Alex looked at the envelope. Durnov was not in St. Petersburg but in Kiev. Why would that be?
He released the ensign to sample the food and drink. “Don’t stray far. I may need to send a reply to Durnov.”
“Just so, Colonel. Thank you, sir.
Alex located General Roskov in the library, enjoying the reprieve of his leather-bound books.
“From Major-General Durnov, sir,” Alex said, handing him the envelope.
The general took the letter to his desk, opened it, and read.
Now what? Alex thought. He had a premonition that his status at Kazan would be affected.
The general stroked his honey red mustache. He frowned. A few moments later, he looked at Alex.
“This is unpleasant and rather personal, Alex. Durnov informs me of an arrest at the local college near Kiev where my wife’s brother Josef Peshkov teaches history. His colleague, Professor Chertkov, was arrested for spreading revolutionary ideas to his students. Chertkov claims he’s innocent. The local gendarmes found books by Hegel, Kant, Marx, and Engels in his desk. Also a dozen of Lenin’s Bolshevik newspapers.”
“So many books stashed in his desk strikes me as overdone, sir.”
“Yes … I don’t like this. Sergei highly regarded Professor Chertkov. And both my nieces took his classes at the college. They’ll be upset over the news.” He rubbed his forehead. “This arrest will not go over well with the students and instructors. The local chief of the gendarmes, a man named Grinevich, expects the worst. It seems a Bolshevik meeting turned ugly a year ago, and the group moved to St. Andrew’s Church. When Grinevich arrived, shooting erupted. The Bolshies broke windows and set a room ablaze. Grinevich falsely blamed the Bolshevik Jews. He ordered a brutal retaliation, and by the time the truth came out, a woman and child had been killed and a rabbi beaten.”
“Was Grinevich ever called to answer for his rash action, sir?”
General Roskov looked at him, surprised. “Of course not. It was a mistake. The point is, he’s afraid the same violence might break out again and wants soldiers to back up his police.”
The general pushed Durnov’s letter aside and sat down on the edge of the desk. He removed a cigarette from a silver box and stared at it thoughtfully.
Alex took a box of matches from his shirt pocket and dutifully lit the general’s cigarette.
“Durnov has requested that I send you to aid his investigation. You will be reporting to him. Unfortunately, Alex”—he inhaled deeply and then scowled—“Count Yevgenyev is over Durnov.”
“I’m fully aware, sir.”
“I haven’t written Count Yevgenyev about the reckless behavior of his son. I think it best I speak with the count directly, after I return to St. Petersburg. Don’t expect much from Durnov with the count overseeing his work. He’ll be looking out for his own neck.”
“I understand, General.”
“As soon as I can, I’ll get you transferred back to the Okhrana.”
“I was hoping for a return to the Imperial Cavalry, sir.”
“You’ll be needed here. In the meantime, Durnov expects Captain Gusinsky and his half dozen to arrive with you. You are to collect information on Chertkov and go to St. Petersburg. This matter in Kiev won’t supersede the Duma’s concerns about Rasputin. The secret police will have their plans in place by September or October. After watching Rasputin tonight,” he said, displeasure hardening his face, “it’s clear his influence must end.”
He stood and clasped Alex’s shoulder affectionately. “I’ll be joining you in St. Petersburg in the fall. Zofia and Tatiana will be anxious to return since your time with us has come to an end.”
“Tatiana will be disappointed, but I’ll see that she understands.”
Alex left the general’s study, troubled. He found himself becoming more entrenched in work he neither wanted nor approved of. The cords that he’d first visualized as a means to advancement and freedom were threatening to become chains of iron.
He went upstairs to his room to inform Konni he would be leaving at dawn.
Part Two
The harvest is past,
The summer is ended,
And we are not saved!
JEREMIAH 8:20
SIX
The Secret Meeting
August 1914, Kiev
The August moon ascended above the vast Peshkov fields of ripened wheat like a mammoth globe of shimmering gold. Across the sky, trails of fiery red, deepening into copper, drifted over the distant steppes. Karena, flanked by Sergei and Ilya Jilinsky, walked along the dusty wagon road between the fields awarded to the family more than two generations earlier by the grandfather of Czar Nicholas II.
