Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Never mind that,” Kostrov offered in a gracious spirit. “Now that you are here, let’s break out the vodka and sit down to eat.”

Kostrov took his place at the head of the table, which was as elegantly laid as any in New York or Philadelphia. Crowning each place setting of bone china was a starched napkin folded into a neat pyramid, with solid silver flatware, and cut-crystal wine and vodka glasses flanking each dinner plate. Father Timofey then stood to his host’s left, while Zhanna moved to the table’s far end, facing her uncle. Ivashov promptly stepped forward to take the place between Timofey and Zhanna. But when Ned moved opposite Ivashov, putting Zhanna to his immediate right, the girl thrust out her hand to bar his way.

“Please, captain, my uncle prefers that you sit beside him in the place of honor,” she announced with an inscrutable expression, turning away quickly to beckon Boris to her side.

“Yes, please do come, Captain du Pont!” Kostrov urged from the head of the table. “It is my duty as host to keep your vodka glass filled!”

And so Ned moved aside, concealing his disappointment with a bland smile while Boris stepped between him and Zhanna.

Once the group was seated and the banker had offered a short prayer, he wasted no time in seizing the carafe of vodka set before him, pouring a glass for himself and Ned, but not Father Timofey, and then passing the carafe down the table. Zhanna filled glasses for Ivashov and Borisov, but none for herself. When she finished, Ned cast a smile at her that she either failed to notice or declined to return. The night was still young; he let it go, hoping to catch a few private moments with her later.

To Ned’s surprise, and despite Kostrov’s promise of a feast, the quantity and variety of food laid out before them was decidedly less impressive than at the Dorokhins’ table three months earlier. For while Kostrov’s kitchen served up platters of lake fish, ham, home-made dumplings and zakuski, absent were dishes commonplace in many rural households, such as butter, eggs, fruit preserves and pickled mushrooms. Moreover, items sourced from afar, like coffee, caviar, tinned salmon roe, and Georgian wine, were nowhere in evidence.

After raising a heartfelt toast to the health of his guests, Kostrov lifted his glass and drank. And when Ned and Ivashov followed suit, the banker appeared to savor the warm glow and sense of bonhomie that this implied. A few moments of silence ensued while the guests piled their plates with food before the host took up again the thread of conversation that Borisov’s arrival had interrupted.

“So, tell me, Captain du Pont,” Kostrov began while carving thick slices from the smoked ham set before him, “What do you think of our friend Mr. McCloud’s plans to attend the Paris Peace Conference? Do you think the conference will make any contribution toward peace here in Russia?”

“I doubt it,” Ned evaded between mouthfuls of ham. “The conferees seem all but paralyzed by a fear that Bolshevism will infect the defeated Central Powers next. Lenin has predicted a proletarian revolution in Western Europe, and some Allied leaders fear it may already be underway.”

Across the table, Father Timofey and Ivashov exchanged troubled looks. Without a doubt, they had read of the recent German sailors’ revolt in Kiel, the workers’ strikes in northern Germany and the failed Spartacist Uprising[22] in Berlin that had ended in the deaths of its celebrated leaders, Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht.

“But certainly, all that is no excuse for the Paris Conference to neglect Russia entirely! So tell me this: why is no one from Russia represented at Versailles?” Kostrov asked in a petulant voice.

“I believe it is because the Allies couldn’t justify inviting only the Whites while the Bolsheviks control the heart of Russia and a majority of her population,” Ned replied, in an effort to strike a balance. “And, surely, you would not have wanted them to invite the Bolsheviks…”

“Certainly not,” the banker gasped, laying down his utensils. “But why in heaven’s name did your President Wilson instead invite both sides to a hastily improvised conference on Prinkipo Island? Was this not also a recognition of the Bolshevik gang?”

“Some say he intended to draw Lenin into peace talks to keep him from stirring trouble in Germany,” Ned suggested, following the reasoning McCloud had put forward in his dispatches.

“But don’t you see?” Kostrov insisted. “Inviting the Bolsheviks to Prinkipo says something entirely different to us: ‘Of course, we virtuous Americans could not possibly sit at the same table with Lenin at Versailles, but it is quite all right for you Russians to sit with him at Prinkipo.’ Imagine inviting a householder to a conference with thieves who have broken into his home, stolen his belongings, and assaulted his family. It is as if the Good Samaritan had picked us up off the street, only to strike us in the face!”