Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

The harsh language no longer disturbed her as it once did. By now she had grown accustomed to the guards calling her obscene names, mocking her at every turn, and threatening her with beatings, defilement, and more.

The first guard came over to her, unfastened her chains from the ring on the floor and led her like a dog on a leash to the latrine, a hole in the floor behind a wood partition in a corner alcove. Fortunately, she had taken the precaution months earlier, before setting out for Uralsk, of fitting her tunic and trousers with sturdy cords and eyelets that fastened together at numerous points around her waist, making it more difficult to remove her garments by force in an attempted rape.

But before they reached the alcove, the second Latvian reached out suddenly from behind and fondled her breasts before sliding his paws down to grope her inner thighs.

“Stop it!” she shouted, bringing her shackled wrists down so hard on the man’s hands that he cried out in pain.

“You’ll pay for that, bitch!” he bellowed, and drew back a fist to strike her.

But at that moment, a female Cheka commissar who made her rounds of the prison at irregular intervals happened to be passing. She stopped when she heard the shouting, peered through the Judas-hole, and called out in a commanding voice.

“Stop that at once!” she demanded, as she inserted her master key in the cell door. “Unhand the prisoner!”

At the sound of the woman’s shrill voice, both Latvians leapt back as if scalded and stood at attention while the commissar opened the door to enter. She was a small, rotund woman who wore an officer’s peaked cap on her head and a captain’s insignia on her sleeve. From her Sam Browne belt hung a holstered Mauser pistol.

“Do you realize what you’re doing?” she scolded the men once they stood at attention. “I saw you. You were about to commit a contemptible crime, and one that the prisoner would doubtless disclose during her trial to tarnish the name of Bolshevism.”

She called a third guard into the cell from the corridor.

“You, go assist this one in escorting the prisoner to the latrine. And you,” she added, pointing to the abuser, “you come with me!”

When the commissar had taken away the offending guard and Zhanna was returned to her cot, the girl heaved a sigh of relief, though her limbs shivered uncontrollably and her entire body felt cold as ice. Her angels had once again found a way to preserve her virginity; no small achievement, though she sometimes wondered why they still went to the trouble. By the time the angels got around to freeing her—assuming they ever did—the war would likely be over. And then what?

Meanwhile, her morning meal of kasha gruel and sweet tea would be brought soon, and then it would be time for another round of interrogation. Rotating teams of Cheka officers had questioned her several times a day for nearly a week, at odd intervals around the clock, driving her to the limits of her endurance. The interrogations, harassment, reduced rations, and sleep deprivation were all clearly intended to wear her down and make her more compliant at trial. For when her court-appointed defense counsel had protested the treatment, Yurovsky had told him to hold his tongue about it or he might be given a dose of the same.

One evening between interrogations, the defense counsel, a young priest of modest demeanor who had attended university before entering the priesthood, came to visit her in her cell. When her guards were out of earshot, he said he had guidance of a confidential nature to offer about her trial.

“And what would that be?” she answered in a voice faint with fatigue.

“By now, Zhanna Stepanovna, the Cheka has collected all the information it could about you. The prosecution has sifted through it and selected the most damaging material in drafting charges against you. After some wrangling between the church and the Cheka, both have agreed that the indictment will accuse you of heresy, blasphemy, and heterodoxy against Russian culture and tradition.”

“How ironic,” Zhanna responded under her breath. “One could easily accuse the Bolsheviks of the same.”

The defense counsel blanched at this and gave a quick look around to see if the guards had heard. Then he went on in low tones to discuss the trial format.

“While the court exists under the auspices of the Russian Orthodox Church, its form and function follow that of a Bolshevik revolutionary tribunal, an instrument created for the express purpose of crushing state enemies. Presiding over the trial will be a senior bishop.”

“Who will render final judgment?” she asked the lawyer.

“The presiding bishop and two clerical assessors,” he responded. “But the assessors are merely rubber stamps.”

“And will you be the one to present my defense?”

At this, the lawyer drew a pained breath through his teeth.

“Not exactly,” he said. “If the court has its way, there will be no defense at all, other than the answers you give to vindicate yourself.”