“I am not,” Andrei retorted. “I am Citizen Malenkiy Soldat.”
“Malenkiy Soldat . . . ? I’ve heard that name—”
“Of course you have. I am a Bolshevik. I’ve only just come from Lenin himself.”
“He’s here?”
“No, but he will be soon. Now quit wasting your time here. Find some real aristocrats—”
Andrei stopped, distracted by the sound of beating footsteps, followed immediately by a door being flung open and the sudden appearance of a panting, disheveled figure. Yuri!
“What have you done with my family?” Yuri cried. He pushed aside one of the rebels as he strode into the foyer, looking frantically all around.
Another man jumped on Yuri and held him firm. “I got me one!” the man shouted as Yuri struggled to get free.
“You didn’t look so good, after all,” the leader said to Andrei. “Search the rest of the house. There must be more.”
Half the mob started tramping through the house, some running up the stairs, others opening doors on the lower level. From one of the rooms someone yelled, “I’ll burn ’em out of their hiding places!”
“Wait!” said Andrei to the leader. “You can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
Andrei didn’t hesitate with his reply, for it was the only thing he could think of that might save the situation. “This is the man who killed Rasputin. He’s a hero.”
“What’s this?” The leader frowned skeptically.
“I’ve been sent here by the Petrograd Soviet to bring him in for questioning—and possibly a commendation.”
“What proof have you?”
“He’s Prince Fedorcenko,” said Andrei.
Another man in the crowd piped up, “That’s one of ’em! I heard the name, but they never could prove it, so he didn’t get arrested. Everyone knew, though, all the same.”
The leader now looked at Yuri. “Are you Fedorcenko?”
Yuri licked his lips, seeming hesitant to answer. He looked at Andrei, only his eyes showing recognition of his brother.
“Yes,” Yuri finally replied.
“You don’t seem so sure.”
“I’m not proud of being a murderer.”
“Prove you’re Fedorcenko, and I’ll let you go.”
Yuri took his wallet from his pocket and handed it over. It contained his hospital identification and his military pass.
“All right. We’ll clear out,” said the leader. “But you better clear out, too. I can’t promise what anyone else will do. The jail has been liberated, and there’s some rough types roaming the streets.”
He called an order to his companions and they left the house, some less willingly than others. Only after the last man left did Andrei smell smoke from upstairs.
“We better keep moving,” Andrei said. “Your wife—”
“Where is she? Katya!”
“She’s fine. I got here before those fellows. But there’ll be more, others who may not be as impressed at meeting Rasputin’s killer.”
“Andrei, I meant what I said back there. I am ashamed of what I did.”
“I’m not surprised. We’ll talk about it later. Now, let’s move.”
Andrei turned toward the room where Katya was hiding, but Yuri grasped his arm. “At least I can say thank you. You saved my skin—and my family’s, too.”
“We’re brothers, Yuri,” Andrei said impatiently. “Now, come on!”
By the time they gathered everyone together, flames were visible on the upstairs landing.
“My house!” the elderly countess murmured, then said no more as silent tears spilled down her cheeks. Not only her house, but the only world she had ever known was going up in flames.
Andrei was more worried about the appearance of his charges. They all had on heavy winter coats and fur hats and muffs—all of the highest quality and fashion. Even Yuri was dressed in a suit and overcoat of fine, aristocratic tailoring. They would be warm enough, but their dress shouted “aristocrat.” There was nothing to be done about it now.
Katya suggested bringing along the sword for protection, but it was heavy and cumbersome and the blade was dull. There were no other weapons, but that was just as well. Andrei would kill to protect Yuri and his family, but if they were unarmed, they might not be placed in such a position in the first place. Andrei did not want to kill anyone, especially his own political comrades.
Yuri led them along to a passage that, by way of the cellar, would lead them to the street. He said he had seen the mob on his way home from the hospital and had entered the house by this way. The passage led to an alley behind the mansion. They kept as much as possible to back streets, and the gathering night offered some additional protection.
