Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“How very romantic!” Corinne remarked to Yulia with a bright smile. “I hope that you and your husband will join us for dinner so that we can hear more. I’ll tell the staff to set two more…”

“That is very kind of you, but Dmitry and I are joining friends for dinner in the dining room,” Yulia answered without waiting for Corinne to finish her sentence.

“General Lebedev said the same a few moments ago,” Ned chimed in. “Perhaps another time.”

“Yes, and I hope you will pay us the pleasure of calling on us before you leave Moscow,” Yulia added, addressing Corinne with a coolness in her voice and in her eyes that conveyed precisely the opposite intent.

* * *

For the next hour, Ned and Corinne circulated among their guests, greeting old friends with heartfelt enthusiasm and keeping tally of those who had not yet arrived. Ambassador Barrows arrived late but Ned stayed close by his side, introducing him to the most important Russian guests. Shortly before the scheduled dinner hour, Ned noticed Minister of Foreign Affairs, George Guins, enter the room, flanked by Madame Timiryova, now Madame Kolchak, having wed the President after his first wife died of a lingering illness in Paris. Guins pushed a wheelchair, whose occupant Ned recognized on second glance as General Dieterichs, now retired after serving more than a decade as the Russian Army’s Chief of Staff.

To Ned’s regret, neither General Tolstov nor General Dutov, of the Urals and Orenburg Cossacks, respectively, had accepted his invitation. Each had retired to his country estate in the south and neither had been to Moscow in years. And Baron Wrangel had died of complications from old war injuries two years before.

After a quarter hour of reminiscing with Guins and Dieterichs while Corinne and Madame Kolchak conversed separately, the bell was sounded for the dinner guests to retire into the adjoining dining room. Ned took Madame Kolchak’s arm to escort her.

“Fifteen years have passed since the Maid’s death,” Russia’s First Lady commented as they walked. “More than five thousand days. And every morning and night I have prayed for God to restore His lost daughter to the church. Now I can go calmly to my rest. My prayers are answered.”

“You have been to the hearings, then?” Ned inquired. For he had read that the Russian Orthodox Church, after having long evaded responsibility for its role in the Maid’s trial and execution, had agreed to hear an appeal from family and supporters for her posthumous rehabilitation.

“Yes,” Madame Kolchak replied. “Her sentence of anathema is at last annulled and fully set aside. Patriarch Sylvester signed the order yesterday from his sickbed, fulfilling his vow to her followers.”

“Why, that’s wonderful news!” Ned exclaimed. “Ambassador Barrows will be delighted. What a lovely coincidence for it to happen on the day the ambassador presented his credentials.”

“It could not have happened at a better time for Russia, either,” Guins broke in, overhearing their conversation. “No one can quibble any longer over the Maid’s role in getting Admiral Kolchak elected as regent. His legitimacy is now immune to challenge, unlike that of a certain other office holder whose name I shall not mention.” Indeed, rumors had already reached Ned’s ears of a rift between Guins and Prime Minister Zhelezin.

“Thanks to Zhanna’s wholesome influence,” Dieterichs joined in, “no Russian leader in history has had a more honest rise to power than our Admiral. Nor has any remained more faithful to the Maid’s ideals.”

“I agree, of course, Mikhail Konstantinovich,” Guins added. “But I will tell you one more thing about our beloved Maid. If God were to bring her back to life today, the government would likely have her shot, notwithstanding all their false praise for her. Sadly, mortal eyes can rarely distinguish a heretic from a saint, and death is generally required to settle the matter.”

“Still, it would not surprise me,” Madame Kolchak added, “if the church’s next step would be to canonize her. Imagine, Saint Zhanna…! Siberia’s own Virgin, as foretold by the prophet Yermak!”

The three men nodded in agreement before Ned spoke up quietly as an afterthought.

“Though she never claimed to be a saint…”

It was not until dinner was over that Ned was able to catch Ivashov’s attention again and ask him about the patrol’s possible betrayal at Kazan.

“One more question, Igor Ivanovich, if you would,” he said, handing the general a glass of very old Armenian brandy. “In our last meeting at Samara, Timofey told me that a Siberian woman, a pretty blonde of about thirty, had gone to see Zhanna the night before she was captured. You said you would investigate. Did you ever find the woman? Was it she who betrayed the Maid?”

Ivashov stopped abruptly and turned to face Ned with an expression of profound compassion.