Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“May I be so bold to ask, Zhanna Stepanovna,” the wizened bishop asked in a voice laden with condescension, “what was it that induced you to come to Omsk?”

Zhanna gave a gentle smile and replied in a soft and musical voice that bore no trace of disrespect.

“One day last autumn, while I was grooming my horse, a Voice came to me saying that God had great compassion for the Russian people and intended to deliver us from Bolshevik oppression. This seemed good news, to be sure, but it puzzled me why the Voice chose me to receive it.”

The girl then looked up at the elderly bishop, and then to Archbishop Sylvester, as if hesitating to continue.

“Go on,” the bishop urged, his voice softening a bit.

“The Voice then said God had important work for me, and commanded me to travel west to the Volga with the Siberian Army and to lay siege to the city of Samara. On hearing this, I wept, because I am but a young girl and know nothing of war.”

Again, Zhanna looked up to the dais, now with fearful eyes, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She continued in a strained voice.

“The Lord’s Spirit then told me not to be afraid, and to go first to Irkutsk, where I would find friendly officers to conduct me safely to meet the Supreme Ruler at Omsk. It said more would be made known to me there, and urged me to take courage.”

“Do you mean to say, Zhanna Stepanovna, that some disembodied spirit commanded you, a mere schoolgirl, to besiege the great city of Samara by force of arms?” the bishop repeated, raising his voice.

“That is correct,” Zhanna answered, gazing down at her small white hands.

Here, Ned noticed Yulia and Madame Timiryova exchange alarmed whispers and sensed that they were aghast that the girl might have it in mind to join the army at the front.

“Zhanna, do you believe that God is an all-knowing and all-powerful deity?” the bishop asked next, his tone softening once more.

“Yes, I do, Your Grace,” Zhanna replied.

“Then, if God desires to deliver Russia from the scourge of Bolshevism, and can do everything he intends, what would be the need for soldiers?” the cleric inquired.

“God helps those who help themselves, and never those who sit on their hands,” Zhanna responded evenly. “Soldiers fight the battle, and God grants the victory.”

Ned turned his gaze to the faces of the learned panel and saw that they had not anticipated the deftness of her riposte. Archbishop Sylvester suddenly thanked the elderly examiner and turned again to Father Yegor, who, as if jolted from a reverie, pulled himself together to speak.

“Indeed, my daughter, God often works his will through the deeds of men,” Yegor conceded. “But God also acts directly and visibly upon the world, sometimes by providing signs and portents. Surely, we cannot advise Admiral Kolchak to entrust you with soldiers and weaponry based solely upon your assertion that God has sent you, unless you produce the signs to prove it.”

Zhanna’s nostrils flared and let out a snort of vexation.

“In God’s Name, I didn’t come to Omsk to show signs to those who doubt me. Send me to the front, along with troops in such numbers as the Admiral might see fit, and you’ll have signs enough!”

Ned stifled a laugh. This was the headstrong Zhanna that he had seen overcome one obstacle after another, from Verkhne-Udinsk to Irkutsk to Omsk. The audience nodded approval, and again the chief examiner hesitated to follow up, lest the girl score another point against him. Instead, Archbishop Sylvester took the lead himself, pursuing an altogether different line of questioning.

“During your audience with the Supreme Ruler some days ago,” he began, “you addressed him always as ‘Admiral’ and not as ‘Supreme Ruler’ or by his honorific, ‘Your Most High Excellency.’ Do you not recognize Admiral Kolchak as the Supreme Ruler of Russia?”

“I will not call him by any other name than Admiral until he is duly elected by the new national assembly that will sit in Samara,” she insisted. “When my business here is finished, I will capture that city in person, if I must, to see to his election. Every day we wait, victory is delayed.”

Muttered approval rose from the pews, causing Ned to wonder just how far Zhanna dared push her inquisitors before they made her pay dearly for it.

“The girl is as boastful as she is misguided, Your Eminence,” Father Yegor commented to the Archbishop before turning back to Zhanna. “See here, young woman,” he went on, his bloodshot eyes flashing, “Do you stand by this prediction of yours, which you also made to Admiral Kolchak in Archbishop Sylvester’s presence, that you will lead an army to capture Samara this summer?”

“I do, indeed, Father,” Zhanna asserted without blinking.

“What gives you such arrogance that you could possibly claim such a thing?” the chief examiner pressed, his face contorted into a vinegary expression.

“My Voices have told me so, and they have never told me wrong.”

The Archbishop held up a hand as if to draw attention to the girl’s words.