“What do you mean?”
“I’m going with you.”
His mouth fell open at the soft but firm declaration. “Talia—”
“Listen to me, Andrei. We wasted too many years separated, either by our stupidity or by circumstances or by actual miles. I won’t let that happen again if I can help it—and I can help it now. There is no reason for me not to go to Tobolsk with Daniel and Lord MacDuff. Who knows how long you will be there, Andrei? Do you truly wish to be separated again for an indefinite period of time?”
“No, I don’t, but—”
“But what? Will you tell me it is dangerous? I will share your danger as I share your love. Anyway, you are the one who will be taking the greatest risks. I know you have tried to downplay those dangers, but I know what they are. I know what could happen should you be discovered as an informer. Daniel and Lord Bruce are foreigners and would most likely be spared serious consequences. I am a woman and might be spared also. But you—” she paused, choking back sudden emotion. “Oh, Andrei! Please don’t force me to be parted from you now! And I could very well be a help to you. There might be many uses for a woman in such a situation. I might be able to get into places and talk to people you or the others could not.”
“I guess I am too selfish to refuse you,” he said with a slight smile.
“It’s not selfishness. You and I know too well how life can take unexpected turns.”
“Talia . . .” Gazing at her he knew he should be happy, but just then he was suddenly sad. “Will we ever be free just to be together and love each other and . . .” He sighed. “I am so tired of all the twists and turns of life.”
She reached out and placed her small, pale fingers over his large, strong hand. “I believe God will lift us from all this. If we trust Him, will He not give us the desires of our hearts?”
“If only I could have your faith, especially now.”
“You can, Andrei.”
“Yes, just by surrendering. My father wrote about surrender in his journal. Yuri has spoken of it also. I have no problem with surrendering to God. I suppose right now it is just a matter of timing.”
He paused and reached for the glass of tea—his mouth was suddenly very dry. At the same moment Talia also reached for the glass. As their hands brushed, they chuckled. Talia nodded for him to go ahead, and he didn’t argue as he brought the glass to his lips.
“It’s not easy to talk about these things,” he said when he finished and handed the glass to her. “Even to you, Talia.”
“Don’t you think I will understand?” She wasn’t interested in the tea any longer.
“I know you will. And I’d have no argument to offer you.”
“Why debate it then?”
“Christian faith is far too easy for a man like me. I’m afraid I will jump into it when life starts to get tough, then cast it aside when things are smooth—”
“When life starts to get tough?” Talia smiled. “Andrei, my love, look around. Life is hard. You have personally suffered much. Improvement seems distant at best. Maybe it will never change. How long will you wait in order to catch God at a good moment in life?”
“Do you think I am just making excuses?” He sighed.
Talia’s silence was answer enough.
“Maybe I am, but I only wish to be certain.”
“Andrei, let me ask you a question—and remember, I am not trying to push you, because I want you to be certain also. This is just something else to consider. Do you see yourself as the kind of man who would be the fickle sort, using God in bad times and forgetting Him in good?”
“I fear it.”
“Then perhaps you don’t know yourself as well as I know you. And I know you are not that kind of man. And even if you were, that is, even if your faith was more intense in low moments, what is wrong with that? Do you think, if your heart is sincere, God would reject you? Not my God, Andrei. Not the God your mother loves, the God your father loved all his life.”
“Ah, I will tell you, Talia, I am growing weary running from God. All I have ever wanted was to be the kind of man my father would want me to be. Yet, I have shunned the one part of him that made him the man he was.”
At that moment the tea shop door opened, and with a chill gust of wind, several customers breezed in. They were chatting noisily about a cinema they had just seen.
Talia took Andrei’s hand. “Come.”
They weren’t far from the Nicholas Bridge, and at Talia’s suggestion, they crossed the bridge to Vassily Island. They did not pick up the dangling thread of Andrei’s last comments. Andrei knew Talia wasn’t ignoring it because she said she wanted to wait a bit before talking further on that subject. As they came to St. Andrew’s market, Andrei began to perceive her motives. He made no protest.
