“I know. I—”
“Kaminsky says you lack the kind of fervent loyalty that makes a good Party member.”
“At the time I was absorbed in my art career. Many artists are revolutionaries and have suffered under the weight of Imperial censorship. But the fact that I have a passion for this work doesn’t mean I can’t also have a passion for the cause. I’ve often used my talent to promote change in my country—from the time I was thirteen, when I first pasted a subversive poster on a public building, I sought to combine my two passions. I was put off from joining the Party by Kaminsky’s attitude that I could not do both. Where would the Party be without a means to communicate its ideas to the masses?”
“You make a good point.”
“I have contributed to several Party publications under the pseudonym of ‘Little Soldier.’”
“Really? That is you? I am familiar with that name.”
“I hope in a positive way?”
Lenin rubbed his chin, and a small light of amusement glinted from the slits of his eyes. “I would have a hard time accepting Burenin’s kin. But Malenkiy Soldat . . . that is another matter. We can use him—if he were willing to join the Party.”
“Show me how, sir, and I will do it immediately.”
The days passed idyllically in the picturesque mountains in the sleepy village. It almost made Andrei forget about the modern world and all its modern problems. But they were bound to catch up with him, even there.
Word reached the backwater village of Poronino at the very end of July. Germany, incensed over Russia’s mobilization and the threat it posed, had issued an ultimatum to the tsar to stand down. When Russia did not respond in the time limit given, Germany declared war on Russia. Two days later they also declared war on France, Russia’s ally, and marched on Belgium simultaneously with another declaration of war on that country. Then, a week after Germany’s declaration of war on Russia, Austria-Hungary also declared war on Russia.
This was unsettling news to the little group of Bolsheviks in the mountains. Beyond the obvious broader repercussions of war, the state of war between Austria and Russia now made Lenin and his comrades enemy aliens in a country at war with their country of citizenship. The Austrian Ministry of the Interior might have given covert consent to the presence of the Russians, but on the local level, Lenin and his friends were nothing more than aliens who spoke the tongue of Austria’s—and Poland’s—enemy. A war of such broad scope had not occurred in Europe since the days of Napoleon. No one was quite certain of what to expect—except perhaps the unexpected.
Andrei was in the village when he first sensed the air of hostility. A small group of women were standing at the village well as he passed on his way to the little house he shared with Semyon and several other single men in Lenin’s entourage. The peasant women cast Andrei unfriendly looks, then began conversing in their native tongue. Andrei could not understand the words, but he easily discerned by their tone and sneers that what they were saying wasn’t favorable. Then one of the women chattered something and spit into the dirt after shooting another piercing glance at him. He only understood one word they said, a word any revolutionary is quick to learn—police!
He headed as quickly as he could to Lenin’s cottage. Everyone had been worried, of course, and with good cause, since Russia was already poised on the borders of Russian Poland for an invasion into Austrian Poland. But somehow they thought they might be spared because they, too, were enemies of the tsar. They should have known that Poland’s peasant stock might not be able, or willing, to make such a fine distinction. Russians were Russians, and Poland’s perpetual enemies and oppressors.
When Andrei reached the cottage, only Krupskaya and her mother, who had lived with her daughter and son-in-law throughout their exile, were there. Krupskaya was resting on a daybed in the front room. Her mother sat in a rocking chair nearby, knitting, and it was she who had answered the door. The old woman smiled warmly at Andrei. She had taken a liking to Andrei, and when sweets came into the house, she always saw to it that Andrei had a sample.
She informed him that Lenin was off hiking in the mountains—his frequent occupation these days, during which he took voluminous notes of his thoughts and plans for the future. Krupskaya immediately sent Andrei after him.
Andrei hiked for a half hour before he met anyone—specifically Stephan Kaminsky, who had accompanied Lenin on the hike as his bodyguard. Stephan pointed Andrei toward a spot where Lenin was seated on a stump, reading on an overhang of rock that formed a lookout over a fabulous panorama of the mountains.
