Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

After a few minutes of small talk, she asked Ned how he liked living in Samara.

“Well enough, I suppose,” he answered. “Less stuffy and provincial than Omsk, to be sure.”

“And Beregovoy? Do you miss your life there?” Her question seemed to carry a hidden meaning, and Ned turned to give her a searching look.

“Beregovoy was very good for me,” he replied, holding her gaze. “Yes, I miss it.”

“You mean Madame Yushnevskaya, don’t you.” It was a statement rather than a question.

“Yes,” he said. “But some good things just aren’t meant to last. As turned out, Yulia and I aren’t very well suited to each another.”

Zhanna wrinkled her nose in displeasure.

“Madame Yushnevskaya has been very generous to me,” she said in a sharp voice. “I would not want to offend her for all the world.”

“Nor I. But I suspect we haven’t seen the last of her,” Ned added. “She said she might be coming to Samara to sell some property that she owns.”

“Then I hope she calls on me. That is, if I’m still here.”

Ned turned to her with a surprised expression.

“Are you going home after the inauguration, then? Is your mission finally fulfilled?”

“Hardly,” she snorted, and looked away.

“But your Voices. You’ve always said they wanted you to lead Admiral Kolchak to Samara. Must you go further?”

“My Voices…” she answered in a self-mocking tone that he had never heard from her before. “What am I to think of them? They lead me from one impossible task to the next, from terror to triumph and back again. And the further I go, the less certain I am about what comes next.”

“Then why go on, Zhanna? It seems to me that you’ve wrapped up the mission you signed up for. Am I wrong?”

They entered a small square where residents had cleaned up the weed-infested garden and planted purple asters and red, yellow and orange chrysanthemums for the autumn season. For a moment, this hopeful gesture by people whom Zhanna had helped to liberate brought a smile to the girl’s lips.

“My Voices don’t reveal to me when my work will end,” she went on, gazing out across the square. “They tell me only that I must remain pure in body and spirit, and cast out all my fears, until I finish it.”

“Then you plan to fight on?”

“I see no other choice,” she answered. “Do you?”

He hadn’t anticipated the question. Long moments passed while he felt unable to speak. For as much as he dreaded Zhanna coming to harm in the war, and however much he yearned to see her live a normal life, perhaps even a life with him, he knew he had no right to sway her.

“No,” he replied. “I suppose not.”

* * *

The inauguration ceremony was held at nine the next morning on a cool day, brilliant with sunshine. Admiral Kolchak entered Samara’s Cathedral of the Ascension dressed in an immaculate white naval uniform, followed by General Dieterichs, the Maid, a score of generals in dress uniform, cabinet ministers in morning suits, and a guard of eighty fierce-looking Cossacks. The spectators held their breath while the procession advanced to the altar, where the Orthodox Archbishop of Samara awaited them. Admiral Kolchak climbed the chancel steps to face the Archbishop, and then halted. Standing two steps below him, holding her battle flag aloft, was Zhanna, Maid of Baikal.

As this was an inauguration of a civil official and not the coronation of a tsar, the ceremony lacked the grandiosity that some of the onlookers might have preferred. With prayers, chanting and clouds of incense, the Archbishop presented the new regent to God and sprinkled his head and shoulders with holy water, using a sort of whisk that resembled a feather duster. The Admiral, in return, kissed the icon held before his face and then kissed the priest’s hands before crossing himself three times.

At last, the cleric gave his final blessing, with right hand raised, while Kolchak bowed his head but, in keeping with Orthodox tradition, did not kneel.

“I bless you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, and may they remain with you in all you do, from this day forward.”

When the blessing was complete, cries of jubilation rose up from the audience and reverberated so strongly among the cathedral’s whitewashed walls and vaulted ceilings that it seemed the stones themselves might shatter. And amid the cries, Zhanna rose to grasp the regent’s hand and sank to her knees at his feet.

With quavering lips, she gazed at him through her tears and offered him a blessing of her own.

“Today you have reaped the rewards of heeding God’s word and He has fulfilled His promise to make you regent. May He continue to bless you with the wisdom necessary to gain final victory!”

Amid the thunderous applause and shouting, the Admiral did not hear her words and allowed his Cossack guards to lead him away through an adjacent chapel. Zhanna remained behind and basked in the delight of watching the regent’s supporters celebrate his triumph.