And for the first time in ages, as he herded the group through the waning dusk, Andrei prayed.
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When they crossed the Trinity Bridge, a group of soldiers challenged them, but let them go when Andrei told them the aristocrats were his prisoners and he was taking them to Tauride Palace.
Yuri looked with amazement at his brother as they set off again. “I didn’t know you could think so well on your feet, Andrei. You’ve quite a talent for it.”
Andrei shrugged. “I suppose my impetuous tongue is good for something.”
On the south side of the river, they paused for a brief rest in a deserted alley. The older women were winded, and Irina had started to cry. Andrei considered taking them to the Duma building—it was not far, and Uncle Paul might be there and thus could vouch for them. But he had glimpsed the mobs demonstrating in front of the palace. It would be too risky passing among the demonstrators, especially with the way his companions were dressed. Besides, he had heard the situation inside the palace bordered on chaos itself. Rebel groups were coming and going, attempting to plead their cause before the quasi-government. And the government was in no less disarray with the Provisional Committee, consisting mostly of liberals and monarchists, in constant dispute with the socialistic Petrograd Soviet.
Andrei discussed these things with the group, and they unanimously decided that they wanted to get to Vassily Island and Anna’s. To all, Anna’s home stood out as a haven, perhaps the only true haven in the revolution-torn city. It was a long way to go on foot, but it was almost dark, and perhaps the roaming mobs would seek shelter from the freezing cold of night and the coming storm.
They continued on as snow began to fall. When they reached the Admiralty, the barricades were still in place and there were no friends this time to get them through. They went the long way around. Countess Zhenechka was limping and having trouble breathing. Despite her fancy, fur-lined boots, her feet were frozen and sore. She had never walked so much in her entire life. The other women were doing little better. Though Yuri was carrying the child, each woman had a heavy carpetbag in hand. They stopped again for rest in another alley.
They had rested no more than a minute when three men, one carrying a torch, appeared at the entrance of the alley. It took them several moments to get close, for it was a long alley, and Andrei and his companions were near the far end. Still, there was not enough time for Andrei to get his companions moving. Perhaps the newcomers were not dangerous.
“What have we got here?” asked one of the men when he was close. His voice was deep and grating and definitely not friendly.
“Just some women and a child,” Andrei said.
“What about you, then?”
“Leave us alone.” Yuri had given Irina to her mother and come up next to Andrei.
The men drew close, the torch illuminating the refugees clearly.
“Come on,” said Andrei to his companions. Maybe if they just started moving, the men would let them go. But when the countess moved away from the wall, her legs seemed to fail her, and she crumpled to her knees. Teddie and one of the servants helped her stand, but she was far too unsteady to move. She needed more rest.
“A bunch of bourgeois rats fleeing a sinking ship,” laughed one of t
he men.
“These are helpless women,” said Andrei. “Let them alone.”
“I don’t care what they are! They’re the enemy!” The man started toward the women.
Yuri blocked his way. “Take another step and it’ll be your last!”
“Well, I’ll be,” said the man. “You’re Dr. Fedorcenko—one of them, too.” He turned to his companions. “This is the butcher that took my arm.”
Andrei now noticed that the man’s right sleeve was pinned up. At first, when the fellow indicated he knew Yuri, Andrei had hoped that would be their salvation. Now, of course, it was obvious the man was filled with malice.
“I remember you,” said Yuri. “You had gangrene up to your elbow. You would have died if I hadn’t amputated that arm.”
“I don’t believe a word of it! I was just another serf—one of the masses to sacrifice for the rich promieshik and for the traitor emperor. The tables are turned now, though, ain’t they?”
“Let’s shoot the lot of them and be heros,” one of the men said. He pulled out a pistol he had hidden in his belt beneath his coat.
“Come on,” said Andrei, “you don’t need that.”
The one-armed man laughed. “I like that idea.”
