Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Never mind the delay. I have good news,” he announced. “One of my father’s friends, the merchant Dorokhin, has invited us to spend a day or two with his family at Verkhne-Udinsk,[5] less than a day’s journey east of here by rail. I think you will enjoy the excursion and the fine views of Lake Baikal along the way. If nothing else, it will give you a better idea of how we Siberians live. But even better, Stepan Petrovich can be relied upon to spread a fine table for his guests, even in these times of scarcity.”

The station was not far away and their carriage ride took only a few minutes. But owing to a track change, they had to sprint for nearly fifty yards along the congested platform to catch the little yellow and blue train before it pulled out of the station. Despite overcrowding in every class of carriage, Ivashov somehow found a conductor who led them to a vacant first-class compartment on the north-facing side of the train, which he said would afford them an excellent view of Lake Baikal, Siberia’s gem, the oldest and deepest body of fresh water on earth. Ned watched Ivashov slip a wad of banknotes into the conductor’s hand after the latter drew the curtains to offer privacy from the corridor. Then Ivashov quickly locked the door.

“I hear that you graduated from the Nikolayevsky Military Academy,” Ned began after they had settled in, an innocuous opening to a conversation that he hoped would let him take the measure of his companion. “Did you enjoy your time there?”

“It seems so long ago,” Ivashov replied absently, giving a vacant stare out the window. “War has a strange way of distorting time and memory. I scarcely remember my time there.”

“Of course,” Ned responded with a respectful nod. “I understand completely. When I was chasing rebels on jungle islands, West Point was absolutely the furthest thing from my mind. But now that you are at the Stavka, don’t you find it useful to have other academy graduates to talk to?”

“I might, but there are very few, and none at my rank,“ Ivashov noted with a shrug. “Nearly all the Stavka officers are Siberian Cossacks. Sadly, they and I have little in common.”

“I see,” Ned responded, noting the disparaging tone of Ivashov’s last comment. “And that is because…?”

“I don’t mean to belittle anyone,” the Russian answered with a tight-lipped smile. “But Russia is a vast land, and these Siberians know only their remote part of it. And they have never faced the Red Army–only the local Red Guards, whom the Czech Legion routed easily on their behalf.”

“You also fought in the war against Germany, didn’t you?” Ned added, changing the subject yet again. “Tell me, Igor Ivanovich, how does your experience against the Germans compare with fighting the Red Army on the Volga?”

“When one is in retreat, the experience is much the same,” the Russian commented acidly. “First, we retreated from Poland and the Ukraine, and then from the Volga. The difference is mainly one of scale. Today our gains and losses are all on a petty scale when compared with the German war. What we have now is a miserable little fight, but one that goes on and on. I think that one day I shall go back to the front, if only to see an end to it.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” Ned lied, having never experienced defeat. For that, he would need to have fought in America’s Civil War, or the early battles of its Revolutionary War, when American soldiers had felt the sting of defeat just as keenly as the Siberians did now. But there was no point in going on, he thought. Ivashov did not seem in the mood for conversation.

At last, Ned heard a pure three-noted whistle, almost like the fluting of orioles, and the train finally left the station. Within minutes, Ivashov rose from his seat to excuse himself. For the next hour or more, the Russian came and went from the compartment at irregular intervals but spoke little.

Making allowances for Ivashov’s reticence, Ned limited his conversation to innocuous remarks about Vladivostok and the Allied presence there, his travels across Manchuria to the Russian border at Manzhouli, and Allied successes in keeping the Trans-Siberian line running despite sporadic incursions by Bolshevik partisans and Japanese-backed warlords. Yet, rather than warm to the conversation, Ivashov asked no questions and gave laconic answers to those Ned posed to him. When not talking, both men stared idly out the window, staving off hunger from time to time by snacking on the brown peasant bread and tinned fish that Ivashov had brought from Irkutsk.

During one such interlude, Ned summoned the nerve to ask Ivashov again about his service on the Volga Front the summer before.

“What made you join the People’s Army, Igor Ivanovich? Why not the Volunteer Army, or some other White unit?”

“Because my mother’s family is from a village near Samara, on the Volga,” Ivashov replied between bites of bread, not looking up. “It was there that I landed in the spring of 1918, after demobilization.”