“We would be wiser to ride our horses to Tsarskoe Selo rather than chance the train,” Gennady called to Alex, slipping into his military jacket. “A horse is not run by the government and is therefore loyal and dependable.”
“Aha, now we have you! We should report Gennady’s revolutionary comment to General Roskov,” Ivan gloated, bleary eyed from celebrating his leave the night before. He reached for a bucket of melted snow and ducked his head into the water, surfacing a moment later with a shudder and a groan. “Do you wonder who I saw last night dancing wildly with the Gypsies?”
“The czarina?” said Gennady.
“Your tongue can be cut out for that! No, her holy man, Rasputin. He was drunker than anyone there.”
“Drunker than you? No wonder you imagined seeing the godly starets there,” snapped Gennady, crossing himself and casting Ivan a look of disdain. “You are always drunk. No wonder we are losing the war.”
“We are not losing the war,” growled Ivan. “You should be turned in to General Roskov for even suggesting we could lose.”
Alex went on dressing while the words between the brothers ripped into heated debate. As Ivan persisted, Gennady grabbed him and attempted to force his head into the water bucket. His arms flailed wildly until Alex yanked the two apart and glowered at Gennady.
“Do you wish to drown him?”
“Yes.”
When matters calmed again, Alex shouldered into his dark winter greatcoat and looked at his watch. He snatched up his military hat and leather gloves.
“Aren’t you going to eat breakfast with us?” Gennady called.
“No.”
“Can we stomach breakfast?” Ivan asked, drying his face and head with a towel, the skirmish with his twin already forgotten.
Gennady’s expression saddened. “Just so. More rotten meat awaits us.”
The train transport regularly bringing food and commodities into St. Petersburg from the farmlands of Kiev and the rest of the Ukraine was burdened to the utmost by military needs, so that provisions to the cities suffered. Now, with the first thick snowfall in St. Petersburg, Alex expected the trains would run late, if at all.
“If the bread shortage lasts very long, it will bring unrest among the working class,” Gennady said. “The revolutionaries will be quick to take advantage of it.”
Alex was thinking of the long bread lines. A survey undertaken by the Okhrana on the mood of the country offered a volatile scenario. The people’s discontent over shortages of necessities could easily explode into open rebellion. Especially worrisome was the fact that for the first time in the experience of the security police, the anger of the populace was directed not only against the czar’s ministers but also against the Imperial couple. The czarina was disliked and, because of her German origin, widely suspected of betraying Russian military secrets to the enemy. Military defeats at the front were also being used by the Socialists to undermine Czar Nicholas, claiming he and his generals were inept.
The dissatisfaction of the urban population was, for the present, mostly economic, but Alex had already written a report for General Roskov that warned it would take little provocation for the grievances to assume political form.
“Well, the call for more bread will be a political gift handed to the Bolsheviks on a jeweled platter,” Gennady said.
“With the Romanov crown jewels?” Ivan quipped.
Alex turned swiftly, launching a verbal rebuke that caused Ivan to drop his head. To change the subject, he said, “I’ve heard Czar Nicholas may go to the front himself and command the army instead of the Grand Duke Nikolas Nikolaevich. I’d like to receive orders to join the grand duke’s elite cavalry.”
“The food would be better. Whatever it is they’ve been feeding us, they boil it so you can’t taste it,” Gennady said gravely. “I think it is rats.” He looked over at Alex. “They skin them first. I once heard they use the tails and skins for soup.”
“I feel sick,” Ivan said, still sitting on the edge of his bunk. His head was in his hands, but he looked up. He had a pale yellow color round his cheeks.
Alex smiled pleasantly and folded his arms. “You’ll be fine with a little decent food.”
“No! All I want is coffee with a shot of vodka.” Ivan groaned.
Alex looked down at him. “I’ll have you court-martialed if you do.”
“And with proper cause,” Gennady snapped.
“Maybe that would be good,” Ivan said, looking from one to the other with a challenging glare.
“And you should be shot for saying that,” Gennady taunted with a serious face.
