Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Won’t one of you do me a last favor? Quickly, bring a crucifix from the monastery and hold it up before my eyes so that I might keep it in sight until the moment I die! But at a safe distance—so as not to burn yourself!”

Timofey broke free, ran to the nearest monastery entrance, where he found a foot-long crucifix nailed to the wall, tore it loose, and ran back into the courtyard, holding it aloft while the executioner doused the pyre with kerosene and lit it. Within seconds of ignition, flames spread from one end of the brush pile to another and rose in twisting columns toward the sky. The hem of the Maid’s dress caught fire first, and then all at once the flames consumed the soiled cloth and ignited her pointed cap in a blaze of fearsome strength.

“Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary!” she cried out repeatedly until the fire silenced her at last.

Timofey remained transfixed, holding the crucifix before his face to shield his eyes from the pyre, until all the faggots were reduced to smoking embers. By then, the soldiers and most of the guards had dispersed, along with Yurovsky and his Chekist entourage, and all but a few of Timofey’s fellow clerics. Once the heat had abated sufficiently, the executioner stepped forward to rake back the coals and ashes so that what remained of Zhanna’s charred corpse lay exposed for inspection. Then he tossed more faggots around her remains to raise a fresh blaze, this time to reduce the residue to dust. As Timofey and a handful of others watched him, however, the executioner turned toward the group, his face suddenly contorted with dread.

“Look there!” the hooded man called out, pointing to the corpse with his blackened rake. “Her heart does not burn! God protect us, for we may have burnt a devil! Or, worse—a saint!”

And in the next moment, Father Nestor collapsed to the ground as if from a violent fit. When revived and given vodka to steady his nerves, the deputy examiner claimed to have seen a white dove rise from the ashes of Zhanna’s corpse and fly off to the east. Timofey and one of the remaining guards each put an arm around the priest’s shoulders and half-carried him back to the monastery. Once there, Timofey noticed how much louder the rumble of artillery fire seemed to have grown and, for the first time, he heard the crackle of distant machine-gun fire.

* * *

The din of exploding shells and faraway gunfire continued for the rest of the afternoon and past the purple sunset into the night. Added to the commotion were volleys of rifle and pistol shots that came from the courtyard and were repeated at regular intervals all through the evening. These, Timofey realized, meant that the Cheka had ordered the cellars emptied and the remaining prisoners shot.

Timofey gathered his few belongings, stuffed them into a rucksack, and made his way through a little-used passage into a deserted wing of the monastery, where the stone walls were nearly two yards thick. There, in one of the ground-floor monks’ cells, he awaited the Siberian Army’s assault while seated at a rough-hewn oak table, his Bible opened at the Book of Psalms. In the light of a kerosene lamp, he began to read the verses aloud in a clear and unhurried voice.

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his holy ones…” he read, and stifled the sob that formed in his parched throat. He continued reading until he could no longer keep his eyes open and fell into an exhausted sleep.

The next morning, General Kappel’s Western Army announced its arrival at the Spassky Monastery by sending a pair of Austin armored cars careening through the open gates into the monastery’s courtyard, while raking its walls with machine-gun fire. There was no return fire, as the Cheka guards had fled.

Timofey waited a half hour for the Siberian troops to enter the monastery before making his way to a second-story window to peer down into the courtyard. There he saw a team of Siberian soldiers laying out the stiffened corpses of executed prisoners in neat rows. At last, Timofey descended the stairs into the courtyard. Since his beard, long hair, and cassock identified him as a newly liberated priest, the troops let him pass so he could wade into the ankle-deep ring of ashes around the charred stake.

Unlike some priests he knew, Timofey had never been particularly disturbed at seeing death up close. But as he stepped forward toward Zhanna’s scattered ashes, warm tears streamed down his bearded cheeks, his heart beat faster, and he felt as though a tiny bell were tolling unhappily somewhere inside his aching head.

* * *