The Midwife of St. Petersburg

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  The same group. Durnov’s effort put Alex on edge.

  “Yes,” Roskov said, “I can see Lenski being involved in the count’s death and in Kiev, but for far different reasons.”

  “It’s Lenski and his Bolshevik friends all over again, General. We think Lenski’s in Petrograd. That he was at the train station this morning.”

  Alex was deep in thought over the gully where Leonovich’s body was discovered. He remembered the roads around the village, as well as the direction Karena and her mother would have traveled to reach the train station.

  Durnov took out a folded drawing from his coat pocket.

  “With your permission, General. If you take a closer look at this map—I drew it myself.” Durnov marked the region on the map around what, until recently, was the Peshkov wheat farm and manor house. Next he drew an X in the region of the road in question, evidently the area where Leonovich’s body was discovered. Alex judged the distance between the manor and the gully to be about a mile.

  “What does this prove?” Roskov snapped. “The village is small. Everyone living there is in close proximity to the gully!”

  But Alex began to worry. Not because he thought Karena had anything to do with Leonovich’s death, but because it looked as though they could have been involved, and that was all Durnov needed.

  Was Durnov notifying the general to prepare his wife for another arrest in her family? Alex didn’t think Durnov particularly worried about Madame Zofia, but he did worry about his own position. Despite Durnov’s confrontation with the general a few minutes earlier, Durnov wouldn’t want to move against a relative of Zofia. This would account for his assertion that the Menkins were not members of the honorable Peshkov or Roskov families.

  “And they found Leonovich’s body about here”—General Roskov tapped the map—“in a ravine?”

  “Just so, General. About a mile from the Peshkov manor house.”

  Alex kept his gaze on the map. Durnov had shrewdly managed to link the manor occupants to where the body was discovered. He was either digging his own grave or slowly convincing the general.

  “Why isn’t Leonovich’s death a simple robbery?” Roskov asked roughly. “Not every murder is the work of Bolsheviks.”

  “If a robbery, sir, there’s the problem of why nothing was taken from Leonovich’s pockets. Then again, sir, we should ask how Leonovich’s body ended up in the ravine.”

  “What about Leonovich’s horse?” Alex asked. “Was it found nearby?”

  “Now that you mention it, no,” Durnov said.

  “Then that’s a sign of robbers. They might have come upon him late at night on the road.” General Roskov crushed the end of his cigarette in an ashtray and stood. “All right, Durnov. Well done.”

  “Sir?” Durnov wrinkled his brow.

  “I’ll have another look at the report tomorrow. At this stage, however, some of your conclusions appear to lack both evidence and credibility. In the meantime, I want Lenski found and arrested. No more excuses.”

  He lifted Durnov’s report from the desk and placed it under his arm.

  “What about Kiev, General?”

  “Forget Kiev.”

  “I should like to go there and question Madame Peshkova and her daughter again. It may be they have seen Lenski.”

  “You’re a bulldog, Durnov. Request denied.”

  Alex felt a surge of relief but knew Durnov too well to think the bulldog would give up until satisfied. Since Durnov had requested to return to Kiev, it must mean he did not suspect Karena and Madame Peshkova of staying at Professor Menkin’s apartment.

  Alex needed time, and he was running out of it. He would have preferred the general to authorize Durnov’s journey to Kiev. It would have gotten rid of him for a few weeks and made it easier for Alex to quietly pay Professor Menkin a visit.

  A light rap on the door interrupted. “See who it is, Alex,” General Roskov said.

  Alex went to open the door. An ensign stood at attention. He saluted, “Colonel, I have a message.”

  Alex stepped aside and gestured toward the general, standing before the window. When Alex shut the door, he turned.

  “You have something to report, Ensign?”

  The ensign gave a smart salute. “Yes, General. The countess, Madame Shashenka, requests an immediate audience with Colonel Kronstadt in her private office. She waits there now, sir.”

  Alex took his leave and walked through the ballroom to speak with his stepmother. That she would send word to interrupt a meeting with the general and fetch him to her company was curious.

