The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “I suppose if you must search, you must. But I’ll bet your father said it was a very simple matter.”

  “He did. How is it so for you, Talia? Why does your faith never waver?”

  “I can’t say it never wavers. When I thought you were dead, there were times I wondered if God was any use at all.”

  “But you didn’t give it up—your faith, that is.”

  “A person’s faith and their reasons for faith are not always simple to define. God feels far away at times, sometimes He feels very close. But I’m sure it’s me that does the changing, not He. And that’s just it. We are changing so much and, not surprisingly, our faith changes with us—but the object of that faith never changes, and that is why I cannot give it up even when God feels far away. He is still God, you see, and the fact of His mercy and love and redemption are always constant.”

  Andrei smiled. “I was thinking of something similar to that not long ago. Papa once said that very thing.”

  Talia returned the smile. “I know. I lived with your papa also, and learned from him.”

  “Why do I fight it so, Talia?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “If only for you—”

  “No, Andrei! I want more than anything for us to share a mutual faith. But I would never want you to put on faith just to please me. It wouldn’t work, anyway. You know as well as I that it has to be real to be any good.”

  “I know. I appreciate your having patience with me.”

  “When it happens, Andrei, I know it will have been worth the wait.”

  “When . . . ?”

  “Yes, when.”

  “Talia, have I told you today how much I love you?”

  “I don’t think you have, Andrei Sergeiovich.” She mimicked a pout. “How very thoughtless of you.”

  “I do love you, Talia. I want so desperately for us to be together as husband and wife.” He took her in his arms, but their heavy winter garments, gloves, hats, and scarves caused the embrace to greatly lack in the passion they both felt inside.

  They laughed at how silly they must look.

  “Now I know how two bears feel,” Andrei quipped.

  They started walking once again, and after a few minutes of comfortable silence Talia said, “Andrei, I must confess to you that I would marry a starving artist.”

  “And I must confess that I am almost selfish enough to say all right. But we will see what happens, Talia. I promise, I won’t wait forever.”

  “At least we would starve together.”

  “I can think of worse fates.”

  Not long after that walk, another dilemma was to confront Andrei. He knew it did not bode well when both Daniel and Yuri approached him one evening after dinner. They were wearing very serious expressions.

  “Can we talk to you privately?” Daniel asked.

  When Andrei said, “Of course,” they went in search of a private place, not an easy task in that house full of souls. They finally went to Yuri’s room, and Katya and Irina busied themselves in another part of the apartment. Andrei, who was sleeping on the floor of the parlor, had seriously considered moving in with Rudy, who still was occupying his old room in the building where Sonja had lived. He’d be closer to Talia, but he knew it would be difficult for both Anna and Sonja if he left. Still, he often wondered how long fourteen people could continue to occupy the small apartment.

  But he forgot all about that relatively insignificant concern when he and his brother and brother-in-law were settled in the bedroom and Daniel opened the conversation.

  “Andrei, you have been home some time now, and I know you have been going through many changes,” said Daniel. “The last thing we want to do is to make your life more complex than it is.”

  For a moment Andrei thought they were about to give him the boot. If only it had been that simple.

  “We were wondering,” Daniel continued, and Andrei could tell he was working hard to be diplomatic, “if you have made any decisions regarding your . . . uh . . . political affiliations.”

  Daniel would have been disappointed to realize his attempts at diplomacy were having the opposite effect. Andrei, still thinking they were about to ask him to leave because of the overcrowding, was put on the defensive. “Does that make a difference around here?”

  “You don’t understand,” put in Yuri quickly. “Listen to what Daniel has to say before you fly off the handle.”

  “I’m not ‘flying off the handle,’” Andrei rejoined, more defensive than ever, suddenly recalling all the old discord with his brother.

  “I’m afraid I’ve gone about this all wrong,” said Daniel.

  “Why don’t you just spit out what’s on your mind?” said Andrei, making an effort to moderate his temper.

