The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Suddenly another sound joined that of his breathing—a small scuttling sound. When he glanced to his side, he saw a rat creep toward him.

  “Well, I’m not alone, after all . . .” he murmured to the creature.

  The rat scurried under a pile of garbage, and silence reigned again. The pain throbbed incessantly now, and he tried to lie flat, hoping that would help. But the movement only made the agony worse. For a moment he blacked out, then he willed himself awake again. As long as he was conscious, he might be able to stay alive.

  “I don’t want to die here,” he thought.

  He wanted to be with his family, with the people he loved. He wanted to see Talia one more time, to tell her how much he loved her. . . . But it was too late for that . . . he’d never see her again . . . her wide, doe eyes, her tender smile . . .

  Consciousness began to slip from him again. He couldn’t fight it any longer. At least then maybe the pain would go away. . . .

  “Kitty, kitty!” came a sweet voice into Andrei’s clouded mind.

  “Talia . . . ?” Andrei murmured. “I knew you hadn’t given up on me . . .” But even as the dreamlike thought arose from his delirium, he sensibly told himself that Talia had no cat.

  But she might have one now . . . how do I know . . . ? I’m sorry I stayed away so long . . . maybe her young man . . .

  What a fool I was. . . .

  “Here, kitty!”

  The voice was sweet like Talia’s, but there was no way she could have found him here. He was only imagining it. . . .

  It was fitting, though, that his last thoughts were not of the revolution that had so dominated his life, but rather of Talia and Yuri and his mama . . .

  Ah, Mama . . .

  He was sorry that he had to be the cause of more loss in her life. Mama’s dear face, twisted with pain and grief, was the final image in his mind before everything went completely black.

  Yuri paused outside his mama’s apartment. He dreaded having to go in there and report the death of her son. In fact, he was tempted to leave Katya and the others at the doorstep and turn around and head back to the place where he had left Andrei. Maybe he was still alive. And even if he was dead, Yuri could not leave his brother’s body out there to the whims of the marauding rebels.

  He would go back after him, but first he had to tell his mama. Another minute or two would probably not make much difference to a . . . dead man—but it would to his mama. He feared what this loss would do to her. Andrei was her baby, and though she loved all her children equally, Yuri knew Andrei held a special place in her heart. He was the youngest, the rebel, the one she always had to work so hard to maintain a relationship with.

  And Yuri also wished—desperately—that Andrei had not died saving him. Yuri had enough blood on his hands. How could he bear this?

  Katya patted Yuri’s arm. “Are you going to knock?”

  He nodded and, with a ragged sigh, pounded on the door of the flat.

  Anna opened the door. “Oh, thank God, you are finally here!” She gave Yuri and Katya and Irina a hug. “Come in! Did Andrei get through? I hope you didn’t have trouble getting here.”

  “Mama . . .” Yuri began, but words caught in his throat, and he could say no more.

  “You missed Andrei, didn’t you? Well, he’ll find his way back. You must be freezing, and I have little heat to offer you except warm bodies. It’s a good thing there are so many of us.”

  “Mama,” Yuri tried again, “there was trouble. Andrei—”

  “What about Andrei? You did see him?”

  “We were attacked by some ruffians. Andrei was—”

  “Hurt?” She spoke the word so hopefully, as if unable to consider any other possibility.

  “He was shot. I had to leave him in order to get the others to safety. There was no other choice, you must understand. I would have never left him, but I had to think of Katya and Irina and the other women. I’m going to go back now to get him. I’m—”

  “He was only wounded?”

  Yuri’s hesitation was not the answer she sought.

  “No!” Her knees seemed to go weak and she staggered back. Daniel, who had joined the group, caught her.

  Yuri looked at his brother-in-law. “I wouldn’t have left him, Daniel. I had no choice.”

  “I know that, Yuri. Your mother knows that.”

  “I’m going back for him right now. I just wanted to get my family to safety.”

