Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Then he recalled what Zhanna had said to Governor Volkov about the Siberian Army: ”I will show the officers how to lead so they will deserve victory!” she had boasted. She had been right, of course. And now, the Admiral needed someone to show him how to lead, so that the Siberian government might become worthy of winning. But how on earth was Zhanna to do that?

* * *

The following day, Ned rose before dawn and arrived at the appointed hour at an Irkutsk worker’s café crowded with sailors, dockworkers, carriage drivers, stable hands, and other representatives of the working class.

Father Timofey Ryumin appeared moments later, dressed in a mechanic’s coveralls and a fleece cap with ear flaps hanging down to conceal his long hair. His face held a serious demeanor. If the message the cleric had left at the American consulate had not described what he would be wearing, Ned might not have recognized him at all.

“I imagine you wonder why I called you to such a place,” Timofey began. He took a gulp of hot tea from the cheap enamel mug set before him, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the American like a cat on its prey.

“I suppose I do, but mostly I am pleased that you thought of me at all,” Ned replied with a fleeting smile. “I enjoyed seeing you again at Kirill Matveyevich’s and had meant to invite you over for another chance to talk…”

“As with me,” Father Timofey replied with the trace of a smile. “Which is the reason I left a message for you at the consulate. You see, I have gone underground and plan to depart Irkutsk within the week.”

“Really? Will you be away long?” Ned inquired. “If your travels include Omsk, please allow me to help. Lodgings are extremely tight in the capital, as you may have heard.”

“You are kind to offer it,” Father Timofey answered. “But I plan to travel beyond Omsk, to the Volga, where my brethren are in much need of help.”

“But the Volga is under Bolshevik control,” Ned pointed out. “Why would the Holy Church send you there?”

“No one is sending me, except perhaps for that inner voice that calls out from one’s higher self. You see, I have left the Holy Orthodox Church and created my own spiritual movement, free of the dogma and superstition and backward social doctrines that have held back the Eastern Church for centuries.”

“So, though you chose to become a priest, you favor reform?” Ned pressed, surprised by the man’s bold move.

“Most definitely,” Timofey replied. “Many young priests and former priests in Russia are liberals or socialists, or S-Rs who refused to side with the Bolsheviks. A group of us intend to start a new reformed Eastern Church along the Volga, where many S-Rs reside, in order to protect the faithful from Bolshevism’s false doctrines. And when the White Armies arrive, we will be ready to rise up and reclaim our freedom to worship God in our own way.”

“Why not start your new church right here in Transbaikalia?” Ned asked. “I would think you could find plenty of S-Rs and other liberals in Irkutsk to join your new church.”

Timofey looked down and gripped his mug tightly in both hands.

“You’ve seen how Governor Volkov has banned democrats and S-Rs from municipal and rural councils. Kolchak’s regime is persecuting those with reformist leanings throughout Siberia. And most men with such views are paralyzed with fear of losing their property and privileges. By contrast, in Sovdepia, the surviving S-Rs have nothing left to lose. Those who remain at large there are thus willing to stand up at last for their faith and freedom.”

“I see your point,” Ned replied. “But America supports Admiral Kolchak’s government, as you know very well. Why turn to me?”

“Because America stands for freedom and backs the Admiral only because the Bolsheviks are so much worse. Kolchak and his people here know that, and they take full advantage of it. Our governor thinks Americans are soft.”

“For what it’s worth,” Ned pointed out with a chuckle, “I don’t think Governor Volkov thinks so very highly of you, either, Timofey. While I was in his office yesterday, he voiced concern that Zhanna Stepanovna may have fallen under the malign influence of a priest matching your description. So tell me, is there any truth to his claim that you took unfair advantage of the girl’s religious faith to put her up to whatever she’s doing?”

The Russian let out a bitter laugh and Ned could detect disappointment in his eyes.

“Why, captain,” he replied, “You underestimate Zhanna. You have seen for yourself how insistent she can be. I have little influence over her.”

“Perhaps so,” Ned admitted, “but I still don’t understand what’s driving her. Do you?”

“Go ask her,” the priest suggested. “Her quest to see the Admiral is none of my doing. And her uncle couldn’t disapprove of it or he wouldn’t have encouraged our newspapers to make such a celebrity of her.

“Did you, by any chance, tell Kostrov of your plans to visit the Volga?” he asked the priest.

“No,” Timofey replied.

“Or Ivashov?”

“No.”