The warm, scented winds stirred, bringing the fragrance of rich vegetation, baked earth, and a copious harvest. Dust stirred up around Karena’s high-button shoes, and she worried about soiling her lace-hemmed, red and white skirt. She wanted to look intelligent and professional when she met Dr. Lenski’s son Petrov and his sister Ivanna at the Bolshevik meeting that evening.
“You worry too much, Ilya,” Sergei continued. “Nothing will go wrong. The meeting will be safe. No one even knows Lenski’s here.”
Ilya’s brows, made fair by the long, hot summer in the fields, formed a straight furrow above the bridge of his nose. He shoved his sun-browned hands deeper into his trouser pockets, a behavior Karena knew indicated he was not convinced.
Sergei, with dark hair and eyes, was, on the other hand, typically smiling, though his demeanor was often hard and joyless.
“The Okhrana knows everything,” Ilya said a moment later, his quiet voice loud with insinuation. “The secret police have been prowling about ever since Professor Chertkov was arrested two months ago.”
“Of course they know,” Sergei snapped. “The czar’s secret police have infiltrated all the socialist groups. But Lenski’s smart. Smart enough not to trust anyone outside his immediate friends, which includes me,” he boasted, striking his thumb against his chest.
When Sergei returned home this summer after his second year at St. Petersburg University, he’d made new friends who venerated Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin. She knew Papa Josef was worried about his increasing zeal, but Sergei made light of his father’s fears, throwing his strong arms around him and laughing, telling him not to worry. Karena set her mouth grimly, her thoughts straying to Colonel Kronstadt and his interest in Sergei’s activities. She’d not seen him since he suddenly departed the Roskov summerhouse the night of the ball. Afterward, Tatiana had explained his absence had something to do with a mission near Kiev. When Karena and Natalia returned home after their two-week visit, Alex had already left for his new position in St. Petersburg at the Winter Palace.
“I’ve heard the czar’s soldiers are passing through on their way to Poland,” Ilya said. “If there’s any trouble with Lenski, they’ll be on us like hawks. Karena, it’s too much of a risk. Don’t go.”
“Ivanna Lenski will be there. I simply must meet her,” she insisted. Ilya’s protective spirit was beginning to trouble her. She didn’t want him to care so much. She had plans for the future, and they did not yet include marriage, although Grandmother Jilinsky hoped they would marry soon, as did Papa Josef.
On the issue of medical school, there’d been no correspondence from Fyodor about delivering her letter to his father. She was beginning to think he’d forgotten. She was, however, anticipating an answer to the letter she’d sent Dr. Lenski. Perhaps it would come tonight through Ivanna. Oddly, Madame Yeva had, in the past, tried to dissuade Karena from contacting her old friend.
Karena frowned as she walked, her thoughts straying from their discussion to her mother’s behavior. Perhaps it could be attributed to the shock she’d received when Natalia tearfully confessed that she had taken the jeweled pendant. Mother had nearly become ill over it.
I can’t let her know I’ve already written Dr. Lenski. And what of Sergei’s relationship with her daughter?
Sergei was romanci
ng Ivanna, whom he’d met while attending the university, but he was keeping her a secret.
So much is wrong in this family, Karena thought unhappily. So many secrets.
Sergei cast Ilya a glower of impatience. “Do you think I’d bring my own sister if I thought there was danger? I tell you, Ilya, not even the secret police know Lenski’s returned to Russia. They think he’s in Geneva with Lenin. He disguises himself. How do you think Lenin and Trotsky pass in and out of the country?”
Sergei was apt to be right. He had told her earlier that Lenski had served two years in the mines in the Ural Mountains. The revolutionary groups that formed the various socialist and communist movements in Imperial Russia had caused havoc throughout the summer, and Karena had heard of several assassination attempts on czarist officials. Lenski had to know his presence would not be well received.
