Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Very well, sir,” he replied in a shaky voice. “Bring your Russians on board, but don’t let them out of your sight till we hit Omsk. Your compartment is in the third car from the front, left side. It’s a sleeper car. I’ll order your meals brought to you there.”

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Ned offered, feeling the knot in his stomach begin to relax.

“Yes, sir,” the duty officer answered stiffly. Then he turned on his heel and left.

* * *

Though the news of the Maid of Baikal’s imminent departure for Omsk must have spread swiftly across Transbaikalia, prompting Bolshevik agents to watch for her on all roads and rail lines west of Irkutsk, the journey to Omsk ended without incident. Despite some discomfort en route caused by the need to keep Zhanna and Boris out of sight, the two youngsters remained in high spirits throughout the trip and showed no signs of fear or fatigue. When Ned or Ivashov complimented Zhanna from time to time on her courage or stamina, her reply was always that she was sent by God and derived all her strength from Him. To that end, every morning and evening she spent the better part of an hour in prayer and meditation, emerging each time with renewed vigor and in a buoyant mood.

Over the next few days, the four travelers spent many long hours telling each other stories from their respective pasts, with Boris Viktorovich soon becoming the favored raconteur among them. For though he was proud and boastful, being the overindulged only child of a prosperous mill owner, he rarely took offense and frequently laughed at himself, sometimes with a silent heaving that made Ned at first think he was choking on food.

As Boris had known Zhanna since childhood, he was able to serve up some colorful anecdotes about her, too. For example, he reported that Zhanna did not utter a word until she was three years old and seemed to live in a world of her own. Once, as a toddler, she nearly died from a deadly illness. She recovered only after a visit from a Buryat shaman, who announced that Zhanna was destined to play a vital role in Siberia’s future and could not die until her fate was fulfilled.

Throughout her childhood, she was known as a free spirit, playing with the local Buryat children, talking to trees, claiming to see spirits, and learning native folklore and Buryat riding tricks from the shaman who saved her life. Zhanna seemed to have a special way with all sorts of animals, wild and domestic. Fierce hunting dogs were gentle with her and injured beasts came to her to be healed. Though her father taught her marksmanship, she refused to hunt wild game and arranged on the sly for farmhands to slaughter chickens and ducks in her place.

As she grew older and went off to school, she gave up her tomboyish ways and stopped wearing boys’ clothing, but never lost her mystical bond with the Siberian land and its native peoples. She attended grammar school at a German-style girls’ gymnasium, where she wore a brown serge uniform and took lessons in comportment as well as algebra, geometry, Russian literature, and German and French language. Far from being an ignorant cowherd, as some of her detractors supposed, Zhanna grew into a well-bred young lady, skilled in the household arts while also conversant in political matters from listening to the often heated discussions that arose when government officials visited her father’s house.

Boris recounted how he and his family watched Zhanna develop from an outspoken, headstrong, emotionally volatile fourteen-year-old to the cool-headed, sharp-witted girl she was now, defiant and proud, and possessed of an indefinable something that set her apart from her peers. Of course, by now, Ned knew that Boris had come to idolize the girl and that many of his tales were exaggerated or apocryphal. Not a day went by without Boris proclaiming out of the blue, “In all the world, you won’t find such a girl!” But having seen her at close quarters now for more than a week, Ned could not help but agree. It was only by exerting his utmost self-control that he managed to keep his former infatuation with her at bay.

Only once did they come close to acknowledging the possibility of a relationship between them as man and woman. It was on their second evening in the train, when Ned had set pen to paper and begun to write a letter to his father. Ivashov and Boris were occupied with a two-handed game of cards.

“What are you writing?” Zhanna asked, looking up from her Bible with an expression of casual interest.

“A letter home,” he answered without looking up.

“To your sweetheart?” she inquired in a playful tone, leaning over to glance at the letter.

“Heavens, no,” Ned snapped. “Why do you ask?”

“There’s no sweetheart, then?” she probed.

“Not any more.” Ned’s face remained expressionless as he stared back at her.

“Is that so?” she asked. This time Zhanna’s expression implied that she thought otherwise.

“Not back at home, anyway,” he corrected himself.