“With what will you shoot me?” Ivan sneered. “Ha! There are no rifles.”
The army was not equipped for a long war; the shortage of guns, ammunition, boots, and uniforms for the conscripts was a growing scandal. The thought of millions of fine Russian soldiers dying for lack of supplies gripped Alex’s heart with silent rage. He had heard how soldiers needed to wait for an armed fellow soldier to die before they could possess a rifle!
“I have a rifle,” Gennady said, “but no bullets.” He turned his head. “Alex?”
“I have bullets,” Alex said too soberly, “and an American revolver.”
Gennady looked at Alex curiously. “Where did you get an American revolver?”
“From Michael.”
“He’s become a religious fanatic,” Ivan said.
Alex shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He picked up his satchel.
“What kind of answer is that?” Ivan complained. “ ‘Maybe not’? Why wouldn’t he be a fanatic, going to an unorthodox church? Such an idea!”
Recently, Alex had not given much thought to orthodoxy but to Imperial autocratic rule. The letters from Michael were affecting Alex’s belief in the czar. Though he would not say so in uniform, the more he performed investigative work for the secret police, the less he liked it and the more he questioned the autocracy in the privacy of his own mind. Alex was beginning to wonder if Michael was trying to draw him away from the czar. Every month, he sent magazines and newspapers filled with stories on America’s president, Woodrow Wilson, and what life and politics were like in the United States. Alex was fascinated with the concept of individuality. Michael also sent handwritten notes in Russian on the Bible study he’d been attending since May on a verse-by-verse study of the gospel of Matthew. Between Michael’s exhaustive notes and diagrams, which were enough to put into book form, and Professor Menkin’s half-finished manuscript on the Jewish Messiah, Alex found his fall evenings absorbed in research. He was in the process of concluding a report on Menkin’s work for the secret police, but before he did, he wanted to visit the professor and discuss the findings. Alex was also curious about Karena. Menkin would be the one to talk to about her and Madame Yeva.
“Aren’t you going to wait for me and Ivan?” Gennady called as Alex went to the door.
“No.”
“You’re not the only one going to the ball,” Gennady said.
“Alex is jealous.” Ivan grinned. “Tatiana likes to dance with me.”
“Then you’d better stay sober or you’ll fall on your face,” Alex said.
He ducked out the door as Ivan picked up the bucket of snow water and threatened to drench him. His cousins hooted.
“A wager, Alex!” Ivan cried after him cheerfully. “I will lead off the first dance with the general’s daughter!”
Gennady ran after him. “Wait! Aren’t you supposed to escort that Hessian count in his carriage? He is leaving on the train for Moscow!”
Alex answered, “That was your order from Major-General Durnov.”
“Mine!” Gennady looked at him with mouth open. “No, it was yours.”
Alex pointed back toward their room. “No. Not mine. Go look at Durnov’s order again. This time read it. You answered the door this morning. Captain Gusinsky handed you the order. You have an hour.”
Gennady turned and ran back into the room, skidding on the slippery floor.
Alex heard a groan, followed by Ivan’s voice: “Are you hurt, Gennady?”
Shaking his head and smiling, Alex walked toward the barracks’ stables.
Outside the barracks at the Winter Palace, snow drifted down, draping everything in white. For a haunting moment, the world looked pure, as though a white robe were atoning for creation’s bondage to corruption.
Alex’s notion that his newly acquired Arabian mare, a gift from his stepmother, would not like the snow and ice finalized his decision—he’d take the train to Tsarskoe Selo, “the Czar’s Village,” fifteen miles southwest of Petrograd. Since the czar’s palace-residence was there, the officials would keep the railroad tracks clear and running smoothly.
He hailed a droshky, tossed his bag in, and climbed inside. The horse-drawn sleigh moved toward the railway station.
The wind whipped the snow against him, and he pulled his hat lower.
He pondered Olga’s letter again. “Did you know that two of Tatiana’s cousins from Kiev are now staying with the Roskov family here in Tsarskoe Selo?”
