Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Ivashov picked up his napkin and slowly dabbed at his mouth, as if buying time to craft his response. It seemed impossible to Ned for a schoolgirl like Zhanna to possess such up-to-date information about the Siberian and Red Armies and, even more, to grasp its significance. And yet, here she was, commenting like some seasoned veteran, radiating military sagacity. What a pity her Voices hadn’t spoken directly to Kolchak or his Chief of Staff.

“I cannot dispute what you say, Zhanna,” Ivashov replied, stiffening visibly. “And I share your concerns that our spring offensive, even in combination with White forces in South Russia, might not sustain a drive to the Volga. But what alternative do you—or your saintly Voices—have to offer us?”

An uneasy look in Ivashov’s eyes seemed to suggest that he wasn’t sure whether to argue with the girl or chide himself for taking her seriously.

Far from appearing slighted at Ivashov’s challenge, Zhanna brightened. Rising from her place, she stepped to the sideboard, withdrew paper and pencil from one of its drawers, and sketched a crude map showing both armies’ order of battle along the Urals front. She handed the map to Ivashov, whose eyes widened upon taking it in.

“Your current plans call for Gaida’s Northern Army to advance from Perm to Glazov in the direction of Moscow,” she declared, “while Khanzin’s Western Army moves along Gaida’s southern flank to recapture Ufa and advance on Samara, severing the Red Army’s supply lines along the Volga. These plans require an early strategic breakthrough along the Yekaterinburg-Ufa-Samara axis before joining Denikin’s forces for a two-pronged drive north to Moscow. Am I correct?”

The accuracy and conciseness of Zhanna’s summary was astounding. Ned could not have stated it better, and he was a West Point graduate. It was clear from Ivashov’s strained expression that he was equally taken aback.

“According to present thinking, yes,” the Russian conceded.

“Now, then,” Zhanna continued, “I submit to you that, while the war could be lost in the center, at Ufa, or less likely, at Perm in the north, it must be won in the South, by way of Orenburg and Uralsk.[23] Your Stavka has put too much of its strength in the north. If the Admiral were to attack instead from Uralsk toward the Lower Volga and link up with Denikin’s forces at Tsaritsyn,[24] he might then wield sufficient strength to strike the Red Army’s right flank and cut off the enemy’s main advance toward Ufa.”

Ned caught Ivashov’s eye and saw that the staff officer did not fault Zhanna’s analysis. On some instinctive level, both he and Ivashov were adjusting to Zhanna’s transformation from a demure teenager to a determined young woman with an intuitive—-or divinely inspired—grasp of strategy. Accordingly, Ned now focused his attention on her facts and logic and set about preparing a rebuttal. But to his surprise, it was Zhanna’s childhood friend Borisov who spoke first to challenge her.

“Zhanna, you are just a schoolgirl from Verkhne-Udinsk,” the miller’s son interrupted in a mocking voice. “How can you prattle on about military matters of which you know nothing? Do you really believe that you understand better than Admiral Kolchak or his staff how to defeat the Red Army? That is, if the Red Army can be stopped at all. To my mind, the Bolsheviks will surely reclaim Siberia by summer’s end, and the less we take sides with Omsk, the safer we shall be.”

Zhanna pulled herself up in her chair and stiffened with indignation.

“Boris Viktorovich, though you are my friend, it pains me that you sound just like your father, a defeatist who contributes funds to the White Army while secretly holding counsel with Bolshevik agitators in hopes of hanging on to his property. Take care that you do not fall into his ways!”

Young Borisov’s outburst also appeared to offend Ivashov, as well. The officer had consumed an ample quantity of vodka and had not yet fully calmed down from his earlier exchange with Zhanna. Pointedly ignoring the young man’s comment, Ivashov addressed his host instead.

“How is it, Kirill Matveyevich, that your young guest, being of conscription age, has avoided military service?”

Kostrov answered with heavily lidded eyes and a tongue thickened by drink.

“Our young friend, or shall we say, his father, has procured a doctor’s certificate attesting to Boris’s unfitness for armed service,” Kostrov answered, as if Boris were not at the table. “I do not blame Boris Viktorovich, for his father rules the family with an iron fist. Indeed, it is probably for the best to exempt him, for though the boy is honest and enterprising, in my view he is not the sort cut out for war.”

At the end of the table, Borisov bit his lower lip and his cheeks reddened.