Dmitri watched the scene in both horror and wonder. And he heard Basil let out a single, terrified scream before the deadly weight of the animal’s hooves crashed down on him.
76
Everyone cheered as Misha exited the apartment building, hands raised over his head in victory, a grin plastered on his face that could mean only one thing.
The ordeal was over.
They crowded around Misha, slapping him on the back, shaking his hand, giving him a hero’s reception. Misha forgot how his legs had felt like rubber, and his hands had shaken seconds after yanking the wire that diffused the bomb. He forgot how his life had paraded before his sweaty eyes—sins, mistakes, everything. He forgot his last thought—that he’d never see Anna’s sweet face again—for which he had rebuked himself instantly.
Now it was over. By a true miracle of God, the lives of those he loved had been saved. But he hardly felt deserving of all the praise. He had only done his job. It could never make up for Bloody Sunday, for what had happened to Sergei.
“Thank God for you, Misha!” said several voices at once.
“Please, that’s enough. Any of you would have done the same if you had known how.” Misha turned to the gathered residents. “Go back to your homes,” he said in a tone that was almost an order. “It’s safe now.” He turned to Daniel, who was standing nearby. “Did anyone call the police?”
“Yes,” said an older man in the crowd. “Did I do right?”
Daniel and Misha looked grimly at each other and nodded. They would have liked to continue to bask in their relief at being spared, but they knew the ordeal was not entirely over. Someone had left that bomb, and the sooner they discovered who, the better.
Anna approached. “Misha, Daniel, you ought to know that Dmitri left a few minutes ago. He said he had spotted someone across the street in the alley who looked like a suspect. I saw them fighting, then I got distracted. When I looked back again they were gone.”
“Dmitri? Are you sure?” said Misha.
“Yes. And if that was the culprit—”
But she was interrupted by Mariana’s voice.
“Père!”
Mariana broke away from the group and ran to her father, who had just stepped out of a police wagon. Mariana had never seen her father look like this before. His clothes were disheveled and torn, and under the dull light of a streetlamp, she could see his bruised and bloodied face. Then she noticed his bleeding arm.
It took only a few moments of convincing from the gathered residents to exonerate Dmitri before the police. There would be no time in jail for him this day. Misha took the police into the building to show them the bomb. And the attention, much to Misha’s relief, shifted to Dmitri.
Pursuing Basil had been the first really heroic thing Dmitri had done in years. No one blamed him for milking the story dry as Mariana tended to his wounds. When they returned to Raisa’s, they let Dmitri tell the story several more times, and no one protested that he embellished the facts more with each telling.
Unlike Misha, Dmitri reveled in the attention. He couldn’t wait until Yelena heard the story—preferably not from him but from someone else, so he could act the part of true modesty. But the real moment of glory for Dmitri came as he was about to leave that evening.
“What you did tonight, Count Remizov, took true courage,” Anna told him. “Had you not stopped Basil, there’s no doubt he would have tried again. You saved us; you saved Mariana. Katrina would have been proud of you.”
“I’m just thankful it’s ended.”
“We are all in your debt.”
“Heavens!” Dmitri chuckled wryly. “Don’t say that, Anna. You know how bad I am with debts.”
Anna laughed with tears standing in her eyes—this time tears of affection, not grief. She embraced Dmitri for the first time, as her friend, not as her superior. And that meant more to Dmitri than all the heaps of praise he had received that evening.
77
When all the excitement was over, the guests gone, and Raisa, Mariana, and the children were in bed, Anna found herself alone in the parlor. It was still hard to go to her and Sergei’s room. His presence was still too painfully evident there, and she had not yet had the heart to remove his things. Maybe she never would. Viktor’s wife, Princess Sarah, who had lost her first husband many years ago, suggested that it was all right and normal to hang on for a little while. She had known people, and so had Anna, who had cleared out all their deceased spouse’s possessions in an attempt to erase the ache. It usually didn’t work, anyway. And the memories and things of a loved one, besides causing some pain, were a great source of comfort also.
Sarah said Anna would know when she was ready to put away Sergei’s things and keep her best memories of him in her heart.
A few days ago Anna would never have believed Sarah. She had been in a dark tunnel with no end in sight. She had felt, as never before in her life, a longing to die also. That she should have to live, to continue an empty, hopeless existence without her dear Sergei, seemed the cruelest fate imaginable.
But something had happened to Anna within the past few hours. A glimmer of light had appeared at the far end of her tunnel, a small hint that her despair was not destined to be endless. Oddly, that perception had been prompted by the bomb scare. The moment she had set eyes upon Basil Anickin’s bomb she had been beset by fear—gripping fear, the kind that only springs from someone who is afraid to die. Someone who desires to live.
