Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

The following day, Samara’s newspapers were filled with denunciations of Bolshevik ceasefire violations and dire warnings that the war was entering its critical stage. As if to confirm this, the Ministry of Defense ordered yet another round of conscriptions and posted placards all over Samara calling for yet more volunteers. Ned noticed that one of the placards announced a rally to be held that evening on the town square, featuring the Maid of Baikal as speaker.

He arrived early to find a spot close to the podium from which to hear Zhanna’s speech. When she stepped before the cheering crowd, Ned noticed that over her brown military tunic she wore an elegant beige jacket, embroidered in shiny gold thread, and lined with dark sable-like fur, matching its fur collar and cuffs. On her head, she wore a sable ushanka. Ned thought of Zhanna’s tailored uniform, her fancy hairstyle and perfume, and now the elegant hat and jacket. These were luxuries of the highest order, yet Zhanna had no money of her own. Where had she obtained them? From her wealthy supporters? From the S-Rs? Could they be a sign of the pride that General Tolstov had warned her against?

The Maid’s oration turned out to be a predictable variant of her standard recruiting speech that she had delivered dozens of times since her arrival in Samara. The moment her speech ended, she was whisked away by a troop of well-dressed notables, leaving no opportunity for Ned to approach her. The next day, more volunteers flooded into her camp, where they were hastily sorted out and the best of them outfitted with uniforms and weapons.

Hearing that Ivashov had just returned to Zhanna’s encampment from a reconnaissance mission to Simbirsk, Ned rode out to see him that evening. After a simple dinner of bread and watery stew, the two men retired to Ivashov’s tent.

“Has Dieterichs responded yet to Zhanna’s request to move against Kazan?” Ned asked, once they had poured their tea.

“He has, but his response offered nothing definite,” Ivashov replied, holding his glass in both hands to warm them.

“Do you think he’s stalling?” Ned pressed.

“Perhaps so,” Ivashov answered. “But while he waits, Zhanna is preparing her column for a morning departure. Only a few know it yet, but we are headed to Kazan.”

Ned gave an involuntary gasp.

“This time, I swear it, she’s biting off more than she can chew,” he cautioned Ivashov, squirming uneasily in his camp chair. “To attack so large a city, so important to the enemy, so far behind enemy lines, with so few men and virtually no heavy weapons, would require no less than a miracle.”

“And never have we needed a miracle more,” Ivashov agreed with an exhausted look, setting his half-filled glass of tea on the table before him. “As weak as the Reds may be, our troops are equally exhausted. They and we are like two punch-drunk boxers, each struggling to stay on his feet until the other topples over. Still, I think Zhanna is right. What’s required now is to seize the initiative and not let up until the enemy collapses. In fact, I am prepared to stake my life on it. Even more, those of our men.”

“You are one brave fellow, Igor Ivanovich,” Ned offered with heartfelt praise, while wondering at the same time where courage ended and recklessness began.

“This has nothing to do with bravery,” Ivashov shot back. “I believe each of us has been put on the earth for a purpose. God plucked Zhanna out of Verkhne-Udinsk to save Russia in her hour of need. My purpose, I believe, is to stand by her as long as I am able.”

“I wish I could say the same for myself, Igor Ivanovich,” Ned replied uneasily, “but the U.S. government brought me here to run a wireless operation, and never has it been more badly needed than now.”

“I do hope you will think again,” Ivashov suggested, his expression showing the trace of a smile. “You see, I believe God had a reason for picking out the two of us to bring Zhanna from Irkutsk to Omsk, and then to Uralsk. Call me a madman, but I don’t believe He is done with either of us yet.”

Ned let out a nervous laugh as Ivashov’s words sank in.

“You couldn’t possibly be proposing that I desert my post, disobey my government’s prohibition against combat, and run off with you and Zhanna to fight the Red Army at Kazan, could you?”

“I am,” the staff captain replied. “Zhanna asked me to approach you because she knew how difficult it would be for you to refuse her to her face.”

Ned’s limbs went weak and he felt a chill up his spine—the opposite sensation of the adrenalin rush he felt in the heat of battle, when circumstances and training left him no choice but to fight. Now he had the reasonable option of fleeing, and hence a choice.

He drained the last of his tea and looked across the table at his Russian friend and colleague. Suddenly, all his firm convictions and ironclad reasoning seemed to desert him. And he knew that he could never forgive himself if he didn’t go.