  “Then he’s not . . . ?” Daniel’s voice held the same note of hope.

  Yuri looked away. He had seen men die on the battlefield from far less serious wounds. But it wasn’t just the wound itself that was dangerous. The bleeding had been profuse, and he had been left to bleed now for half an hour. But the weather was as likely to kill Andrei as the wound. It had been thirty below in the daylight, and even if the storm raised the temperature a few degrees, it was still too cold for a man to survive long, exposed and unprotected in an alley.

  Yuri did not relate all these things to his family. For now it might be best to keep a little grain of hope alive—it would lessen the blow of the final realization that Andrei was indeed gone.

  Nevertheless, Yuri was hardly convincing when he said, “He may be alive. I’ve got to find out.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Daniel said. “You’ll need help to bring him back.” Was he thinking of that awful day on Bloody Sunday when he had carried a wounded Andrei back to his mama? The day their papa had died?

  Yuri did not argue. He was glad for the company on this grim errand.

  Outside, they were greeted with a full-fledged snowstorm. Wind howled and snow swirled everywhere. It was crazy to venture out in such elements. But Yuri felt crazy—insane with grief and guilt and pain.

  They drove the delivery wagon to where Yuri had commandeered it—that is, to where he thought he had taken it. In his haste to get away, he hadn’t paid much attention. And the storm made it even more difficult to pinpoint the location. From there, they went on foot because the wagon was useless, negotiating the many narrow alleys, trying to find the alley where Andrei had been left. But everywhere they looked they found nothing. All were deserted.

  Yuri was now completely confused. They had gone down so many alleys and back streets in their flight. He grew frantic, running down the streets like a wild man, slipping in the ice, pulling himself back up, racing down another alley.

  But nothing!

  Even the rebels had taken shelter from the storm. The streets were deserted.

  Stumbling, his feet frozen, his eyes nearly blinded by the storm, he turned into another alley. Daniel, who had barely been able to keep pace with Yuri’s frenzy, raced up behind Yuri.

  But this alley, too, was empty.

  Yuri spun around, ready to tear off in another direction. But Daniel caught him.

  “Yuri, it’s no use—” Daniel yelled above the wind.

  “No! He’s got to be here. I have to find him!”

  “You’ve done your best.”

  “How could I be stupid enough not to remember where he was?”

  “Anyone would have had trouble in this storm.”

  “Daniel!” Yuri cried, his tears freezing on his cheeks. “I can’t go back without him.”

  They searched for another hour, until they were both so frozen they could barely move. They tried to find the wagon again, but either some kind soul had taken the horse to shelter or they were hopelessly lost. It was another half hour before they came to the familiar area of the Admiralty. Everyone here had taken cover from the storm; only a few guards braved the elements. The streets of Petrograd were quieter than they had been in days. It had taken nature to quell the force of the revolution, to do what the tsar of all the Russias had been impotent to do.

  In complete despair, Yuri turned his face toward home. He had failed. Even if Andrei had survived his wound, he would never survive exposed to this storm.

  70

  The Imperial train had made it to Pskov. It had
been forced to detour here because rebel troops had blockaded the southern route. In Pskov, Tsar Nicholas received another telegram from Rodzianko. The Duma president made it clear that the time had passed when the tsar could appease the people with a mere “ministry of confidence.” Now there was only one possible way the tsar could hold back the revolution and save the monarchy.

  He must abdicate.

  Nicholas read the latest telegram and glanced around at his advisors, all seated with him in his private railway car, all deathly silent. He rose from his seat and wandered aimlessly to one of the car windows and lifted the shade. It was dark outside, there was nothing to see. But he simply could not focus on the overwhelming decision set before him. Why now, of all times, was he separated from his dear Alix? He needed her strength more than ever.

