Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“For those who believe, no words are necessary. For those who do not, no words are sufficient.”

—Saint Ignatius of Loyola

Musical Theme: Pictures at an Exhibition, No. 8, Catacombs, by Modest Mussorgsky

MID-OCTOBER, 1919, SAMARA

During the weeks since America had opened diplomatic relations with Kolchak’s government, Ned’s wireless team had intercepted one Bolshevik communication after another showing how badly this turn of events had shaken the Red leadership. With Allied military aid arriving at an unprecedented rate via the Trans-Siberian Railroad and the Black Sea, and with the Red Army driven back across the Lower Volga, Lenin’s worst fears were being realized. Unless the Red Army could somehow break through the Siberian lines between Simbirsk and Kazan, cross the Volga, drive a fresh wedge between Kolchak’s Western and Northern Armies, and take the Urals passes before the snows fell, the Bolshevik Revolution would not likely survive the winter.

To this end, under cover of the ceasefire, Trotsky had withdrawn a large number of Red Army divisions from the Southern Front against General Denikin’s AFSR and shifted the forces north and east to Nizhni Novgorod for an attempted breakout toward Ufa. According to Allied and Siberian intelligence estimates, Trotsky appeared likely to advance first on Kazan, then Yelabuga, then split into two separate columns, one approaching Ufa from Birsk in the north and the other from Bugul’ma in the south. The only question was how long Trotsky would wait before violating the ceasefire to let loose his final spasm of violence against the Siberian Army.

Anticipating a Red drive due east toward Kazan, Dieterichs put on high alert both Gaida’s Northern Army and Kappel’s Western Army, holding the Maid’s brigade in reserve. However, shortly afterward, in a move that took the Allies by surprise, Trotsky sent several divisions from Nizhni Novgorod on a route further south toward Simbirsk, in an apparent move against the Whites’ new seat of government at Samara. In so doing, the Red Army shattered the ceasefire about a hundred versts north of Simbirsk, at Batyrevo.

But while Trotsky’s threat against Samara might embarrass or even disrupt the White government, it was a risky move that would give Kolchak and Denikin license to unleash their own planned offensive. Over the two days that followed Trotsky’s ceasefire violation, Ned’s wireless staff worked around the clock exchanging messages among Admiral Kolchak’s Stavka, the AFSR, the British and American Military Missions, and AEF Intelligence in Vladivostok, in order to determine whether the move toward Simbirsk represented a major offensive or a mere feint.

On the third morning, during daily rounds between the Hotel Zhiguli and the Siberian government’s offices, Ned turned the corner and found himself face to face with Zhanna and two of her Cossack bodyguards. Ned’s own bodyguard, a gangly, taciturn Utahn who had learned to shoot in his crib and was as quick on the draw as any Western outlaw, drew his pistol before Ned could stop him. The Cossacks, unaware that the proper response was to hold their hands high, instead drew their sabers and stepped forward with naked blades. It was only by the slimmest of margins that Ned and Zhanna prevented bloodshed on Samara’s central avenue. Once the bodyguards’ weapons were lowered, Zhanna took Ned’s arm and spoke softly in his ear.

“I know you go to Dieterichs’ office most every morning. I need your help,” she said.

“Tell me what you need. I’ll do what I can,” he replied, secretly delighted that she had sought him out.

“I would like to see the Chief of Staff. Could you take me with you so that I won’t be turned away? I know that Mikhail Konstantinovich would not refuse me an audience if you insisted upon it. It seems you Americans have greater influence than ever in Samara.”

Ned felt a thrill pass through him when Zhanna touched his elbow and he inhaled her sweet breath as she drew close to him. But, at the same time, he detected a scent of perfume, which he had never known Zhanna to wear, and saw that her outfit was not the usual shapeless British uniform of coarse brown wool, but an elegantly tailored one of fine worsted, a cloth not available in Siberia at any price. More than that, her bobbed hair appeared to have been cut and coiffed by a professional.

“I find it hard to believe that General Dieterichs would ever deny you an audience, Zhanna,” Ned replied. “But I’m happy to exert my little influence on your behalf. When we reach the entrance, tell your guards to wait outside while the two of us go in alone.”