  Daniel took a breath, glanced quickly at Yuri, then continued, “We need your help, Andrei. We need for you to get back into the Bolshevik circle. We need a . . . spy.”

  “What?”

  “Your brother and I are part of an organization planning to rescue the tsar—”

  “You? Both of you . . . ?” Andrei shook his head, completely mystified.

  “It’s a long story. We will fill you in completely if you decide to help us—”

  “You want me to help you rescue the tsar?” Andrei rubbed his eyes as if to ensure that he wasn’t imagining what he’d just heard. “I rejoiced the day he was deposed.”

  “And will you rejoice the day he is murdered?” Yuri asked harshly.

  “How dare you!”

  “Come on,” said Daniel calmly. “Let’s discuss this civilly. Andrei, I feel confident in approaching you with this because I know you don’t want to see anyone murdered. I know you love justice as much as we do, and you honor mercy, not vengeance.”

  “Yes, I do,” Andrei said tightly with a quick glance at Yuri.

  “I’m sorry, Andrei,” Yuri said earnestly. “I spoke out of turn.”

  “It’s okay,” said Andrei, then with a resolved sigh added, “What makes you think the tsar is going to get murdered, anyway? He has been in captivity for nearly a year, and he remains alive and safe—” He stopped, realizing it would help no one for him to play games. “All right, you are probably right to be concerned. The Bolsheviks have been shouting the loudest all this time for his death. Now that they are in power . . . well, anything could happen, it is true.”

  “What do you think about that?” asked Daniel softly, carefully.

  “Thirteen years ago, I would have killed the man myself. For weeks after Papa was killed, I had dreams—nightmares, I guess—about killing Nicholas, about him blowing up into a million pieces, or of me aiming a rifle at him and blasting him full of holes. I never told anyone about those dreams. They scared me. I wasn’t raised in a way that helped me to know what to do with such hatred.”

  “That’s why you were so quiet after Papa died,” said Yuri quietly.

  “I knew you’d all think I was an evil person if I voiced such things, and they so filled me I knew they’d come out if I spoke. But, Yuri, didn’t you have any such feelings?”

  “I didn’t let myself think that way,” Yuri added quickly, almost defensively, “but I know now my reasons weren’t entirely altruistic. I knew even then that my destiny was bound to the monarchy—that’s what I wanted, to be of the aristocracy, the power structure—so it would have been self-defeating to blame the tsar.”

  “You had seemed so good and noble about it.”

  “I’m truly sorry . . .”

  “Well, it’s in the past. And my hatred dulled after time. I knew I wasn’t going to murder anyone. I couldn’t even try as Uncle Paul did.” Andrei paused and chuckled, hoping to lighten things a bit. “I couldn’t be a murderer because the minute I saw blood I’d faint and be instantly caught.”

  “There’s always poison,” countered Daniel, again lightly. But when he noted the grim look on Yuri’s face his amusement faded. “I’m sorry, Yuri.”

  Yuri shrugged, trying to set him at eas
e. “Don’t give it a thought. One can’t turn around in this family without finding a painful skeleton or two in the closet. Anyway, Andrei, what are your feelings now about the tsar?”

  “I think he was a misguided fool who was as caught in family history as we are—three hundred years worth for him! Does he deserve to die for that? It would serve no purpose. And certainly his thirteen-year-old son doesn’t deserve to die.”

  “Yes . . . ?” Daniel prompted.

  “Even if I do agree the tsar shouldn’t die, you are asking that I spy on former comrades—betray them. I will be honest with you that I am no longer one of them in my heart, if I ever was. I have changed, perhaps become more pragmatic. Because I see both sides of many things now, I cannot muster my former passion for a particular political position. But that doesn’t negate my past—I worked for the Bolsheviks to achieve power. I once thought I believed in them. I can’t turn around and betray them.”

  “Even if what they are doing is morally wrong?” asked Daniel.

