Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Then what is the good of having a defense counsel?” she objected, raising her voice before catching herself and nearly swallowing the final words.

“I will be at your side to advise you, but the court will not permit me to ask questions or present evidence at trial.” The young priest reached out to take Zhanna’s hand, but the girl brushed him away.

“So why hold a trial at all, if not to hear both sides of the matter and decide on the truth as between them?” she reproached him.

“Zhanna, you must understand, Yurovsky’s intentions have nothing to do with the truth,” the priest answered, reaching out once again, taking both the girl’s hands in his, and gazing intently into her red-rimmed eyes. “The sooner you see that, the better equipped you will be to justify your actions.”

“What are his intentions, then, if I may be so bold?” she demanded.

“The first is to induce you to confess your heresy, disavow your Voices, and repent of having made war against the October Revolution,” he told her in a low but clear voice. “The second is to advance the lie that the Soviet government has given you a fair trial and treated you humanely. And a third is to make the Holy Church responsible for your fate and thus drive a wedge between the church and your loyal followers.”

“And the church consents to this?” she demanded, her voice strained in disbelief. “What of the bishops and priests and monks who take part in the trial? How can they go along?”

“Please, Zhanna, you are in Sovdepia now and must see things as they exist here,” he said, lowering his voice even further. “The clerics who agreed to participate in your trial seek only to appease the Party bosses and, by so doing, save their own skins and further their careers. Having once ceded to the Cheka their influence over Russia’s spiritual affairs, they no longer have standing to oppose Bolshevik godlessness.”

* * *

The Maid’s formal arraignment took place the next morning in a sparely furnished chapel at the Spassky Monastery. Zhanna entered the chapel chained at her wrists and ankles and dressed in the same brown wool field uniform, minus the gold-trimmed jacket and sable ushanka, that she had worn every day since her arrest at Kazan. By now the outfit was frayed and threadbare, with holes at the knees and elbows, and it stank from having not been washed in many days. Her raven hair, which had formerly been trimmed at the jawline, now hung greasy and limp below her collar.

She stood alone in the dock for lack of a stool or chair. From the onlookers standing in the chapel nave behind her, cries of “Long live the October Revolution!” and “Death to the harlot witch!” rang out. Though many foreign diplomats and journalists had sought permission to attend, very few non-Russians were present and all of those could be safely trusted to favor the Red regime.

The judge whom Commissar Yurovsky had appointed to preside over the trial was a senior bishop from Ryazan by the name of Fyodor. He had been passed over for promotion when the current Archbishop of Ryazan, lately under house arrest, took office. Bishop Fyodor had joined the Communist Party soon after the Revolution and, to all accounts, was on excellent terms with the Cheka. Upon being selected as judge, he had expressed great delight and was overheard to promise Yurovsky “a flawless trial.”

Of his two assessors, one was an elderly parish priest from Moscow and the other a quiet monk from Nizhni Novgorod. The chief examiner, or prosecutor, was Father Leo, a middle-aged bishop from Moscow, known for his erudition and for his special expertise in canonical law. The remaining ten examiners, apart from Timofey, comprised a mixed bag of Bolshevik sympathizers and fellow travelers, all clerics, but none harboring sympathy toward the Maid.

Bishop Fyodor, the two assessors, Father Leo, and the remaining examiners all sat at a long table atop a dais at the front of the nave. Once the accused took her place, the bishop, a well-fed figure with heavy jowls and small porcine eyes, gave his bailiff a reproving look and waved a puffy forefinger toward the Maid.

“Why did you bring her here in uniform?” he scolded the bailiff. And to the Maid, he asked in no less peremptory a tone, “Wouldn’t you prefer to wear a women’s dress? We could bring you one.”

“Thank you,” Zhanna replied coolly in return, “but I don’t care to dress like a woman. Dressed as I am, everyone can see that I stand behind my actions on the battlefield.”

“Really, young woman!” the judge snapped, looking down his squat nose at her, “I must insist that you remove that impudent outfit and dress appropriately to your gender.”

“I will not,” Zhanna told him. “My Voices have directed me to dress as a soldier and so I will.”

The judge paused for a moment, as if to size the girl up.

“Come now. Why would angels of God, if they are as you claim, offer you such shameless advice?” he cajoled.