Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Then you must understand the danger that Savinkov and Zhelezin pose to Zhanna and to Russia,” he told the staff captain. “The S-R partisans behind Red lines know the true nature of Bolshevik tyranny and have paid dearly to oppose it. Exiles like Savinkov and Zhelezin have paid no such price and place no value on the freedom of others. Having captured the S-R party leadership, what they seek is to replace Kolchak, and then Lenin, with a new tyranny of their own. We cannot allow them to use Zhanna to do it.”

“I agree, but how can we stop them?” Ivashov replied, his face drained of color.

“Let’s wait for Zhanna’s return. We’ll tell her what we know, and see what she proposes. Perhaps her Voices will suggest a way.”

* * *

Three days later, Ivashov attended a meeting at the French consulate in Samara with Guins, Dieterichs, and French General Maurice Janin, Chief of France’s Military Mission to Russia. The meeting’s purpose was to discuss French military aid to the White Armies and to the S-R partisans operating behind Red Army lines. So far during the session, neither side had even mentioned a possible ceasefire.

The men had just gone back to work after a tea break when the door opened without warning and Zhanna marched in with General Tolstov at her side. Having recovered from her earlier exertions in the field, she looked strong and well rested, and cut a trim figure in her tailored British uniform with green-and-white epaulets. Tolstov looked imposing in his traditional Cossack uniform, peaked cap, and Sam Browne belt.

General Janin, a short, stout man easily recognizable by his thick black mustache, tousled crop of graying hair, and the Croix de Guerre hanging around his neck, was first to rise. Showing no sign of irritation at the intrusion, he stepped away from the table to greet the two visitors and, contrary to French or Russian custom, offered each a handshake rather than a kiss on each cheek, perhaps having been told of the Maid’s objection to the latter.

“What an unexpected pleasure to have you join us,” Janin began, showing a degree of Gallic charm well beyond that which Ivashov had seen him display before. “Had I known you were in the city, I would have sent you a carriage.”

“Had you known I was in the city, you would have moved the meeting,” Zhanna replied without smiling. Despite Janin’s gesture for her to be seated, she stood her ground. “To be frank, I have come to ask about a distasteful rumor that has reached me,” she went on.

“I will assist as best I can,” the general replied with a fleeting glance toward Dieterichs and Guins.

“I have learned that the French government has opened peace talks with the Bolsheviks and has presented a set of proposals to Admiral Kolchak that includes an immediate ceasefire. Am I correct in this?” the Maid challenged.

“As to the first point, the French government maintains unofficial contacts with the Soviet regime on several matters of mutual interest,” Janin replied in a monotone. “As to how that may affect the Siberian government, I must defer to Minister Guins.”

“Mr. Minister?” Zhanna inquired, folding her slender arms across her chest.

Guins turned to Dieterichs, who nodded his assent for the younger man to speak.

“Yes, there has been some talk of a ceasefire,” Guins replied with the inscrutable expression of an accomplished liar.

“And is that why our Volga offensive suffers delay after delay?” the Maid demanded, her voice rising.

“It may have entered into consideration,” Guins conceded.

“If it entered your minds to halt our advance for the sake of some misbegotten ceasefire proposal, I must warn you,” the Maid declared. “Unless the White forces promptly defeat the Red Army all along the Volga and move on to take Moscow, this civil war will drag on for years to come. Millions of Russians, Red and White alike, will die by violence, disease and starvation. And if the Bolsheviks prevail, as they likely will if we offer the relief they seek, tens of millions more will die in other wars that will persist for nigh a century.”

Guins turned pale but did his best not to look cowed, despite having been caught red-handed in his plotting. Unable to refute her allegations, he sought instead to undermine her credibility.

“Would that be your Voices speaking, Zhanna Stepanovna?” the minister asked with a condescending tilt of the head. “You know we cannot make decisions based on idle ravings.”

“Ravings, you say?” Zhanna replied with an icy stare. “Your Excellency, this much is fact: for weeks Baron Wrangel and I have awaited the order to move against Kazan. We should have struck hard after our victory at Samara. But it’s still not too late for Admiral Kolchak to show his resolve. Give us the order and Kazan will be ours! From there, we will take Nizhni Novgorod and advance on Moscow before the year is out!”

Again, Guins looked to General Dieterichs for guidance; this time he looked in vain.