  Andrei ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “You know how I hate these mental conundrums.”

  “You can have time to think it over.”

  “No. That’s the last thing I want. I’ll do it.” He then added in response to Daniel and Yuri’s surprised looks, “It’s the right thing.”

  32

  Andrei met Stephan Kaminsky at the Smolny. They hadn’t seen each other since Andrei’s arrest in July, and the meeting was understandably tense. Only Andrei’s desire to get himself back into the good graces of the Party kept him civil.

  “You look well,” said Stephan as they walked down a corridor to his office. “Gruenwald said you had pneumonia.”

  “Yes. I guess I hadn’t regained my strength from my previous illness, then the time in prison—”

  “Look here, Andrei, I hope you don’t hold that against the Party.”

  “No, of course not. Why should I?” But it took all the discipline Andrei had not to confront Stephan with his worst offense—keeping the identity of Andrei’s family from him when he had amnesia. But it would not serve Andrei’s purpose to stir up grudges. This was the time to mend fences, not poke holes in them.

  “Good.” They came to a closed door and Stephan paused. “Come on in and let’s talk. Perhaps we can see how best to use you in the new government.”

  Andrei restrained a relieved sigh as they entered the office. It appeared as if he had succeeded in being reinstated. There were three desks in the small, rather austere room, none of which were at the moment occupied. Stephan led Andrei to the desk by a window, drew up a chair for him, then took for himself the chair behind the desk.

  “So, what is your position in the government?” Andrei asked.

  “I am Second Commissar, under Dzerzhinsky, of the All-Russian Extraordinary Commission to Combat Counter-Revolution and Sabotage, known by its acronym of Cheka.”

  “What exactly is that?” Andrei didn’t like the sound of it, whatever it was.

  “I suppose it is best described as a security police force. The task of putting down counterrevolution and securing our success is perhaps one of the most vital in the new government. Sedition and brutality by our enemies must be met with equal and decisive force. You cannot believe the heinous acts the bourgeois are perpetrating against us—sabotaging food stores, murdering and mutilating Reds, not to mention inciting discord among the masses. Our survival depends on our unequivocal ruthlessness.”

  “Ruthlessness . . . ?”

  “You always were a bit too squeamish, Andrei. But there can be no other way. We are trying to make a new world—a utopia, so to speak. Every day scores of decrees are issued from this office—that is, the Smolny. Every institution is undergoing dramatic restructuring. Private ownership of land has been abolished, and the banks have been nationalized along with private enterprises. Our entire justice system has been revamped. Women have been given equal rights with men. The power of the church has been greatly limited and all its lands—which amounts to an enormous quantity—have been confiscated by the state. Religious teaching in schools has been forbidden. Why, we have even adopted the Western calendar.

  “So, you see, such changes cannot come easily, especially to the bourgeois who are most affected. All that we do is justified in the name of freedom. We must totally destroy the old world to prevent it from coming back to haunt us.”

  “I see . . .”

  “We are a communist state now. Marx is our model. We cannot leave behind any remnant of the old, if for no other reason than that it would show our weakness.”

  “What about bread and peace, the rallying cries of the revolution?” Andrei had been reading the newspapers and knew about the changes Stephan was outlining. He also knew that the war continued, and hunger and privation were still rampant among the people.

  “You must know that we have already increased the bread ration by half. Lenin has authorized raids all over the land and has found and confiscated tons of food stores, many that had been hoarded by the bourgeois for sale on the black market. As for the war, we cannot be expected to instantly clean up the mess left by the imperialist and bourgeois governments. The Allies have not recognized our government and have met all our efforts to include them in a peace initiative with silence. Trotsky, who is the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, has therefore entered into negotiations for a separate peace with Germany.”

  “That will not make Lenin’s government popular with the world powers.”

  “No, but at least it will show them that we are not a force to be reckoned with lightly.” Stephan shifted in his chair, obviously ready to move the conversation in another direction. “So, Andrei Sergeiovich, let’s talk about where you want to fit into the Soviet of People’s Commissars.”