  Through the night he struggled over his decision. Were there any alternatives left to him? With the defection of the Guards, how could he hope to wrest back his Capital? But even if he could find enough loyal troops, the result would be civil war. Nicholas simply did not have the heart to set Russians against Russians, especially when the hated Germans were still undefeated. In the end, it was patriotism, and love for Russia, that prompted him to make the most difficult, soul-wrenching decision of his life.

  The next morning he met again with his generals and advisors in the same place as the night before. Only the silence changed; now it was charged with expectation.

  The tsar was pale as he spoke, and his voice, though resolved, lacked force and confidence. “I will abdicate the throne in favor of my son.”

  A collective sigh of relief rose from the group, and each man crossed himself.

  Crossing himself also, the tsar thanked the men in the room for their faithful service. He did not say that he was more relieved than any of them over his decision. The shackles of rule were finally loosed. He was a free man. And still he had saved the Crown and passed it on to his son. Yet later, after more thought on the matter, he spoke to Dr. Fedorov and realized that, too, was a fantasy.

  “Doctor, is my son physically able to bear the responsibility of rule?” asked the tsar. “Please be frank.”

  “Your Highness, it is a fickle disease that afflicts your son. He could live to be an old man or a mere bump could kill him. He will always be at the mercy of his disease. And, of course, you know, Your Highness, that you and the tsaritsa will most certainly be exiled from Russia and forbidden contact with your son.”

  Nicholas had, of course, known that. But in a last desperate attempt to save the throne for his son, he had blinded himself to those facts. Now, facing them squarely, he realized he could not bear to be separated from Alexis. And the empress would be devastated by it.

  Still, clinging to a tiny shred of hope, Nicholas reconvened his advisors and informed them he would turn the throne over to his brother, Michael, instead of Alexis.

  “Ilyich! Ilyich!” Stephan Kaminsky raced down the street to catch up with Lenin, who was returning home from a day at the library.

  Lenin turned. “What is it, Stephan? You are making a scene.”

  “You’ll make a scene, too, when you hear the news. The tsar has abdicated!”

  “What?”

  “It’s true, Ilyich. The revolution has succeeded at last.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Kaminsky handed him several newspapers and he read the headlines in utter astonishment. But it didn’t take long for his stunned mind to click into gear. “Stephan, we must have a meeting of the Central Committee immediately. Spread the word, get as many as you can to meet at my place as soon as possible.”

  The next day half a dozen Bolsheviks gathered in Lenin’s Zurich flat. Lenin had hardly slept the night before as he deliberated over all the ramifications of events in Russia. He sent several letters to comrades in other parts of Europe, and one to the leader of the ragtag group of Bolsheviks in Russia. Who knew if the letters would get through? But he had to make the attempt, for it was important that his tactics be clearly spelled out.

  We must neither trust nor support the new government. Be especially suspect of Kerensky. Our only hope of victory is to arm the proletariat.

  His main concern for the moment, however, was getting back to Russia. And toward this end, the group in his flat began brainstorming ideas.

  Because there were no legal ways to travel, they must avail themselves of illegal methods. A dozen improbable ideas were mentioned, including stealing an airplane, flying to Russia, and landing in a field somewhere.

  Lenin suggested that he travel on a forged Swedish passport.

  Krupskaya chuckled. “That would never work, Ilyich. You would fall asleep on the train, dream of Mensheviks, and start cursing aloud in Russian, giving yourself away completely.”

  “There must be a way!” exclaimed Lenin, frustrated. “I must get to Russia soon, while the Provisional Government is confused and weak. Once they gain a foothold, once they establish a power base, we might never be able to usurp control.”

  They discussed a route through France and England and thus by sea to Russia—after all, these countries were allies of Russia. But aside from the difficulty of traveling via the North Sea at that time of year, there was the even more difficult prospect of France and especially England lending support to a bunch of Marxist socialists whose express purpose would be to disrupt the newly formed government of Russia. Lloyd-George of England well knew that Lenin opposed the war, and thus would be very ill-disposed toward supporting anyone who was avowed to pulling Russia out of the conflict.

