“They are trying to blame that on Lenin? Ridiculous.”
“Perhaps so, but it was enough to get the Preobrazhensky, the Semenovsky, and the Izmailovsky Guards to swing their support to the Provisional Government.”
“And so it’s over.”
“Kerensky has issued warrants for Lenin, Zinoviev, and Trotsky’s arrest, and any other Bolshevik leaders they can name. The Bolsheviks are being set up as scapegoats for the demonstrations. If only the government knew that it took Lenin as much by surprise as anyone.”
“I still can’t believe Lenin would betray Russia.”
“It does not help his case that he traveled to Russia on a German train.”
“No, it doesn’t. Unfortunately, Lenin would do almost anything to gain power. But he is smart enough to know how even a hint of collusion with the Germans would hurt him in the long run.”
“If he didn’t, he knows now.”
Suddenly, the front door of the room burst open. “We’ve got to get out of here!” the new arrival yelled. He was one of the Pravda staff. “Government troops have raided the Kshesinskaya Palace. Lenin escaped but many have been arrested.”
Rudy turned to Andrei. “Can you walk?”
“I’ll have to. Can I lean on you one more time?”
There was general mayhem in the office now as everyone began madly scurrying about, some trying to gather their belongings, others frantically pitching incriminating papers into the stove. Andrei got to his feet, using Rudy as a crutch. He tried to ignore the spinning room as he took a couple tentative steps.
He had barely moved a few inches from the cot when the doors crashed open once more. This time a dozen armed government troops stormed into the room. Shots were fired into the air and the frenzy of activity stopped short.
“All right!” ordered the leader of the troops. “Everyone against that wall.”
The Bolsheviks complied, though they couldn’t tell if they were about to be summarily executed. While three or four of the troops held rifles and machine guns on the Bolsheviks, the others ranged through the room smashing furnishings, dumping files, cutting upholstery with bayonets—in short, destroying all they could of the pesky little Bolshevik organ Pravda.
Andrei wondered if this was really the end. After all Lenin had been through over the years, could it really be over so quickly? But the worst of it to Andrei was that he really did not care. While his comrades looked in horror upon the destruction of their hopes and dreams, he could only think that this had never really been his dream. During the years of exile with Lenin, along with the more recent months, he had always been leading a double life. No wonder it had been so easy for him to succumb to amnesia. He had never in his life had a clear perception of who he was.
Except once.
“I don’t hate the tsar, Papa. You taught me not to. That’s why I’m asking to be part of this. When I grow up, I want to be able to say that I marched with the men who brought freedom to Russia. Please, Papa! Let me walk beside you.”
That final talk with his father was clearer to him now than it had ever been before. That had been his dream. The association with the Bolskeviks had, if anything, only muddled that dream.
And there had been one other important dream, one other thing that defined who he was—Talia. Only with her had he ever been the real Andrei. But his muddled perceptions had caused him to lose her, too. And now, staring down the barrel of a government rifle, he feared she would never be restored to him. His papa and mama had received a second chance when Papa miraculously returned from Siberia. But such miracles did not always happen. Life did not always have a happy ending.
“Move it,” growled one of the troops, as if to confirm Andrei’s fear. “You scum aren’t going to stir up this city anymore.”
He jabbed Andrei with his rifle, and with Rudy giving him support, they were herded outside and into a waiting truck. Within an hour, Andrei was processed into the Peter and Paul Fortress. He thought of the many great men who had spent time within those cold, dank cells—his own father had been one. He thought of rotting away in this prison and of life slipping away from him once more.
18
The July heat managed to penetrate the stout walls of the West End men’s club where Lord Bruce MacDuff occasionally took his leisure when in London. The overhead fans turned lazily, stirring little, hardly even disturbing the haze of smoke from expensive cigars, pipe tobacco, and cigarettes. His companions seated around a card table had stripped to their shirtsleeves. Freddie had even unbuttoned his collar.
“If I can’t open my collar here,” he had defended himself when the others had taunted him, “then where, pray tell?”
“You are right, of course,” chuckled Charlie. “No women, no collar buttons. It makes complete sense.” He loosened his own button.
“Whose deal is it?” asked Gus. He was winning and did not not want his momentum broken.
“Perhaps we can take a bit of a breather,” said Bruce. “And have a glass of sherry.”
“That’s all right for you, Finkie,” said Gus. “You’re losing.”
“We’re all losing, Gus,” said the general. “None of us have a chance of gaining on you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a card or two hiding up your sleeve.”
Bruce signaled a waiter and in a few moments crystal glasses of fine sherry, along with a decanter, were placed on the table. Bruce struck a match and set it to a cigarette while the general and Charlie, the king’s cousin, tamped tobacco into their pipes and lit them. Gus the banker and Freddie the shipping magnate lit up Cuban cigars. It was no coincidence they were all gathered together once more that warm summer day. Bruce had called them specifically, but saw no reason not to mix business with a little pleasure. However, after several games of faro, the time had come to get to the point of their meeting.