Andrei could hardly believe it when the man raised the weapon and started to squeeze the trigger. Without giving it a second thought, Andrei threw himself at the gunman, grabbing his arm and deflecting the pistol as they both crashed to the icy ground. The pistol fired, and the bullet struck another of the comrades. The amputee, filled with rage, lunged for Yuri. But Andrei saw no more—he had to concentrate fully on his own struggle and the pistol that was still dangerously gripped in his adversary’s hand.
The man wasn’t as big as Andrei, but he was strong, and he kept his finger on the trigger. Andrei had to exercise some care as he attempted to disarm the man. He had no luck beating the hand against the cobbles. He was able to get a couple good blows into the man’s face, but as he did, he loosened his hold on the man’s gun hand. In a split second, the man gave a hard push, raised the pistol, and fired.
The impact of the explosion was like a fist in his gut. It took a couple of heartbeats before Andrei felt anything besides the shock that he was hit. But when the pain became a reality, he swallowed it down. He couldn’t let the man get loose, he had to hang on and try to get that gun. He had to . . .
His vision started to go black. But he fought it. He couldn’t faint. He had to get that gun. Sheer desperation forced Andrei to shake off his shock before his opponent could react. He went for the pistol, while the man’s grip slackened from his own surprise at wounding Andrei. In a moment Andrei was able to knock the gun to the ground, and in another lurch, with pain piercing through his body, he managed to wrap his own hand around the weapon.
Andrei’s foe regained his wits and lunged toward Andrei and the gun, but it was too late. Andrei fired over the man’s head.
“That’s the only warning I’ll give,” Andrei panted. But his hand shook as he aimed the gun. The pain now hit him in full force. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. His vision was blurring. “Get . . . out of here or . . .” His mind went blank for an instant before he remembered what he was going to say. “Or I’ll shoot you both.”
The two assailants gathered up their wounded comrade and retreated from the alley without another word.
The gun slipped from Andrei’s hand, and he fell back on the cobbles.
“Andrei!” Yuri cried and ran to his brother.
Andrei’s heavy coat was already soaked with blood. Yuri opened it enough to see the wound. The bullet had penetrated his side, no more than two inches below his heart.
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“Dear God!” Yuri breathed. It was the only prayer his tortured mind could utter. But his medical instincts bolstered him. He tore off his wool neck scarf and packed it into the wound. If he could keep pressure on it for a few minutes, he might staunch the flow of blood.
But he didn’t have even a few minutes. A dozen men appeared at the far end of the alley. And the amputee whose life Yuri had saved was at the head of the gang, leading them to the horde of dangerous aristocrats.
“Katya,” Yuri said, “take everyone and run.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll help Andrei. Hurry!”
She hesitated only a moment before she obeyed and herded the family toward the end of the alley.
Andrei clutched at Yuri’s sleeve. “No . . . they won’t make it alone . . . you have to go—”
“I’m not leaving you.” Yuri put an arm around Andrei and tried to lift him.
Andrei struggled to gain his feet, but he simply did not have the strength. Yuri tried to lift his brother in his arms, but it was impossible. Andrei was too heavy for him. Giving one desperate, final tug, Yuri slipped on the ice and they both crashed back to the ground with Andrei crying out in pain.
“You have to try to stand,” Yuri pleaded.
“Even if I could stand, I’d slow you down.”
“Then we’ll die together!”
“Don’t be . . . foolish, Yuri. Get your family out of here . . .”
“I can’t leave you.”
“I . . . I’m not going to . . . make it—”
“You will!”
The mob had spotted them now and was shouting and cursing at them. But they were approaching cautiously. Perhaps the amputee had warned them about the pistol. If they had been seriously armed they would have come with weapons drawn. Still, a dozen men, even if armed only with knives and clubs, could easily overtake two men and a single pistol.
“Get me . . . the gun . . .” Andrei said. “Then run, Yuri. Protect the women . . . you must!”
