Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“If it is agreed on both sides, then let the accused be removed and taken to a place where nuns shall inspect her female parts. I declare a recess of one hour,” the bishop announced.

The bailiff led Zhanna to a private suite in an adjacent building, to which three middle-aged midwives were summoned from among the nuns residing at the Spassky Convent. They had carried out similar examinations many times and, after banishing men from the room, each nun conducted her inspection in turn. The women, deploring Zhanna’s pitiable physical condition, insisted that she be removed to their hospital between hearings or, at least that the seeping wounds on her wrists and ankles be treated. But the bailiff refused them for fear of incurring Commissar Yurovsky’s wrath. Zhanna was returned to the court in less than an hour and the three nuns were led before the judge.

Bishop Fyodor called the session back to order and asked the most senior nun, a tall, dark woman of dignified bearing, to identify herself

“I am Sister Marina,” the woman answered stiffly.

“What are your findings, sister?” the judge inquired.

“Your Honor, we find that the accused is a true maiden, wholly uncorrupted.”

Her report evoked astonished reactions from the assessors and examiners, and a spirited debate ensued among them.

“Silence!” the bishop ordered. “Sister Marina’s findings are hereby accepted. But, let us be clear about it: the matter is largely irrelevant and deserves no further attention. Scribes, strike this line of inquiry from the record. Father Leo, you may resume your questioning.”

The chief examiner looked irked at being proven wrong about Zhanna’s virginity. But rather than temper his approach, he redoubled his attack.

“Zhanna, what can you tell us about your claims to heal the sick and the wounded, who seem to seek you out wherever you go?” he inquired in a patronizing voice.

“Poor folk often come to me for help,” she replied evenly. “I do them no unkindness and help them as much as I can. But I have never said that I heal them. In that you are mistaken.”

“Then you dispute their statements?”

“I thank our Lord for whatever grace He has shown them, but I take no credit for it,” she answered in a humble voice.

“What then of your family, Zhanna? Have you healed any of them? Do your father and brothers and uncle acknowledge your divine powers?”

“I cannot say if they do or not. Why don’t you ask them?”

By now, the Maid’s coolness under fire appeared to have thoroughly exasperated the chief examiner, who threw down his pen on the table and let it drop noisily onto the floor.

“Your Honor, the accused has momentarily exhausted my patience,” Father Leo announced to the judge. “Let another questioner try his hand with her.”

For the rest of the day’s session, Father Nestor and several others of Leo’s team took turns peppering the Maid with questions, often interrupting and contradicting each other without the judge making the least effort to maintain order. Zhanna nonetheless gave thoughtful and articulate answers to each question, some of which addressed thorny points of theology that a religious scholar might be at pains to answer. The trial went on for eight hours that day, yet Zhanna’s stamina and mental acuity did not flag.

At day’s end, both the judge and the lead examiners appeared exhausted. It seemed that proving a nineteen-year old girl to be a fraud or a heretic was in no way as easy as they had expected. Even worse for them, a growing minority of examiners showed emerging signs of sympathy toward Zhanna and, from time to time, broke out with smiles or laughter when she turned the tables against her inquisitor with a clever turn of phrase. Never in living memory had so young a defendant wreaked such havoc with so august a panel of accusers.

That evening, when the judge called in the three examiners who were charged with preparing the trial transcript, he also called in a renowned expert in church law who had been invited to attend the trial. With only the three examiners present to witness the exchange, the judge asked the expert for his frank opinion of the proceedings. To the surprise of the examiners, including Father Timofey, who was one of the three, the legal authority minced no words in his reply.

“In my personal view, the trial is without legitimacy,” the visitor answered from behind crossed legs and folded arms.

Bishop Fyodor leveled a scowl at the expert but said nothing at first, for the man had attended the trial at Fyodor’s personal invitation.

“Would you care to elucidate?” he asked in a chill voice.