Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

On their last evening aboard the train, not far from Iletsk, Ned approached Zhanna when she opened her eyes from another hour of meditation, her face wearing a beatific smile.

“You always seem happier when you emerge from prayer,” he observed.

“Yes,” she answered, turning to face him. “When I am alone with my Voices, I feel such joy that I wish I could remain in that state forever!”

“But is there nothing else that brings you joy?” Ned challenged. “Why must you spend so very much time in prayer every day?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, captain,” she told him, her smile fading. “When I think of the battles ahead, sometimes I’m stricken with the most intense feelings of sadness and pain that only prayer can resolve.”

“But surely you don’t intend to expose your own person to battle, Zhanna,” he declared, aghast at the notion of a woman in combat. “Nobody here expects that of you.”

“If I must, I will,” she answered with the grim face of a martyr. “My Voices have warned me more than once to expect it.”

“I doubt if General Tolstov would allow you to take part in the fighting, but even if he did, it’s perfectly natural to feel fear before a battle.” Ned said. He gently took her hand in his before continuing. “Every soldier must face fear in his own way. Only cowards and madmen fail to come to terms with it. And I don’t think you are either.”

Zhanna gently removed her hand from Ned’s grasp.

“No, no, it’s not the dying that I mind. It’s that my death might be useless and of no benefit to anyone. That I might let down my God, my country, my family, and everyone who places faith in me. Sometimes I imagine how awful it would be if I died in this way or that, and I become terrified that it might all be for nothing.”

“Banish such ideas from your head, young lady, and think only of how grand it will feel when we liberate Uralsk!” Ned advised.

“But it’s not just Uralsk!” she shot back, raising her voice in a way that made several heads turn to see what troubled her. “You see, the further I go on my path, the more everyone will depend on me for success, and each step will be more fraught with danger than the one before. One false move and I may come to an early end, without having seen anything of life: without falling in love, marrying, raising a family, or growing old and wise.”

Ned listened quietly and allowed her to take a deep breath before he responded.

“You have far too rich an imagination, Zhanna Stepanovna,” he told her, the corners of his mouth curling up into a smile. “Forget such worries and become a happy simpleton like me! You see, I have no fear of death, only of pain and dishonor. The dishonor I can prevent through my actions, and the pain means that I’m still alive. So if death is my lot, I say, let it come so swiftly that I won’t feel its bite.”

Ned offered Zhanna an encouraging smile but she declined to look him in the eye. Instead, she gazed down at the tiny fists in her lap.

“If you say so, captain,” she answered in a dull voice. “You have seen many battles, and I none.”

“Then don’t believe me. Believe in your Voices. Because I think we both are saying the same thing: remain steadfast, do your best work, and at Uralsk we will give the Bolsheviks the surprise of their miserable lives!”

* * *

Upon arrival at a marshaling yard outside Iletsk in late morning, Zhanna’s men leapt off the train with shouts of joy, under a sky as fine and translucent as glass. From the south, a warm wind blew, wafting flocks of geese and cranes toward the northern marshes, while the men gulped air in which the scent of wild blossoms mingled with that of moist black earth from the steppe. Field kitchens were set up and soon they emitted savory aromas of stewing millet, tinned meat garnished with bay leaves, and freshly baked bread.

After their noon meal, the soldiers reboarded the train while an ancient steam engine shunted the cars onto a local track headed west toward Uralsk. The troops leaned out the doors and windows of their compartments and watched in silence while the engine let out huge billows of smoke and steam as it tugged the train out of the station toward the featureless steppe. Now the front was only a few dozen versts away.

The train halted four hours later, in the heart of the steppe, little more than a verst from a Cossack military encampment where the tents glowed a dull gold in the sun’s fading light.

“But this is not yet Uralsk!” Ivashov observed with a note of alarm when the train began to slow. “I’m going up to talk to the engineers.”

Ten minutes later, he returned with a scowl on his face.

“The colonel in charge of transport insists that we disembark here and not an inch closer to Uralsk,” Ivashov announced. “He says it’s not safe up ahead, and that General Tolstov has arranged to meet us at yonder encampment. Though it’s not what we had bargained for, I think it’s best we find the Cossacks’ commander. Do you agree, General Dorokhina?” he asked, offering a playful allusion to Zhanna’s honorary rank.