When Misha had exited the building grinning his success, Anna had cheered as loudly as anyone.
It had shocked her at first. Then she had felt just a little guilty about it. How could she want to live when the most important part of her life had been snuffed out?
Yet she did; she really did.
She had no idea at the moment just how she would go on, how she would survive day by day. Most of the time it seemed impossible. But she would.
Perhaps it was the strength everyone, even Sergei, was so fond of extolling in her. Sometimes it was such a burden to be strong. But as usual, she would no doubt come to the place where she could thank God for it.
“Mama?”
“Mariana, come in.”
“If you want to be alone . . . ?”
“No. Come and sit by me.”
“I woke up and you weren’t there.” Mariana was sharing Anna’s bed, partly because there was no other room in the small flat, but also so her mama would not be so lonely.
“Don’t worry so about me, Mariana,” Anna said gently as her adopted daughter sat on the worn couch by her side.
“I can’t help it.”
“I’ll be all right.”
Mariana peered at her mama through the dim light of the oil lamp. How worn Anna looked. The strain of her grief etched in new creases in her delicate features. But for the first time in days the dull void seemed gone from her eyes. The smile that touched her lips reached up into her eyes, instilling a hint of life into her face.
“Will you?”
Anna nodded. “Yes. There’s too much to live for. Now I’m beginning to understand what Sergei meant by savoring life. I know that’s what I must do—for him, for myself, and for those I love. I want to be part of your future, Mariana—yours and Daniel’s. I want to see my sons grow to be men. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to see my grandchildren.”
“It’s what Papa would have wanted for you, Mama.”
Anna nodded. “But Mariana, it’s also what I want, and that makes all the difference.”
About the Author
Judith Pella is a bestselling, award-winning author whose writing career spans more than two decades. Her in-depth historical and geographical research combines with her skillful storytelling to provide readers with dramatic, thought-provoking novels. She and her husband make their home in Scapoose, Oregon.
Books by Judith Pella
Texas Angel
Heaven’s Road
Beloved Stranger
Mark of the Cross
&
nbsp; THE RUSSIANS
The Crown and the Crucible*
A House Divided*
Travail and Triumph*
Heirs of the Motherland
Dawning of Deliverance
White Nights, Red Morning
Passage Into Light
THE STONEWYCKE TRILOGY*
The Heather Hills of Stonewycke
Flight from Stonewycke
Lady of Stonewycke
THE STONEWYCKE LEGACY*
Stranger at Stonewycke
Shadows Over Stonewycke
Treasure of Stonewycke
DAUGHTERS OF FORTUNE
Written on the Wind
Somewhere a Song
Toward the Sunrise
Homeward My Heart
LONE STAR LEGACY
Frontier Lady
Stoner’s Crossing
Warrior’s Song
PATCHWORK CIRCLE
Bachelor’s Puzzle
Sister’s Choice
RIBBONS OF STEEL**
Distant Dreams
A Hope Beyond
A Promise for Tomorrow
RIBBONS WEST**
Westward the Dream
Separate Roads
Ties That Bind
THE HIGHLAND COLLECTION*
Jamie MacLeod: Highland Lass • Robbie Taggart: Highland Sailor
THE JOURNALS OF CORRIE BELLE HOLLISTER
My Father’s World* • Daughter of Grace* • On the Trail of the Truth*
A Place in the Sun*
*with Michael Phillips **with Tracie Peterson
© 1996 by Judith Pella
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-2970-0
This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of historical personages, all characters are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to living persons, past or present, is coincidental.
Cover design by Melinda Schumacher
Judith Pella is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.
To
Jeannie Holmberg
who is all a big sister should be.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
A Word From the Author
Part I: Troubled Times
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part II: Coming of Age
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
Part III: Brotherly Discord
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Part IV: War and Weddings
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
Part V: Scattered Bonds
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
Part VI: Momentous Decisions
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
Part VII: Ends and Beginnings
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
About the Author
Books by Judith Pella
A Word From the Author
History is not like fiction—it is real. The things that happened in the past cannot be changed, altered, or ignored, though we may wish to do all those things at times. Interpretations, of course, may vary, but the basic facts do not change. As a writer of historical fiction I’m acutely aware of this with every word I write. And because of this I am committed to interpret history as honestly and with as unbiased a view as I possibly can.