  Alex entered Countess Olga’s office. He shut the door, turned, and stopped abruptly. To one side of the room stood his rival and opponent, Captain Karl Yevgenyev, son of the count, standing erect, hands behind his back. Beside the countess stood Karl’s father, Count Yevgenyev.

  The countess came forward with a rustle of satin. “Alex, dear, I should like you to meet a friend of mine, Count Andrei Yevgenyev. Andrei, my son of whom I am most proud, Aleksandr.”

  Count Yevgenyev gave a precise bow with a little click of his polished heels.

  The tense moment continued, despite the countess’s attempt at niceties. At last, she sighed and tugged on the Belgian lace handkerchief in her hand. “Well, I see we need to get straight to the reason for our meeting like this.” She turned to the count, obviously handing over the situation to him.

  Count Yevgenyev looked at Alex, who returned a level gaze. “Colonel Kronstadt, my son made a grave and foolish error when he publicly insulted your honor in Kazan at the Roskov summerhouse.”

  Alex looked across the room at Karl and could almost have felt sympathy for him, had he not been so arrogant. There was a faint flush on his face, and he was staring at the toes of his polished boots.

  “My son wishes to withdraw his challenge to your honor, to apologize, and to end the challenge to duel.” He turned toward his son and gestured him forward. Captain Yevgenyev did so as straight shouldered and stiff as a wooden toy soldier in Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker. Yevgenyev bowed and removed a letter from inside his uniform. He presented it to Alex with another bow.

  “My written apology, Colonel Kronstadt. It will be published in the newspapers, if you so request, for all to see. I was drunk that night. I retract my words questioning your integrity and honor.”

  Alex accepted the letter. He smiled. “Forget the newspapers.”

  Yevgenyev showed faint surprise. His gaze measured Alex with a spark of admiration.

  Count Yevgenyev approached with a silver tray, a bottle of expensive wine from the countess, and a single glass. His solemn face might have been carved in marble.

  Alex looked at the tray. “There’s only one glass to toast the victory of Russia.”

  The count exchanged glances with his son. Countess Olga laughed in her tinkling voice and seemed delighted with Alex as she beckoned Konni forward with three more crystal glasses.

  “Colonel Kronstadt,” the count said with a brittle smile, “we thought surely you would wish to take a glass of wine and throw it in retribution in Karl’s face. As you can see, he has on his dress uniform.”

  Except for the loud ticking of the grand clock on the mantle, there was silence.

  Alex took the glass of burgundy Konni had poured, sniffed it, and smiled. “I’ve always been a frugal man, sir,” he said to the count. “This wine is too good to waste on Karl’s uniform. Not only that, the stain is most devilish to get out. You can ask Konni.”

  The stiff smiles eventually broke free on the faces of the count and his son, and there was a dry chuckle from Konni.

  “To the victory of Imperial Russia!” Alex said, raising his glass.

  The others responded in unison. “God save the czar!”

  TWENTY-SIX

  On the Run

  Two satchels, trunks, a medical box, and a book package were unloaded from the droshky and carted in a hand wagon by the apartment dvornik, where Uncle Matvey was staying, near Tverskoy Boul
evard. Karena could see the river Neva as well as the spiral of the Kazan Cathedral on the Nevsky Prospekt. Across the bridge, guards rode majestic horses at the Winter Palace. She vaguely wondered where Colonel Kronstadt was stationed.

  She turned to Madame Yeva, who leaned against the seat, slumping weakly inside her hooded fur coat. The snow flittered down softly. Karena took hold of her mother and carefully helped her down to the snowy court. Madame Yeva’s body felt cold, and she started to shiver uncontrollably.

  The L-shaped building, not a large one, faced a small, quiet square with a security gate, bushes, and trees, some of which were pine, and the others, summer shade trees, now skeletons in winter.

  Karena worried that the last remnants of Yeva’s strength were ebbing. She tightened her arm around her mother’s waist, urging her onward through the apartment door into a dim hall. In the midst of a small, square entry room, a stairway branched in two directions.

  “Soon now,” Karena encouraged.

