Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

The Maid stopped her swaying and sat stock still, but her face showed no reaction. Timofey wondered whether she even heard what was said. Her defense counsel filled the silence in her stead.

“I must object, Your Honor,” the lawyer called out. “Such a remand is premature. The accused wishes to claim her right under canon law to appeal to the Patriarch Tikhon.”

This was a daring move, for while the Ryazan court claimed to derive its authority from the Patriarch, the Bolshevik regime considered Tikhon a counter-revolutionary. For nearly a year, it had held him under house arrest for having condemned the murder of the tsar’s family and the mass arrest of Orthodox clergymen during the Red Terror.

“There is no right to appeal from this court,” Bishop Fyodor responded indignantly. “However, if the accused would confess her guilt and throw herself upon the church’s mercy, she might still be restored at this late hour to its protection. Does the Maid wish to confess her sins and renounce the evil she has done?”

Zhanna remained immobile, her face an impassive mask, while the examiners looked on with anxious expressions. The defense attorney rose and spoke softly into her ear. In response, she simply shook her head.

“Take her away,” the bishop ordered.

The bailiff and his assistant each seized one of the Maid’s shackled arms. Flanked by three Cheka guards on each side, the two men walked Zhanna along a lengthy corridor and down a flight of stone steps into a snow-covered courtyard that the winter sun was unable to reach. The judge followed close behind, trailed by the two assessors and twelve examiners. Toward the far end of the courtyard, eight riflemen were lined up facing a whitewashed wall disfigured by countless bullet craters, every stone underfoot stained with the blood and tears of executed prisoners.

Whether it was the frigid air or the shock of seeing the firing squad, Zhanna at last seemed to awake from her confusion. She dug in her heels and nearly stumbled when the bailiffs shoved her roughly against the eroded wall.

“Zhanna Stepanovna, I ask you once more,” Bishop Fyodor insisted, seizing her by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. “Do you confess your heresy and renounce your voices once and for all? If you do, you will be taken to a church-run lockup and allowed to serve your penance there. Will you confess now and spare yourself from execution?”

Zhanna’s eyes seemed to go in and out of focus as she contemplated the bishop’s question. Once he unhanded her, she looked away, staring alternately at the blood-soaked snow beneath her crude felt boots and the riflemen facing her some ten paces away.

“You say, if I deny my Voices and admit to heresy, I will not be shot?” the girl asked in a barely audible voice, her teeth chattering from the cold.

“Ah, Zhanna, you understand at last!” Bishop Fyodor exclaimed, throwing up his stubby hands and gazing heavenward. “Yes, you can still save yourself! The church is ever merciful to those who submit.”

“But St. Yekaterina said I should be ever bold! How could her advice have led me to this?” the girl complained in a quavering voice. “My angels never told me I might die in so foul a way!”

“Woman, don’t you see that your Voices have deceived you?” Bishop Fyodor appealed, stepping forward to grasp her by the shoulders for a second time.

“But that’s not possible!” Zhanna cried out in an anguished voice.

“Impossible? Then how is it that your precious voices have led you to heresy and the firing squad?”

Zhanna turned away from the bishop and spoke to herself in an unsure voice.

“Oh, my,” she said, gazing around her as if realizing her situation for the first time. “I have dared and dared, all through this past year, yet all my daring has come to naught, for only a fool would stand still for a bullet. Surely, the God who gave me my common sense and love of life could not want me to do that!”

“God be praised for saving you at the eleventh hour!” Father Leo, the chief examiner, exclaimed upon hearing her words, though fixing his eyes on her as if she might change her mind at any moment.

“Amen!” Father Nestor agreed.

“Then tell me what I must do to avoid execution,” Zhanna said in a voice heavy with resignation.

“You must sign a solemn recantation of your heresy,” Leo advised. “Go fetch it!” he ordered Nestor.

Minutes later the deputy examiner returned with the written form of recantation.

“Read it to her,” Fyodor demanded.

“Don’t trouble yourself, I will sign,” Zhanna told them in a feeble voice before letting out a long wheezing cough.

“Woman, you must first know what you are putting your hand to,” the judge insisted. “Let all be silent while the deputy examiner reads the document aloud.”