Alex thought of Karena Peshkova and her younger sister, Natalia.
The icy wind blew into his face sharply, like a slap of reality. There is no reason why you should hope she is there. None at all.
Everything he had planned was attainable through General Roskov’s daughter, Tatiana. Further involvement with Karena could jeopardize his entire military career. He thought of the political reasons why he should avoid her. She was Jewish, and her mother came from a politically dangerous family in Finland and Warsaw. Only twenty miles from St. Petersburg, revolutionaries crossed the border into Finland to escape arrest and plot against the czar.
So then, stop wondering about her. So what if he found himself drawn toward her, what of it? He wanted to marry Tatiana. Thoughts of wishing to see Karena again were unwise.
Nevertheless, his orders to locate the Bolshevik leader, Lenski, required Alex to delve into Karena Peshkova’s private life, which also kept her on his mind. He frowned. Even so, he would think of her with a businesslike indifference. The Okhrana, Major-General Durnov in particular, was convinced Karena Peshkova and Lenski were secret lovers, plotting together with Sergei and Ivanna against the czar’s government officials. Alex would need to speak of this touchy issue with General Roskov. He would not have thought Karena the type to fall for Lenski.
A short time later, irritable and restless, Alex climbed out of the droshky, his boots crunching snow. Falling snow dusted his long greatcoat and blew in little swirls along the street. The storm had brought twilight at noon; even so, this was a mere harbinger of greater winter snows to come.
He paid the driver and climbed the high steps of the Petrograd station to await the train for Tsarskoe Selo.
People were coming and going, and the parkway was filling with coaches. Alex was preoccupied with unpleasant thoughts. He fussed irritably with his glove. He heard the hiss of the boiler on the rails and the rumble of the train. The whistle shrieked. The platform shook, and puffs of smoke and steam rose in the frigid air as the train came to a shuddering halt.
Alex snapped alert as an explosion split the air. After a timeless interval, there were screams, and then the urgent wail of an alarm erupted as people shouted and ran.
TWENTY-ONE
Assassination
Karena awakened from a fevered sleep with the whistle shrieking and the train slowing for its approach to another station stop. Her muscles were cramped, and she tried to stretch and could not. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she remembered; they’d been forced to ride third class, jammed into one of the filthy boxcars with so many peasants that she could neither move nor breathe comfortably. Madame Yeva, suffering from fever and nausea, had fainted, awakening in and out of a nightmarish sleep.
“Karena!”
“I’m here, Mother,” she whispered in her ear. “Don’t draw attention, don’t say a word. There are so many people in here that no one notices us. We’re packed into a tight, darkened corner, but we’re all right. Don’t be afraid.”
Yeva’s eyes closed again, and she appeared to sleep despite the noise becoming a part of their existence.
Karena’s arm was growing numb from where her mother’s head rested against her shoulder. They had been in this cramped position for hours, but try as she might, she could barely move. Neither could any of the peasants around her. Karena marveled at how they bore it all. She herself was in a weakened physical condition, and it was only worry over her mother’s unexpected illness that maintained her determination.
Somehow, through the struggle, Karena had kept them both together even while undergoing harassment and insults by the Imperial train inspectors who had boarded at the second stop out of Kiev. The stop was a major interchange, and passengers needed to produce their identity papers. As soon as the inspectors learned that Madame Yeva and Karena were classified as Polish Jews, they were ordered from their third-class seats and put into this noisy boxcar. She and her mother looked so terrible after the rainstorm and from their injuries, the inspectors scorned them. Thank God!
Karena’s skin tingled from lack of circulation, and she was sure fleas and lice had invaded her garments. She had a little water that she kept for her mother, and no permission was granted to get off at the various stops. They were told that the decent people of the towns and villages had no wish to mingle with Jews and dirty peasants. Yeva’s illness kept her from arguing, and Karena continued to whisper that they must remain as unnoticed as they could. Horrendous crimes were known to take place in the boxcars, and the police did not trouble themselves over injustices to the Jews. Karena occasionally kept her hand near her coat pocket where she had hidden Papa Josef’s Russian Nagant revolver.