“There are risks and dangers, but is nothing worth taking a stand for?” Sergei continued. “Be tolerant and do not feel strongly about any cause, lest you get criticism from an opponent. Right, Ilya?”
“No, that’s not right. Some things are worth standing up for,” Ilya said, stopping on the dusty wagon road, facing Sergei. “And others only divert our energy and waste us. In my opinion, the meeting tonight is not worth the risk of facing the Okhrana, and I don’t think you should allow Karena to go. I have but one life. I want to make sure it is spent on a worthy cause.”
Sergei’s sun-bronzed face turned thoughtful, and he clasped Ilya’s shoulder. “You’re right. You must not become involved. Grandmother Jilinsky needs you; so does my father. We all need you in the family.” He grinned now. “If you don’t manage the peasants, then I must. You must take over as manager of the wheat lands, so I can go to New York and train to be a journalist.”
Ilya smiled. “I doubt if I’ll live to see the day when your father lets you become a journalist, least of all in New York. You’d better be content to become the lawyer he wants in the family.”
“I’ll join the army before I take up the boredom of being a lawyer in Russia.” Sergei turned to Karena, spreading his hands. “Well, Sister, the choice is yours. Will you come to the meeting or walk back to the manor with Ilya? If you go home, perhaps I can arrange for you to meet Ivanna and Lenski some other time.”
Karena turned to Ilya. Her eyes pleaded with his to avoid a struggle.
“I asked Sergei to let me come with him tonight,” she admitted, attempting to strengthen her earlier explanation. “Ivanna attends the Imperial College of Medicine in St. Petersburg. I want very much to talk with her.”
At the mention of the medical school, Ilya seemed to understand. After a moment of silence, he shrugged his shoulders.
“It is not for me to tell you.” He glanced from her to Sergei, then turned and began walking away.
Her gaze followed him, a solitary figure taking a shortcut through the gently rippling wheat, soon becoming a distant silhouette. He was on his way to the bungalow where he lived with Grandmother Jilinsky and, more recently, Uncle Matvey.
Karena was aware that if she chose to do so, she could follow Ilya to the bungalow where a wholesome supper cooked by Grandmother Jilinsky waited. Afterward, she could enjoy an evening on the front porch with Uncle Matvey. She could even now make the decision to forget the college of medicine and settle into a married life of raising children, growing wheat, and overseeing the peasants. It would be a good life, and though Ilya did not stir the passion that Alex had during their brief encounter, she had a quiet affection for him. But she could not make that decision now. Another love was wooing her heart—medicine, midwifery, and spending her years serving others. Perhaps I shall never marry.
Sergei, noticing her contemplation, flipped her golden braid. “Stop worrying, Sister. He will get over his feelings. He is more reasonable than most. He’s upset because you did not do as he wanted.” He sobered, and his dark eyes took on a thoughtful glint as he looked toward the horizon.
“Besides, Sister,” he continued in a quiet voice, “Ilya’s right about the war coming. Did you hear about the assassination?”
“Oh no, not the czar—”
“No, Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, a few weeks ago. There will be war now for certain. Already, thousands of German soldiers are massed along the borders of Poland. It could be days or hours, but soon, someone will fire the first shot, and the war will begin. You know what that means for us?” She knew, and the thought ravaged her soul. Young men full of bright ideas, hopes, and dreams would be blown to pieces.
“Ilya will find himself conscripted. Most of the young peasants will be called up. Ilya was right about the czar’s soldiers riding this way en route to Poland. And you can be sure they will take many peasants with them. I, being gentry, will not be conscripted, but eventually, I will be called to uniform too.” He looked at her, troubled. “This is not the time to think of marriage with Ilya—or anyone else.”
Sergei understood her heart well; he always had.
“Come, or we may be late,” he said. “Ivanna should be there by now.” Lenski’s talk would be held on the grassy square at the college from which Sergei and Karena had graduated several years earlier and where Natalia was in her final year—the college where Professor Chertkov had taught before his arrest. The professor and five other revolutionaries had been brought to the Peter and Paul prison fortress in St. Petersburg for trial. The verdict—a death sentence—was handed down weeks ago, but the dark news had arrived in Kiev yesterday with Lenski. News of tonight’s meeting to protest Professor Chertkov’s death sentence had gone out by way of the Bolshevik underground.
