“Captain Grigorov, is that you?”
Misha turned. “Lieutenant Kamkin!” The two men dropped the few belongings they were carrying and embraced. “I thought I’d never find anyone from the unit,” Misha said. They parted, gathered up their packs, and began walking side by side.
“There are few of us left.” Kamkin went on to name a long, grim list of casualties. And with each name, the lieutenant, who could not have been older than thirty, began to look older and older.
“So many,” sighed Misha.
“And that was before I was taken prisoner. I suppose you and I are lucky.”
“If it weren’t for my family I would not agree. I would have counted it an honor to die with my comrades. But I have a new wife I have seen only a few days of the three and a half years we have been married. So, for her sake, I will count my blessings.”
They walked for a few moments in silence, then Kamkin said, “If you hunger for more battle, Captain, the fighting isn’t over yet.” He glanced surreptitiously around and lowered his voice. “A White Army is gathering in the south, in the region of the Don—your country, isn’t it, Captain?”
Misha had heard whisperings of the formation of an army to fight the Bolsheviks. There had already been battles in the south, though they had not gone well for the outmanned and outgunned Whites. Still, their ranks were growing, and hope for a final victory over the Reds was strong. Oddly enough, the Cossacks were most torn in their loyalties. In times long past, the Cossacks had been the traditional protectors of freedom in the land. More recently, however, the Cossacks had been the best tsarist defense against revolution. Misha still carried a deep shame over the actions of his people on Bloody Sunday.
The terrible and senseless debacle the Great War had become for Russia had turned many Cossacks into radicals—and their refusal to fire upon Russians in both the February and October revolutions was a huge factor in the success of both. On the other hand, there was still a large force of monarchist Cossacks, and thus both the Red and the White Army were counting on Cossack support. Although Misha had not become a Bolshevik by any estimation, he was among the many Cossacks who were torn in their loyalties.
“It has been so long since I have been to my home on the Don,” said Misha, “that I can hardly remember it. For forty years, when I haven’t been at war, I have been an Imperial Guard.”
“And that is why I tell you of the army forming on the Don,” said Kamkin. “I know where your loyalties lie.”
“Look at me, Kamkin. I am sixty-one years old. I am covered with lice and filth; I can barely walk; my eyesight is weak and my hearing has been all but destroyed by gunfire. I doubt I would make much of a soldier any longer.”
“At your worst, I’ll wager you could outfight the best those Reds have to offer.”
Misha laughed. “Maybe I could best Mr. Lenin, if I am lucky. But I don’t feel very lucky right now.”
“Go see your wife. Get that leg better. You’ll start to feel like the soldier you are once again.”
Misha shrugged noncommittally. Later, when he finally came to a train station and found a place among hundreds of other soldiers, he had forgotten all about Reds and Whites. There was only one thing on his mind—Anna!
Anna and Mariana sat at the kitchen table as Mariana read a letter from Daniel. It mostly detailed trivialities—the weather, which was finally warming up; the various idiosyncrasies of the Siberian town of Ekaterinburg. Anna knew why he mentioned nothing pertaining to his mission. One, because of the chance the letter might be intercepted and read by the Reds; and two, because he and the others were able to do little at the moment to further the mission. At least the letter comforted the two women that their loved ones were all right. Both Andrei and Talia added short notes of greeting at the end of the letter.
“He leaves so much unsaid,” sighed Mariana.
“We must try not to worry. They are in God’s hands.” Anna sipped her tea. The brew was so weak these days. She had been using the same leaves for several days now.
Mariana smiled. “And can you follow your own advice, Mama?”
“Of course not. I worry all the time. But they are still in God’s hands.”
“They are going to have to face so many dangers when the time comes for them to finally rescue the tsar.”
“We will pray for them,” said Anna. “But first, what does your father have to say?”
Mariana lifted the second letter. It was amazing to get two letters in one day when mail was so irregular and undependable. But since the letter from Dmitri Remizov had come by the hand of a friend who had traveled to Petrograd from Moscow, he had been able to write in much more detail as to his activities.
My dear Mariana,
I hope you get this letter and it finds you well. I have not even attempted to write before this because of the impossibility of the post these days. But there are certain changes coming here I wanted you to be informed about. First, shortly after the October coup, my family was forced from the Barsukov estate in Moscow—the only one left to us in town, since several other estates and palaces had already been confiscated. We have all fled to the Barsukov country estate near Riazan, a hundred miles south of Moscow. This estate has been parceled off and only a small plot of land is left to us, but we have retained half the house in which to live. The other half is occupied by the local commissar and his staff.
The whole family must contribute to the work—all the servants, of course, have fled. The children and I must work in the fields, and even Yalena, who has never done a stitch of work in her life, must labor in the kitchen preparing food, not only for us but for the commissar and his entire staff as well. It is an absolutely horrendous situation, but I suppose it could be worse. At least we have food. Many, as I am sure you have heard, have died of hunger—tens of thousands, in fact, all over Russia. At times I wonder if we should not have tried to get out of Russia earlier like so many other of the noble classes. But what would happen if all good, honest, and honorable Russians exited? Thus, Yalena and I decided that we must remain as long as our lives are not directly at risk.