There wasn’t time to argue, and Yuri couldn’t drag his brother away—he had already proved that with his puny efforts before. Even though Yuri felt completely inadequate to help them, the women couldn’t make it through the city alone. And certainly Katya would not leave without him. He saw out of the corner of his eye that, having herded the others to the opposite end of the alley, she was indeed returning for him.
Yuri gave Andrei the gun, then helped him to lean against a wall.
“Yuri, there was no choice . . .” Andrei said. He fired once into the mob. “I love you, Yuri. Now go!”
Yuri hesitated another moment. Sacrifice the one to save the many. It didn’t seem so logical now. He glanced at the women. They were not in sight—except for Katya, who was moving toward him. Yuri looked at his brother. How could he make such a decision?
The mob started moving again. Andrei fired, and one of the attackers screamed.
“Run, Yuri!” Andrei cried.
He pulled the trigger again, but the pistol produced only an empty click. Realizing he was leaving his brother with an empty gun, Yuri turned back. Then Andrei slumped over. At the same moment the mob, seeing that the pistol was no longer a threat, broke into a run, heading straight toward Yuri and Katya. The rebels had no interest in a fallen enemy with a useless gun. There was no other choice now for Yuri but to shepherd his family to safety. And perhaps Yuri could do some good for his brother by drawing the mob away from him. He took Katya’s hand and ran, pausing once to look over his shoulder, but Andrei had not moved.
The others were halfway down the street, but Yuri and Katya soon caught up to them. Yuri quickly took Irina from Teddie, and, still holding Katya’s hand, urged them all to keep moving. He had no idea how they would outrun the mob. Countess Zhenechka was nearly spent. And now the snow was coming down harder, driven by an icy wind. Their only hope was that the storm would slow down the mob as well.
He turned down the first street they came to, hoping to lose their pursuers. But Yuri and his family were too slow. The mob spotted them. He must find another means of escape, for they could not keep up this race for much longer. Perhaps a place to hide—
Then he saw it.
An empty delivery wagon was parked outside a shop. The horse hitched in front looked as
old and worn as Yevno’s old workhorse, but Yuri figured it would do the job.
Yuri herded everyone into the back, then jumped into the driver’s seat, giving the old nag a flick on the rear with the crop. The animal lurched forward at a leisurely pace, obviously not accustomed to hurry of any kind. Yuri snapped her rear again, this time harder. The pursuers were close now. Glancing over his shoulder, Yuri saw one try to jump into the back of the wagon. Katya and Teddie pushed him out. Another man took his place, and from somewhere in the wagon, Katya produced a stick and began beating at their attacker. Holding up his hands to protect himself from the flailing stick, the man fell off.
Finally, the horse started moving. But the noise of the mob, along with Yuri’s frantic yells at the horse, brought out the delivery men, who also gave chase to the wagon. Finally the old mare caught her stride and showed more stamina than outward appearances might have indicated. In a couple of minutes the mob was left behind, with no hope of catching up.
The shouts of the mob faded into the distance. The alley, which a moment before had been a riot of activity, suddenly fell into complete silence. Andrei could hear only his own shallow, labored breathing. At least he was still breathing. Andrei had slumped over when the gun ran out of ammunition, hoping Yuri would think him dead and thus give his attention to the living. But he had the feeling his ruse had only worked because, with the mob bearing down on Yuri, he’d had no other choice but to flee.
Their chances of outrunning the mob were slim, but he hoped Yuri and his family would make it to safety. Maybe his mama was praying for them; maybe her God would somehow rescue Yuri and his family. Andrei had no hope for a similar rescue for himself. He didn’t think he’d last much longer. He’d never known such pain before, not even when he had been shot in the shoulder on Bloody Sunday. He could feel that he was still bleeding, although he couldn’t look at his wound. The sight of the blood made him as sick as the pain itself, and he didn’t want to take the chance of passing out.
Was he to die alone, then, in a dark, deserted alley? He never thought that’s how life would end for him—not that he ever thought much about his end at all. Yuri was the one to ponder such things. Andrei just assumed he’d live forever.
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