Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“You? An officer of the clerical court?”

“As a lapsed priest who once supported the October Revolution, I am just the kind of cleric the Cheka was looking for,” Timofey explained. “I traveled to Ryazan, let the right people know that I was available, and they sought me out for the job. But whether I can help our beloved Zhanna remains to be seen.”

“When is the trial to begin?”

“Within a fortnight.”

Ned reached over to the stove to pour more tea, for the room was still frigid and the tea was necessary to keep them warm.

“You said you have seen Zhanna at Ryazan,” Ned repeated, giving Timofey a thoughtful look. “Might you be able to communicate with her?”

“I have occasion to visit her cell from time to time, but only in the company of other examiners, and always under escort,” Timofey replied. “It would be difficult to do more, and I might put both of us in severe danger should she recognize me.”

“I understand, Timofey. So, tell me, in all honesty: from all you have seen, what chance do we have of freeing Zhanna from the Bolsheviks and how much time might we have to carry it off?”

“The Spassky monastery is adjacent to a large Red Army garrison,” the former priest pointed out, shaking his head and offering a grave expression. “And Ryazan is very close to Moscow. An armed rescue would be next to impossible. In my view, our only hope is for her trial to drag on long enough that the White Armies reach Ryazan before it ends, and that the Bolsheviks retreat in such haste that they fail to execute her.”

“So you expect the Cheka to shoot her?” Ned challenged. “What makes you so sure they would?”

“Because Yakov Yurovsky is the Commissar assigned to her trial,” Timofey said in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Not the Yurovsky who…”

“Yes, the same one who had the tsar and the royal family shot at Yekaterinburg. He now heads the Cheka in the Ryazan District.”

“Have you met him? Is he as bad as…?” Ned hesitated to complete the sentence, for Yurovsky was considered a monster by nearly everyone except for fanatical Bolsheviks.

“Yes, and yes. The man is a vindictive sadist with the morality of a he-goat. Zhanna can expect no mercy.”

“Then we must find a way to save her, however impossible it seems,” Ned declared, pounding a fist on the table. “I will need you to report to me as often as you can across the confrontation lines. I can send you couriers. But you must let them know nothing about your circumstances, only instructions as to where you will exchange messages.”

“I will do that, and will also transcribe as much of the trial record as might be useful to you, for I am one of three examiners responsible for preparing the daily transcript.”

“Excellent,” Ned observed. “And pass along all you can about her situation, both physical and mental. The conditions you describe must be grim for even the most hardened prisoner. Is she bearing up well?”

To Ned’s dismay, Timofey pressed his lips together and looked down at his hands, which gripped his glass of tea for warmth. His dark blue eyes glistened.

“Her mental state has deteriorated badly,” Timofey replied. “She told a visiting priest not long ago that she felt a great emptiness and would rather die than remain in captivity. She seems to be at odds even with her Voices, as she’s been overheard to argue with herself most vehemently.”

“Do you think she might do herself harm?”

Timofey nodded gravely.

“She already has. At Nizhni Novgorod, she leapt from a forty-foot tower and was rendered insensible for two days, neither eating nor drinking. Praise God, she recovered, perhaps thanks to her angels. But she might try something like it again if we fail to reach her in time.”

“How long do you expect her trial to go on?” Ned asked.

“Two weeks. Maybe three. I pray that it proves long enough.”

* * *

Zhanna awoke at dawn from a dreamless sleep, despite having rested for only a few hours. So accustomed was she to the cell’s darkness that the faint rays of light entering from its single barred window sufficed to tell her body that it was time to wake up. The cell was located on the ground floor of a tower on the northeast side of the Spassky monastery compound, several steps up from a large courtyard facing a line of buildings built against Ryazan’s city wall. As a result, the only direct sun it received was at morning.

Zhanna lay on her cot, stretched out on her back, her raw and bleeding ankles shackled in leg irons chained to the floor. As usual, her Latvian guards were still asleep when she opened her eyes.

“Guards, please get up now. I must relieve myself,” she said in a firm but not insistent voice once the urge to urinate was too strong for her to resist.

“Damn you, witch!” muttered the first Latvian to wake, a fat peasant who, despite his rough language, was not at all the cruelest of the ones she had encountered at Ryazan.

“I’ll show you what relief means, whore!” called the second, “once I’ve beaten you!”