Andrei hated to disturb the man, who obviously was enjoying himself and having a rare moment of relaxation. So he told Stephan the problem. They had been hearing rumors for days now, and fear was being spread among the locals of dastardly deeds done by aliens in their community. One village priest had been warning his flock that enemy aliens were poisoning the water. But this was the first time anyone had specifically mentioned the police. Whether or not it indicated an immediate danger, it did seem it was time for the Russians to act. Stephan concurred that they had to inform Lenin, and by the time the information was communicated and the three hiked back to the cottage, over an hour had passed.
As they approached within a hundred feet, they saw horses tied to the porch rail—by the insignias on the saddle gear, the horses were identified as belonging to the local constabulary. The three men stopped, covered by a stand of trees and bushes.
“Looks like they beat us to it,” said Lenin.
“We can still get away,” said Stephan.
“And where would we hide in this area? I doubt the situation is serious enough to take to the woods to live off roots and berries until the danger passes. No, the worst they can do is deport us.” Lenin glanced at his young companions, not so much for approval, but to ensure that they were resigned to follow his lead.
But before they could make their move forward, a voice called from behind, “Halt! Don’t move!” A uniformed constable approached them, pointing an ancient rifle at them. “Do you live in that cottage?” he asked, staring at Lenin.
“Yes.”
“Your name?”
“Vladimir Lenin.”
“Come along with me—and don’t think about getting away.”
“That is the furthest thing from our minds,” Lenin said with confidence.
Andrei tried to take some encouragement from Lenin’s voice, but it was still unsettling to have a policeman aiming a weapon at him. Nevertheless, he obediently followed everyone to the cottage, determined that, no matter what, he would acquit himself honorably and prove once and for all that he was to be trusted.
The man with the gun yelled into the cottage, and in a moment another constable, the chief, came out. Krupskaya followed him, looking quite nervous and pale.
“Ilyich, they are searching our home!” she said, wringing her hands together.
“It’s all right, wife,” said Lenin, “we have nothing to hide.”
In truth, Andrei knew there were secret lists of addresses of Party members and other sensitive Party documents in Lenin’s possession—things that, in Russia, would have had them all hauled summarily off to the farthest reaches of Siberia. He had no idea what the Poles would think of them. But, in fact, the constable had not even noticed them. Instead, he was holding one of Lenin’s notebooks.
“Perhaps you have not heard the recent news,” said the constable. “But you are at this moment an enemy national in our country. Do you realize this?”
“Yes,” said Lenin. “But we have done nothing wrong.”
“I will make that decision. What are these?” He held up the notebooks—all written in Russian so, even if the man could read, he would not be able to decipher them, not to mention the fact that many of the entries had been written in code.
“Journals and the like,” answered Lenin.
“I know a little Russian,” said the constable. “And these appear to be written in some sort of code. Why w
ould you do that with mere journals? I have had reports from many citizens of seeing you roaming over the hills, taking notes in these books—in all likelihood gathering information on troop deployments, geographical landmarks, and so forth to send to our enemies.”
“That’s ridiculous,” protested Lenin. “Those are simply my thoughts, notes for political articles I plan to write. Espionage? Bah!”
“And what about this—?” The constable now held up a pistol. “It was found among your belongings.”
“A little protection. What’s wrong with that?”
“You do not have a permit for it.”
“An oversight.”
The constable shook his head, not convinced. “I’m afraid I must place you under arrest for espionage.”
“What? That is the last thing I would do. I am as much an enemy of the imperialist tsarist regime as you.” That would have been the supreme irony, for Lenin to be shot as a spy for Nicholas the Second!
“This evidence says differently.” The constable gave his booty a pointed shake.
Stephan made a move, but the other constable stepped up quickly and thrust a rifle under his nose.
Lenin said with a glance toward Kaminsky, “We will go willingly. You will see soon enough that you have the wrong men.”
