Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Make any ceasefire you like, general,” he warned in a voice seething with anger. “But Denikin and Wrangel will not respect it. Be assured, they will march on Moscow with or without you. And my men will march with them, if it comes to that.”

Hearing this, the Chief of Staff halted in his tracks, causing Guins and Ivashov to nearly collide with him.

“Oh, no, my dear general, they will not,” Dieterichs answered in a firm voice. “I have confined the Siberian Army to its bases and I am ordering you to your quarters. From now on, all commands come from me.”

“Do what you wish,” Tolstov replied. “If my officers cross the Volga to join Wrangel, I shall cross with them.”

“They are not your officers. They are mine! And you will do as you are told or face the consequences!”

Dieterichs leveled a baleful gaze at Tolstov for what seemed like minutes before turning on his heel and walking out the door.

Chapter 19: Kolchak’s Dream

“That which is escaped now, is but pain yet to come.”

—Chinese sage Tso-Lin

Musical Theme: The Rite of Spring, Sacrificial Dance, by Igor Stravinsky

LATE SEPTEMBER, 1919, SAMARA

Once the ceasefire went into effect, Zhanna’s forces were confined to the vicinity of their encampment outside Samara. During this interval, the Chief of Staff took advantage of the army’s inactivity to send the Maid on a recruiting drive while leaving General Tolstov in charge of her volunteers. The Omsk newspapers lauded the idea, claiming that, just as Siberia relied on the sun to raise its crops, the Army could rely on the Maid to raise fresh recruits. So, though she opposed the ceasefire, Zhanna accepted Dieterichs’ order and welcomed the opportunity to leave the enforced idleness of camp and occupy her time in some useful way.

More than that, she saw such recruiting missions as her special calling, for no other public figure drew such large crowds. She spoke in every city, town, and village on her route, no matter how small, often from the rear of trains in whistle-stop fashion. Wherever she visited for longer than a few hours, she would attend a religious service and speak from the church or cathedral steps, mingling among the worshippers afterward. While the crowds usually included more women, children, and elderly men than military-age males, the extended family often played an important role in her recruiting drive.

One woman brought forward her conscription-age son, who had so far evaded call-up, admonishing him before the Maid.

“Cheer up, my son, and join the troops,” the mother urged. “My soul will follow you to the battlefield and share your hardship. But I would feel even worse pain if you clung by my side at such a perilous time.”

The boy, apparently ashamed that a girl of his own age had risked life and limb while he had not, accepted the call without further argument and boarded the train.

And at another stop, a grizzled Cossack approached her with his teenage grandson in tow.

“Allow me to join your regiment,” the old warrior offered. “For my grandson’s refusal to enter the ranks means that someone else must go in his place. We Cossacks, of all people, cannot leave Russia to the Bolshevik wolves.”

But this time the Maid would accept neither the old man’s enlistment nor the boy’s.

“I will not have anyone in my regiment who does not embrace our cause with all his heart. Take your grandson back with you, uncle, and show him a grandfather’s love. I will find another more willing to fill his spot in the ranks.”

Wherever Zhanna went, she urged her listeners to support the Siberian Army, not out of hatred for the Bolsheviks, nor from party or class loyalty, nor for any consideration of personal gain or loss. Instead, she implored them to fight out of love for family and friends, for the freedom and opportunity that Siberia had always offered Russian settlers, and for their children’s future. And the crowds, once having sensed her purity of heart and single-minded purpose, responded by embracing her cause and offering whatever support was in their power to give.

Some seemed to regard her as a sort of saint or demigod, kissing her hands and the hem of her greatcoat and asking for her blessing. At a village near Saratov, a peasant woman approached her with an infant wrapped in a ragged blanket.

“Touch my child, blessed virgin, please heal her!” the woman was heard to cry.

But Zhanna raised her hands and sent the woman away.

“A mother’s touch is far better than mine,” she told the woman gently, and continued on her path.

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