Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

By midday, Ned’s appetite returned and he ordered lunch in a downtown café near his office that, before the Revolution, had served rich meat dishes to prosperous bankers and grain traders. After a few months of Bolshevik rule, it had closed its doors. Reopened now, it offered a limited menu of traditional Russian soups and stews made from pork, river fish, cabbage, potatoes, onions, garlic, and an optional dollop of sour cream.

Ned took his usual place at a communal table in the corner and had nearly finished his bowl of fish stew with rye bread when a tall, broad-shouldered Russian in his thirties took a place opposite him and set down his bowl of fish broth and dumplings. The man wore the uniform of a river steamer crewman, complete with sailor’s cap, and his dark, deep-set eyes gave him a menacing expression. In an instant, Ned recognized him as Father Timofey Ryumin.

Timofey gave Ned a barely perceptible nod before picking up his spoon to eat. A few minutes later, the only other diner at the communal table rose to leave.

“I need to speak to you,” Timofey said in muted tones, without raising his eyes.

Ned put down his spoon and looked to either side before speaking.

“The usual place?” he asked.

“No,” Timofey answered. “When you finish here, go to the riverfront and stroll along the bank until you are certain of not being followed. Then go to 117 Central Street, at the corner of School Street, second floor. The room is 208. Knock four times and wait.”

Ned did as he was told and, half an hour later, found himself in a working class neighborhood in which all the row houses were in a dreadful state of disrepair. He entered number 117, where the stairway reeked of cat urine and pickled cabbage. But to Ned’s relief, no doorkeeper came out to challenge him as he mounted the stairs. Upon reaching the second floor, he waited several moments before knocking at number 208. Timofey opened the door onto a darkened room without saying a word.

“Are you certain no one followed you?” the Russian asked in a near whisper once he was inside.

“I wouldn’t have come otherwise,” Ned answered.

“Good, then. The man who occupies this flat is a friend and I wouldn’t want to put him in danger,” the Russian explained, his voice now free of tension.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Timofey,” Ned greeted him. “How can I be of help?”

“I have important news,” the former cleric said, inviting Ned into the kitchen and offering him a seat at the kitchen table. “Are you aware of the secret talks going on between Kolchak’s men, the French, and the Socialist Revolutionaries?”

“Not at all,” Ned answered. “Talks about what?”

“About S-R-led uprisings along the Upper Volga in return for the party’s participation in the new White Government at Samara.”

“Go on,” Ned told him.

“When the White Armies came north after taking Tsaritsyn, the sole aim of our local S-R cells was to help Baron Wrangel and Zhanna throw off the Bolshevik yoke,” Timofey said. “We gave little thought to what form a White government might take. But it seems that certain exiled S-R leaders have given much more thought to the matter than we. What’s more, now they’ve taken the liberty of negotiating on our behalf.”

“Which exiled leaders? Negotiating with whom?” Ned asked, unsure where Timofey was leading.

“Savinkov and his partner, Zhelezin,” Timofey answered, spitting out the second name as if it were a curse. “It seems that Savinkov met Admiral Kolchak on a visit to Omsk last October and pledged his support for the Admiral’s coup even before it took place. It was on this basis that Kolchak appointed Savinkov as his representative in Paris.”

“And…?”

“When Savinkov and Zhelezin visited Novo-Rossiysk a few weeks ago, they arrived with a plan in mind. First, they brought with them large sums of money collected from Russian exiles in Europe, and passed it out liberally to S-R cells along the Volga. In this way, they seduced some of our local leaders into letting Savinkov represent them in talks with Denikin and Kolchak.”

“You make it sound as if Savinkov has betrayed you. Is that what you believe?” Ned pressed.

“At first, we had no reason to suppose he did,” Timofey answered with a shrug. “Those of us working inside Sovdepia were prepared to help Baron Wrangel and the Maid in any way we could, through information-gathering, agitation, sabotage, assassinations—even armed uprisings. All we sought in return was funding and weaponry and an end to the Admiral’s persecution of S-Rs so that our members could serve openly in the Siberian Army and administration.”

“And did Savinkov make good on his promises?”

“We received the money and arms, and both Denikin and Kolchak promised to rehabilitate S-R members who pledged allegiance to the White cause,” Timofey said. “Kolchak even apologized for the December massacre of S-Rs at Omsk, something I never expected from him.”

“Then what seems to be the problem?”