Only then did Andrei realize that all of them were under arrest. His eyes widened and his jaw went slack. All the years he had lived as an insurgent in Russia, he had never been arrested or even threatened! But the irony of an arrest outside of his oppressive country was hardly amusing. It was scary. He couldn’t muster even a hint of Lenin’s confidence.
Lenin said good-bye to his wife, who promised to get help from their contacts in the Austrian government. Lenin said they would be free within two days. Still, Andrei felt weak in the knees as the constable prodded them, on foot, back to the village.
“You’ve never been arrested before, have you, Andrei?” said Lenin. “I could tell by that strange mixture of fear and exhilaration in your eyes. There is nothing like the first time, knowing you are truly sacrificing for the cause!”
Andrei had felt something else in him besides fear, but hadn’t been able to identify it until Lenin spoke. Now he realized that it was exciting. He had achieved an honor that placed him on a level with his uncle and his father. He had achieved something that Yuri certainly hadn’t.
38
The news of war was greeted in Russia with wild enthusiasm. Workers gave up their strikes, and thousands of others, from prince to factory minion, all gathered at Palace Square to shout their support and praise their emperor. Where only nine years before, on Bloody Sunday, the armies of the tsar had shot down innocent Russians, fervent strains of “God Save the Tsar” now rose like a wave from the voice of the crowd. No one seemed to give a thought to the potentially destructive force of such a wave.
Yuri shouldered his way through the crowd on Palace Square. The blood that had been spilled there nine years before was long gone, but Yuri could still point out the exact spot on which his father had been killed. He couldn’t get near it now—there were too many people there, cheering the tsar. But a lump formed in Yuri’s throat as the memory of that awful day assailed him. He could almost sympathize with his brother’s antitsarist sentiments. But, unlike Andrei, who believed he was honoring his father by hating his killer, Yuri always had the deep sense that his father would not have hated his own killers but would have forgiven them.
Yuri wished that godly compassion was his only motive for a forgiving attitude, but, to be honest, he knew his compassion also had roots in his desire to be accepted among the noble classes, who were by and large loyal monarchists. Still, it was never easy to come to Palace Square and not feel deep and conflicting emotions for the loss of his father.
He should have avoided it altogether today. He didn’t need this to further clutter his already churning thoughts. But when the message arrived for him at the hospital, and he was compelled to leave, his destination took him past the square. He was curious. There might also be news about military conscriptions. He did not relish the idea of going into the army, but he knew he would go if he had to. Still, for the time being, he had a more immediate problem at hand.
Katya.
Since his talk a few days ago with Talia, he had been mentally agonizing over his relationship with Katya. He had realized that he wanted the same things with Katya that he had praised about Talia and Andrei’s relationship.
He loved Katya passionately, thought about her constantly. His heart throbbed whenever he was with her—probably much as Talia had once felt toward him. But he had to ask himself the same question he had posed to Talia. Did he only want a woman to worship? Didn’t he rather want someone at his side, whose passion and need equaled his?
His mother and father’s marriage was a shining standard to him, and he wanted nothing less for himself. Thus, with that in mind, he had to ask himself if Katya was the woman to meet that standard? He had always sensed with her that there could be more. When their times together had been good, they had been very good, even excellent! But those times had been so fleeting. Her warmth and compatibility easily turned cool and distant. The pain of her rejection still hurt him. And always he had the sense that she was holding something back from him. Their last meeting in Moscow had been wonderful. But would it turn cool again? And even if it didn’t, did he and Katya truly have that special something that made a marriage all it should be?
He loved her, and yet he also questioned that love. Perhaps, as with Talia and Andrei, he needed to be separated from Katya in order to evaluate his true need for her. But not separated as in the past when he had been rejected, and thus his yearning for her was mixed up with such an array of other emotions. Perhaps he needed to step back from the relationship while it was good, and of his own free will. Then he might be able to more rationally assess what was real and important in it.