  They started up the stairs, but Madame Yeva crumpled, and Karena tried to brace her on the banister. Her mother slid down, her breath raspy, and closed her eyes.

  Karena rushed up the stairs, turned left, and met the dvornik coming out of an apartment. Just behind came Uncle Matvey Menkin with a smile on his bearded face that departed with one look at Karena. She realized she must look dreadful.

  “Karena!”

  “Uncle Matvey,” her voice broke with emotion. She half ran, half fell into his fatherly embrace.

  “Karena, my child, what has happened to you? Have you been in an accident?” He looked around. “Where is Yeva?”

  “She’s on the stairs, very ill. I think it’s pneumonia. Everything has gone wrong, Uncle. We must get her to bed.”

  “Go inside, Karena. The porter will help me bring her up.”

  Karena entered a lighted room with books, stacks of paper, and a familiar, comforting typewriter on a desk.

  Madame Yeva was carried into the small second bedroom at the end of a narrow hallway, and Karena put her straight to bed. Her own head was throbbing. At last the world had ceased to sway. She drew the blankets up to her mother’s chin. She was sure the clean sheets were welcomed, but waves of chills swept over her mother as her teeth chattered.

  Karena turned as Uncle Matvey came to the doorway. He held an extra blanket and drew near the bed, looking at his sister. He added the blanket to the ones already on her. He stood watching her with such soberness that Yeva noticed him and tried to smile.

  “Matvey,” she rasped, “I’m … all right.” Then her eyes closed as she drifted into sleep.

  “What are those bruise marks on her throat? and on your face, Karena? What evils have befallen you?”

  Karena fought the desire to weep. He had burdens enough and would have more with their arrival.

  I must stay calm. Strength of soul and purpose must be cultivated.

  “There’s much I should tell you, Uncle. Give me a few minutes to get settled and make myself more presentable; then I’ll come out to the kitchen. I’d give almost anything for a hot cup of tea or coffee.” She tried to smile.

  Uncle Matvey remained grave, apparently seeing through her brave attempt to hold together. He laid his palm on Madame Yeva’s forehead. “She’s very ill. She must have a doctor, some medicine. I’m going out, Karena. I’ll find one—”

  “Uncle—wait,” Karena’s voice came with urgency. “It’s not wise.”

  “Not wise?” came his incredulous voice; then he hesitated. “What’s happened? That bruise on your cheek—”

  “I’ll explain everything. I must first tell you about something else that took place at Kiev before we left.”

  His intense dark eyes studied her face. “Something else?”

  “Yes, Uncle—” Her voice caught for a moment.

  He paused and then nodded his head. “I’ll wait for you in the kitchen. I’ll put the coffeepot on.”

  He went out, closing the door quietly. Karena stood still for a moment, trying to adjust to the silence after all the noise of the boxcar travel. She went to the washstand and, with shaking hands, poured water from the pitcher to clean her face.

  One look at herself in the mirror above the stand and she winced. She sank down on a chair and rested her head against the back, closing her eyes, trying to ready herself to tell Uncle Matvey about that horrible night. Her eyes flicked open as a certain masculine face emerged in her mind—a face with gray-green eyes that held her captive.

  What if he came here?

  Professor Matvey Menkin waited in his kitchen. When Karena joined him, he was much moved to see his favorite niece in such condition. She has been through trauma. It is written in her eyes. First, I must calm her, he thought. His voice was reassuring. “Come and sit at the table while I pour the coffee, Karena. I admit to missing Grandmother Jilinsky—although I am thankful she is safe with Natalia and Sergei at the Roskov house. There is not a better cook anywhere to be found. Here, try a few slices of this apple and cheese. They are very good together. The cheese is from Finland. A friend from there travels frequently across the border. When he does, he always brings my favorite cheese.”

  “It is delicious. We had nothing to eat or drink on the train but what we could bring with us.”

  He suspected far worse where the trains were concerned but thought it wise to minimize those worries for now. He noticed that Karena was tense. She was seldom this way, and he was more worried than he had been since the arrest of Josef. Harassment of Jews had escalated in the past weeks. He had written Yeva a few days ago asking that they not travel here alone. It was clear they had left Kiev before receiving his letter.

