Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Even if you tear me limb from limb and separate my soul from my body, you will get nothing more of value from me. I am but a girl, and my flesh is weak; I would say anything to stop the pain. But afterward, I will take back every word and say you coerced it from me. So what would be the use of it?”

At this, several of the examiners exchanged disapproving looks, which Bishop Fyodor apparently took as occasion to intervene.

“Need I remind the accused that she is under oath? It is not our intention to make a martyr of you, however much you might want that. Please answer the questions.”

“In truth, I am already martyred by the pain and discomfort that I suffer daily in your accursed dungeon,” Zhanna spat out, her bloodshot eyes brimming with tears. “Though I know that I will return before long to the bosom of God, take heed how you treat me! For He will surely avenge my death, if it is unjust. Your actions therefore place you in great danger.”

“Strike the last statement from the record!” Bishop Fyodor ordered in a peremptory voice. “The accused will not be heard to threaten the court! Take her back to her cell. The trial is adjourned until morning.”

But when the bishop returned to his chambers, Commissar Yurovsky awaited him there, his face dark with fury.

“You and your ‘flawless trial’!” he spat at Fyodor. “The girl is far too clever for you. She makes a fool of you daily, and now she threatens you in your own court!”

“It won’t happen again,” Fyodor promised, the blood draining from his cheeks for fear of the notorious Chekist.

“Yes, and the reason it won’t is that there will be no more trial! The farce has ended!” Yurovsky stormed, slamming his palm on the table beside him. “The girl will sign her confession today, one way or another, do you hear! And then she is to be taken out and shot.”

“But if we shoot her now, it will certainly make a martyr of her, just as the Whites hope!” the judge protested in a querulous voice. “This girl is no ordinary counterrevolutionary, I tell you. To the Whites, she is a legend, perhaps even a saint! To prove her a fraud and thus discredit the Admiral, whom she helped elevate to regent, we must induce her to recant her testimony in open court, before witnesses, disavowing both her voices and the Admiral. For this we need more time.”

“All right,” Yurovsky conceded reluctantly as he stroked his bearded chin. “This evening I will wire Moscow to approve the girl’s execution. You have forty-eight hours to extract a public confession from the wretch. Fail at this and you can give up any hope of rising to Archbishop, whether in Ryazan or anywhere else.”

Chapter 22: Closing In

“After I am dead, I would rather have people ask why I have no monument than why I have one.”

—Cato the Elder

Musical Theme: Romeo and Juliet, Act IV, Epilog, Juliet’s Funeral, by Sergei Prokofiev

MID-DECEMBER, 1919, RYAZAN

Father Timofey pulled the collar of his heavy sheepskin coat tightly around his neck as he rode through foot-deep snow and air heavily spiked with frost. He watched his breath form clouds of steam as thick as cigar smoke and thanked God that the frigid north wind was at his back. He arrived at the half-destroyed settlement outside Ryazan at midday, handing his scrawny gray mare to a ten-year-old stable boy behind the shabby tavern. The boy listened carefully to the bearded stranger’s instructions and removed a ragged sheepskin mitten from one hand to palm a few rubles for the horse’s care and feeding.

Once Timofey’s eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the tavern, he noticed that it was crowded with travelers, local idlers, and drunks, all lingering over their bread, soup, and vodka. Two days ago Timofey had sent his most recent message to Captain du Pont, who was encamped with General Kappel’s Western Army somewhere to the north and west of Penza, preparing for an advance toward the outskirts of Ryazan. Timofey recognized the courier, a brother of the one last dispatched to him, and took a seat at a table within the courier’s line of sight. The innkeeper’s slovenly wife brought him a glass of hot tea and a hunk of black peasant bread and took his order for potatoes and soup.

The courier, a rugged peasant of about sixty, paid no attention to Timofey or any of the other guests as he nursed one glass of steaming tea after another. Some time later, when Timofey’s meal was finished and he had downed the last of his tea, it was the courier who rose first to leave. Timofey followed a few minutes later and met him behind the stable.

“Timosha, praise God for your good health,” the courier said in a low voice while looking to either side to confirm that no one was watching them.