The market was quiet that late in the afternoon. Most of the food to be sold was gone by then. Only a few sellers lingered, mostly individuals trying to hawk a few poor household items. Andrei and Talia crossed the marketplace and came to the entrance of Old St. Andrew’s church. Andrei now recalled how his mother had once told him he had been named for the old church that she loved and still attended. Since the Bolshevik takeover, the Church was greatly frowned upon but, except for confiscation of lands and forbidding religious instruction in schools, no more far-reaching limits had been placed upon it. Andrei knew well enough Lenin’s views on this subject and knew it was only a matter of time before the Church was suppressed more harshly.
Now, however, the doors were open and Andrei followed Talia inside. He was struck immediately with the close air and cloying fragrance of incense, such a strong contrast to the cold, crisp air outside. Candles burned on the front altar and a handful of worshipers milled about.
Finally, Andrei thought it was time to return to their conversation earlier in the tea shop.
“You know as well as I, Talia, that faith to Mama and Papa never had to do with a building such as this.”
“I don’t know why I wanted to come here,” she replied quietly. “I have an odd feeling that one day soon a visit to a church will not be such a simple thing.”
“I have more than an odd feeling about that.”
Andrei looked about, his eyes pausing at the rich iconostasis on the front altar. The gold encasing the many icons was stunning even for a poor church such as St. Andrew’s. He thought again of his father and of attending this church with him when he had been alive. The rituals of the Church were not everything to Anna, but they had definitely meant more to her than to Sergei. Andrei’s father’s faith always came so much more alive when he was relating to others in everyday life.
And that’s how Andrei wanted to be. He truly did.
Perhaps all along his fear had not been that God would reject him, or even that he would be a mercurial Christian, a fair-weather type, but rather that he might never be able to measure up to his father’s faith. The realization stunned him, and he must have gasped, because Talia looked up at him with concern.
“What is it, Andrei?”
“What would my father think if he knew he has been my greatest barrier to faith?”
“He’d be devastated.”
“I’ll never be as good as he—” Andrei shook his head with frustration. “That’s just another excuse, isn’t it?” His voice rose slightly and a woman nearby “shusshed” him. He took Talia’s hand and they moved to a corner far away from the other worshipers. He still wasn’t ready to leave the church.
“Andrei, I read your father’s journals, and I don’t think he ever thought he was as good as he could be.”
“Yes . . .”
“It accomplishes nothing to make comparisons. You don’t have to be as good as anyone—that is the essence of Christianity. You don’t have to be good at all—no one could be anyway. Daniel once told me about an American hymn called ‘Just as I Am.’ There’s nothing else to it.”
“Leave it to the Americans to be simple and to the point.”
“But it is a true p
oint.”
“It is,” he agreed with conviction. “And simplicity is what I want more than almost anything.”
She smiled. “Indeed it is!”
“Talia, I think I would like to pray.”
“Would you like to go to the altar?”
Her voice trembled a little, and he could tell she was trying with difficulty to suppress her joy and maintain proper decorum for a church.
“No, I don’t need to. God will hear my prayer just as well back here. He will see my heart and know that I am finally ready to come to Him—like you said, ‘just as I am.’”
35
In the Siberian region including Tobolsk, there were two rival Soviets. Omsk, the regional administrative capital, held the natural historic power. But the Ural Soviet centered in Ekaterinburg vied with Omsk for supremacy in the area. For years the Ural region had been the more fiercely radical of the two because of the concentration of Imperial mines and factories in the area. They were often referred to as the Red Urals. Thus, with the revolution, Ekaterinburg represented a staunch Bolshevik stronghold.
In the spring of 1918, both Soviets turned hungry eyes toward the little village of Tobolsk. Taking control of the illustrious prisoners housed there would go far in consolidating the power of one Soviet over the other. Both Soviets thus sent armed detachments to Tobolsk.