“There are many of us,” Sergei admitted. “I don’t believe in their use of violence, assassination, and murder, but I see no other hope to end autocratic rule over the Russian people than to organize in opposition to the Romanovs.”
“But you could go to the gallows. You must keep talking to Uncle Matvey. He supports more authority for the Duma to enact laws.”
“A parliament, yes, but what happens?” he scoffed. “When the Duma meets, their criticism of Rasputin enrages the czarina. She becomes hysterical over the threat to her ‘darling Rasputin’ and insists the czar disband the Duma and send them home—as though they were children.”
Karena kept silent and followed Sergei to the familiar stand of chestnut trees, planted as a windbreak beside the dusty road to town. He’d hidden one of the horses here so that Papa Josef wouldn’t hear him riding away from the manor house after dinner. She had waited for him to leave by the kitchen door as planned, and she followed a short time later, undetected by the other members of the family.
As they came to the stand of trees, Sergei untied the horse, mounted, and helped Karena up behind him, her arms around his waist.
“Professor Chertkov was arrested on lies,” Sergei told her as they rode off in the moonlight. “Even the Bolshevik leaders say Chertkov wasn’t one of them. It was a false charge, all because the professor openly stated support for a few human rights for the factory workers on strike in St. Petersburg. It seems incriminating books were planted in his desk, and copies of Lenin’s little newspaper Iskra were found in a box. It was all a blatant trap. I think it was the rat, Grinevich.”
Karena knew how Sergei detested the chief gendarme. He insisted Grinevich had personally hounded him since youth because of his refusal to quietly accept the man’s corrupt authority.
“You weren’t here when Professor Chertkov was arrested,” Sergei continued. “There was a riot on the green. Grinevich ordered his police to beat several students as well as a hapless old man named Pavel who wandered into the demonstration and had nothing to do with the trouble. Pavel died from a concussion. Did the czar send someone to look into it? No. Pavel was only an uneducated peasant.
“There was no justice for Professor Chertkov; he’s dead. Lenski says he was taken out of Peter and Paul with five other revolutionaries and hanged.”
He looked at her over his shoulder, his face hard. In the m
oonlight, his eyes radiated frustration. The intensity of his emotions worried her. He’d always been volatile and impulsive. Where could his indignation lead but to trouble?
Yet she understood his anger. Professor Chertkov was a gentle man, one of her favorite instructors. His death was nothing less than murder, she decided. From the philosophy of his teaching, she was certain he had not been a Bolshevik.
They reached the college grounds, and Sergei concealed the horse by a shallow creek under a stand of trees. He hurried toward the college square and across the grass to the meeting. Karena followed, her thoughts now on Ivanna. Would there be a letter tonight from Dr. Lenski?
Sergei paused on the grass until she caught up.
“What if someone notices we’ve gathered tonight? They might alert the police.”
He shook his head with impatience. “We have a man watching Grinevich’s house. Should he leave and start in this direction, we will be notified. Students gather on the green for picnics all the time. Stop worrying. We must not show ourselves cowards in the face of tyranny.”
When they arrived, the meeting was under way on the far side of the campus. The late summer’s night air was warm. The leaves on the linden trees lining one section of the green shuddered, as if tired from the long, demanding heat wave. Two torches burned, but Sergei insisted that the firelight and the gathering were not cause for alarm. Even so, Karena remained uneasy. He wouldn’t hesitate to err on the side of recklessness.
Petrov Lenski looked to be in his late twenties, a medium-sized man with a square build, and when he turned toward the crowd, his face glowed from the torches. He stood on a makeshift platform of stacked harvest crates, and his voice carried venom as he cursed the autocracy for the unfair arrest and death sentence carried out against Chertkov. While Karena was familiar with the views of revolutionary groups, hearing the arguments for revolution in public caused her to shudder. Must he speak so loudly? It seemed the entire town could hear.
The Midwife of St. Petersburg Page 7