And this brings me to the other major change I must tell you of. In a few days—in fact as you read this I will probably already be gone—I will be off to join up with the White Army. Yalena tells me I am too old for such adventures, but I do not look upon it as such. I feel it is my duty to defend my beloved Russia against these filthy usurpers that are trying to call themselves a government. The Whites desperately need experienced soldiers, and as I have said many times, that is the only real training I have in life. In times like these, age is no consideration at all. Even General Alekseev, one-time chief of staff under Nicholas, and commander in chief under Kerensky, has joined the fray. According to rumor, Alekseev, who is sixty—only a year younger than myself—also has an advanced case of cancer. So I am doing no more than any other man who longs to see order and peace return to our Motherland.
With that, Mariana, I bid you farewell. I don’t know when I will see you again. I pray daily that you will find a way back to America. But if not, and if I get to Petrograd, I will look forward to a good long visit with you and with my dear grandchildren. Please convey a greeting to Anna and to Daniel as well. My prayers are with you, as I hope yours are with me. In these hard times, the faith I took so lightly in the past has offered me great comfort. You were right all along about that, dear daughter.
With deepest love,
Your Père
Tears brimming her eyes, Mariana laid the letter on the table and glanced up at her adopted mother. “Oh, Mama, just when we thought the war was over.”
“I wonder if Russia will ever see an end to war,” said Anna.
“I must say, I am proud of my father.”
“You have a right to be.” A faraway look briefly flickered into Anna’s eyes as scenes from the past rushed across her mind like a motion picture. Dmitri had never been her favorite person; he’d made many mistakes and selfish misjudgments in his
early years that unfortunately had hurt many who loved him. She thought of her dear friend, Princess Katrina, and her short, unhappy marriage to Dmitri. But the death of Sergei and the influence of Dmitri’s young but kind wife, Yalena, had played a great part in Dmitri’s transformation as a man in his later years.
“Mama, let’s pray right now,” said Mariana. “For my father, for Daniel and Andrei and Talia, for your Misha, for Katya and her pregnancy. Oh, there is so much! And we must also pray for our dear Russia.”
“An excellent idea.” Anna reached her hands across the table and Mariana grasped them.
But as they bowed their heads, they heard a small voice from the doorway.
“Mama, could you help me—” Eight-year-old Katrina stopped as she saw her mother and grandmother obviously at prayer. “I’m sorry—”
Anna lifted her head and reached out her hand. “It’s all right, my dear one. Would you like to join us?”
“Yes, grandmama, I truly would.” Katrina came into the room and sat in a vacant chair at the table between the two older women. “What are you praying about?”
“Many things,” said Mariana. “Everything that is on our hearts.”
“For Papa?”
“Especially for Papa.”
The three joined hands. At times they prayed aloud, and at times silently in their hearts. But Katrina took part and for a time seemed almost a woman herself. The deep joy Anna felt at this went far to balance the heaviness of a greater part of their prayers. Princess Katrina’s granddaughter . . . so much like her it often made Anna’s heart ache with joy and grief. Grief, in that the elder Katrina had never had a chance to experience the true fullness of life and that she could not be here now to participate in this wonderful melding of generations. But the joy was that Katrina’s legacy would continue, not only in a more tangible sense by the physical similarities between the two Katrinas, but also in the deeper spiritual sense. And especially in that the faith Princess Katrina had acquired so near the end of her life would continue far into the future through her granddaughter.
Several minutes later, the prayer time was interrupted by the sound of commotion at the door. In these times such incidents could mean anything—a visit by the already feared Cheka, a riot in the streets, or any number of other bad tidings. It could also mean something good, but the sounds at the moment were rather discordant.
With Anna at the front, the three left the kitchen together to face whatever it might be.
Teddie, Katya’s faithful nurse, had answered the door. To her, the bedraggled man standing before her was some beggar off the streets. Deeply protective of those in her new home, she would not allow just anyone to barge in.
“I will not let you in!” Teddie was insisting.
“Where are the people that used to live here?” asked the man desperately.
“I don’t know, but—”
“Misha!” cried Anna. She broke into a run and hardly noticed Teddie’s shock as she rushed into this filthy stranger’s arms.
Anna did not leave Misha’s side for the rest of the day except when a much needed bath was drawn for him. His clothes had to be burned, but others were found among Yuri’s things. Yuri’s were the only clothes in the house that came near to fitting him, and then would not have except that Misha had lost so much weight.
“I should have gone to one of the de-lousing centers first,” he apologized, “but once I laid my poor tired eyes on Petrograd, I could not wait another minute to come here.”
“I would have wanted it no other way,” said Anna, happy now that he was clean to be able to properly snuggle close to him in the bed Yuri and Katya had given up for them so they could have a chance to be alone.
“Am I dreaming, Anna? I have dreamed of it for so long, it can’t be real.”
“Then our dreams have finally merged.”
Misha leaned close to his wife and kissed her with deep passion. “I know I have aged terribly on the outside, but inside I feel like a youth.”
“As do I. I think love is the true fountain of youth.”