Alexandra, seeing the Ural troops march into town, mistook them for the long-awaited “good Russian men” promised by Soloviev who would rescue the family. She could not have been more mistaken.
The German embassy in Moscow was tucked away in Denezhny Alley. Count Wilhelm von Mirbach had recently taken up residence there as German ambassador.
“I tell you, Count Mirbach,” said one of the men seated before him, “it would be a grave mistake to leave the Russian people to their own resources in fighting the Bolsheviks.”
“Your indecision,” said the second man, “places the Imperial family in great danger.”
Sitting back in his leather chair behind an expansive mahogany desk, Mirbach briefly assessed the two Russians seated in front of him. They were both men of character and intelligence. General Gurko was a seasoned cavalryman, tough and hot-tempered, but respected by his peers. He had served for a brief time as Chief of Staff at Stavka. Alexander Krivoshien, an urbane and intelligent man, had been Minister of Agriculture under Nicholas the Second, but had fallen prey to the Rasputin appointments and lost his job because of his outspoken criticism. Both men supported the idea of a constitutional monarchy and were committed to the rescue of the tsar and perhaps placing him back on the throne of such a monarchy.
These men and others like them had been making themselves quite a nuisance at the German embassy.
“Are you aware of the letter with similar complaints sent to me from Count Benckendorff?” asked Mirbach. Benckendorff, the Grand Marshall of the Imperial Court, had even gone so far as to suggest that Mirbach present the letter to the Kaiser himself.
“Then we do not need to remind you again, Count, that you Germans are the only ones who can save the tsar and his family,” said Krivoshien.
“You must be patient,” Mirbach soothed.
“We have sent an envoy to Tobolsk,” said Krivoshien, “and he reports that the living conditions of the royal family are far from ideal. Their rations and income have been cut, and the young tsarevich is quite ill. How much longer can they endure this captivity?”
“If anything happens to the tsar, the cause will be due to your inactivity. Urgent measures are called for now!” demanded the general, as if browbeating a squad of raw recruits.
“Please calm yourselves,” said Mirbach quietly, the picture of control and wisdom. “I assure you now, as I have in the past, the Imperial German government has the situation well in hand. You need not worry. When the time is right we will do all that is necessary.” He then pushed back his chair and rose. “Now, gentlemen, I have a pressing engagement in a few minutes, so I must beg your indulgence.” He reached his hand across the desk.
The gesture, as intended, left his two guests with little recourse but to rise and take their leave. When they were gone, Mirbach seated himself once again. He did not have another appointment for an hour, but he certainly wasn’t going to reveal that to those nagging Russians.
“If there was ever a tangled web . . .” Mirbach murmured to himself as he shuffled through some papers on his desk.
What had Germany done in unleashing the Bolshevik scourge upon Russia? Mirbach was not the only German to regret that sad move. It had seemed such an inspired idea at its inception to introduce political turmoil into Russia and thus thwart their war effort. It was doubtful anyone truly believed that scrappy little Bolshevik, Lenin, would amount to anything more than a nuisance to the Russian government. Now he was the government! And he was bent on spreading his revolutionary ideas all over the world, most imminently in Germany.
It was Mirbach’s task to try to extricate Germany from the political mess it had created. He, with the support of his government, was seriously considering the possibility of placing Nicholas back on the throne. With German backing, the White armies could easily overwhelm the Reds. And once the monarchy was restored—in a weakened form of course!—it would naturally be far more friendly toward its German benefactors. And Germany would need such friends if the war continued to proceed on its present course. Since the Americans had entered the war, it had taken a serious turn for the worse for Germany.
But first, those Bolsheviks had to be handled. And Mirbach would need to handle them delicately, but firmly—with just a touch of deception thrown in!
