Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

“Study well, Zhanna, and you, too, may have the opportunity to travel abroad when the war is over!” her father added proudly. “A modern woman’s place is no longer at the hearth, I always say.”

Then, as if by an afterthought, Dorokhin seized the bottle of pale pink rowanberry-infused vodka his daughter had placed on the sideboard, uncorked it, and sniffed its vapors eagerly.

“Ah, the finest! Now, let us be seated. The time has come to break bread and drink.”

Dorokhin stood at the head of the table and directed each guest to his seat, with Neilson, Ned, and Zhanna to his right and Kostrov, Father Timofey, and Ivashov to his left. The seat at the foot of the table remained empty, though the place was set, perhaps in the hope that one of Dorokhin’s sons might appear at the last moment. Once all were seated, Dorokhin said a brief prayer of thanks, and then proceeded to pour a glass of vodka for himself and his immediate neighbors before passing the bottle down the table. While the vodka was making its rounds, Zhanna rose to assist the family’s middle-aged housekeeper in relaying more platters of food from kitchen to sideboard to table. As the girl passed by, Ned could not resist casting an idle glance at the well-turned ankles that popped out from beneath her skirt.

Such an abundance of delectable food Ned had seldom seen, even at his wealthy relatives’ houses in Wilmington. Having become accustomed to tinned beef and biscuits aboard the troop ship from Manila, and to the simple fare of tea, kasha gruel, boiled eggs, watery broth, and black bread at the various cheap restaurants and railroad buffets he had frequented to date in Russia, Dorokhin’s table was a most welcome sight. For laid before him were platters of roast duck filled with apple-and-bread stuffing, pan-fried sturgeon from Lake Baikal, tinned salmon roe, stuffed cabbage, tiny meat dumplings in broth, boiled beets and carrots in butter, sautéed wild mushrooms, steamed fiddlehead ferns, loaves of freshly baked white and brown bread, and all manner of pickled vegetables.

When all but Timofey and Zhanna had a glass of vodka before them, the host rose.

“Let us drink to the health of our visitors, binding us in our common desire to win freedom and self-determination for the Russian people!”

Ned poured the chilled vodka straight down his throat in the Russian manner, scarcely tasting it. The sensation was not at all unpleasant, but knowing how many glasses of the stuff would likely follow before the night was over, he reached for the stuffed cabbage and began loading his plate. To eat heartily while drinking, he had learned, was the best defense against vodka’s pernicious side effects.

Silence prevailed while the guests piled their plates high with food. What followed was a leisurely and enjoyable meal, in which the heady vapors of vodka assisted to break down barriers of language, class, and culture. Soon each person began to ask his neighbor questions without waiting for answers, and to answer questions without waiting for them to be asked.

As if in response to a string of compliments from his guests about the quality and abundance of the food set before them, Dorokhin launched into an extended monologue about the myriad war-related shortages that had developed since the Great War, the February and October Revolutions of 1917, and the outbreak of civil war between Bolsheviks and Whites. And following all those, he explained, came the drought and catastrophic crop failure that struck Transbaikalia in the summer of 1918.

“Yes, we have enough to eat today in Verkhne-Udinsk,” the host went on between spoonfuls of broth. “But even we feel shortages coming on. Before long, I fear, we may even face famine. The war with Germany disrupted everything, and then the Reds made it all worse. And now, the new Siberian government wants us to drop everything to fight the Bolsheviks!”

At this, Kostrov, Father Ryumin and Ivashov offered grave nods, while Neilson stared darkly into his vodka glass and Zhanna squirmed uncomfortably while picking at her food.

“You see,” Dorokhin continued, “in a country of such enormous distances, the vital question is transport: how to move goods from areas of plenty to areas of want. And only by superhuman effort has Russian distribution been able to compensate for its worst deficiencies. Since 1914, a creeping paralysis has struck Russian economic life owing to the strangulation of freight.”

To Ned’s left, Neilson poured himself another glass of vodka while Father Timofey and Ivashov busied themselves with their food. Ned guessed that all had heard some version of the lecture before. Suddenly Dorokhin paused to stare straight at Ned.

“I understand that you are a railway expert, Captain du Pont. Is that correct?”