  “I assumed I would continue with my old duties at Pravda. Surely the new government is in need of a vital propaganda machine.”

  “Indeed it is. But a man such as yourself might be better suited to a more—how shall I put it?—active role in the government. To tell the truth, I never have believed you well suited to the job of sedentary maker of pretty pictures.” This last word Stephan said with such disdain, Andrei barely could keep from rising up in defense. “I propose taking you into the Cheka.”

  “I have no training as a policeman, Stephan.”

  “Not a single man in the government has training in the jobs assigned them. We are learning by the seat of our pants. Already, I have picked up a great deal I can pass on to you.”

  Andrei had hoped to secure his place in the new government in some mild, insignificant capacity such as his old job at Pravda. If he was thrust into an aggressive job like the Cheka, he might be forced to do things that conflicted not only with his newfound political stance but also with his sense of morality. However, he was just beginning to understand how naïve he had been. In order for him to be privy to the kind of intelligence necessary to save the tsar, he was probably going to have to worm his way into some security capacity. He should consider himself quite lucky that Stephan was proposing that very thing.

  On the other hand, he knew Stephan, who had always been a little suspicious of his loyalty, was very likely testing him. He had to take care in his response. Stephan’s suspicions might be raised if Andrei was too eager. Moreover, Andrei did not want to do anything that would tarnish his morals. Somehow Andrei had to show interest in the proposal without making a solid commitment.

  “It is worth considering,” said Andrei. “It would be rather difficult to sit in an office all day missing the real action. Still, I just don’t know if I am physically up to such a job. My stamina has been greatly reduced since my most recent illness.” Andrei was pleased with his ingenuity in his final statement. He could buy a lot of time by pleading his illness.

  “We’ll start you off slowly.” Stephan smiled. “I have a small task I must perform this very day that could be an ideal initiation for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Our r
evolutionary tribunal has recently tried and convicted an old adversary of ours.”

  “Of ours . . . ?”

  “Our old nemesis, Cyril Vlasenko.”

  “I wondered what became of him.”

  “The Provisional Government all but pampered and coddled those old tsarist leaders. While the Soviet government is trying to win world recognition, we are refraining from mass executions. But a special exception is being made in Vlasenko’s case. His crimes against the Russian people are so well documented, even those squeamish Americans would not protest his execution.”

  “He is to be executed, then? Today?”

  “Yes, and I’d like you to witness it with me.”

  Andrei swallowed back all his distaste at this prospect. Here was the perfect opportunity to increase his credibility with Kaminsky. “What perfect timing!” Andrei said with enthusiasm. “I’m glad you said something. That man has been a thorn in the side of my family for years. I would gladly watch as justice is served on him.”

  “I thought you might like that. We’ll do it at sundown. Until then, let me show you around here a bit and let your comrades know you are back with us.”

  The cellars of the Butyrki Prison seemed especially dank and chilly as Andrei traversed its corridors on his gruesome mission. He tried to remind himself that of all people, Cyril Vlasenko deserved to die more than many. Not only for his spiteful crimes against the Fedorcenko/Burenin families. That alone was a staggering account—from his sadistic treatment of Uncle Paul, imprisoned as a youth in an Akulin jail, to his plots that financially ruined the Fedorcenko family. And who could tell how much Vlasenko was involved in the many other family tragedies. There was some hint that his plots had led to Sergei’s banishment to Asia, which eventually propelled him down the path to Siberian exile.

  But there had also come to light evidence confirming his part in many national crimes as well. As head of the Third Division, he had been instrumental in sending scores of revolutionaries—many of whom were now in power—into exile or to labor camps. During the tribunal, a substantial number had witnessed to Vlasenko’s personal part in beatings, torture, and unjust executions of political prisoners. At least the Bolsheviks had given Vlasenko the benefit of a trial—a formality he had denied most of his victims.