“So, Bruce, why don’t you bring everyone up to date on our little pet project?” suggested the general.
“Perhaps we ought to have some sort of code name for this business,” said Bruce.
“What?” said Charlie. “Something like ‘operation blue blood’?”
“It’s hardly an operation,” said Gus, ever the conservative.
“I should think Bruce would like it to be otherwise,” said Charlie sagely.
“I only want to do what is right,” Bruce replied.
“For the moment, it appears there is nothing in Russia to be alarmed over.” Gus lifted his glass to his lips.
“I hope you’re right.” Bruce puffed his cigarette, then continued, “I have had word from my contact that others are attempting to pursue our same goals. The Dowager Empress is in the Crimea with some of the Grand Dukes, and they have apparently organized a rescue effort. But they are under as close scrutiny as the royal family. It is difficult to predict how effective they can be. Also I have been contacted directly by a Serge Markov who is with an organization called the Republican Center. They are interested in restoring Nicholas to the throne—of course a rescue would be part of this—and to that end are soliciting funds. Markov has been in contact with sympathizers in Madrid and Nice as well.”
“Then the situation is well in hand,” said Gus.
“For the time being it is status quo. Kerensky is still committed to protecting the royal family. We can as a group or individually funnel funds into these existing organizations. I plan to give a few thousand pounds to Markov, as I judge him to be sincere. However, I have yet to see any movement with real teeth in it.”
“Then are you simply tossing your money into the trash bin?” questioned Freddie.
“I hope not. Markov will raise awareness of the situation, if nothing else. He is publishing and distributing leaflets in many European cities, and that will be money well spent. I still have not ruled out, however, a more personal part in the rescue—what was the name you used, Charlie?—Operation Blue Blood?”
A waiter approached the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but the evening papers have arrived.” He passe
d one to each man.
The headline read: “New Russian insurrection barely contained.”
The general was the first to look up after reading the article. “Incredible!” he breathed and took a long swallow of his sherry.
“I never dreamed the Bolsheviks could ever mount a viable opposition,” said Gus. “Good heavens, if they take over the country I shudder at how it could affect the world economy. I am certainly no student of Marx, but his economic theses are frightening at best.”
“Forget economics,” said the general. “The Bolsheviks have leveled the loudest protest against Kerensky’s mild treatment of the tsar. They would have the man tossed in their Fortress at the very least.”
“They could never let the tsar live,” said Charlie. “Nor the heir, nor even the tsar’s brother. If the Bolsheviks usurped power, they could never live with the constant threat posed by a surviving monarch, even if he was exiled.”
“But Lenin did not usurp power,” said Gus. “The Provisional Government prevailed.”
“Barely.” Bruce tapped his cigarette on the edge of a brass ashtray. “Tens of thousands demonstrated against the government and even against the Soviet, which is supposed to represent the people. Even if the government won this time, they must realize their hold is tenuous at best.”
“Still,” said Freddie, “Lenin is in hiding, and several of the important leaders have been arrested. Do you really think Lenin can come back from that? Not to mention the accusations that he is in collusion with the Germans. That’s what helped turn the tide against the Bolsheviks.”
Bruce crushed out his cigarette. “I think it is time for me to go to Russia and see firsthand what is going on. It’s the only way we will know for certain what to do.”
“It’s far too risky,” said Gus. “I mean, I want to save the tsar, but is it really something any of us wants to risk his own life over?”
“You worry far too much, Gus,” said Bruce, lighting another cigarette. “I can get into the country quite legitimately. I’ll have no problem getting the proper papers. And even if everything isn’t in perfect order, the country is so chaotic, I doubt anyone would notice or care.”
The men all looked at one another. They realized now that since they had begun meeting and discussing a rescue of the tsar, they had been thinking mainly in terms of the idea of rescue. Actually going to the country, possibly sneaking about, or even physically removing the royal family from Russia had not really entered their minds. With the exception of Bruce. From the start he had known that he would do the thing, even if it meant by his own hand breaking into the palace, knocking out a guard or two, and leading the royals to safety. He would never have become involved in the first place if it had merely been a mental exercise.
He now faced his friends with a steely, determined gaze in his eye. And he prayed he had not misjudged them, and that in the end, these pampered gentlemen of British nobility would rise to the call and show themselves to be made of true British grit.
Freddie, the quietest of the lot, was the first to speak. He licked his lips nervously. He had not had to serve in the present war because of a slightly crippled leg. He had never fought a physical battle in his life. Not that he was in any way being called upon to do so now. Nevertheless, by supporting his friend he was taking on a burden that was for him as physical as might ever be expected of him.
“Listen here, Finkie. I ought to be able to get you a businessman’s visa. I have a small office in Moscow, and couriers are coming and going all the time—well, not as often lately because of the difficulties, but it can be done. I should also be able to supply a vessel in the Baltic—for transport of the royals when and if that becomes necessary.”
“Thank you, Freddie.”
Everyone then fell in with their support, even Gus. Bruce thought he could be ready to go in a few weeks. Maybe in the meantime Kerensky would have found more legitimate means to get the tsar and his family away from Russia. But Bruce would be ready in any case.
