Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Though no one could deny that Zhanna had earned her place beside Kolchak, some cabinet ministers complained later that she had called undue attention to herself by standing with her banner at his side.

“By what right did you assume that place of honor?” Foreign Minister Sukin asked her once they stood outside the cathedral.

The Maid turned to face the young minister, her banner firmly in hand. Still aglow from the celebration, she offered Sukin a benevolent smile.

“Since the banner bore the burden on the battlefield,” she replied in a reasonable tone, “surely it deserves a place of honor at the inauguration.”

But Sukin’s eyes flashed with indignation. As he opened his mouth to respond, George Guins grabbed his arm. The two men then turned their backs on her and climbed into a waiting coach for the short ride to the Archbishop’s residence.

Lining the streets along their path were hundreds of Siberian soldiers in freshly laundered uniforms. But Zhanna did not join them for the trip. Instead, she handed her banner to Paladin for safekeeping and made her way quietly to a modest café a few blocks away, where she met for the first time in months with her father and her uncle, the banker Kostrov. The two men were waiting for her outside the café, each clutching a bouquet of autumn flowers. At Zhanna’s approach, her father stepped forward and embraced her with tears of relief and pride. A few moments later, her uncle did the same, though with greater composure.

“So the two of you have reconciled?” she asked them with one eyebrow raised and a smile on her lips. “Please forgive me. I never meant to come between you.”

“Nor I between father and daughter!” Kostrov answered quickly.

Then Zhanna’s father interrupted with a faltering voice that was laden with pent-up emotion.

“It is I who ask your forgiveness, Zhanna. It’s just that I had no idea that you were capable of…” and here he shot an exultant glance toward Kostrov, “so very much!”

If any doubts remained that all had been forgiven among the three, they were dispelled on the spot. Zhanna took both men by the arm and led them into the café, where the owner recognized her immediately and showed his guests to the best table in the house. Putting aside her wartime prohibition on vodka, she nodded at the owner’s offer of a complimentary bottle so as not to deny her male relatives their customary tipple.

With his first toast of celebration, Stepan Petrovich expressed supreme joy at having seen his daughter given a place of honor at Admiral Kolchak’s right hand during his inauguration. Kostrov followed up with another, calling his niece “A real Russian eagle!” as Father Timofey had called her the previous November. And before much longer, both men gave in to their temptation to ask her about her many battles and to pump her for colorful anecdotes about Admiral Kolchak and his leading generals. The three did not leave the café until the last drop of vodka was consumed, after which Zhanna packed the men off to their modest hotel near the railway station.

But afterward, instead of returning to her encampment across the river, Zhanna retraced her steps to the Cathedral of the Ascension and found a quiet place in a small side chapel where she could pray. There Ned and General Tolstov found her, kneeling before the altar, still dressed in the British dress uniform with Siberian insignia that she had worn to the ceremony.

“Come along, Zhanna,” Tolstov greeted her with a jovial laugh. “That’s enough praying for now. The ceremony is over and the cathedral is empty. But the streets are still filled with people calling your name. They insist that you make an appearance!”

“I’d rather not,” the Maid answered softly, her head still bowed. “This is the Admiral’s moment, not mine.”

“But it was you who brought him here. Why not claim some of the glory?” Tolstov suggested.

“Because those who seek the glory do not want me to share it. I sense their resentment,” Zhanna said.

“How wise you are at times, my child, yet how naïve!” Tolstov exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “Do you expect fools to love you after you outshine them?”

“Ahh, I suppose you are right,” the girl said, letting out a gentle laugh. “Still, I cannot bear how strongly some of the Admiral’s men have come to resent me. Were it not for my Voices, I might have given up this work more than once.”

“Yes, your Voices. They are another reason the fools distrust you,” Tolstov went on. “Even I might question your judgment if you didn’t offer up such sensible reasons for what you do after listening to them.”

Here the Cossack’s weather-beaten face relaxed into an avuncular smile and he took a seat on a pew a few steps away.

“Of course,” the Maid conceded, “I manage to come up with earthly reasons when it’s necessary to satisfy the disbelievers. But I always heed the Voices first and justify them later. People can believe what they like.”