Yet it was no easy thing to break off with this woman whom he had been pursuing for nearly two years—and to break off when he had finally won her! It seemed insane, but he knew no other way. If only he could break through those barriers that seemed to hinder them from achieving true closeness. Her distance undermined the kind of trust necessary for a permanent relationship to grow. He felt she loved him, yet she always kept him at arm’s length.
What else could he do but back off? If he couldn’t penetrate her barriers, then did he have any other choice?
All this reasoning would be moot, of course, if she had continued to stay away. It had been a month since their meeting in Moscow. True, she had written him, explaining about the unavoidable circumstance that required her attention. She said there was an illness in the family. But she had been rather vague about it, and he couldn’t keep from wondering if it was just another excuse. Maybe it was her way of gently backing out of any verbal commitments she had made.
Thus, when the message was delivered to him at the hospital, he was torn. Katya had returned to St. Petersburg and wanted to see him. He had walked a good deal of the way, his steps taking him past Palace Square, to have a chance to sort out his feelings before seeing her. But all the activity on the Square had prevented that. When he arrived at her grandmother’s house on Petersburg Side, he was no closer to understanding himself than when he had begun.
The meeting between him and Katya was difficult from the beginning. She had actually invited him in, an occurrence that had happened only twice before. This time he was escorted into the parlor, and a servant brought them tea. Katya seemed more relaxed and at ease with him than ever before. But even that worried Yuri.
“What a time I’ve had these last couple of weeks!” she said. “I’ve never had anyone close to me so ill before. It was difficult.”
“Who exactly was ill, Katya?”
“Then there was the news about poor Father Grigori.” She blithely ignored his question. “I haven’t seen him for such a long time and felt so guilty. It has been almost a year since I promised I would see him,
and I never did. I will make a point of seeing him now that I am returned to Petersburg.”
“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to stay away forever.”
“Not this time, Yuri!” She smiled radiantly, and he felt his heart race. “I thought constantly about you while I was gone—”
“When you weren’t occupied with your worry over Rasputin.” He regretted the caustic words. He was slipping into his old pattern, momentarily forgetting that this relationship no longer controlled him as it once had.
“Why, Yuri, it sounds almost as if you are jealous!”
“Not at all. I am glad the priest is better.”
“You don’t agree with all those who were wishing he wouldn’t survive?”
“No.” But he couldn’t infuse his denial with enough enthusiasm.
“I think it’s terrible, Yuri, that anyone, especially a doctor, would wish ill to any human being.”
“Katya, I don’t wish ill upon Rasputin, but I do hope you will think twice about seeing the man.”
“Who do you think you are telling me whom I should see and whom I shouldn’t—!” She stopped, her face twisting in frustration. “Blast you, Yuri! I didn’t want to fight on our reunion. I wanted it to be special when I responded to our conversation from the last time we saw each other.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you I’d think about marriage. Well, I have, and—”
Yuri looked away. He could tell by the sudden glow in her eyes that she was on the verge of accepting his proposal. His mouth went dry. What irony!
“What is it, Yuri?” He could not meet her questioning eyes. “Oh no . . . you’ve changed, haven’t you?”
“It’s not that, it’s—”
“How could I blame you?” On the verge of tears, her voice cracked. “I pushed you away so many times, treated your love so cruelly—”
“Katya!” Yuri broke in. “It’s me as much as you.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he said more firmly, “Listen to me. I haven’t changed, not in the way you think. I still love you. But I have to be honest. Lately I’ve questioned that love. Have I loved you or loved an image I had of you and of what we could have together? Katya, I want to love a real person—someone I can trust and who can trust me, someone I can share my life with. We have passion, but is that all we want? I fear it is all we will ever have, as things are now. I feel that there is a wall between us of . . . I don’t know what. Mistrust, fear? What is it, Katya? Unless we can overcome that barrier, even the passion we feel will diminish. I cannot enter a union with someone who occasionally touches my heart, then retreats again.”
The Russians Collection Page 215