The long hours rumbled by in semidarkness. She heard the groans of the packed peasants and Jews, heard from different corners of the boxcar the tubercular cough that she recognized. Her compassion reached beyond herself and Yeva to the wretched human beings jammed into the boxcar. Even so, she cringed when she heard their phlegm-filled coughing. She recalled Psalm 91:6: “Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness.” When the train began to slow, Karena wondered if she could still support herself and her mother.
After coming to a shuddering halt, the door of the boxcar was opened from the outside, and sharp voices demanded they get out and be on their way.
“Where are we now?” Madame Yeva murmured in a scratchy voice barely audible above the din.
“St. Petersburg. Here, Mother, lift your fur hood. It’s snowing outside. Oh—fresh air! I shall never complain of the cold again.”
“St. Petersburg!” Yeva’s dazed eyes widened, and she shook with chills that came and subsided. She shook her head in protest. “We must not go to your Uncle Matvey. It will put him at risk, Karena. What about—”
Karena squeezed her hand, affirming a calmness she did not in the least feel. “We’ve no choice. You’re too ill, and we’re in desperate need of help.”
“I’m—I will be all right again soon …”
“Uncle Matvey is expecting us, and you must see a doctor soon.” She added reluctantly to strengthen her argument, “And we’re out of money.”
“Out of money … so soon … What about our savings?” she rasped.
Karena blandly informed her that it had been stolen. By whom, when, and where, Karena couldn’t tell her. She suspected it had been taken by the Imperial inspectors, but even if she could prove it, who would care?
“We can’t think about it now,” Karena soothed, seeing Yeva’s agitation. “There is nothing to be done about the injustice, Mother. We must leave it with God. I will find work. Believe me, it will grieve and upset Uncle Matvey if he learns that you were ill and that I didn’t bring you to his apartment.”
Someone must have fallen trying to step down from the boxcar because there came a woman’s scream followed by shouting, and everyone began to push and shove.
Karena gasped for fresh air. She and her mother clung together
in the rush to get out, then—a loud explosion.
Alex was quickly out of the station and onto the steps. Below, on the concourse, a coach was smoking. Its doors had been blown off, and one of the horses was down. Whose coach?
Several policemen ran to the coach and reached inside. The situation could not have been worse. Alex’s fears were confirmed: the target of the blast was Count Kalinsky, the official whom Gennady was responsible for escorting safely to the train.
Alex paused in the snow.
Several soldiers had joined the police. Alex thought of Gennady, who would be joining the elite guards back at the Winter Palace to assume the duty of guarding the count during his ride to the train. He would learn that the count had grown impatient and left early in his coach. Soon the news would follow about his assassination.
Gennady could be held accountable for dereliction of duty.
Passengers departing a train from Kiev added to the confusion. The revolutionaries who had thrown the dynamite were now lost in the throng.
Alex headed toward the coach, shouldering his way through the soldiers surrounding it.
What was that shattering blast? Karena waited until the boxcar was mostly empty, and then, with an arm around her mother, she led them slowly forward. Karena thought she had enough coins to hire a droshky.
“We shall soon have you in a warm bed, my matushka. With something hot to drink, you will be able to rest. Lean on me. We will walk slowly.” Outside, there were banks of snow where workers had pushed it aside to keep the tracks clear. A haze hung low over all, like a drab mantle, but even so, it was appealing after two days of being crammed into the dark, foul boxcar. Karena climbed down and then reached back to help Yeva into the slush.
They were standing on the ground near the St. Petersburg station. This was not the arrival Karena had dreamed of. Dizzy and weak, she gritted her teeth as she guided her mother. A rush of cold wind and a sprinkle of snowflakes fell across her face. At least the flakes were fresh. They took a moment to breathe the clean air before walking. Ahead there was a slanted roof covering a raised wooden platform with benches, then the concourse and some steep steps leading into the station proper.
The Midwife of St. Petersburg Page 22