the wrong harness. We have a new one.”
The footsteps quickly retreated. Basil let out his breath, then wasted no more time. He set the timer for 8:35. The moment he was sure it was working properly, he slid away from the troika, grabbed the suitcase, and jogged away.
He was sorry he wouldn’t be able to stay around to watch the results of his handiwork. But he had other more important matters to attend to.
Vlasenko had distanced himself from Sunday’s events so that when Gapon was assassinated, no one would ever suspect his hand in it. Although the assassination idea had failed, Cyril’s actions had a way of turning out for the good anyway.
Immediately after Bloody Sunday, the tsar had fired Svyatopolk-Mirsky from his position as Minister of the Interior, and Cyril was again in line for the job. This time, however, he was practically a shoo-in. Nicholas had spoken to him and all but assured him that, except for a few formalities, he could expect to be in his new office by the end of the week.
Naturally, Cyril was ecstatic.
But he couldn’t bask too long in this one good fortune. Too many other things were going wrong. For one thing, he had heard nothing from Basil Anickin. Because Gapon had already slipped out of the country, there was no need for the lunatic Basil, but Cyril didn’t like the thought of the man roaming around Russia with those explosives. Cyril hated to think what kind of mayhem a man like Anickin could cause in this town with all that TNT.
With the Minister of the Interior position glowing in his future, Cyril didn’t want Anickin out there without supervision. He could only hope that Cerkover was keeping on top of things.
Cyril’s worry over Anickin, however, didn’t dull his appetite. He ate two big helpings of eggs and ten sausages to go with it. His wife was obviously bursting to scold him for his gluttony, but he pretended he didn’t see. He belched loudly, then took out his pocket watch.
It was time to go.
He almost dreaded going to the office today. What new national calamity would greet him? But he refused to capitulate to his fears. It did make him almost wish he had decided to attend Sergei Fedorcenko’s funeral today. But Cyril thought he might gloat too much at the grieving family, and even he had enough decency to know where to draw the line.
“Remember, Cyril,” said Posnia as her husband donned his greatcoat, “we have seats at the ballet tonight.”
“How could I forget?” He hated the ballet, but because it was the national passion he pretended to enjoy it.
He went outside. It was cloudy, and a cold wind hinted of an impending storm. The troika was waiting right in front as usual. The driver had just extended a hand to help Vlasenko into the carriage, when a footman hurried toward them from the house.
“Your Excellency, there is a telephone call for you.”
“I must get to the office. Have them call me there,” said Cyril.
“It is the police. They said it was urgent.”
With a perturbed sigh, Cyril returned to the house and took the phone receiver.
“Yes?”
“I thought you would like to know, Count Vlasenko,” said the person on the other end, “of a terrible tragedy.”
“Now what?”
“Your aide, Cerkover, was discovered about an hour ago—dead.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Yes, he’s been positively identified.”
“How . . . ?”
“A street killing, Your Excellency. Stabbed and robbed. I’m very sorry to have to tell you.”
Cyril was stunned and felt an emotion akin to grief. He had liked Cerkover, and loyal assistants were hard to come by.
The police inspector filled Cyril in on a few more details, then Cyril said, “I’d like to have a look at the body myself, and see your reports. I’ll come by in an hour.”
“We will be expecting you, sir.”
Cyril was in a daze as he left his house once again. He simply could not believe such a thing could happen. What was Cerkover doing in a place where he could get held up at knife point, anyway? Cyril rubbed his chin in disbelief, shaking his head as he neared the troika.
He took out his watch again. He had a meeting with the ex-Minister of the Interior at nine, but that should give him plenty—
The sudden blast threw Vlasenko ten feet. He landed on the cobbled driveway, the weight of his body smashing his pocket watch to bits with the force of its fall.
74
Two hundred mourners had attended the funeral services at St. Andrew’s. Most were workers, but many students were there also. There were very few from the noble classes.
Oleg said more workers would have come except they feared the authorities’ reaction to a large gathering—and with good reason, too, after Sunday’s senseless tragedy. There had already been several funerals, including two mass funerals of about fifty caskets each, and so far no incidents. Nevertheless, a couple squadrons of police were in strategic positions around the church.
Nothing happened.
It had been a beautiful and moving service. One of the workers Sergei had tutored read an essay he had written for the occasion. In it he called Sergei the “Worker Prince,” an epithet that would undoubtedly accompany Sergei’s name for many years into the future. To the workers, Sergei had become a hero because of how tirelessly he had served them.
Anna had hoped the funeral would help her say goodbye to her beloved husband. But she could not even bear to look at his casket. She needed to accept his death; still, she could not bring herself to look at his empty, dead shell.
Andrei filed by quietly, and he did look at his father, for a very long time. Tears spilled from his eyes, but they were the only indication of his anguished heart.
Yuri wept, even sobbing and sniffing at times. Maybe he was better off than his mother and brother for his ability to express his grief in that way. He laid his favorite book in the casket next to his father, then impulsively kissed his father’s cheek.
Then all the family and close friends, that same group that had gathered a week ago to welcome Sergei home from prison, left the church and went to Raisa’s flat.
Basil watched as each mourner arrived. They were all there now—at least all that mattered. It took him a few minutes to complete the next phase of his plan. The streets were practically deserted; sensible people were indoors at this hour. Though it was only four in the afternoon, it was already dark out.
But Basil needed someone—
There! The perfect lackey. A boy, fourteen or fifteen years old, was hurrying down the street. There was no telling what he was doing out, but he’d probably not turn down a chance to earn a ruble.
Basil stepped out of the alley and called, “Hey, boy!”
When the youth’s footsteps hastened rather than slowed, Basil called again, “Listen, I mean you no harm! I have a little job for you.” The boy slowed but didn’t turn. “You wouldn’t mind earning a ruble, would you?” The boy turned. Basil grinned.
He gave the boy the handbasket, instructing him carefully about what he was to do and say. He also gave him the money.
The youngster skipped away toward the building. He was to go to the second floor, to the Sorokin flat. As it turned out, he lived on the third floor and knew the two families, having played occasionally with Yuri and Andrei. He was pleased to be a part of the surprise. He knew of the family’s mourning—several people in the building had already sent baked goods and other food to show they cared and to help ease the burden of grief. He said he was happy to deliver this man’s gift; it made him feel as if he’d had a part in helping the poor family who had lost their father.
The flat looked almost as it had for the party days ago. The same board table was set up in the dining room. It was laden with food—mostly gifts from neighbors, although Raisa had been busy cooking also. As Anna had guessed, it had been her way of dealing with the loss of a dear friend.
Everyone was milling about, chatting quietly. Even though the table was the same and the people were the same, the mood was far different. How jubilant the group had been that other day, especially after Sergei had joyously announced Mariana and Daniel’s engagement. Raisa had hardly been able to quiet them down so they could say the blessing and eat. Now, little more than a whisper would have gotten their attention.
Raisa was carrying out a heavy platter laden with chicken when a knock came at the front door.
Hands full, she glanced helplessly at the door. Then she continued on to the parlor and snagged the nearest person to help; it happened to be Misha.
“Would you get the door, Misha?”
Misha didn’t recognize the boy with the basket, but he wasn’t around often enough to know all the neighbors.
The Russians Collection Page 189