  “How was the train?” he asked, deliberately calm. “I’m surprised you found seats.”

  “Oh, Uncle, it was horrible.” She set her cup down with a nervous clatter.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “What happened?”

  By the time she had told her story of hopeless roads, of being denied seats on the train, of conditions in the boxcar, she was calmer, as if sharing these things enabled her to accept them.

  “And not only that, but just as we reached St. Petersburg Station, exhausted, with Mother growing more ill by the hour, we had the misfortune of arriving at the very moment a czarist official was assassinated. We had the double misfortune of running into Alex—Colonel Kronstadt—and what’s more, he saw me. He may still be investigating.”

  Aleksandr Kronstadt. An intelligent young man who had treated him respectfully. Even now, the young colonel was still in possession of the important first draft of his manuscript, with all of his notes. Matvey had received a short correspondence from him last week telling him that he expected to return everything shortly.

  Matvey frowned, reaching for his pipe. So there’d been yet another assassination. He doubted if Karena knew who’d been attacked and did not burden her with questions. That Colonel Kronstadt was there also complicated matters for Karena and Sergei. The colonel already suspected it was Sergei, not Josef, at the Kiev meeting that night. If anyone were involved with the revolutionaries at Kiev, it would more naturally be Sergei.

  There was still no word on Josef’s prison sentence. Matvey was growing more concerned for the outcome. Sergei had stopped by only yesterday, coming over from the Roskov house to visit him, pacing the floor over his father’s future, and blaming himself. Time and again, he’d wanted to inform the police, but Matvey counseled him it would only make matters worse. No matter what Sergei did, the authorities would keep his father under arrest for concealing the truth. Matvey did his best to illuminate the evils of the communist/socialist/Marxist system of beliefs, pointing out that it attacked the core of human belief in a God to whom all must answer. Sergei listened but kept silent, and he’d not been antagonistic. There yet remained hope for the young man.

  “We managed to escape Kronstadt,” Karena was explaining. “I’d never have come here, Uncle, but with Mother as she is, I had no one else to tu
rn to. She didn’t feel comfortable going to the Roskovs.”

  Matvey looked up sharply over his old pipe. “Escape? Why did you feel you needed to escape Colonel Kronstadt?”

  She fumbled with her cup and saucer.

  Matvey watched her alertly. “He permitted you and Yeva to avoid further questioning by Major-General Durnov. If he’d been of a mind to do so, he could have hauled you both in to Petrograd. He let you walk away. He met you in Kazan, did he not?”

  She nodded, staring into her cup.

  “Is there an attraction between the two of you?”

  She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She nodded. “More so on my part.”

  “I don’t think so. Not after risking himself as he has to shield you.”

  She remained silent.

  “Is there something more, Karena? about your escape, I mean?”

  “It’s Leonovich,” she said with a burst of emotion. “He’s dead.”

  Matvey listened in dismay as she explained the repulsive details. An appalling silence settled over the room. It was some time before he could gather his voice to speak.

  “You should have sent me a wire at once, Karena. I could have come to meet you. Does anyone else know of this? General Roskov?”

  “No one.”

  “You did well to come here. It will give us time to decide the best way to handle this. I must think.” He got up from the chair and walked about the kitchen. Leonovich—he knew little about the man but remembered seeing him a few times during his visits in Kiev. An odious wretch, a prowler—

  “I wanted to go to the police,” Karena said, “but Mother didn’t think it wise.”

  “After Grinevich? It’s understandable.”

  “They wouldn’t have believed me,” Karena said, resting her forehead against her palm. “Not even the marks on Mother’s throat would have convinced them. The marks are still there—you saw them—but they were even worse.”

  “I agree they would not have wanted to believe you. Still …” He shook his head, fearing the concealing of such facts. “Getting rid of Leonovich’s body will only strengthen their suspicions of guilt. The facts must be given to someone who will listen to the truth. Kronstadt, perhaps.”