Mirbach picked up the telephone receiver on his desk and rang up Yakov Sverdlov, the President of the Central Executive Committee of the All-Russian Congress of Soviets. How does one deal with people who insist on such unwieldy, impractical titles? Mirbach thought wryly as the phone rang at the other end.
“Comrade Sverdlov, please,” he spoke into the receiver. “This is Ambassador Mirbach.”
The secretary on the other end was obviously flustered to speak directly to the ambassador himself but quickly regained her wits and hurriedly got her boss on the line.
“Ah, Ambassador Mirbach, how very good to hear from you,” said Sverdlov smoothly.
At thirty-two, perhaps Sverdlov had a right to his oily confidence. A close confidant of Lenin, he had, not undeservedly, attained a high position very quickly in the new government. His commanding presence, striking black beard, and tall, broad-shouldered figure was enough to make one overlook, even forget his youth.
Mirbach made sure to immediately assume the superior position with the man. After all, Russia was still very much at Germany’s mercy.
“I have been in contact with my government recently,” Mirbach began. “And we have decided that we would like Nicholas to be brought to Moscow.”
“To Moscow, Ambassador? I don’t see how—”
“This is very important, Comrade Sverdlov. It is imperative that my government interview the tsar—”
“You mean former tsar, of course.”
“As you say . . .” Mirbach rolled his eyes. “At any rate, we want to speak with the man and assess for ourselves his present condition.”
“I can assure you he is being well cared for.”
“I have heard reports to the contrary.”
“Nevertheless, Ambassador, moving the former tsar at this time would pose many difficulties.”
“Come now, surely you can mount a guard regiment sufficient to protect the . . . ah . . . former tsar on such a journey.”
“And to add to the difficulties,” Sverdlov went on, seeming to ignore Mirbach’s statement, “the young son is quite ill and I doubt could be moved.”
“We only want to see the ex-tsar. The others can remain behind if they wish.”
“But—”
“At the moment, Comrade Sverdlov, I am making this a request. Please don’t force me to make it more than that.”
“Wha
t does that mean?”
“I think you understand me well enough. The German occupation forces are only an arm’s length from Moscow, an even more ominous position now that Lenin has made Moscow the capital of Russia. Moreover, the peace treaty is quite fresh—I doubt the ink is even dry. . . .”
“I shall see what I can do.”
“I am certain you can do more than that. Good-bye, Comrade Sverdlov.”
Mirbach hung up the phone. That ought to spur some action, he thought with satisfaction. And once the tsar is in Moscow, anything can happen.
Yakov Sverdlov stared into the telephone receiver that had just gone dead. He cursed silently. But he was in a touchy situation, and no matter how it galled him to be pushed around by those Germans, he could not ignore them, or their “requests.”
Stroking his thick, black beard he forced himself to remain calm. He had to give the situation some rational thought. One thing was certain, under no circumstances could Nicholas be brought to Moscow and within the clutches of the Germans. However, it was imperative that it appear as if Sverdlov were complying with the Germans. If some unavoidable mishap should happen enroute, there could be no way Mirbach could accuse Sverdlov or the Bolsheviks of wrongdoing.
Sverdlov’s ties to the Ural Soviet would come in quite handy now. Last year he had been sent to Ekaterinburg to direct the work of the Ural Soviet, and thus he was well-known and trusted by its present commissar, Zaslavsky. He would wire Zaslavsky immediately, but first he must set in motion his compliance to the German request. He lifted his phone, dialed up a number, spoke for a few moments, and soon was on the line with Commissar Vasily Yakovlev.
A half hour later Yakovlev was in Sverdlov’s office.
“Thank you for coming directly,” said Sverdlov. “Take a seat.”
Yakovlev was similar in height and build to the tall Sverdlov. In fact they were also about the same age. Yakovlev, son of a peasant and born in the Ural region, was a seasoned revolutionary and Bolshevik and had served several years in European exile before his return to Russia after the February revolution.
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