  “What about traveling through Germany?” offered Stephan.

  The Germans had made overtures in the past through Parvus, and there was no reason to believe that they would not still be favorable to the concept of introducing a rival faction into Russia. The new government was apparently committed to continuing the war, while the Bolsheviks were not. More chaos in Russia would only help the German cause. For Lenin, however, it was a sticky situation. To seek aid from Germany might brand him with the stigma of colluding with the enemy. But Lenin was desperate enough to try any reasonable idea.

  “Let’s pursue the possibility,” he said. “But I don’t want any Russian to deal directly with the Germans. Stephan, contact Fritz Platten, the leader of the Swiss Socialist party, and have him open negotiations with the Germans. I’m sure Parvus would act as a go-between.”

  71

  Paul had braved the blizzard to bring the news of the tsar’s abdication to his wife and family. Anna felt a little bad for him that it wasn’t received with the ovations he had expected, but he understood when Mathilde drew him aside and explained the situation.

  Anna, however, didn’t understand—she couldn’t understand. She had sacrificed Sergei and Andrei to this cause, to freedom for Russia. It just did not seem worth it. What would it matter if Russia did change, suddenly became a democracy, or constitutional monarchy, or a socialist state? The many women who had given their husbands and sons would never be free, not from the bondage of their grief.

  Maybe that was selfish of her. Neither Sergei nor Andrei would have done anything less than die for what they believed in. But the heroes who died did not have to live with the ache of emptiness in their hearts.

  Oh, Andrei! My baby! Have I truly lost you? Will I never again look into your dear eyes, filled with such zest and vitality? So sure of yourself, so ready to jump into a fray. Impulsive, gentle, and exuberant, with the look of a fine peasant, and the soul of a sensitive artist. How can you be lost to me and to those you touched with your wonderful spirit?

  Anna wandered over to a window and pulled back a corner of the drape. She was hardly aware of the conversation from the fifteen people gathered in her parlor. Watching the swirling snowstorm, she became entranced by it. She felt as if she were out in its midst, cold and so very confused. It was fitting that such a storm should rage this day.

  And despite her grief, she could not help thinking of Russia. What would become of it now? Was it cold and dead, as
she feared her son was? Or was there yet hope that it, too, might rise above chaos and death? Then old Papa Yevno’s words crept into her consciousness: “Anna, always remember, where there’s life, there’s hope.”

  In Paul’s mind, Russia was being reborn. Perhaps he would even insist that Andrei was still out there alive . . . somewhere.

  Anna tried hard to have such hope. She prayed that God would reach into her grieving heart and bolster the places where her hope failed. She prayed that somehow God would help her to see beyond her pain.

  Then a little squeal of laughter caught Anna’s attention. She turned her gaze away from the window to a corner of the room where Zenia and Irina were playing together. Something had amused Zenia, and she was giggling loudly. Mariana glanced at her mother, then leaned down and gently hushed her uninhibited daughter.

  “Let her be,” Anna said. “Perhaps she can teach us something, eh?” Sighing, she turned back to the window. “But I don’t know what. . . .”

  Yuri came to her and put his arm around her. He was, undoubtedly, the most miserable person in the room—perhaps even more so than she. He felt responsible for what had happened to his brother, maybe even responsible for what was happening in Russia. Because of his part in killing Rasputin, the revolution had been set off. Since he had returned home late last night from his unsuccessful search for his brother, Anna had not been much comfort to him. He had been nearly frozen to death himself and as discouraged and dejected as a man could be. But she had been too wrapped up in her own pain and grief.

  Now she attempted to make up for it. She put her arm around her son and held him tightly. “Look to the children, Yuri,” she said. “They are our reason for going on; they are our reason to hope. And, yes, they can even be an example to us.”

  “Do you expect me to laugh like little Zenia, Mama?”