19
After the July rising Prince Lvov resigned, and Kerensky took over the position of prime minister of the Provisional Government. He spent a great deal of his time visiting the Front and trying to bolster the morale of the troops, now seriously demoralized after the failed summer offensive. The rate of desertions rose to twelve thousand a week. The soldiers, many of them peasants, did not want to be killed before they could partake of the fruits of the revolution, specifically land ownership.
Those soldiers who did return home, however, quickly discovered that owning land in a time of huge food shortages and social and political chaos was hardly a boon. And things were only getting worse.
When Paul Burenin came to visit Anna, she listened halfheartedly to his account of how valiantly Kerensky was battling the tremendous obstacles facing him. She shocked him by commenting that Kerensky was making a huge mistake in keeping the war going.
“But, Anna, you don’t understand,” Paul tried patiently to explain. “Not only does it involve the honor of fulfilling our commitments, but the Allies are brokering large loans to us contingent upon our continued war effort. Our government, indeed our entire economy, might collapse without those loans. If you think there are shortages now—”
“Paul, even I can see that a huge percentage of those loans must go toward financing the war—manufacturing guns and such.”
“And war production employs men, putting money in their pockets so they can buy bread.”
“But there is no bread.”
“Well, Anna, I won’t argue the economic benefits of war when, in truth, I don’t believe much in them myself. And Kerensky’s motives are far less economic than moral.”
An awkward silence followed as both tried to search for a new topic of conversation.
“How is Mathilde?” Anna asked finally. Shortly after the revolution, Paul’s wife had been diagnosed with cancer.
“She has her good days and her bad. Yuri has increased her dose of pain medication. I fear she hasn’t long.”
“I am so sorry, Paul. You know that anytime you feel she needs more constant care, I would be more than happy to have her here. I know how demanding your duties in the government can be.”
“I would rather she be close to me. I will resign my position if I must. I want to be with her at the . . . end.” His voice became choked and sudden tears rose in his eyes. Anna reached out and took his hand in hers. “I love her so much. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.” His voice trembled over the words. He had obviously been holding back his emotion over Mathilde’s illness for a long time. “So much has been happening I haven’t had time to let myself think of it.”
At that moment, Daniel and Mariana returned home. They also did not bring good news. Mariana’s travel papers were about to expire, and they had been haunting the immigration department trying to get an extension.
“There are literally thousands of others trying to get out of the country,” Mariana said. “I’m on a waiting list, but it could take weeks, even months.”
“One clerk had the nerve to suggest that I take the children and leave, with Mariana following later,” said Daniel.
“I think you should,” said Mariana, and a look passed between the couple, indicating this was a touchy subject. “You only have a few months left on your visas.”
“Why haven’t you said anything to me sooner?” asked Paul. “I could probably get an approval from the prime minister himself.”
“Until now we have wavered about leaving at all,” said Daniel.
“I have wavered,” corrected Mariana.
“I haven’t helped,” said Daniel with a conciliatory smile at his wife. “Russia has been a journalistic gold mine. I’ve done some of my best stuff these last few months.”
“I can probably get you an extension, Mariana, at least until Daniel’s visa expires. That would get you another few months with your mother, and Daniel a chance to see the revolution to its conclusion.”
“A
conclusion, you say . . . ?” queried Daniel.
“I have faith the government will stabilize soon.”
“Even after the July business?”
“Kerensky is far more motivated than Lvov to implement the desires of the Proletariat. Kerensky is a man of the people, not a prince.”
“What about the Proletariat’s desires regarding the disposition of the tsar?” Without seeming even to realize it, Daniel was turning the conversation into an interview. He lacked only his pad and pencil in hand.
“If the people are appeased in other vital areas, I believe the new prime minister can convince them to support his commitment to protect the tsar. He does not want to become the Marat of the Russian Revolution, and I believe deep in their hearts the Russian people do not want another Reign of Terror.”
“Can I quote you on that, Uncle Paul?”
“Now, now, gentlemen,” said Anna. “Is there nothing else we can talk about?”
But it was hard indeed, in light of all that was happening in the world, in their country, and in their personal lives, to come up with much trivial discussion. Eventually Paul took his leave and Daniel went to spend some time with his children while Anna and Mariana went to the kitchen to see what to do about dinner.
In the midst of holding together a shaky government and overseeing an even shakier war machine, Kerensky had to also make some decision regarding the royal family. The government might have blocked the July uprising, but the fact that it had come so close to failing proved that the government, at best, was unstable. As the furor over the rumors about Lenin’s German connections began to die down, it became apparent that the Bolsheviks were still a strong voice. They took any opportunity to spread their propaganda among the Imperial guards at the palace. Also, the nearness of Tsarskoe Selo to Kronstadt Naval Base, which was growing more and more rebellious, made the tsar’s continued residence risky at best. It was imperative to get the royal family away from the center of activity. “Out of sight, out of mind,” or at least Kerensky hoped so.
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