They had talked all afternoon, through dinner and into the evening, both between themselves and with the rest of the family. Misha had been completely filled in on the activities of the family since he had last seen them. He had listened avidly, asking many questions, but he had spoken little of himself. Anna understood that he didn’t want to think of his years at war or in the prison, so she did not question him. She also glossed quickly over the hardships the family had experienced over the years. Next to Andrei’s return from the “dead,” this was the happiest time Anna could remember in recent years, and she was content to keep it that way as long as possible.
But she could also tell that something was on Misha’s mind, though she avoided bringing it up. It was he, instead, who finally broached the subject.
“I still can’t believe Daniel is off trying to rescue the tsar. Even more unbelievable is that Andrei is assisting in this!” Misha said. “I truly hope they are successful. I spent so many years of my life protecting the man, I would hate to see them wasted now. However, Anna, I must confess, I would not want to see Nicholas returned to the throne. I’m not sure I want to see a monarchy returned at all to Russia.”
“I’m not surprised, Misha. You have always been torn in your loyalties.”
“Yes, but I definitely don’t care for those Bolsheviks either.” He shook his head with disgust. “From what I have heard, they will remake Russia into a place that one day none of us will recognize.”
“It’s already happening.”
“You must know that the White Army is starting to fight it.”
“Dmitri Remizov has joined them, but they are not doing well.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
He paused a long time, and Anna began to fear what he was thinking. “Misha, you want to join them, too, don’t you?”
“Part of me does, yes. But I made a promise to you when we married—”
“Though it would nearly kill me to see you go again,” Anna replied reluctantly but with loving resolve, “I also could not keep you from doing that which you feel honor-bound to do.”
“I am honor-bound only to being a husband to you, Anna, my dearest love.”
Anna smiled. “Are you sure?”
“With all my heart. And where my heart might waver at times, God has given me a lame leg to strengthen my resolve.”
“I won’t say I am thankful for your injury, but—”
“I understand, Anna. But even if Yuri can repair it and bring it back to normal, I am still not leaving your side. You have been left alone to face the terrors and uncertainties of these times far too long. You may have even come to a place where you don’t need a man around—”
“I will always need you, Misha. Perhaps not as I did when I was a lost little servant girl in the palace of the tsar, but in a way that reaches so deeply inside me, I can hardly put words to it.”
“Thank you for saying that!” He hugged her close.
Anna lay her head on his shoulder, basking not only in his nearness but in the completion she felt with him at her side.
41
June loosened the grip of winter upon Siberia, but with the warm weather came even more uncertainty and disruption to the land of Russia. Lenin’s government was starting to bend under assault not only from outside and the challenge of the Whites, but also from within, among rival socialist parties. As Lenin began to expel more and more critics from his government, he desperately began to look toward the Urals as a place of retreat for his beleaguered government should he still fail.
In the midst of this rose another unexpected threat that would not only cut off Lenin’s hope of a retreat but which would prove most significant for the Romanov family imprisoned in Ekaterinburg. Before the end of the war, forty thousand soldiers of the Czech Legion had surrendered to the Russians. They had been coerced into the Austrian army and no longer wished to fight for the Imperialist nation. They no
w hoped to rejoin the Allies by getting out of Russia via the Trans-Siberian Railroad, east to Vladivostok. The Bolsheviks tried to induce them into staying and supporting the revolution. Eventually disputes flared between the two sides until finally the Czech Legion mutinied altogether.
With lightning speed, the Czechs began to overwhelm the disorganized Siberian Reds, taking town after town along the railroad and cutting off the flow of desperately needed supplies to Moscow and Petrograd. Ekaterinburg lay on a northern spur of the rail line, but because of its strategic importance, it, too, became a target of the invading Czechs. And inch by inch they began to close in on the city.
“What’s that?” hissed Bruce, pointing toward a dim light.
“Maybe it’s the one,” whispered Daniel. There seemed no reason to speak in such hushed tones except the ambiance of the night invited it.
Tentacles of fog reached into the sultry air along the waterfront of the Miass River in Ekaterinburg. Daniel was thankful for the covering of the mist because there was little darkness to be had in this season of White Nights. All these weeks in Ekaterinburg, he and Bruce had managed to remain fairly anonymous. Luckily, the center of Russia’s platinum industry, with a population of seventy-five thousand, was practically a metropolis compared to the sleepy little Tobolsk.
And there were many other more prominent figures for the Cheka to watch here besides the two quiet guests at the Palais Royal Hotel. Daniel continued to successfully pass himself off as a fur trader from Vladisvostok, while many thought Bruce was his mute secretary. It was under this guise that Daniel arranged to meet with the steamship skipper, Serge Plautin.
As Daniel and Bruce searched for the steamer Ural Queen, where Daniel had arranged to rendezvous with Plautin, he hoped what he had heard about the skipper was true—that he was a loyal monarchist. Daniel had been vague in his own introductory remarks when he met briefly with Plautin a few days ago, but the skipper was no fool and thus must have quickly surmised Daniel’s true intent. If the man turned out to be a Red informer, he and Bruce would no doubt soon be walking into a trap.
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