Unfortunately, history is not always a pretty thing—neither are the characters who people it. And that is probably doubly true about the history of Russia. In a country where millions have been slaughtered in war or various political purges, it is inconceivable that an account of these things could be rosy. I’m certain this has already been noted by readers of previous books in THE RUSSIANS series. But this particularly is the case in White Nights, Red Morning. I could have taken the easy route and avoided the many sensitive elements involved in the era in which this book is set. It would have been safer to focus on World War I and to treat Rasputin lightly. But I believe the events surrounding Rasputin are extremely relevant to an understanding of a crucial time in Russian history. Thus I have forged ahead, often negotiating precarious waters, but always with a sense of responsibility both to history and to my readers. This commitment has constrained me not to whitewash or skip over the facts, though some may be distasteful or even shocking.
My intent is not sensationalism, nor even realism for realism’s sake. In fact, White Nights, Red Morning relates only a portion of Rasputin’s corrupt reign—and the least shocking at that! The line between truth and vulgarity in this case is a very thin one. I ask you, the reader, to proceed not so much with an open mind as with a mind constantly aware of the old adage, “He that ignores history is doomed to repeat it.” My hope and prayer is that you will see beyond the sordid facts of Rasputin’s life to the courage and strength of the other people in the multifaceted story of THE RUSSIANS.
1
A gust of wind scattered the leaves beneath a spindly elm struggling to maintain life in front of the busy market on Vassily Island. Somehow through many winters it had managed to survive in the middle of a bustling city but each year always seemed as if it might be its last. Its barren branches were almost bare now, and the single leaf that blew against Anna Fedorcenko’s stocking was nearly the last of the season. Wistfully Anna glanced down at the dry, yellow leaf, then she shook it away. She continued to watch as it tumbled for a few more moments down the sidewalk until it was finally trampled by an unobservant passerby.
Then she turned her wandering attention back to the task at hand. The noisy jostling crowd in the market in no way mirrored the aimless tumble of the leaf. But for all the activity of the people trying to press against the bakery door, the line, such as it was, had hardly moved a handful of inches since she had taken her place there an hour ago. She had known of course when she left the apartment, while the cold morning dew was still thick on the doorstep, that she’d be spending a good part of her day at market. She’d already spent three hours purchasing a half pound of cheese. Since the railway strike, panic had spread through the city. Food was already scarce, and with the prospect of the strike, it was feared that soon nothing at all would be found on the shop shelves. As much as Anna hated crowds, her family had to have bread. Raisa Sorokin, with whom Anna shared the apartment,
had offered to go. But in spite of the mobs, Anna desired the chance to get out of the flat, away from the presence of memories.
Anna hated to think how she or Raisa would manage the market trek when winter set in. She prayed daily the troubles in the city would heal by then. But since the terrible events of last January, since Bloody Sunday, matters only seemed to be worsening in St. Petersburg.
Anna had hoped the end of the war with Japan would bring relief. In March, practically the entire Russian navy had been destroyed by the Japanese in Tsuhmia Straits. It was a horrible tragedy, but it had speeded up an armistice. By then, however, many in the military were so incensed by the disastrous and futile war that they were ripe for the rhetoric of the revolutionaries. In August, the tsar had enacted a new law establishing a parliamentary body called a Duma—if it were ever convened. According to Anna’s brother Paul, who was quite involved in political matters, the powers of this Duma would be rather limited. But people had been clamoring for representation for years. At least it was a step forward.
However, instead of the law bringing peace to Russia, it seemed to ignite the fires of revolt even more. When the Duma did not readily convene, the whole country erupted into chaos. This spontaneous revolt took everyone by surprise, even the revolutionaries. The outbreak was initiated not by political dissidents, but rather by the masses.
General strikes broke out not only in factories but everywhere. Even among doctors and bank clerks and the corps de ballet of the Maryinsky Theater. St. Petersburg had been all but crippled; food and fuel for heat grew scarce. The city’s water supply, substandard as it was, had nearly ceased, and had only been saved by locking in the workers. But electricity was gone, and at night the city looked as if it had reverted to the medieval times of Ivan the Terrible. A searchlight perched on top of the Admiralty Building and operated by naval generators gave some illumination to Nevsky Prospekt. Yet it still was unsafe to venture out into the city streets at night. Hope for things to improve before winter set in was becoming more and more remote.
The city was also plagued by the constant upheaval of street demonstrations, rallies, and the ever-present threat of violence. Many times Anna had considered returning to Katyk. But she didn’t want to be that far from her sons, who were in school. Besides, things had changed in Katyk too, and Anna’s ties there were growing more distant. Two months ago Mama Sophia had died. When Anna had returned with Paul and her daughter Mariana for the funeral, she had suddenly realized that she no longer belonged in the home of her birth. Her sister Vera was still there, of course, but they had never been close, and the years apart only emphasized that fact. The Burenin izba and small plot of land went by common assent to Vera’s eldest son, who now had his own little family.
The Russians Collection Page 191